"WHEN SCREECH-OWLS CROAK UPON THE CHIMNEY-TOPS."
The house in Poland Street was scarce alive with the sound of footsteps
on the stairs, or the opening and shutting of doors, until the day was
well on towards noon. The cry of the sweep and the small coal man, the
baker with his rolls, and Irish Molly with her clattering milk-pails,
passed over the sleeping household, and was scarce heard dimly in a
dream by any member of that strangely compacted family. The lodgers were
for the most part such gentlemen as only began to think of their morning
tea or chocolate when it was afternoon by the sundial. The landlord and
his wife, being always among the last to retire, rose late in the
morning with a struggle, lamenting the brevity of the night. Your bad
sleeper is ever the most reluctant to rise, for his one chance of
slumber comes generally in that fatal hour when business or duty compels
him to leave his bed. Fétis, who passed most of his nights in feverish
unrest, was apt after sunrise to sink into the deep sleep of mental and
bodily exhaustion; but he must needs rise at ten in order to wait upon
his master in Soho Square, whose toilet generally began at eleven.
Madame Fétis coiled herself round like a dormouse, and would have slept
twelve hours at a stretch if permitted; but as she rarely went to bed
before three o'clock in the morning, so much indulgence was impossible.
The house must be in order soon after noon, and delicate dainty little
breakfasts must be served up for any distinguished patrons who might
have spent the night upon the premises. And neither cook nor underlings
could be trusted unless Madame was there with her keen bright eyes
overlooking everything. It was Madame who made my lord Duke's chocolate,
and buttered my lord Marquis's toast. She was the moving principle of
grace and order in the household.
At one o'clock on the day after Lord Lavendale's supper-party, at an
hour when the sober jog-trot citizens of London had dined or were in
the act of dining, Madame sat sipping her chocolate, in a morning
_négligé_ of dove-coloured tabinet--a material which Dr. Swift had done
his best to make popular, through the Queen and Princesses, for the
benefit of the Irish weavers. Her lace ruffles at neck and wrist were of
the finest Buckinghamshire, and she wore a little mob-cap upon her
piled-up tresses of unpowdered hair, which was vastly becoming. At her
side lay an open ledger, and a brace of bills, which were to be
delivered to his Grace and the Marquis later in the afternoon. As she
sipped and munched, the lady compared the items in the bills with the
figures in the ledger, and with this reading solaced her morning meal.
She stopped occasionally to make a calculation with the aid of her
roseate finger-tips, laboriously counted, for she resembled the great
Duchess Sarah alike in being an excellent woman of business, and
completely ignorant of the simplest rules of arithmetic.
For the first time for at least a year Mr. Fétis had failed in his
morning duties at Mr. Topsparkle's toilet. He had come home from his
evening entertainment very ill, and he was no better this morning; so
Madame had been obliged to send a little note of apology to Soho Square,
a missive composed in equal parts of French and English, with an
impartial measure of bad spelling in both languages.
Madame's apartment was a small front parlour, close to the street door.
From her window she could survey an approaching visitor, while from her
door she could overhear any conversation that was carried on in the
passage, and keep herself informed as to every one who went out or came
in. It was the spider's little parlour into which many a giddy buzzing
fly had fluttered unwarily, to emerge with clipped wings. It was Circe's
cave; and the bones of innumerable victims lay bleaching there, from a
metaphorical point of view.
To-day Madame Fétis was so deeply absorbed in the addition of that long
column of figures that she was less on the alert than usual for external
sounds, and she was surprised by the setting down of a sedan in front of
her door, and within three feet of her window. It was a private sedan,
painted and fitted with that studied simplicity which indicated
distinction in the owner. The panels were a dark brown, the armorial
bearings were unobtrusive--all was dark, plain, sober in style. Madame
Fétis had not time to wonder, for the orange and brown liveries of the
footmen who preceded the vehicle informed her that the chair could
belong to no less important a person than her husband's patron and
quasi-master, the rich Mr. Topsparkle; and the little Frenchwoman's
heart fluttered with gratified vanity at the idea that her fascinations
had brought Mr. Topsparkle to her husband's house, which he had never
visited before.
