“I am, thank God, not only comfortable, but in garrison I hope for life.

When I returned home, I married the sergeant-major’s widow. Well, we

each had laid by a bit of money--put it together--took this house--and

after being five years keeping the business going on, things have gone

straight enough with us, and we are better by the half than when we

entered it. I wish every worn-out soldier had as snug cantonments for

old age.”

“Have you served abroad?”

“I began in Holland with the Duke of York, and I finished in Spain with

poor Sir John.”

“What regiments did you serve in?”

“Never but in one, the old steady fifty --th. Under its honoured colours

I stood my last field, at Corunna, and fought my first one at Malines.”

“You were in the grenadiers; do you remember who commanded?”

“As stout a soldier as ever took a company into fire--Colonel

O’Halloran.”

“Then you fought under my father.”

The retired soldier put down the glass he was lifting to his lips, and

for a moment scanned my features eagerly.

“By Heaven!--the living image of the kindest and bravest officer under

whom a soldier ever served! I am prouder, sir, in having you this night

beneath my humble roof, than if you called a prince your father.” And

stretching forward his hand, the veteran grasped mine in his with an

honest ardour that proved how deeply military attachment takes root,

and how dearly the remembrance of “auld lang syne” is cherished in the

soldier’s memory. “And now,” he said, “what is there in the Fox and

Hounds which I can offer to my old colonel’s son?”

“Nothing but what is already on the table; but possibly you could, in

another matter, render me some assistance?”

“Name but the way in which John Williams can be serviceable.”

“You know my relationship to Mr. Clifford?”

“Perfectly. I was with my gallant captain the night we stole his

beautiful lady from the convent garden. Alas! many a time it has grieved

me to the heart, to think that the old gentleman should remain so cold

and unforgiving as he is; but he is poisoned against his child by the

priests and villains who surround him. How can I be useful? What do you

intend to do?--Do you intend to call on the old man? If you do, I fear

there are those about him who will prevent it. No one is allowed to see

him but in the presence of that dark monk they call Father Daniels.

The house is guarded like a gaol, and the gates are locked against the

world.”

“I despair of obtaining an interview by open means,” I replied--“How

shall I manage it by secret ones?”

“It will be all but impossible,” said the sergeant. “I will think

over it to-night; and if a chance exist we’ll try it, hit or miss. But

soft!--surely that voice which I hear in the kitchen is old George Smith

the keeper’s? He is the only one of the old servants now remaining at

the Hall; and, only that his master has a strong regard for him, and

won’t listen to any stories to his disadvantage, he would have shared

the fate of others, and been sent adrift as they were. Father Daniels

hates him; and, faith, its cordially returned! The old keeper remembers

your honour’s mother well, and many a time he speaks of her--and I’ll

stake my pension, that he will befriend the son of her whom he still

reverences in his heart.”

As he spoke, the sergeant rose and left the room.--Irishmen are all more

or less superstitious; and I hailed it as a happy omen, that, in the

very opening of my attempt, fate should have thrown across me an old

comrade of my father. To succeed, I had scarce a hope; but, for every

reason, I was ambitious to fail respectably. I was experimentalizing

under the direction of one whose good opinion I was anxious to secure;

and I determined that when I returned to town, I would at least satisfy

Mr. Hartley that I had struck boldly, although the blow had failed.

In ten minutes the host returned, followed by an elderly man. The latter

made me a dutiful obeisance; but when approaching the table, and the

light fell strongly on my face, under a sudden impulse he caught my

hand, pressed it to his lips, and seemed to be powerfully affected.

The likeness to my mother at once established my identity; and in a few

minutes, if by the agency of George Smith I could have been placed in

that house to which I wus natural heir, it would have been instantly

effected. A half-hour’s conversation determined our course of

operations, and I learned enough regarding my grandfather’s habits to

convince me, that, with good luck, the interview I desired might be

obtained.

It appeared that in good weather, there was a favourite seat in a

sheltered corner of the park, to which Mr. Clifford generally repaired.

There he would sometimes remain an hour, while the Confessor walked

backwards and forwards reading the daily office which the rules of his

order imposed. Occasionally, Mr. Clifford employed himself with some

devotional book; and all intrusions on the part of servants were rigidly

prohibited. From strangers none could be apprehended, as none were

allowed to pass the gates.

In a thick clump immediately adjacent to the bench where Mr. Clifford

rested, it was arranged that I should lie _perdu_, and if fortune

offered the opportunity, I was to sally from my ambuscade, and seize it.

The keeper was to assist me to scale the wall, and point out the place

where I could best conceal myself--and, to the blind goddess of the

wheel, the rest was properly committed.

I know not wherefore, but that night I went to sleep with all the

buoyancy of hope, although I had no reason to think that chances wild

as mine could prove successful. In my dreams, however, results were

fortunate--every obstacle was overcome--I was reconciled to Mr.

Clifford; and, better still, united to Isidora.

After breakfast old George announced himself, and the weather was

propitious. It was one of those fine autumnal mornings which promise a

hot noon and a frosty evening. From an angle of the park wall, the lower

bough of a large beech tree extended itself. It was not ten feet above

the ground, and, by throwing a rope across, it required but small

exertion to gain it; and that done, the entrance to the park was easy.

Inside, the gamekeeper was to await my advent. The host furnished me

with what is not generally an acceptable present; but the halter--for it

was one--well nigh proved the ladder to my fortunes.

At the appointed time I made the attempt, and succeeded; and, stealing

along the shrubbery, gained the clump, and took a safe position behind

a thick holly, not six yards distant from the seat which the keeper

pointed out as the one generally occupied by Mr. Clifford.

All proceeded as I expected and had hoped--and the mildness of the day

induced the old gentleman to take his customary walk. He was attended by

the Jesuit, on whose arm he leaned; and on reaching his resting-place,

he received a book from the Confessor, and commenced reading a passage

which the monk had pointed out. In a few minutes the churchman strolled

some distance from the bench, and while I was considering the way in

which I should present myself to the old man without occasioning alarm,

to my unspeakable satisfaction, I observed a servant approach the

Confessor hastily, and after a brief communication, they both walked

away in the direction of the house.

I seized the golden opportunity, stole from my retreat, and placed

myself in front of the old gentleman, and, so silently, that he remained

with his eyes fixed upon the book for more than a minute afterwards.

Presently he looked up--he stared at me with evident surprise--for it

was a rare occurrence to find himself alone with a stranger--and in a

low tone he asked me “if I wished to speak with him?”

I advanced another step, knelt at the old man’s feet, and gently took

his hand.

“What means this?--Who are you?” he muttered.

“A son, come hither to solicit pardon for a parent--your grandchild begs

your blessing!”

“Ha! these are Ellen’s features! Merciful God!--Do I rave, or dream?

Speak, boy--your name?”

“O’Halloran.”

“Your business?--Quick!--quick!”

“Pardon for my mother.”

“Ellen, Ellen, Ellen!” he feebly muttered; and next moment be fainted in

my arms.

I was dreadfully alarmed. I thought my sudden appearance had operated

fatally, called loudly for assistance, and on looking around to see

whether my summons had been heard, observed that the Jesuit, followed by

several men, was running towards me rapidly. In another minute he was at

our side; and never, in a human countenance, were anger and astonishment

so mingled as in his.

“Remove your master!” he exclaimed to the servants. “Who are you, sir?”

he continued, bending his shaggy brows over eyes of sinister expression,

and directing their deadly glare at me. “_How dare you_ intrude where

strangers are excluded?”

“By right of kindred!” I thundered in return.

The monk’s face blanched. “Remove your master instantly,” he continued,

“and eject this man--by force, if necessary!”

“Beware!” I said; “the man who tries it may count on broken bones!”

“Who are you?” the monk inquired, haughtily “Your name?--Your business?”

The men who accompanied him hesitated to obey his orders; and still the

old man reclined with his head upon my breast, while my arm supported

him. Certainly, of the priest’s body-guard none were gentlemen who would

volunteer a forlorn hope; and, astounded at the bold tone I used to one,

who at Clifford Hall had exercised a despotic authority, they seemed any

thing but anxious to bring matters to hostile conclusions. But when I

announced my name and relationship to their master, they all receded,

leaving the matter to be settled by the Jesuit and myself.

The Confessor, with admirable skill, at once changed his tactics, and

adopted another course.

“Mr. O’Halloran, to use the mildest term it admits, your visit has

been imprudent. Mark in the old man’s illness the consequences of your

rashness! Why did you not notice your intention? Could I have induced

your grandsire to receive you, I would have done so willingly, and thus

have prevented a shock that may prove--and I fear it will--fatal! For

God’s sake, be advised by me. Leave the park, and let your relative

receive immediate attention. You see the first effect--would you, should

he recover the first shock, expose him to a second? When he is well

enough to write, I pledge my word, you shall receive an instant

communication. If you persevere, death will inevitably ensue; and how,

may I ask, will you, forewarned as you are, excuse the rashness, the

madness, that occasioned it?”

The specious arguments of the Jesuit prevailed, and I acceded to

his proposition. I could not tell the cause that overpowered my

grandfather’s feeble strength; nor could I even guess whether it were

anger, or an outbreaking of revived affection. In my doubts, I agreed

to the monk’s proposal--saw the old man carried in a chair to the

house--and quitted the domain, perfectly unconscious whether my visit

had mitigated or confirmed his animosity.

In one brief hour that question was put to rest, and a letter, addressed

to me at the Fox and Hounds, apprised me that my grandfather considered

my mother an _enfant perdu_, and that his displeasure was unmitigable!

*****

In a remote apartment of Mr. Clifford’s mansion, that evening, two

men might have been discovered in earnest conversation; one had a

countenance sallow, cunning, and repulsive; and a figure remarkable

for its height and irregular proportions; the other was a middle-sized

elderly man, with a certain air and intelligence that might stamp him

a pawnbroker, money-dealer, thieves’ attorney, or any other profession

appertaining to the “wide-awake” school. Heed I say the twain were

the Confessor and house-steward of my grandfather? Both exhibited

unequivocal appearances of anxiety and annoyance; and though there were

wines upon the table, neither seemed inclined to use them.

“Was there ever any thing more unfortunate than this evening’s

occurrence?” exclaimed the Jesuit. “For months the old man has never

been left a moment to himself; and one unguarded interval, what mischief

has it not produced! Another interview--and all that you and I for years

have laboured to effect is totally, hopelessly---undone!”

“It is too true,” replied the steward.

“He’ll never make a will now!”

“Have we not already made one for him?” said the steward.

The priest shook his head--“That deed, my friend, will never bear

the light. We stand in a dangerous position; and had not the old man

fainted, we were ruined. Even now the mischief is not abated--he talks

of nothing but his daughter, and raves about the duty of forgiveness

which a father should extend to an erring child. What is to be done?”

The steward mused for a minute--his brows contracted, and a dark

expression passed across his face. “Father,” he said, “the intruder must

be removed.”

The Jesuit looked at his companion, but spoke not. The look, however,

said--“Would that it were done!”

“Money will effect it,” said the steward.

The Jesuit continued silent, and then carelessly observed, “I would give

a thousand pounds this cursed interview had not occurred!”

“Would you, holy father, give as much to prevent a seeond?” asked the

steward.

The Jesuit nodded.

“Enough; I shall act promptly now. Hark! A knock at the door! Come in!”

It was a message from Mr. Clifford requiring that the Confessor should

attend him instantly. Father Daniels rose.

“Stop,” he said, “till I hear what the old man wants.” And, so saying,

he left the apartment.

He was not absent long; and when he entered the chamber, he held an open

letter in his hand. Carefully closing the door, he thus addressed his

confederate:

“Said I not right--Our position is all but desperate? What think ye was

the old man’s business?--To desire the son of his repudiated daughter to

return to-morrow; and to give directions, that I should write and order

it to be so. Were that to happen, need I name the result?--all--all

lost! Well, I obeyed, and wrote this letter”------

“As he dictated?--are you mad, holy father?” inquired the steward. “Not

exactly.’Tis thus worded:--

“‘Rash Boy!

“‘Your mother’s misconduct wrung my heart, and your unwarrantable

intrusion has nearly brought me to the grave. As you dread the

malediction of an old man--desist!--_and for ever_ avoid the presence of

one who can never look but with abhorrence on the offspring of a guilty

daughter.’

“‘Tis signed--ay, and in his own handwriting too--

“‘John Clifford.’”

“Excellent! This will prevent another visit,” said the steward.

“You are too sanguine, my friend. The young man is daring;--he may make

a second effort. If he succeed--if he gain a second time the sight of

his grandfather, the tale is told. This fabricated letter may prevent

the meeting for a while--but more effectual measures to secure mutual

safety are indispensable.”

“I understand you, holy father,” returned the steward;--“money will be

necessary.”

“Money shall not be wanting,” said the Confessor. “This note

procrastinates, but does not avert the crisis.”

The steward nodded his head. “‘Tis a breathing-time, that shall not be

thrown away;--I’m off to London immediately.”

“Heaven speed thee!” said the monk; and the hand of God’s minister,

imprecating a blessing, was laid upon a wretch’s head whose avowed

embassy was--murder!

*****

To my humble counsellors, the keeper and the sergeant, I communicated

what we all considered the decided failure of my experiment. I resolved

to return direct to town--and a place was booked accordingly in the

stage. Another passenger accompanied me--and how different are the ends

which influence men’s actions! I hurried back to town to bask in the

smiles of my young and artless Isidora. The object of my _compagnon

du voyage_ was very opposite,--the gentleman was Mr. Morley; and his

embassy--nothing but to accomplish my assassination.

CHAPTER XX. A MEETING BETWEEN MEN OF BUSINESS.

“_What a dickens is the man always whimpering about murder for?

If business cannot be carried on without it, what would you have a

gentleman to do?” Beggars’ Opera._

|The scene has changed; and we must request the gentle reader to

accompany us into a close dark alley, with no thoroughfare connecting

it to the opener streets around, save two narrow and crooked passages

scarcely three feet wide. The houses are high and old-fashioned, and

front each other so closely, that from roof to roof an active man might

spring. Their general appearance betokens fear or wretchedness; for,

while some of the windows are so jealously blinded, as to prevent all

chance of _espionage_ from without, others are recklessly exposed to the

eye of the passenger, as if it were intended to display the extent of

the dirt and poverty within. The large brick dwelling at the bottom of

the court is curiously situated. At either gable, it opens by a side

door into one of the foul dark passages we have described; the front

is to the court; and the back abuts upon one of those small and

half-forgotten cemeteries, not larger than a modern drawing-room, which

may still be seen, studding here and there the more ancient portions of

that “mighty mass of wood, and brick, and mortar,” ycleped “the great

metropolis.”

Within this dwelling, there was a semblance of opulence that formed a

striking contrast to the squalid poverty that was perceptible in every

other building around it. The rooms were crowded with ill-assorted

furniture, and the walls covered with mirrors and pictures. On the

tables and mantelpiece, clocks, china, and fancy-ornaments were

incongruously heaped together; the whole looking liker a broker’s

store-room than the private dwelling of a man in trade. The place was a

receptacle for stolen property--or in thieves’ parlance, the house of “a

fence.”

In a large apartment on the first floor the owner of this singular

abiding-place was seated. He seemed a man of fifty, and his own

appearance was as curious as the domicile he inhabited. To judge by the

outline of his countenance, you would call him an Irishman, while its

character and expression were decidedly that of a Jew. Indeed nothing

could be less prepossessing than both; and the look of the man, taken

altogether, was low, blackguard, and repulsive.

On the table beside which this ill-favoured gentleman was seated, there

were lights, glasses, and decanters; a comfortable fire was blazing

in the hearth, and window-shutters, plated with iron, were carefully

secured with bolt and bar.

Mr. Brown, for so the master of the house was named, seemed occupied

with business of no common interest; and to a letter, which he held open

in his hand, frequent references were made. His actions were those of

a man placed in a situation of perilous uncertainty; for he frequently

rose from his chair and paced the room, muttering to himself disjointed

sentences, and again returning to the table, to re-peruse an epistle

which evidently contained matter of deep moment to the reader. Suddenly

he rang the bell, and its summons was answered by a personage of

remarkable exterior.

He was a hunchback, and so curiously distorted, that he seemed to be

constructed of nothing but legs and arms. From his appearance you would

guess him to be fifteen, but his face told you that he was at least five

years older; and on every line and feature of that sinister countenance

cunning and knavery were imprinted.

“Frank,” said the master of the hunchback, “who brought Mr. Sloman’s

letter?”

“The red-haired man from the City-road, who proved our last _alibi_ at

the Bailey,” was the reply.

“Humph!” returned Mr. Brown, again glancing his eyes over the

letter, and favouring the hunchback with occasional extracts from

its contents,--“‘Matter of deepest importance,’--‘not a moment to be

lost,’--‘Be with you punctually,’--‘Come through the burial-ground at

nine.’ Have you unlocked the wicket, Frank?”

“Not till I had your orders,” returned the attendant.

“Right, Frank; people can never be too guarded; but Sloman’s a safe

hand, and we have done a good stroke of business together before now. It

must be plate or jewels;--and yet I was talking to an old cracksman

this very evening, and if there had been a smash last night of any

consequence he would have been safe to know it and tell me. Unlock the

wicket, Frank--and then slip over to the Fortune of War, and try if you

can get any intelligence.”

The hunchback disappeared; and during his absence, Mr. Brown divided his

attention pretty equally between the contents of Mr. Sloman’s epistle

and those of the decanter at his elbow. In a quarter of an hour, the

hunchback’s key was heard turning in the street-door lock,--and he

presently announced, that, having made diligent inquiries from several

professional gentlemen who were refreshing themselves in the back

parlour of the Fortune of War, he was then and there assured, that

nothing had been done the preceding evening but the usual theatrical

business--with the exception of a silver coffee-pot, that had been

abstracted from a west-end hotel.

Another quarter of an hour passed--a church-bell chimed--nine was

sounded from the belfry; and, ere the clock ceased striking, steps were

heard upon the stairs, and “the thing of legs and arms” announced “Mr.

Sloman.”

The expected visitor was a large, corpulent, clumsy-looking nondescript,

with a hooked nose, and light complexion, that rendered it impossible to

decide whether he should be classed as Jew or Gentile.

At Mr. Brown’s invitation he took a chair, filled a glass, ventured

a remark touching the present state of the weather, and ended with an

eulogy on the wine.

[Illustration: 0206]

“It should be capital, for it comes directly from the cellar of a noble

lord, who is considered to be as good a judge of port as any man in

England,”--said Mr. Brown; “his head butler and I do business

pretty extensively. He’s always hard up, his woman is so desperately

extravagant; for actresses are always expensive cattle, as you know.

I have recommended him to take a rib; but he can’t stand matrimony, he

says,--at the west-end, it’s reckoned so infernally vulgar.”

“You got my letter,” said Mr. Sloman, with a significant look.

Mr. Brown nodded assent.

“We’re all alone?” inquired Mr. Sloman.

“Not a soul in the house, but Frank and the old housekeeper,” was the

reply.

“Well,” rejoined the visitor, “let us go slap to business. We have

done a little in our time, Mr. Brown, and I flatter myself to mutual

satisfaction.”

Mr. Brown smiled affirmatively.

“Every transaction between us,” continued Mr. Sloman, “safe, honourable,

and agreeable.”

“The last stolen bills were devilish awkward to manage,” observed Mr.

Brown, “and things became so ticklish, that they were returned to the

parties for three hundred. Not a rap more--no--upon my honour!”

“Nothing in the bill line,” observed Mr. Sloman, “at present.”

“Glad of it,” returned Mr. Brown. “Is it a crack?--plate, jewels, or--”

“Quite another line--In a word, a thousand’s offered--get the thing

done, and we divide!”

Mr. Brown started. Two things occasioned this disturbance of

constitutional self-possession; the first was the largeness of the

consideration, and the second, an intimation that the business was in “a

new line.”

“Who are the parties, and what’s the business?” was the inquiry.

“Of the one I know nothing; of the other, particulars are contained in

this sealed paper. The party who communicates with me, forbade it to be

opened until the thing was put in train.”

“Well, how the devil,” said Mr. Brown, “can I enter on a business that I

know nothing of?”

“I only know generally,” returned Mr. Sloman, “what it is.”

“Go on,” said Mr. Brown impatiently.

“There is a person in the way--he must be removed;” said Mr. Sloman in a

whisper.

“Murdered, of course,” observed the host.

“Upon my soul, Mr. Brown, I am quite surprised at the unprofessional

nature of your remark. Do you see any thing particularly green about me,

to lead you to suppose that I would make myself accessory before fact? I

neither know the man, nor will know anything of the man; or what _is_ to

become of him, or what _will_ become of him. I got this sealed note, and

that there _flimsy_ as retaining fee,” and he held up a sealed packet,

and a bank note for a hundred pounds, both of which Mr. Brown took and

examined most attentively.

“That’s sealed close enough,” he said, laying down the paper on the

table; “and that’s _genuine_,” he added, after submitting the bank note

to an investigation before the candle, to ascertain the authenticity

of the water-mark. “Is the five safe?” he said, still playing with the

hundred in his hand.

“I’ll freely deposit that hundred as security,” returned Mr. Sloman,

“and now, in a word, is the thing in your line? Will you do it?”

“Do what?” responded Mr. Brown, with a look of innocent surprise.

“My dear Brown,” returned Mr. Sloman, “what the devil use in dodging

with a friend?”

“It’s you that’s dodging,” replied the amiable host; “pray may I read

this paper?”

“Read it, if you please, but tell me nothing of the contents.”

“You’re a deep-un,” Slowey and Mr. Brown again passed the bank note

between the candle and his eye. “Undeniable!” he muttered, and next

moment he retired to the corner of the apartment, at the special

solicitation of Mr. Sloman; and then having broken the seal of the

packet, Brown read the writing, while Sloman, in perfect ignorance of

its import, drew the decanter closer, and as cocknies say, “assisted”

himself liberally to the contents.

When the worthy owner of the house had read the scroll, the effect upon

him seemed astounding. His frame appeared convulsed, the lip whitened,

and the hand that held the paper seemed scarcely able to retain it. He

read it again and again, and then, crumpling it in his grasp, returned

to the table, filled a glass of brandy, and drained it to the bottom; an

example faithfully followed by his excellent friend, Mr. Sloman.

“Well, Mr. B., what say you?”

“This simply--the business shall be done.”

“To the satisfaction of the parties concerned?” inquired Mr. Sloman.

“Yes; or you may keep the four hundred.”

“He is to be disposed of, so that he shall give no farther trouble.

Remember that, Mr. Brown.”

“The grave is the best security for that,” returned the host.

“Stop, stop; don’t tell me any particulars. Only let the thing come off

like a business transaction,--you understand me?”

“Perfectly responded Mr. Brown.

“And you undertake it?”

“I do,”--and in that understanding pocket this retainer and Mr. Brown

put the bank note into his breast-pocket. “Come, as matters are

arranged, let us have another bottle.”

“No, no, no,--I must return to the person waiting your reply.--He will

be impatient.”

“Who are the parties, Sloman?--honour bright.”

“By heaven! I know no more of them than you do; nor, stranger still,

does the agent who proposed the affair to me. Best assured the thing is

ably planned, and there are deep ones at the bottom of it.”

“Ay, and I promise you that it shall be as ably executed,” responded Mr.

Brown.

“To a gentleman of your experience,” said Mr. Sloman, with a bow,

“it would be impertinent to offer advice. The fewer number of people

employed in the job, (remember, I know nothing of it,) why the less

chance there is of splitting.”

“Mr. Brown assented by a nod.

“To an honest tradesman, like yourself, or a lawyer of character, like

me, any thing to compromise us would be detrimental.”

A parting glass was drunk,--and the payment, its mode and certainty, all

being carefully arranged, the excellent gentlemen separated with a warm

shake of the hand, protestations of mutual esteem, and a God bless you!

Mr. Sloman was emancipated by the churchyard door; the hunchback locked

the grating; and Mr. Brown, having interdicted all visitors for the

night, excepting the favoured few who had the private _entree_ of his

domicile, sate down “alone in his glory.”

The step of the hunchback was heard no more, as he had dived into the

lower regions which he inhabited. Mr. Brown looked suspiciously about

him for a moment, and satisfied that he was in perfect loneliness

and security, he burst into a passionate soliloquy, and strange, the

language it was uttered in was in Irish!