"The powdered pert proficient in the art" of disturbing a whole street
by his performance on the knocker now proceeded to startle the midday
quiet by a most prodigious fantasia in iron. Madame flew to open the
door, and stood smiling and curtseying as Mr. Topsparkle descended from
his chair, treading delicately, like the ladies of ancient Jerusalem.
"Dear Madam, you do me too much honour," he protested, as he entered the
panneled passage, bringing a cloud of perfumed powder and an
overpowering odour of attar of roses into the semi-darkness of the
narrow entry. "It is not often that Cerberus is replaced by Hebe."
"My servants are so lazy, your honour," apologised Madame; "our Cerberus
is cleaning the shoes in his morning sleep, and my _femme de chambre_
has scarce made up her mind whether the broom she is using is a dream or
a reality. If your honour will be so condescending as to step into the
parlour--"
"One moment, madam," said Topsparkle, and then turning to the open door
he waved his hand to the footmen. "You can take my chair home, you
fellows. I shall walk."
The chairmen took up their lightened load, and the footmen trudged off
in front of the sedan, as Madame Fétis shut the door, and followed her
visitor into the little parlour, where she drew forward a large
armchair, in which she was wont to take her afternoon sleep, and which
was naturally the most luxurious seat in the room, or it would not have
been so favoured.
"So my good Fétis has broken down at last," said Mr. Topsparkle, as he
seated himself.
"Yes, sir; he is very ill."
"I was hardly surprised at receiving your amiable billet. I have been
meditating on our little chat t'other day, my good Madame Fétis,"
pursued Topsparkle, lolling negligently forward in the commodious chair,
with his elbow on his knee, and drawing figures upon the dusty carpet
with the amber tip of his cane, "and as I am deeply concerned in the
health--above all in the mental health--of your excellent husband, I
felt an anxiety to hear more from the same source; so instead of sending
a footman to make inquiries, I have come myself. I know the uneasiness
of a wife's affection, and that her tenderness may exaggerate the signs
of evil--"
"Indeed, sir, I don't exaggerate my husband's condition," exclaimed the
lady, with a fretful air; "it grows worse and worse; and I dread the day
when I shall see him carried off to Bedlam in a strait waistcoat. 'Twas
only last night that he had a worse outbreak than ever, and the night
before that--"
"The night before that you had Jack Spencer, and Lord Lavendale, and a
party to supper and cards," interrupted Topsparkle, tapping Madame's
plump arm with the tips of his skinny fingers. "Oh, I have heard of your
banquetings and revelries, _ma belle_, and the money that is lost and
won under this modest roof of yours."
"Indeed, sir, it was a very sober party. There were no ladies, and there
was no broken glass, nor an item of furniture damaged. I protest we
should never make both ends meet by such parties as that, though I own
Mr. Spencer flings a guinea where any other gentleman would give a
shilling. But 'tis the mad-cap evenings--when the ladies and gentlemen
take to romping over their supper, or when there are swords drawn at
cards, and the furniture damaged--that bring grist to the mill."
"And so there was not much diversion at Mr. Spencer's party--'twas a
grave and sedate assembly," said Topsparkle, with a trivial gossiping
air, as of one who talked from sheer idleness; "but those quiet evenings
are more dangerous than your romping revelries. I'll warrant the play
was high."
Madame shook her head gloomily.
"Ay, I'll warrant it was, your honour, for that silly husband of mine
tossed about in a wakeful fever till daylight, and raved like a lunatic
towards nine o'clock, when he fell asleep--raved about Venice and one
Borromeo. Does your honour remember any friend of my husband's by that
name?"