“Who says that he who waits for vengeance will not sooner or later find

a time? Ha! the hour at last is come, when that heart, proud man, which

I cannot reach myself, shall bleed profusely through another’s. Let

me look back. I remember well the moment when the jury returned my

conviction, and the judge, to strike terror into others, sentenced me to

eternal banishment, and ordered me to be transported from the dock. My

prosecutor stood leaning against the bench, and returned my glance of

impotent revenge, with one of supercilious disdain, as a lion would

look upon a cur. Thirteen long years I dragged out in slavery--and such

slavery, to one, who like me, had known the comforts which appertains to

a gentleman’s dwelling! I escaped--reached England--fortune has smiled

upon me, and I am wealthy--no matter how the money came--and none

suspect me--none know me as a returned transport save one, and with her

the secret’s safe. I never can be detected here for, fortunately for me,

it was believed I failed in my escape, and was drowned attempting

it. Has wealth engrossed my thoughts--has money made me happy? No,

no,--vengeance, vengeance, haunt my very dreams! But it was not to be

obtained--I dared not venture near the man I hate--the attempt would

have been too perilous--I should be known, and if discovered, without

the power of inflicting injury, I should be myself the victim, and my

ruin would gratify the man I loath. Heavens! can it be true, and is the

hour of vengeance come at last? It is! it is! Denis O’Halloran, before

a third night pass, the worm you despised and spurned in your hour of

triumph, shall sting you to the soul! Now for the means. That Hebrew

barterer in blood, who has changed his name and calls himself a

Christian--he gave a necessary caution. I’ll follow it--the

fewer employed in such a deed the better. Ha, I have it! The

body-snatchers--ay--they are the men. I can manage it through Frank.--He

was one of them, but the labour was too severe for him. That devil-boy

has in that puny frame-work, the ferocity of a tiger, and the cunning of

a fiend; he loves mischief for itself, and doats upon a deed of blood.

Yes,--the resurrectionists are the men; and they so readily manage

to rid themselves of the carrion afterwards. There are three of

them--surely enough--all young men, and two of them were pugilists. He

is described as tall, active, and powerful, and his father’s son

will not be wanting in the hour of danger;--but what is one man to

three?--Hark! the street-bell rings--I expect nobody to night!--Hush,

here comes the boy.”

As he spoke the hunchback entered, and announced that “the gipsy’’ was

passing, and wished to speak to Mr. Brown.

“Saints and angels! the very person that I want! Show her up. Ay--we

need a decoy--in every mischief, woman can be usefully employed.”

The announced one entered Mr. Brown’s great chamber, and addressed him

with the familiarity of an old acquaintance.

“I leave town to-morrow,” she began--

“I doubt it,” was the reply.

“Why?” asked the gipsy, sharply.’

“The reason you shall know presently. Mary,” he continued, “have you

forgotten events that happened nineteen years ago?”

“Can they ever be forgotten, Hacket?--my own disgrace--my brother’s

murder.”

“And yet, Mary, you have not the reason to recollect them that I have.

You were never banished.”

“Was I not worse than banished?” returned the gipsy. “See what my life

has been since I was disgraced and driven from my native land--with one

passing gleam of happiness, a scene of guilt, and crime, and misery.

Once my wandering career was stayed; I was loved, and raised from

poverty; I was sheltered, protected, educated. My wayward destiny had

found a home at last; and the evening of a troubled life promised to

end in peace and quiet. Accident in a moment robbed me of him on whom

my future fate depended--and I was again cast upon the world, when I had

experienced enough of happiness only to estimate its loss more acutely.

Have not misery and suffering been my companions since? I have felt the

indignity of a gaol; I have been the inmate of a madhouse; I am now a

half-crazed wanderer. Homeless and friendless I’ll live; and when the

spirit passes, no holy lip shall breathe a prayer for the soul’s repose

of a nameless outcast, who probably will perish on a dung-hill.”

“And what would you give for vengence on him whose fickle love caused

you this misery and shame? Listen, Mary; before three suns go down in

ocean, vengeance shall be ours!”

“How? speak, Hacket?”

“Denis O’Halloran shall be childless--through the son’s heart I’ll reach

the father’s.--Attend!”--and Hacket rapidly detailed the outline of the

foul conspiracy.

“With lips apart, and eyes fixed intensely on the narrator’s

countenance, Mary Halligan listened in silence. Suddenly the street-bell

rang once more, and Haeket was called away, leaving the gipsy alone.

“And so the son’s to be slaughtered to break the father’s heart,” she

muttered,--“and he thinks that I am savage as himself, and that I will

aid him in his deed of blood. Alas! he little knows that woman’s first

love can never be obliterated. Five and twenty years have passed. I saw

him recently; for the impulse was irresistible, and I crossed the sea

to gratify the wish. Time had blanched his hair, the stoop of years had

slightly bent his lofty carriage; and an empty sleeve told that he had

been mutilated on the battle field. He passed me carelessly; but when

I spoke, turned, as if the voice that fell upon his ear had been once

familiar. He replied to me in kind accents, and gave me some silver as

he walked away. Did I see him then as he was? Oh, no; I only saw the

bold and handsome soldier, who, in the mountain glen, taught me first

to love; and could I harm him because he trifled with a heart that never

loved another; and, like an infant’s toy, threw it from him when the

newness of the gift was over? No; Denis O’Hallo-ran, thy boy shall be

preserved; or she whom you wooed, and won, and deserted, will perish

in the effort. Ha! I hear the tiger’s foot upon the stair; and now to

deceive him.”

All that the scoundrel proposed, the gipsy warmly assented to--and I was

placed under instant _espionage_. The thing of legs and arms, ycleped

Frank, watched my outgoings from the hotel.--Hacket, through the

hunchback’s agency, settled with the resurrection men the price of my

destruction--and all required, was a fitting opportunity to accomplish

it.

Two modes presented themselves--secret murder or open violence. The

first was infinitely preferable, had my habits been irregular, and

that consequently I could have been seduced into some of the convenient

slaughter-houses, with which the metropolis then abounded. Places there

were enough; but the difficulty was, how should I be gotten there? Women

were employed, but Isidora proved a counter-charm. Scented billets,

couched in ardent language, reached me daily; but the assignations were

disregarded. Could letters be credited upon ladies’ hearts, I had done

prodigious execution but I acted like “a man of snow,” and out-josephed

Joseph. To Mr. Hartley I even submitted these amatory effusions, and in

his company I actually kept two or three appointments. It was observed,

probably from some blinded window, that another person was in my

company, and that no attempt could be made upon me with success; and

like Hotspur’s spirits “none did come, though we did call for them.”

Unknown to each other, Hacket and I played a deep and desperate game,

the stake was life, and--as the cards turned up--I won it.

Why that a regular Emeralder like me, whose native soil is known to be

favourable to the growth of gallantry as it is unfriendly to that of

reptiles, should play deal-adder to the call of beauty in the streets,

the following chapter may possibly account for.

CHAPTER XXI. MY TWENTIETH ANNIVERSARY.

“Cats. Cæsar shall forth: the things that threatened me.

Ne’er looked but on my back; when they shall see

The face of Cæsar--they are vanished.”

“Ham. Oh most pernicious woman!”

“‘3d Mur. Tis he--

2d Mur. Stand to’t.”

Shakespeare.

When I met Isidora in her mountain home, her graceful person, aided by

manners particularly _naive_ and gentle, had fascinated me, and taught

me, for the first time, to feel the influence of love. Hers was the

artless beauty that man never gazes on unmoved--the coldest heart would

own its power--and mine at once admitted it. But when a closer intimacy

banished the timidity which a secluded life and conventual education

naturally produced--when she looked no longer on me as a stranger,

expressed her opinions freely, and conversed without restraint--I found

her gifted with intelligence beyond what so young a life could warrant,

and a spirit, in ordinary events, mild, gentle, and endearing, but

one, if necessity required, capable of that devoted fortitude, which so

frequently, in pain and poverty, raises woman superior to misfortune,

and distances immeasurably the boasted heroism of man. I was now, by the

permission of Mr. Hartley, constantly in the presence of his daughter.

At his table a cover was reserved for me, and I was an inmate of a

neighbouring hotel. In the various places visited by strangers to the

metropolis, I daily accompanied Isidora; for in concerns of deeper

interest her father seemed entirely engaged. I sailed with her on the

river--I rode with her in the parks. Is it then to be wondered at that

boyish fancy ripened into a strong and endearing passion?--one that no

secondary impression could afterwards efface, and which, like the star

of hope, brightened the darkest hour of my career, and finally crowned

success with that best benison of heaven--woman’s love.

On the third evening after my unsuccessful attempt to effect a

reconciliation with Mr. Clifford, we had strolled westward, and,

returning through St. James’s Park, sate down to rest upon a bench

beside the Serpentine. In the story of my life it was a day never to

be forgotten; for I had told Isidora what could not have been a secret,

and, amid tears and blushes, she had owned that to her father she could

give now-only a divided heart. He who has loved at twenty, and excited a

kindred passion in the object of his regard, can only fancy what I felt.

The world seemed strewn with roses--the sky without a cloud. Was not

Isidora mine? and rich in woman’s love, what else was to be wished for?

Alas! how many trials were before me, ere that haven of happiness was

won!

I mentioned before, Mr. Hartley’s business was so engrossing, that from

breakfast time we rarely saw him until he returned late to dinner. The

evening was closing, and the chimes of St. Martin’s steeple warned us

that we should resume our walk. The bench on which we had been sitting

was directly in front of a clump of trees; and on moving a pace or two,

we perceived, for the first time, that a tall and singular looking woman

was standing immediately beside us, although until we had risen the

shrubs effectually concealed her. Her figure and attitude were graceful,

and the outline of the countenance fine--with a complexion so dark, and

eyes so brilliant, that they at once betrayed a gipsy origin. She was

past the middle age--but when a girl, she no doubt possessed the beauty

for which that singular race are so remarkable. She regarded me with

fixed attention; her eyes glancing slightly at my fair companion,

and then settling upon mine with a stealthy expression of inquiry. We

attempted to pass her, but she raised her arm, and signed that we should

remain.

“What do ye want, good woman?” I said, as I offered her some silver.

“Not money,” was her reply, and she pushed back the hand I had extended.

“I would speak with you, and speak with you alone.”

“With me! You can have no business with a stranger”--

“With strangers I have none. With you I have important business,”

returned the gipsy.

“I am unknown to you, my friend.” She smiled incredulously, and then

peering sharply at my face, she measured me with a glance from head to

foot.

“Yes, I could not be mistaken--the air, the height, the figure--all,

all, are similar. The same firm step and haughty carriage; ay, and the

eye and lip too are his; the rest, the softer features of his mother.”

Isidora, startled at the wild attitude and address of the wanderer,

clung closely to my arm for protection. The gipsy noticed it.

“Lady, from me you have nothing to dread. I may not be able to serve

you, and who would injure you? Give me your hand. Nay, fear not.”

“Pshaw!” said I, “we have no faith in fortune-telling and I smiled.

“That smile too is his father’s. Come, lady, let me but look one

moment.”

I pressed Isidora to comply with the gipsy’s request; and, with a smile,

she presented her hand to the fortune-teller. The latter scanned the

lines attentively, and then whispered something in my companion’s ear,

but in a voice so low, that to me it was perfectly inaudible. Its effect

upon Isidora was striking. In a moment a burning blush suffused her

cheeks, and eyes, turned before upon the sybil in playful expectation,

were instantly cast upon the ground. The wanderer smiled.

“Nay, lady,” she said, “take not what I have told you as any proof of

skill; a boy who saw half what I did unperceived would readily have

guessed that secret. One look more. Your love will end prosperously; but

the time is hidden from me. Trials and disappointments interfere, but

prudence and patience will overcome them. May you be happy! It would be,

in sooth, a pity if sorrow should dim so sweet an eye, or cloud a brow

so beautiful. And now, to see what fate designs for you, sir.”

The kindly tone of voice in which she conveyed her wishes for Isidora’s

happiness of course had its full influence on me, and I freely presented

the hand she desired--but still a sceptic smile accompanied the offer,

and showed that in palmistry I was an unbeliever. She affected not to

notice it, but proceeded with her mystic examination.

“Well,” I said, laughing, “what has fortune in reserve for me?”

“Much that I can see, and more that is wrapped in mystery.”

“Proceed.”

“I see present danger, followed by perilous adventure. The end, however,

looks happy.”

“The danger,” I exclaimed; “whence and from whom?”

“The source I see; the time’s uncertain.”

“Pshaw! this is mere folly--some proof. Give me this, or I shall say

your art is all speculation on the common results of life, and founded

on chance of circumstances.”

“Ask, and I’ll answer you.”

“My name?” I inquired.

“Hector O’Halloran.”

“Well, I was not aware you knew me. That knowledge is easily acquired.

My profession?”

“Your father’s. Am I right?”

I bowed.

“What else do you require from me?” said the woman.

Isidora had turned pale; for the readiness with which each question

had been answered, seemed to infer that the gipsy really possessed the

intelligence she boasted.

“Come,” I said, “one question more, and that if answered shall make me a

true believer;--tell me my age!”