"Borromeo?" repeated Topsparkle meditatively. "No, the name is strange
to me. And so your husband talked in his sleep, and about Venice? Do his
thoughts often turn that way?"
"'Tis the first time I have heard him. His ravings have been mostly
about your honour's house in Soho Square. What can there be in that
splendid mansion which should give Louis such a horror of it? He is
always prating of ghosts. Do you really think 'tis haunted, sir?"
"Not one whit more than this cosy little parlour of yours, my fair
friend; but servants are superstitious, and have a way of inventing a
ghost for every fine old house. Mine was once occupied by Lord Grey, who
was beheaded after Monmouth's rebellion; and those fools of mine have
concocted a story that his headless figure stalks in the corridors
between midnight and cock-crow. There are no ghosts in Soho Square,
madam, save such childish inventions as I tell you of; but I fear your
husband is in a very bad way, and that these ravings of his are but too
sure an indication of the brandy-drinker's disease. You must be careful
of him, my good Madame Fétis, if you would not see him expire in a
madhouse."
"Alas, sir, how can I take care of a man who refuses to take care of
himself? 'Twas only last night I implored him not to go to a supper at
Lord Lavendale's house in Bloomsbury Square, to which his lordship had
invited him."
"So his lordship invited your husband to sup, did he? Vastly
condescending, I protest."
"Your honour would hardly believe how much notice the highest gentlemen
in the land have taken of Fétis. 'Tis that has been his ruin. Lord
Lavendale was monstrously taken with him. In his sleep that night it was
Lavendale at every turn--Venice--Borromeo--Lavendale--mixed in all his
ravings; and then yesterday evening, after the opera, he calls for a
chair and is carried to his lordship's house, in spite of my protesting
that the company he was going into would lead him into high play and
hasten our ruin. He would not listen to me, but off he goes, in a
sage-green ribbed velvet suit which your honour had made for the last
birthday, and never wore but once--"
"I remember the suit," said Topsparkle, "it made me look as sickly as a
lady of fashion in her morning cap before she puts on her rouge. It cost
me ninety-five guineas for the birthday, and I gave it to Fétis next
morning. 'Tis my rule never to wear a suit a second time if I don't like
myself in it on the first wearing. 'Tis against good sense that a man
should disgust himself with his own person for the sake of a few paltry
guineas. I dare swear Fétis looks admirable in the suit. 'Tis just the
colour of his own complexion."
"He looked more of a fine gentleman than 'tis well a man of his position
should," replied Madame severely. "If he would take more pains to save
money for his old age, and less to pass for a man of fashion, 'twould be
better for both of us."
"But with so charming a wife, and with such advantages of education, a
man of romantic temper might be pardoned for forgetting that he was not
born in the purple," pleaded Topsparkle. "But I distract you from your
narrative. You were about to say--"
"Oh, sir, could you but have seen my husband at four o'clock this
morning, when he came back from his orgy."
"The word is severe, madam. Was he intoxicated?"
"Worse than that, sir. He was white as death, and trembling in every
limb. He had tried to walk home, but had well nigh fallen in the street,
when the chance of an empty coach saved him. He seemed as if he were
struck speechless, would answer none of my questions, and let me help
him to bed like a baby. Yet it was not losing his money which had
overcome his senses, for the guineas fell out of his pockets and strewed
the carpet as if it had been raining gold. He lay moaning half the
night, till he fell into a kind of stupor."
"Did he rave as on the previous night?"
"Not one intelligible word has he uttered since he came home."
"Strange. It looks like some kind of seizure. Have you sent for a
doctor?"
"No, sir; I was afraid for any one to see him in such a condition, lest
it should get about the neighbourhood that he is a lunatic, and spoil
our business."
"You are a vastly sensible woman, an excellent prudent creature,"
exclaimed Topsparkle, with enthusiasm. "Let not a mortal see him till he
has got his reason again. Should it once be rumoured that he is out of
his mind, you would be undone."