“Well--let me think a moment,” she returned, and placing her open hand

across her forehead, she seemed for a few moments to tax her memory, as

if engaged in mental calculations.

“Ay, that was the year,” she muttered; then, turning to me, she coolly

answered, “On Thursday next you will be twenty.”

She paused; and the surprise visible on my countenance announced to

Isidora that the answer was correct.

“And now, one word before we part;” and she laid her hand upon my

shoulder--“Hector O’Halloran, beware! or your twentieth birthday will be

as bloody as your first.---- Before we part, give me one promise.”

“Name it,” I replied.

“When I require you to meet me--when a writing with these marks attached

to it, shall be placed within your hand”--and she gave me a

scroll--“will you obey the order?”

I answered boldly in the affirmative.

“‘Tis well. Though my summons come in storm, and darkness, and at

midnight, as you value life, obey it. Though beauty smiles, and music

charms, leave all when that mystic signature is presented.”

Isidora and I turned our eyes on the scroll. It contained only a couple

of initials--but annexed was a singular hieroglyphic, representing a

heart perforated with a dagger. I smiled at the device, while Isidora

became deadly pale. The wanderer saw the colour leave her cheek; and

with a gentleness of voice and manner intended to remove alarm, she thus

addressed my fair companion:--

“Lady, fear nothing; all will yet be well,--and by courage and caution

danger shall be arrested. Go, and God bless you! Remember what I

have said and you have promised. You have deadly enemies; but, Hector

O’Halloran, you have one devoted friend. Ay, and humble as she is, trust

to her; and if she do not save, she’ll die in the attempt.”

Ere the words were spoken, the gipsy had vanished behind the bushes,

leaving Isidora and myself in marvellous astonishment at a scene equally

unexpected and incomprehensible.

When we reached home, Mr. Hartley was waiting for us; and after dinner,

when _tête-à-tête_, I recounted our adventure in the Park. He listened

attentively to the detail, and asked me many questions, to which,

however, I could give no satisfactory replies.

“I am at a loss,” he said, “to fathom this singular affair. The woman

could have no object in creating an unnecessary alarm, and yet her

communication was so vague, that one cannot even guess what the danger

is, or from what quarter it may be expected. Still her caution is not

to be despised, and we must be upon our guard, until it pleases your

swarthy friend to be more explicit than she has been. One course must

be pursued. We must keep strangers at a distance, and look at all as

enemies.” He took the note I had received from Mr. Clifford on the

evening after our interview, and read it carefully.

“It is his signature indubitably,” he murmured. “These well-remembered

characters are not to be mistaken. Had he received you kindly--had he

evinced the slightest symptom of abated displeasure when you addressed

him--and did a hope remain that time could mitigate his callous feelings

towards an erring child--I would, in that case, have suspected that

in the monk you had that secret enemy of whom you have been warned to

beware. But no--the Jesuit is secure; the dupe is all his own. He will

be contented with rendering all future attempts to gain the old man’s

presence unavailing. That he can effect, and more would be unnecessary.

To me, the occurrence is involved in mystery too deep to be even guessed

at, and it seems one that time only can unravel.”

Although to the amatory effusions which reached me by every post I was

cold as St. Senanus, when he was so barbarously virtuous as to warn a

single lady off his premises at midnight, still to woman’s fascination I

was not altogether insensible. By singular accident, I had encountered

a girl of extraordinary beauty in my walks; and though her demeanour

was modest and retiring, I still fancied that I did not pass her by

unnoticed. She was apparently under eighteen; and to the sweetest face

imaginable, united a faultless figure. Her mourning dress was simple and

becoming; and her general appearance indicated an humble respectability.

To have insinuated aught against the constancy of my passion for

Isidora, should be, as Lord Ogleby says, “by all the laws of love, death

to the offender,” but still, when we passed each other in the street, I

found myself involuntarily look round. Once, I imagined that the

pretty incognita directed a furtive glance at me; and then, blushing at

detection, she bent her eyes upon the ground, and walked hastily on, as

if prohibiting any attempt on my part to address her, had such been my

intention. But by a strange accident, the introduction that propriety

forbade, chance effected.

My birth-day came. I thought upon the sybil’s warning in the Park, and

I confess that it was anything but an agreeable reminiscence. I was

not afraid--for what had I to fear? It was “an air-drawn dagger” that

impended; but still I was far from being quite at ease. The day was

gloomy; a fog obscured the sun; the dull atmosphere would damp the

lightest spirits; I felt its influence on mine; and when I reached St.

Paul’s, the gipsy’s warning haunted my memory, and it seemed to announce

emphatically a coming evil. Her words rang in my ear, and I thought I

heard Her again repeat, “Hector O’Halloran, beware! or your twentieth

birth-day will be as bloody as your first.” I mused upon the

prophecy--“The ides of March were come.” Well, the sybil said that

courage and caution would overcome the threatening danger. Both should

be exercised; and a few brief hours would fulfil or falsify the augury.

These sombre thoughts were suddenly interrupted, for directly before me,

and scarcely distant a dozen yards, I recognised the graceful figure of

the fair incognita, whom fortune, good or evil, appeared determined to

throw across my path continually.

Should I address her as I passed? I wished to do so, but hesitated.

Suddenly a man hurried rudely along, and pushing with violence against

the pretty unknown, she staggered a few paces and would have fallen on

the flagway, had I not sprang forward and caught her in my arms. The

scoundrel who had done the mischief, dreading the consequences of his

brutality, hastened away, and was speedily lost in the fog.

Fortunately, a tavern was immediately at hand. I supported her in;

obtained a private sitting-room, the assistance of the females of the

house, and the incognita was speedily recovered. We were then left

alone. I received her warmest acknowledgments for my kindness; and thus

encouraged, I pressed my inquiries to learn who she was, and, with the

timidity of a girl unaccustomed to hold converse with a stranger, by

degrees I learned the fair one’s history.

She was the orphan of a soldier. Her father, a lieutenant in the line,

had fallen at the assault of Badajos; her mother, years before was dead;

and her only living relation, an aged aunt, who, from infirmities, was

unable to leave the house. They enjoyed a trifling independence--one

that required careful management to render it sufficient to meet

moderate wants, and maintain a respectable position in society. Hence

she accounted for the necessity imposed upon one so young of appearing

frequently in public.

Over the simple story of a life, she threw a shadowing of romance that

strongly interested me. In alluding to the narrowness of her means, my

fair acquaintance mentioned circumstances which could not but engage my

sympathy. Her aunt had fallen into the hands of a grinding solicitor,

and been plundered accordingly; for how could an infirm old woman obtain

redress, when opposed to a satellite of the law? Her father had demands

upon the Government when he fell in his country’s cause; but with no

interest to support it, the claim was made and rejected. No wonder,

then, that Irish chivalry at once prompted me to offer myself her

champion, and I expressed a strong desire to visit her aged relative.

With some hesitation, she acceded to the request, and named, for a

reason I have forgotten, a late hour that evening for an interview.

Were I asked what had excited this curiosity regarding the history of a

stranger, and with what objects I sought a closer acquaintance with the

incognita, I could not answer the question. To Isidora my allegiance

remained unshaken; and yet some secret impulse urged me to cultivate an

intimacy, which prudence should have interdicted, and every bond of love

forbade.

The day appeared interminable. It wore away at last; and the hour drew

nigh when I was to meet my young incognita. I told Isidora of my morning

adventure; but I suppressed the fact, that an evening interview was to

follow it. I feared that Mr. Hartley, from the habitual suspicion with

which he scrutinized every transaction of life that bore a questionable

feature, would not approve of my becoming patron to a girl so pretty and

unprotected as the soldier’s orphan, and therefore I kept that intention

to myself. Some business called him out--my mistress complained of

head-ache, and retired--the clock struck nine--I rang for my cloak

and stick--for of late I never went abroad after dark without a stout

shillelah--and, as I was leaving the room, Dominique placed a sealed

paper in my hand, which he said had been just left with the porter by a

person who disappeared the moment it was delivered.

The billet was short; and the curious device attached to it, announced

that it came from the gipsy. It ran thus:--

“Meet me on the right-hand side of Blackfriars Bridge, leading from the

City, precisely at midnight. The crisis is at hand! I wish to prepare

you for it! Fail not!”

I read the writing twice, and determined to arm myself well and obey the

summons punctually. Mr. Hartley was from home. No doubt he would appear

ere the hour of meeting arrived, and I waited his return for half

an hour, but in vain. The evening wore heavily away--I thought of my

appointment with the fair incognita--there would be time enough to keep

it, and it would fill up an hour agreeably. I left the hotel, and walked

briskly towards the place where the soldier’s orphan told me she would

be in waiting.

I reached the “trysting place,” and stopped before the entrance of a

narrow lane, which the lofty houses on either side rendered still more

gloomy. That mass of masonry, St. Paul’s, flung its deep shadow over

the space beneath it; and there I halted, looking towards the opening

between the houses, from which I expected that my incognita would

present herself. I was not kept long in waiting. A slight dark figure

flitted past, and a soft voice asked, in well-remembered accents,

“Is that you?” It was the soldier’s daughter. She took my arm; and

under her guidance, I entered the gloomy alley from which I had seen her

issue.

But I must pause. ‘Where was my foster brother? and how was that worthy

personage employed? He, whose fortunes I have described as being so

strangely united with mine--where was he now, when the crisis of my fate

was coming? Stay, gentle reader. Leave me for a few minutes with

the young lady--remember, the expedition was conducted on platonic

principles--and let us inquire what befel Mark Antony O’Toole, and his

excellent ally.

During the first week that Mark Antony and the rat-catcher favoured the

modern Babylon with their company, no adventure of particular interest

had fallen to the lot of either. As both these excellent personages

enjoyed the perfect use of their limbs, their peregrinations were

numerous, and every interesting object the metropolis contained, was

visited from Tyburn to the Tower. In these agreeable excursions, as yet

no opening to future fortune had been discovered. It is true, they had

seen the world, and made sundry valuable acquaintances; and in return

for _blue-ruin_ and _heavy-wet_, received excellent advice, and also,

a special invitation to attend the obsequies of a lamented gentlewoman,

who had shuffled off this mortal coil in a back attic, two pair up,

in Leg-lane. As this last token of respect to departed worth was to be

strictly private and genteel, the sticks were taken from the visitors on

the first landing-place as they arrived, and deposited in the ruins of

a clock-case, by a man with a wooden leg, who attended funerals as

chief mourner, and balls as master of ceremonies--and by this useful

functionary Mark and his friend were ushered into the apartment, where

all that was mortal of Mistress Ellinor Malone was lying in state.

The company were already assembled, amounting to some thirty of both

sexes, all friends and relations of the deceased, and natives of the

Emerald Isle--and nothing could be more imposing than the general effect

which the chamber of death presented. Mistress Malone was laid out upon

a bench, with a frilled cap upon her head, and a plate of snuff upon

her bosom. On one side, stood a three-legged table supporting an unequal

number of lights; and on the other, there was a goodly supply of gin,

porter, and tobacco. Around the room the company were seated, each

gentleman supporting a lady on his knee; and, to judge from appearances,

a more united company had never been collected in St. Giles’s.

Being the latest arrivals from “the ould country,” the ratcatcher and

his young friend obtained particular attention--and on being presented

by the single-legged gentleman, they were received, in person, by the

disconsolate survivor.

“Mister Macgreal, ye’r kindly welcome--and the same, to you, Mister

O’Toole--we’ll brook ye’r name, for it’s a good one! I’m in grate

afliixskin, as you may parsave--but God’s will be done;” and Mr. Malone

crossed himself. “Patsey Doyle, fill the gintlemen a cropper ach--and

put a drop in the bottom of a glass for myself, to drink to better

acquaintance.”

The glasses being duly filled and emptied, Mr. Malone feelingly

continued.

“Och, boys, af ye but knew my loss. There ye lie, Nelly! could as a

crimpt cod; an when ye were sober--to be sure it was but seldom--the

divil blister the better wife in St. Giles’s--an that’s a big word.

Come, gintlemen, take a pinch out of respect for the dead--Lord rest

her--amen!--and then draw a sate, an make yerselves agreeable. Patsey

Doyle, there’s a lemon-box in the corner--fix it, _avournene_, for the

gintilmen--an now, Mistress Braddigen, may be yee’d obleege us wid a

song.”

The lady, an agreeable exception to professional melodists who never

sing when people want them, immediately complied with the request of Mr.

Malone; and having, as a necessary preliminary, removed all bronchial

obstructions with a _johny_ of “cream of the valley,” she executed with

feeling and effect that beautiful ballad, intituled “The night before

Larry was stretched”--and the well-merited plaudits of a delighted

audience had just rewarded the exertions of the fair singer, when two

fresh arrivals were added to the company.

The visitors were of the softer sex. One, was a stout gentlewoman of a

certain age, whom he of the solitary leg announced as Mrs. Bunce--and

the second, a very pretty young one, was also introduced as Mrs. Spicer.

The fosterer and his friend, being the only gentlemen who could afford

accommodation to the new comers, the master of ceremonies deposited

the stout lady upon the knees of Shemus Kkua, while to Mark Antony, the

honour “of bearing the weight” of Mrs. Spicer was entrusted.

The discernment evinced in the collection of the company would have been

in itself a sufficient guarantee for its general respectability; and

hence, the intercourse, on all sides, was easy and unreserved.

“‘Pon my sowl! a ginteeler party I hav’nt been to these six months,”

observed Mrs. Spicer to the fosterer, after she had turned down a _flash

of max_ to ‘a better acquaintance,’--“and Malone--Lord comfort him in

sorra!--shows the best of respect to his desaste lady.--I hope there

won’t be any ruction the night, and that the wake will go off agreeable.

The Connaught stockin’-man, who was bate at Phil Casey’s ball a Friday

night, died this evenin’ in Guy’s Hospital. He left his death, they say,

on Playbe Davis, for hitten him, wid the smoothin’-iron, when down.”

“I was rather afeard, Sally, dear,” observed Mrs. Bunce to Mrs. Spicer,

“that cross ould file, yer husband, wouldn’t let ye out the night.”

“And not a toe would I have got over the trashold ather,” returned Mrs.

Spicer, “only something he heard druv him into the Minories, to ask

after the carakter of a chap who came to lodge with us last Monday. By

gogstay, if the ould ruffin comes home early, and finds me out--may be

there won’t be a purty _too-roo_ kicked up? Well, the divil may care--as

Punch said when he missed mass!” Then, in a lower tone, she addressed

herself to the fosterer.

“He’s so gallows jealous,” said the lady, “that one hasn’t the life of

a dog. He, and his other wives”--(for it would appear that in the

connubial line Mr. Spicer had dealt largely)--“were always murderin’ one

another--ay, and before the beak every week, and sometimes twice too.

How, I have been married to him two months come Saturday, and sorra

mark he could show agen me but one black eye--for I can bare a dale of

provokashin--and that he brought upon himself too.” She then continued

to remark, that Mr. Spicer’s temper was but indifferent, and when he

had “the cross glass in” a saint wouldn’t stand him. He had also “a

most aggravatin’ tongue,”--and that evening, in alluding to a former

acquaintanceship which had existed between herself and a drummer in the

Guards, he used terms of so little delicacy, that a mutual interchange

of compliments resulted--Mrs. Spicer, receiving the contents of a pewter

pint, which token of connubial endearment was as promptly acknowledged

with the boot-jack, by which it appeared an upper tooth had been

effectually removed without the assistance of a dentist--a loss, on Mr.

Spicer’s part, ill to bear, as it was the only specimen of natural ivory

he possessed.

In such light and pleasing conversation an hour passed unheeded--for

minutes winged with pleasure fly unnoticed. Harmony prevailed; and, by

a philosophic effort, Mr. Malone forgot his loss, and at the request

of the company, and assisted by a violin accompaniment of the gentleman

with the wooden-leg, he chaunted “The Groves of Blarney.” It is right to

observe that, in the selection of the song, an affectionate deference

to the taste of the deceased was observed, the said “Groves” being

an especial favourite of his departed companion. If ever wake proved

pleasant, Mrs. Malone’s bade fair to be so. All were happy--Mrs. Bunee

declared the ratcatcher an agreeable man--and the sooner that Mr. Spicer

looked after his truant spouse the better--for, were the truth known,

Mark Antony was making a wild inroad on a heart that hitherto, had not

“loved wisely, but too well.”

“A change came o’er the spirit of the” night--the door unclosed--and a

square-built man, with a grizzled head and most infelicitous aspect, was

seen in the door-way, fixing a basilisk glance on “that fair frail one”

who rested on the fosterer’s knee. An interjectional remark from Mrs.

Spicer left the identity of the personage indubitable--as she observed,

“That’s the ould divil, and no mistake--and maybe there won’t be a

reglar shindy!”

Though the gentleman paused in the doorway, he lost no time in opening

the conversation.

“So ye’r there, Sally Spicer!” and the remainder of the sentence was

couched in language which the Court Journal would pronounce irregular.

“And where else should I be, ye ould, batter’d-out apology for a

Christian?”

“Come out o’ that--tramp home--an may be ye wont catch it!”

“Can ye spare another tooth convaniently?” responded his rebellious

helpmate.

“I’m waitin’ for ye, Sal!” returned the elderly gentleman, with a

mysterious crook of the finger.

[Illustration: 0221]

“Ye may go to Bath,” replied the fair one, “and if that does’nt agree

with your constitution, why go to ------” and she named a locality of

much higher temperature.

“I say, Sall, ye vont go, vont ye?” and Mr. Spicer made an advance three

steps nearer to the lemon box.

“Not the length of that nose of yours, and its the longest and ugliest

in the room. If it would’nt be an impertinent question, Mr. Spicer, what

did ye do wid ye’r other nine wives?--By gogstay--if all the neighbours

say is true, Bluebeard was a gentleman to ye!”

The remark was an unhappy one. A lady, whom Mr. Spicer in earlier

life had honoured with his hand, had been found dead under suspicions

circumstances, which rendered it a doubtful point to determine

whether her sudden exit was attributable to gin or strangulation. In

consequence, Mr. S. had to enter into a lengthened explanation at the

Old Bailey; and “having the luck of thousands,” the jury gave him

the benefit of a doubt, and finally left it upon gin. The allusion,

therefore, touched rather a tender point, and hurried matters to a

crisis.

Mr. Spicer sprang forward, and seized his lady by the arm--and Mark

Antony, retaining the other, put in a decided remonstrance. In Scott’s

parlance--

“Few were the words, and stern, and high,

That mark’d the foemen’s jealous hate;

For question fierce, and proud reply,

Gave signal soon of dire debate.”

Mr. Spicer, discommoding himself of his coat and neckcloth, made a

sporting offer to fight for five pounds, which Mr. O’Toole accepted,

only making the consideration love, and not money--a proposition that

was received with general applause.

To all official accounts of modern battles, “preliminary observations”

are prefixed. In early life, Mr. Spicer had been professional--but,

obtaining what he considered a safer line of business, he abandoned the

ring, to repose himself under the shade of his own laurels. Blinded

by the green monster, he reckoned a little too much upon his former

science, forgetting the odds that youth and superior size had placed

against him. Both parties had their backers.--“Now, old-un, mind your

dodge!” exclaimed the supporters of Mr. Spicer--while the admirers of

Mark Antony, recommending the “young-un to be awake,” added, “that the

ould file was a deep dodger;” and intimated that it would be advisable

to “look sharp to his left daddle, for that was his nasty one.” One

other appeal--and a last one, came from the corner; “For the sake of

Jasus, to keep the skrimmage as far from the corps as they could.” The

admonition was the cry of wisdom, and it was disregarded accordingly.

A briefer conflict never disappointed a sporting assembly. The artful

dodge, on which Mr. Spicer depended, failed; and in trying his left,

he received a _per contra_ favour that brought the battle to a close. A

flush hit sent him into the corner with astonishing velocity; and in his

rapid transit, he took with him not only the master of the ceremonies,

but also, the mortal remains of Mistress Malone, and the whole apparatus

on which the defunct lady had been extended.

At this appalling catastrophe, the outbreak of the chief mourner was

responded to by “the cry of women.” The single-legged professor declared

his ruin complete, that instrument from which he discoursed such

excellent music being “_in smithereens_,” while it was exceedingly

doubtful, whether that Mr. Spicer was not defunct as Mrs. Malone. When

the first uproar had partially subsided, the corpse was lifted by the

ladies--the polygamist raised by his friends and allies--and the fiddler

allowed to regain his perpendicular as he best could--while the admirers

of Mark Antony, after eulogizing his pluck, and paying a delicate

compliment to his powers as “a punisher,” hinted that it would be

prudent to withdraw, that it might be ascertained if Mr. Spicer had been

gathered to his fathers, or whether he was only “kilt, not killed and,

finally, until the mortal remains of Mrs. Malone should be duly reported

_in statu quo ante bellum_,” which, being translated, means “stretched

genteelly as before the shindy had occurred.”

To the ratcatcher the prudence of an immediate retreat was manifest; and

while general attention was divided between “the dying and the dead,”

the fosterer and his friend quietly levanted, leaving, what a few

minutes before had been an harmonious assemblage, in most admired

disorder.

The rapidity with which Irish rows are commenced and concluded is

proverbial. Under the directions of a sailor, the wreck was cleared;

and Mr. Spicer, whose advent had brought on the battle and “crossed the

obsequies, and true-love’s rights,” was declared to be still a living

man; and being resuscitated by gin and neighbourly attention, he

was once more committed to the care of his gentle helpmate. The dear

departed one again received

“The latest favour at the hands

That, living, honoured her;”

and the wake being restored to pristine solemnity, the afflicted husband

resumed his seat, vented his sorrows in soft melody, and again gratified

the company with a song. What were the after-proceedings at Mr. Malone’s

evening party we are not prepared to say; but no doubt some notice

touching the wind-up of the symposium, might be discovered by the

curious in the police chronicles of the time.

On the following afternoon, the funeral of Mrs. Malone was correctly

“performed;” and on the same evening on which I had made my _entree_ on

the world, that lamented gentlewoman bade it a last adieu. The mourners

separated at the grave-yard, each to return to his respective vocations;

and the captain and the fosterer retired to the Fox and Goose, to

deliberate on affairs of paramount importance. The question was one

of ways and means; and, as it would appear, the subject had not been

considered until circumstances imperatively required that financial

arrangements should be entered on.

“What the devil’s to be done?” observed the ratcatcher. “We’re down to

thirty shillings between us--and a week’s rent due to-morrow.”

“I thought, before now,” returned the fosterer, with a sigh, “that

something would have turned up--but I’m afraid, copteeine, we settled

in the wrong quarter of the town for any thing but love, drink, and

fighting.”

“Feaks,” said the ratcatcher, “and I’m pretty nearly of the same

opinion. Mark, jewel--what if we step over to the other side of the

city--and may be we might hear of something that one could turn his hand

to?”

“It’s too late this evening,” replied the fosterer.

“Not at all, Mark--it’s scarcely gone eight.”

“But Shemus, the truth is, I have a bit of an engagement.”

“Where, and what to do?” inquired the ratcatcher, suspiciously.

“Why,” said the fosterer, “just as they sodded Mrs. Malone, a girl

slipped this letter into my hand.”

“What is it about?”

“Nothing, but an invitation to tea.”

“Taa!” ejaculated the captain, horror-struck. “If ye take to

taa-drinkin’, Hector, _avourneeine, its over with ye!_ What destroyed

Dick Macknamara but these accursed taa-parties? May the devil smother

the first inventer of the same!--And where are ye invited to?” The

fosterer, instead of answering the inquiry, presented the billet he

had received in the grave-yard to the honest ratcatcher, who, with some

difficulty having managed to decypher the writing, read the contents,

which were as follow:--

“leg lane, thursday, six o’clok.

“dear Sir,--i was gratley Consarnt you shood get in Trubbil on my

Acount last Nite, and the Naybors alow ye Behavd lik a Reglar gentleman.

Spicer’s gon to the Sittay on bisnis that’il keep him All evenin’--So if

you Cood make it Convanient to slip in fair an asey About 8 o’clok, wee

wood have a Cup of taa, an’ sum Agreeabel con-versashin. The Favir of

yer Compnay will grateley Obleege,

“Yours to Comand,

“Sarah Spicer.”

“P. S.--For the Seak of Geesus, don’t let aney body no Nothin’ at the

Fox and Gose--they’r’ Sure to split, an’ no mistake. If Mister Magrale

wood sit in the wee Windy next the Door of the Fox, and the divell druv

Spicer horn, he’d be sure to see the oul screw Turnin’ the corner, and

have Time to give us the offis.

‘My Pen is Bad, my ink is pale,

But my Hart too you will niver fail.’

“Your Lovin’ friend, S.-- S --.”

“n.b.--You’l Fine the door onley shut too--Push, an’ it will Opin.

“Yours, as Before.

“Too Mister Otool, ecc. &c. &c. &c.”

“You would not be mad enough to go,” said the captain, as he returned

Mrs. Spicer’s flattering invitation.

“And how can I get over it?” inquired the fosterer.

“Now mark my words--for you’re bent on it, I see,” continued Shemus

Rhua--“your taa-drinkin’ will end in trouble. They say here, that

Spicer’s house is notorious for harbouring the most desperate characters

in the Dials. If you’re caught--no fair play like the wake--but you’ll

be set on by half a score, out and out, murdered, and no one to assist

you. Mark, _astore_--stay where ye are!”

But, like his greater namesake, Mark Antony, led by Dan Cupid, seemed

determined to run blindly to destruction; and, disregarding the

warnings of the ratcatcher, he resolved

“To love again, and be again undone”--

and accordingly departed for the domicile of Mr. Spicer.

Shemus Rhua, when left alone, ensconced himself in the casement

described in the lady’s letter, as “the wee windy next the door,” to

take out-post duty for the evening, and secure the fosterer against

surprise. Full of dark forebodings, he recalled to memory the divers

misfortunes which had befallen his unlucky _protegee_, Dick Macnamara,

and all were clearly attributable to his unfortunate predilection for

drinking tea; and therefore, that Mark Antony’s visit to Mrs. Spicer

would prove disastrous, he fatally anticipated. Between every blast of

the _dhudheeine_, he turned a suspicious eye to the corner of the street

from which danger might have been expected, and proved himself thus

invaluable as a videt, as he had been prudent as a counsellor.

The door of Mr. Spicer’s mansion was exactly in the state that the lady

had described it--and, yielding to his push, the fosterer found himself

in the presence of the lady.

Aware that time was valuable, Mrs. Spicer, after mutual wishes of

good health had been ratified by a glass of rum, proceeded at once to

business. She hinted at the infelicity of her marriage--and expressed

her determination to effect a divorce according to the forms of St.

Giles, by which the tedious formalities of law are avoided, and no

necessity exists for troubling the House of Peers. Of course, she must,

as a prudent woman, provide herself with a future protector; and, in

brief terms, she confessed the secret of her love, and tendered her hand

and fortune to the safe custody of Mr. O’Toole.

How much soever the fosterer might have been flattered into a temporary

flirtation by the declared preference of a pretty woman, still, true

to the _cantatrice_ and plighted faith, he declined the offer. But Mrs.

Spicer was not easily to be refused; and considering that charms might

do much, but money more, she added that inducement. Taking a key from

her bosom, she proceeded to unlock a strong cupboard built into the

Avail of the apartment, and, from external appearances, formed for a

place of security.

“This,” she said, “is the place the ould fellow keeps his cash in--and

may be ye’ll be after askin’, how I came by the key?--Feaks, an’ I’ll

tell ye.--You see, Spicer used to get mixed when any of the lodgers

would stand the liker--and we had a cracksman over-head, and he was

so smart a young man, and so obligin’! Well, I picks the ould file’s

pocket, an’ he blind drunk; and, before he woke again, Sam Parkins had

fitted this one to the lock. Poor Sam!--he was a spicy cove not like the

dark sneaking body-snatcher that came after him.’Gad, I’m half afeerd to

go up the stairs at night, for fear I would tumble over a stiff-un in

a sack, as I did last Tuesday comm late from Con Halligin’s

house-warmin’.” As she spoke, she applied the key, while the fosterer

was lost between feelings of astonishment and disgust.

“Stop! What are you doing?” he exclaimed. But the deed was already done,

and Mr. Spicer’s treasury feloniously opened to inspection. From this

depositary, his faithless spouse produced a small box; and on lifting

the lid, the fosterer perceived that it contained a number of bank

notes, with money in every variety of coinage, being the produce of that

worthy gentleman’s long and industrious life. The lady looked at her

intended lover with a smile of triumph--

“You see, Mark dear, I won’t go to you empty-handed.”

“Whose property is that?” inquired the fosterer, suspiciously.

“Whose but the ould screw’s,” returned the lady. “Say but the word, and,

Mark, every shilling shall be yours.”

“What! would you rob? and rob your husband too?” ^

“Ay, and not leave the ould rogue a mag to bless himself upon,” returned

the unblushing offender.

“Let me out!” exclaimed the indignant fosterer. “By heaven! I should

fear if I remained longer that the roof would fall!”

“Stay, Mark darline”--and Mrs. Spicer endeavoured to arrest the escape

of her refractory admirer. “Where will you get one that loves you so

tenderly, and that will bring you such a lump of money into the bargain

as myself?”

“And how is that money to be gotten?” returned the fosterer,

indignantly. “By the worst robbery of all--the plunder of a husband by

the woman who should stick to him to the death!”

“Stay, just and hear me.”

“Not another minute!” exclaimed Mark Antony. “Every moment I remain

here, I feel as if I were giving encouragement to a thief.”

It has been said, that “hell has no fury like a woman spurned; and Airs.

Spicer proved that truth. Her colour fled the glow of passion with

which she had vainly urged the honest Irishman to share her ill-acquired

wealth, changed to the ashy hue of hatred and, springing suddenly

forward, she placed her back against the door to bar the fosterer’s

egress. He took her arm, and firmly but quieth, repeated his

determination to leave the house.

“Never!” she exclaimed, “unless you take _me_ with you.”

“Are you mad, woman?” returned the fosterer; “and would you keep me here

until your husband returned, and discovered jour villanous intentions

against himself?”

At the moment, a strong force from without dislodged the lady from the

door, and the voice of the ratcatcher continued,--“And, upon my soul!

that may be done without much loss of time, as the honest man and

a couple of d----d ill-looking acquaintances, are coming round the

corner.”

The announcement of Mr. Spicer’s advent produced an instant and awful

effect on the feelings and countenance of his amiable consort.

“Holy Antony!” she exclaimed; “we’re all ruined and undone. Off with

ye at once!” and she sprang forward to the window, and after a hurried

glance down the street, added, in a voice of terror, “Lost! lost!--it’s

too late--and there will be murder! Ha! I have it--quick, quick!” and

after locking Mr. Spicer’s treasury, she rushed up stairs, followed by

Mark Antony and his guardian genius, Shemus Rhua.

Mrs. Spicer stopped before a door on the first landing-place of the

upper story, and unlocking it, introduced her visitors into a dark

apartment, filled with lumber and old furniture; and having cautioned

them to be silent, as every movement could be heard in the next room,

she hastily retired, with an assurance that she would deliver them from

captivity so soon as she “made the ould screw safe.”

“‘Pon my conscience,” whispered the ratcatcher, “we’re in a nate

situation, Mark _astore!_ What did I tell ye ye’r taa-drinkin’ would

bring us to? Cromwell’s curse on the importer of the same herb, say

I--for luck nor grace niver attended them that took to it! Here we are,

as snug as if we were in Newgate, and that’s pleasant.”

“Hush, Shemus,” returned the captain’s companion; “they’re come!” as the

steps and voices of several men were heard ascending the lower stairs.

During this brief colloquy, the ratcatcher and his _élève_ had each

applied an eye to a fissure in the wood-work; while, ensconced in

darkness, they saw distinctly afterwards all that passed within. The

room and its occupants are easily described.

The former was a comfortless attic, with a blinded window, a truckle

bed, and a few mean articles of furniture. In one corner, there were

mattocks and shovels, with other implements of unusual formation, used

by gentlemen in the resurrection line; while in another, there appeared

a choice collection of jemmies, skeleton keys, and every tool employed

in burglary; all bespeaking that the tenant of the room was a person of

general acquirements, and equally an adept, whether taken as a cracksman

or a body-snatcher.

The appearance of the twain was most remarkable. The elder was, a

stout, ill-visaged, swarthy Hebrew, with voluminous whiskers, and a most

repulsive face; the other, that thing of legs and arms, whom we have

already introduced as the confidant of Mr. Brown.

“How devilish dark!” remarked the hunchback.

“The better at times for business,” returned a second voice.

“Stop--there’s a tinder-box on the table;” and the sparkle of flint

on steel, was followed by the steadier glare proceeding from a lighted

candle.

It was quite apparent that the caution to remain silent from Mrs. Spicer

was necessary; for through the chinks in the crazy wood-work of a door

which divided the apartments, the slightest sound was heard distinctly.

“We’re full late, and the sooner we are off the better,” returned the

first speaker.

“We’ll be time enough for some people, for all that. A man can’t go

without his tools, Master Frank; and just keep yourself quiet, and I’ll

be with you in a shake.”

“Make haste, Josh. All’s ready; and fortune has done more for us than I

could expect.”

“Well,” said the Jew to the hunchback, “and how is the trick to be

done?”

“Safely,” replied the other. “Julia Travers has got him to meet her.

Lord, what a girl it is!--There’s not a decoy in London to be compared

to her. He believes her to be a soldier’s orphan--and she played her

game so deep, and dressed so well too--I would have passed her myself

in the street, and never suspected she was anything but a regular

respectable. Well, Jim and the smasher are waiting at the dark turn

of the alley--we follow--and while the chap’s attention is engaged in

front, his back will be to you.”

“I understand ye; and this shall settle matters.”

The ruffian took from the implements of his villanous profession, a

murderous weapon formed of whalebone and lead, and then producing a

glass and bottle, the hunchback and he drank a glass to good-luck,

extinguished the candle, and, locking the door of the apartment,

descended the staircase, and closed the street door heavily.

Before the fosterer and his friend could express their mutual

astonishment, the key was turned in the door of the closet where they

had lain _perdue_, and Mrs. Spicer presented herself.

“Hush!” she said, “for the sake of Heaven!--My husband has gone for a

minute to the Fox!--Hurry--or we’re ruined!”

She took Mark Antony’s hand--piloted him down stairs--the ratcatcher

followed--and when both had gained the street, she shut the door

suddenly, leaving her lover and his friend, as they say in Ireland, “on

the right side to run away.”

The rapidity with which Mrs. Spicer had effected their deliverance,

enabled Mark Antony and his companion to reach the street so close upon

the heels of the ruffians, that they saw them turn the corner. By a sort

of mutual consent, they too took the same direction; and, keeping the

scoundrels in sight, regulated their movements as they proceeded. As the

clock struck ten, St. Paul’s churchyard was at the same moment

honoured with the presence of divers personages--to wit, myself and the

_incognita_, the Jew and the hunchback--and, by a strange accident, the

fosterer and Shemus Rhua. How singular--that my deliverance from certain

death should have been effected through the agency of my foster brother!

While the parties paused for a few moments in the church-yard, the brief

remarks that passed indicated the feelings and business of the triads.

“How imprudent this meeting must appear, sir! and how unguarded in a

female to venture out at this unseasonable hour!” was whispered in the

softest voice imaginable to some remark of mine, as I passed the arm of

the _incognita_ through mine.

“By Heaven, the thing is safe!” said the hunchbacked villain, in an

under-tone, to his confederate. “See how blindly the poor flat runs into

the snare, and follows the beck of the deepest dodger that ever

betrayed a fool! Stick close; and mind your blow! Oh, that I had man’s

strength!--there’s not in Britain one who loves a daring deed more

dearly.--Would that the arm was equal to the heart!--How I shall delight

to see that tall idiot, who would stare or smile at my deformity,

grovelling on the earth, and wondering how he contrived to get his skull

cracked, while he thought only of Julia’s charms, and fancied himself in

full security.”

“Can ye see them, captain?” whispered the fosterer; “I can’t distinctly,

the night’s so dark.”

“Many a darker one I have watched the soldiers pass me on the heather,

after I was an outlaw,” replied the ratcatcher. “I see a man and woman.

See, they turn to the right, under yonder drowsy-looking lamp; and

there--those other two--one the dark scoundrel we overheard, and the

cursed cripple he was talkin’ to. What are we to do, Mark?”

“Stick to the villains like a brace of blood-hounds,” replied the

fosterer.

“I don’t half like it,” said the ratcatcher; “remember, Mark, how nearly

I was being hanged about the tailor’s wife. There’s sure to be murder;

and, holy Mary! all this comes out of taa-drinkin’!”

Through dark and intricate turnings, the soldier’s daughter conducted

me. I found the arm that was locked in mine tremble, and yet the night

was far from cold. As we advanced, the lanes became darker and less

frequented, and I could not avoid remarking, how dreary and deserted the

immediate neighbourhood of my young friend’s residence appeared to be.

She replied--the tone of voice was agitated. Was she ill? I asked the

question, and gently put my arm round her for support. Suddenly, some

terrible emotion convulsed her.

“No--no--no!” she exclaimed: “not for thousands will I do it! There’s

guilt enough upon my soul already!”

“Come, Julia,” I said, not clearly hearing what she said; “I must get

you assistance. Come on.”

“Not another step,” she murmured. “Return--quick, quick--away, away!”

She caught my hand convulsively, turned her lips to my ear, whispered

in a deep, low voice, “Ten paces further, and _you are murdered!_” and

bounding from my side, vanished in the darkness, leaving me the most

confounded gentleman that ever followed that will-o’-the-wisp--a woman.

CHAPTER XXII. I ESCAPE--BUT MR. SLOMAN MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT.

“_Malcolm._ This murderous shaft that’s shot,

Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way

Is, to avoid the aim.”

“For ‘tis the sport, to have the engineer

Hoist with his own petar.”

Shakspeare.

|It was pitch dark, and the locality as much unknown as if I had been

dropped into Kamschatka. What the devil was I to do? I threw my cloak

off, rolled it round my left arm, and firmly grasped my sapling;

then, commending myself to the especial protection of St. Patrick, I

endeavoured to retrace my steps.

I blundered on for half a minute, a low rascally whistle immediately

in my rear assuring me that I was in vicarious society, from which the

sooner I parted company the better. Moving a pace or two forward, my

steps evidently attracted the attention of the scoundrels, for a low

voice inquired, “Is that you--Josh?”

I never felt less inclination to be communicative, and silently

continued my retreat. The suspicions of the cut-throats were confirmed.

I heard a voice desire his comrade to “Come on,” adding, with an oath,

“the bird’s alarmed!”

It was idle attempting to steal a march upon an enemy already on the

alert; and a dreadful conviction shot across my mind, that escape from

assassination was hopeless. To be coldly butchered in the dark--to be

hurried from the stage of life at the very moment of my entrance on

it--and in the spring of manhood to fill a bloody grave, with

every thing prospectively before me which renders human existence

desirable--the thought was horrible. These feelings were but momentary,

and other ideas filled my mind. To resist to the uttermost--to display,

even in death, a tiger-like ferocity--this changed the current of my

thoughts, and a soul-sinking despondency gave place to the terrible

calmness which desperate circumstances produce. I quickened my pace--my

steps fell heavily on the pavement--the murderers increased their

speed--and both parties rushed forward in the dark; I at random, and

they in the full expectancy of attaining their object, and gaining the

recompense which was to be contingent on my destruction.

Acquainted with the locality of the dark lanes in which I found myself

unfortunately involved, the scoundrels closed upon me fast, and at last

I was regularly brought to bay.

“Back, villains!” I exclaimed.

“All’s right--that’s he--at him, Jim!” was responded.

In one thing the darkness favoured me. My sapling was unperceived;

the ruffians closed fearlessly--and the first intimation that they

had “caught a tartar” was by the bolder of the twain being sent to the

ground with a crashing blow that shattered his jawbone, and rendered him

_hors de combat_. His companion instantly fell back, and I was about

to wheel round and continue my retreat, when a heavy blow from behind

knocked off my hat, and a knife grazed my arm through the folds of the

cloak that, fortunately for me, had formed its protection. Need I

say that the fresh assailants were the bravo and hunchback? while,

encouraged by their assistance, the scared ruffian resumed the

offensive.

[Illustration: 0233]

My chances of escape appeared utterly hopeless. The ruffians, by

dividing my attention on either side, had enabled the hunchback to creep

in and grasp my legs within his long and bony arms. Happily the knife

dropped from his hold in his first attempt to stab me, and the night was

too dark to enable him to pick it up again. I strove to shake him off,

but the wretch clung to me with that virulent tenacity with which a

reptile coils itself around its victim. In the attempt to free myself

from the cripple, I struck my foot against a stone, stumbled, and,

before I could recover my footing, a blow brought me to the ground, the

assassins sprang in, and my fate seemed sealed.

That brief space of exquisite agony I shall never forget. Oh, God.’ how

hard it is to die! and die, as I should, by felon hands, prostrate and

powerless, murdered “i’ the dark,” without the satisfaction of even in

an expiring effort “stinging the wretch that stung me.” That moment’s

misery was ended. Steps were heard. I hallooed “Murder!”

A voice, and, saints and angels! an Irish one, replied.

The hunchback then hastily cried, “Quick!--strike!--brain him!”

I caught the miscreant by the throat as the last word passed his

lips--and next moment two figures flitted past my fading vision, as a

blow fell upon my head, and laid me senseless.

Presently I awoke as from a dream. A man supported me; another put a

cup of water to my lips; and a couple of crippled watchmen held their

lanterns over us. I looked at my supporter; he was strange. My eye

turned to his companion. In the dim light his features were not

remembered--and yet the hand that held the water to my lips was my

foster brother’s. By degrees consciousness returned.

“Where am I?” I muttered.

“Arrah, the Lord only knows!” responded the ratcatcher.

“Was I not attacked--stabbed--knocked down? Who were the assailants?

Where are they?” I continued, as wandering recollections of the past

flitted across my memory.

“Sorra one of us knows who they were; but if you searched London

through, you would’nt pick out an uglier couple. One was a spider-built

divil without a back, and the other a black-muzzled thief of a Jew,

with whiskers you could hang your hat on. They’re off--had luck pursue

them!--and among these twists and turnings, ye might as well look for a

rat in a rabbit warren, as ferret them out, the ruffins of the world!”

I rose with slight assistance, but staggered like a drunken man, and,

preceded by the watchmen to give us light, walked slowly on, leaning

on the arms of my deliverers. We reached a public-house at no great

distance; and having committed me to the care of the landlord and

Shemus Rhua--guided by a Charlie, Mark Antony set out to find a surgeon,

perfectly unconscious who the stranger was, whom timely assistance had

so miraculously preserved from murder.

He returned; the discovery was made; and need I describe what a

meeting between persons attached by the tie of fosterage, under such

circumstances, would be? I heard the detail of my deliverance. The

surgeon dressed my wounds, and pronounced them merely flesh ones; for

the knife had only razed the skin, and, in the dark, the blow

intended as a _coup de grace_, had missed the head, struck against the

kerb-stone, and fallen on the shoulder lightly. That I had been marked

out for deliberate assassination, the gipsy’s warning, the adventure

in Mr. Spicer’s house, and the discovery of a clasp-knife and _jemmy_

dropped on the field of battle, sufficiently established. We received

those trophies from the venerable conservator of the city’s peace, paid

him a fitting remuneration for the services of his lantern, and parted

nearly at the same spot from which a woman’s wiles had so recently

seduced me--to wit, St. Paul’s; I to return to my own inn by a hackney

coach, and the ratcatcher and my foster brother to repair to the place

from whence they came, with an arrangement to meet next morning--

“That we would all our pilgrimage dilate,

Whereof by parcels we had something heard,

But not intentively.”

I drove to Mr. Hartley’s residence. He was at home; and as Dominique had

signified that I was anxious to speak with him before he retired for the

night, he was waiting my return in the drawing-room. I found him leaning

against the mantel-piece, buried in deep thought. His back was turned

from me; and as I unclosed the door softly, for a few moments he was

unconscious of my presence.

“Might he be trusted yet?” he muttered to himself. “I think so--for he

loves her. Would it not be premature?” He raised his eyes--“Ha, Hector!

returned! What means that patch across your forehead?”

“An attempt,” I answered, “has been made upon my life, and failed.”

“Indeed! Where--and by whom?” he asked eagerly.

Here was I again in trouble. To recount the evening’s “moving accidents”

without a formal introduction of the soldier’s daughter, would, as a

narrative, prove lame and inconclusive, as to enact Hamlet with the

omission of the Prince of Denmark. I doubted whether Mr. Hartley would

approve of my advocating the young lady’s claims upon the government;

and, from his starched notions respecting female propriety, it was most

probable he would consider a nocturnal interview not exactly a regular

procedure. I commenced accordingly, “in fear and terror,” as the lawyers

say; told a confused story of meeting a girl in a fog; blundered at

bringing her into a tavern; and totally broke down when we met in

St. Paul’s churchyard, on our way to the domicile of her respectable

relative. As we proceeded in the dark, no doubt I stammered more.

“Come, Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, “out with the whole truth; I hate half

confidence.”

On I went. With the acute auditor I had to deal with, it would be

useless to attempt concealment; and he listened with deep interest, and,

as I fancied, no trifling mixture of displeasure, until I brought my

story to a close.

“You have had a marvellous deliverance, Mr. O’Halloran”--(He _mistered_

me, and that looked squally)--“and you seem a man born to be the dupe of

villains, through the agency of that worst of curses, a vicious woman.

One would have thought that your recent escape from spoliation and

disgrace by that amiable coterie in Jermyn Street, would have made

you rather cautious in forming acquaintanceships with strangers, and

believing every fabricated tale you heard. I am a candid man, and pardon

me, while I give you a proof of my sincerity.

“I credit your tale, and totally disbelieve your motives. You could

not be fool enough to remain for a second, in ignorance of the true

character of this lady of the fog; for none but the profligate of her

sex would accede to the request of a young gentleman of twenty-one,

and, at first sight, grant him a nocturnal interview. This may seem

impertinence in me, who, apparently, have no right or interest in

inquiring into your love affairs--although I must confess, that in the

selection of your female acquaintances you have not been particularly

fortunate.”

“However imprudent, or, indeed, improbable my conduct may appear, I

assure you, sir, upon the unblemished honour of a gentleman, that

my motives were precisely what I described them,” I replied, with a

firmness of voice and manner, that at once guaranteed my truth.

Mr. Hartley looked at me for a moment. He saw that his suspicions had

hurt me; and, convinced of my sincerity, he held out his hand, which I

accepted.

“Hector, I believe you, and acquit you of every thing but concealment.

Did you know the deep interest I feel in all that concerns your

character and future fortunes, you would forgive me in testing your

motives and actions so rigidly as I do, and have done. No more of this

at present. Where is that scrawl you received this evening from the

woman whom you encountered with my daughter in the park? Your hand is

feverish. Although you may not feel it at present, you could not have

passed through the deadly struggle you have described uninjured. To bed,

friend Hector; Dominique, a second time, shall look to your wounds, and

I for once play gallant, and keep your appointment with the lady of the

bridge. Hark! the clock chimes. Half-past eleven. The ‘trysted hour’ is

twelve.”

I assured Mr. Hartley that I neither required leechcraft nor repose, but

was most willing he should bear me company. The negro was summoned; his

master gave orders in a whisper; I filled a glass of wine and water; Mr.

Hartley unlocked a mahogany case, presented me with a brace of beautiful

pistols, and put another brace into his own pockets; told me they were

loaded; and next moment the sable functionary appeared with a dark

lantern in one hand, and a bludgeon in the other. All we required was

the companionship of the ratcatcher and Mark Antony, to enable us to

take, regularly to the road, and rob every coach within sound of Bow

bell; at least, so said Mr. Hartley.

Were it possible, the night was darker than when I kept my assignation

with the soldier’s orphan. Three quarters chimed; and ere the hour of

meeting struck, we were punctually at the place appointed.

The bridge was wrapped in fog; and the two or three lamps that still

burned, flared such a dull and yellow light, as merely rendered

“darkness visible.” The night was raw and chilly, and, save a few

passing citizens, “few and far between,” the causeway of Blackfriars

was deserted. It was an hour when none but the unfortunate are abroad; a

night when only the houseless are encountered. All that was orderly

were in-doors; and the elderly gentlemen, to whom watch and ward were

entrusted, properly declined to exhibit a bad example of being found

upon the streets, and ensconced themselves in comfortable corners of

the night-houses most contiguous to their respective beats, leaving the

dreary pavement to persons of indifferent reputation. No wonder, then,

that we found ourselves in unmolested possession of the bridge. I took

a position at that extremity which the gipsy’s billet had pointed out;

while Mr. Hartley and his attendant occupied the recess immediately

opposite my post.

A quarter chimed--another--and another. At last, dull as a muffled

drum, one heavy stroke boomed from the clock-tower of St. Paul’s, and

announced the first hour of morning.

“Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, as he crossed the bridge, “it is useless

to remain longer here. Your prophetic friend for once has broken her

promise.”

“‘Tis false!” replied a voice within half-a-dozen paces--“she is here!”

and a figure too much concealed for recognition flitted from the centre

of the bridge, and boldly joined us.

*****

Again the scene must change; and once more we shall carry the indulgent

reader into the close alley where Mr. Brown’s domicile was situated,

and, at half-past eleven, introduce him to old acquaintances--the worthy

owner of the mansion, and Mr. Sloman, his respected friend.

They were seated at the table, with all the appurtenances that rendered

their former interview so pleasant; but the present mood of the worthy

couple was very different from the former one. The countenances of both

betrayed anxiety and impatience. To plot is one thing--to perpetrate

another; and a deed of blood propounded and agreed to on their first

meeting, was now in course of execution. No wonder that the scoundrels

felt ill at ease; not that either felt the slightest compunction for

hurrying a fellow-creature into eternity; the failure of the attempt

was what they dreaded, with a fear, if the deed were done, that some

circumstances should attend it which ultimately might compromise their

safety. They drank, but the wine had no flavour; or if it had, it failed

to call forth their approbation. They spoke but little; the sentences

that passed were brief and in an under tone; and at the slightest noise

without both started; each appearing impatient for intelligence, and yet

half afraid to hear what the result had been.

“What the devil can delay them?” observed Mr. Brown. “The thing should

have come off an hour ago.”

“They may have failed,” replied Mr. Sloman; “or have done it, and been

detected; or--but, thank God, I know nothing of the matter.”

“Pish! as much as I do,” returned the owner of the mansion.

“How can you say so, Mr. Brown?” returned Mr. Sloman, angrily.

The host directed a meaning look at his visitor.

“Slowey, how soft you are! Well, don’t fear; in England there’s not a

better hand at cracking a skull than Josh Levi; and at the knife--the

creature’s too weak for anything but light work--I’ll back Frank for a

hundred.”

“Damn it, don’t tell me particulars,” exclaimed the lawyer. “I wish all

was over; I safe in Mary Axe; and you with your four hundred snug in

pocket.”

“Is the cash right?” inquired Mr. Brown.

Mr. Sloman deigned no reply; but, producing a leather case from his

side-pocket, he reckoned over nine bank notes.

“I don’t know a nicer thing to look at, than a clean hundred-pound

flimsey fresh from the Bank,” observed Mr. Sloman, playfully.

Suddenly the street-bell rang, and a low and peculiar whistle followed

the sound. Mr. Brown started.

“By Heaven! that’s not Frank’s signal,” lie exclaimed. “Something is

wrong, or the hunchback would be the first to bring intelligence.”

Another, and a louder ring, told the impatience of the midnight visitor;

and Mr. Brown descended to the lower story to ascertain who it was that

at this late hour required admission. The answers from without satisfied

him that the stranger might be let in. The chains rattled; the bolts

were drawn; again the door was carefully secured; and Mr. Brown

returned to his state apartment, accompanied by a very repulsive-looking

gentleman, namely, the swarthy Israelite, who earlier in the evening had

been reconnoitred by the captain and his companion while lying _perdu_

in Mr. Spicer’s lumber-room.

The ruffian’s face was flushed, one eye was swollen and discoloured,

the collar was torn from his coat, and blood-stains were visible on his

hands and linen. His whole appearance was that of a man recently engaged

in some sanguinary affray.

A pause ensued. Mr. Brown filled a glass of brandy, which the Jew

drained to the bottom.

“What news, Josh?” said the host, in an under tone. “Is the job done?”

“No mistake about it,” returned the bravo.

“You had a tussle for it,” remarked the host, as he threw a careless

look over the outer man of the dew, which gave ample indication that the

affair he had been recently employed in, to him had proved no sinecure.

“I tell you what, Mr. Brown, I have been in the general line of bisness

these fifteen year; lifted three stiff’uns of a night; been shot at

half-a-dozen times; got lagged; escaped transportation; and gone through

as much rough work as any man in the trade; and in the course of my

practice, 1 never had a tougher trial than to-night. Another drop of the

brandy, if ye please.”

“But is the thing right, Josh?” inquired Mr. Brown, who always came to

business.

“Safe as a trivet! I’ll tell you all.”

“No, no--curse particulars!” exclaimed Mr. Sloman. “You may mention

the thing in confidence to Mr. Brown. I know nothing of what you are

alluding to, remember that.”

“‘Well, no matter, Slowey; Josh and I will talk it over presently. But

where is Frank? No harm done him, I hope. I wouldn’t lose that hunchback

for a hundred.”

“Is he not here?” was the Jew’s unsatisfactory reply.

“Here? No! We have expected him an hour ago,” returned his master.

“Then I’m blowed if I know any thing of him.”

“But out with it. Tell us how matters went,” said Mr. Brown.

“Not in my presence,” exclaimed Mr. Sloman, springing from his chair.

“Well, if you’re so devilish leary, you may go into that there closet,”

and he rose and opened a door, through which Mr. Sloman immediately

retreated; “and Slowey,” continued Mr. Brown, in a lower voice, “you’ll

find a slit in the door, and hear as much through it as will suit your

purpose.”

“I don’t like that’ere chap, he’s so etarnal cautious,” observed the

Jew to Mr. Brown, when he returned. “If men mean wots right--as they

ought--why be afeard to talk on bisniss?”

“Hush!” returned the host, as he applied his finger to his nose; “and

now about the job, old boy. Drink slow, Josh; a third glass will smother

ye.”

The Israelite replaced the brandy he was about to bolt, and then

continued his narration, which, though delivered in a low voice, was

perfectly audible in Mr. Sloman’s concealment--the fissure in the wood

having been cunningly constructed for the purposes of professional

espionage.

“Well, ye see,” said the bravo, commencing his murderous narration,

“Frank and I--and he’s a handy little creature for a thing of legs

and arms--were true to time at St. Paul’s; and there we spied our man

reg’lar in tow with Julia. Away they goes together, and we follows close

behind. When we comes to the place, the girl had mizzled, and Jim

and ‘the smasher’ gone too soon to work; and, my eyes--if they hadn’t

cotched it heavy! At him we goes from behind; Frank with his gully, and

I with this here preserver;” and the scoundrel exhibited the murderous

implement he used. “I niver, nowhere, saw a chap more wide awake.

He fought like a good-un; and he was so knowin’, that it was almost

impossible to draw him. At last Bill and I divides his attention, while

Frank gripped him round the legs. He stumbled, fell, and the game was

up; for I fetched him a blow across the skull that would have shattered

a horse’s head, and left him dead upon the kerb-stones. Before I could

strike again--for one likes to make things safe, ye know, Mr. Brown--two

chaps jumps in as if they had riz out of the paving-stones. ‘The

smasher’ was grassed in a moment--and I knocked clean away. I nivir

got sich a nasty one in my life! I was all astray after it--and I know

nothing more whatsomever, only lights came up, and fresh ones joined the

others. I sneaked off as well as I could, reeling like a drunken man,

and leaving our customer dead as a mackarel.”

“You’re sure he’s done for?” inquired Mr. Brown.

“Done for!” and a second time the scoundrel produced his implement of

murder. “Is there a skull in England that would require a second blow of

that small article?”

“The man is safe enough, no doubt,” returned Mr. Brown; “but what

can have happened to Frank? Hark--by Heaven! he’s at the door!--All’s

right!”

The signal was a curious imitation of angry cats, accompanied by a low

sound upon the house-bell. Mr. Brown at once hurried down, and gave

admission to his hunchbacked favourite, who followed him to the

upper-chamber, accompanied by the ruffian called “the smasher.”

To the joint inquiries of the Jew and Mr. Brown, the deformed one gave

satisfactory replies. It appeared that in the act of falling, I had

kicked the weak wretch from me with such violence as drove him across

the narrow lane; and before he could gather himself up again, the

fosterer and his friend achieved my rescue. Self-preservation was now

the hunchback’s care; and, crawling away unperceived in the confusion,

he coiled himself in an obscure corner, from which, though concealed

himself, all that passed subsequently was visible. Thence, he witnessed

my recovery, and saw me, with slight assistance, leave the scene of the

attempt upon my life. In several efforts to get off, the scoundrel had

been nearly detected; and when he did succeed, he and his confederate

were delayed by the removal of their disabled comrade; and hence, an

hour elapsed before he could reach the dwelling of his worthy master.

“Where’s Bill?” was Mr. Brown’s first inquiry.

“Stretched with a broken jawbone in the Fortune of War,” was the reply.

“It seems the job was any thing but an easy one. But it’s done--and

that’s a satisfaction.”

“It would have been,” returned the hunchback, “if I had not dropped the

gully.”

“What the devil do ye mean?--Isn’t he finished?”

“No more than you are,” was the answer.

The Jew broke in with a coarse contradiction, and swore lustily that I

was regularly defunct.

“Well, all I can say,” continued the being of legs and arms, “that for a

dead gentleman he spoke as plain as I do. He was a little groggy when he

got up, but in a few minutes he walked away as steadily as I can.”

“Damnation! Speak low--but all is overheard--and the reward is lost, I

fear,” muttered Mr. Brown.

“The worst of it is,” continued the hunchback, “that my name is on the

knife, and Bill has dropped his jemmy.”

“Ay, and the least clue will send the Bow-street villains after us

immediately.”

“I won’t remain another moment,” exclaimed Mr. Sloman, hurrying from the

closet, and catching up his hat.

“Stop, my dear friend; all may be yet put right. Frank, bring these

gentlemen to the parlour. They will require a bit of bread and cheese

after their exercise; and when I have spoken a few words to Mr.

Sloman”----

“That an’t my name!” exclaimed the alarmed lawyer, as the scoundrels

left the room. “Damn it, Mr. Brown,” he continued, “how can you be so

stupid? I thought I was dealing with a safe man of business. What the

devil do ye call men by their right names for?”

“It was an oversight,” returned the host. “Don’t mind, Slovey--all’s

safe here--and we’ll do the job better the next time we get an

opportunity. Do we touch upon account to-night?”

“Not a rap!” exclaimed Mr.. Sloman, peevishly; “but won’t you return the

hundred?”

Mr. Brown answered only by a look, but that look was an expressive one.

It said, or seemed to say, in the elegant parlance ol the present time,

“Don’t you wish you may get it?”

“I want to be off,” observed the lawyer, seeing that all chance of

restitution was hopeless, “and I don’t like to be stared at by those

body-snatchers in the parlour. The scoundrels never forget a man; and,

as I attend the Old Bailey professionally, they might remember me on

their trial, and call upon me to speak to character.”

“Stop, my dear friend, a minute where you are, and I’ll do the business

effectually. Do take a little brandy and water before you start. It’s

not to every body I give that Cognac,” and the host left Mr. Sloman to

refresh himself before he should set out upon his return homewards.

The hunchback and his companions were seated at a table in the lower

room, when Mr. Brown glided softly in. They had drunk freely, for the

failure of the night seemed to have occasioned a general annoyance.

“By Heaven!” said the larger of the Jews, “I never, in the ring itself,

received such punishment. And then the risk--and nothing for it. The

attempt at murder is now a hanging matter. There’s law for ye! Well,

I suppose that chap Sloman will make us some amends, and come down

handsome, as he should do, for our being regularly served out in trying

to oblige him.”

“You’ll never find grace or gratitude in a lawyer,” returned the

hunchback.

“If he does not stump up, why I say he has no conscience,” observed the

smasher, “but here is Mister Brown.”

“What are we to have for this night’s trouble?” inquired the stouter

Jew.

“Sloman won’t stand a rap, because the thing’s a failure. I tried him

hard; but he won’t bleed, nor come down with a single flimsey; and yet

I’d give a hundred for what he has in the side-pocket of his coat; ay,

and gain another by the bargain.”

“You would, would ye?” inquired “the smasher.”

“Ay, and drop a pony over and above. Come here, Frank;” and Mr. Brown

retired with the hunchback, and left the ruffians to commune with

themselves.

What passed between the owner of the mansion and his favourite is wrapt

in mystery. The former returned to the apartment overhead, “to do

the civil thing” to Mr. Sloman; the latter, to arrange some pressing

business with his confederates in the parlour. In ten minutes Frank

announced that “the gentlemen below” were gone; and Mr. Sloman, having

expressed his satisfaction at the intelligence, buttoned his coat

closely over the side-pocket where his note-case was deposited, put on

his wrap-rascal, wound a shawl around his throat to secure it against

the night air, was conducted to the churchyard door by the host, and

respectfully lighted out by the hunchback.

“No failure, I hope, next time, Mr. Brown,” was the lawyer’s

valediction.

“_It’s all made safe already_. God bless you, Mr. Sloman!”

And these excellent gentlemen parted with a hearty “Good night.” Frank

closed the door, Mr. Brown returned to his great chamber, and Mr. Sloman

hurried away in the direction of his own residence.

An unbuilt piece of ground, not a hundred yards from the small cemetery

we have described as the place on which Mr. Brown’s house abutted, was

early next morning the scene of public curiosity. There, a man had

been discovered dead; his skull fractured by the blow of some blunt

instrument, and his pockets rifled of every thing they had contained.

Within an hour the body was duly recognised. The deceased was Mr.

Sloman.