"I have spoken to your honour with perfect candour, as my poor husband's
patron and friend," returned Madame meekly.
"You have done wisely, my good soul. I am your husband's best friend,
and your only safe adviser. It is evident that he has got himself into a
condition that is but one step from madness, and madness in this country
is a terrible thing. It means the loss of all a man's rights as a
citizen, it means the confiscation of his property, upon which the iron
clutch of the High Court of Chancery swoops down like the claw of a
vulture. It means that from comfortable circumstances a maniac's family
may be reduced to paupers."
"O, sir, protect me from such a calamity."
"Do not fear, sweet soul. You shall be protected. Should the worst come,
and your husband must needs be removed, it shall be my sacred care to
provide for you. Two hundred a year in Paris, where you might, perhaps,
return to the profession which you so much adorned."
"O, sir, you have, indeed, the soul of a great nobleman. It was the
dream of my girlhood to live in Paris."
"The nest shall be found for you, poor bird, if the tempest of calamity
should ever blow you hence," murmured Topsparkle, patting her plump
hand.
"But indeed, sir, we will hope my poor husband will recover his reason,
and learn better sense," resumed Madame, after a few moments'
reflection. "I am very fond of Poland Street, and this business would be
a fortune for us if Fétis would leave off play."
"My dear soul, he has gone too far. He will never be cured. When a man
of his age gambles or drinks, the chances of cure are nil."
"Would you like to see him, sir?"
Topsparkle suppressed a shudder.
"Better not, madam. I should but agitate him by my presence. I will call
on you to-morrow, when he may be in a better condition to converse with
me."
He kissed Madame's fair hand, and bowed himself out of her presence. He
walked along Poland Street, across Golden Square, westward to St.
James's Street, with that light and easy motion which had become natural
to him, the bearing of an elderly man who never meant to be old, who
defied age to wither him, and who conquered the insidious foe called
Time, by being in all things younger than youth itself. Yonder gallant
guardsman of five-and-twenty on the opposite pavement moved heavily
compared with the airy grace with which Topsparkle skimmed the street.
He had trained every muscle, schooled every sinew in the long fight
against senility. By his temperance and his activity he had contrived
so far to have the best of the battle. The day of defeat must come
sooner or later, he knew, and he had steeled himself to contemplate the
end with a cynical courage. "May it be sharp and swift," he said; "may I
crumble to pieces in an hour, like an embalmed corpse which is suddenly
exposed to the air after two thousand years in an Egyptian sepulchre."
To-day, though his mind was full of perplexity, his movements and the
carriage of his head were as jaunty as ever. No one who saw those dainty
red-heeled shoes tripping along, and the careless swing of that slender
rapier, would have supposed that Mr. Topsparkle was meditating anything
more serious than the last quarrel between the Cuzzoni faction and the
Faustina faction at the opera house, or the last wild exploit of mad-cap
Peterborough at Bevis Mount.
What was to be done with this worn-out tool of his, which was getting
dangerous? That was the question. It had never occurred to Vyvyan
Topsparkle that his accomplice would not last as long as himself; that
this slave of his, who had done his bidding with an unscrupulous
obedience which indicated a mind utterly callous to the distinction
between right and wrong, should at the eleventh hour develop a guilty
conscience and all its attendant inconveniences.
"It is not conscience," thought Topsparkle savagely. "The man cares no
more for that false feeble creature who lies in St. Anne's churchyard
than he cares for St. Anne herself. It is brandy and not conscience that
moves him. He has destroyed his nerves by intemperance, and must needs
call up the dead to torment himself and endanger me. A madhouse--yes,
that is the safest abode for a gentleman in this disposition. I have
only to find out a safe asylum, and then, presto, my friend Fétis shall
be bestowed where a strait waistcoat will tame his antics, and the free
use of the gag will put a stop to his invocations of the dead. A
mad-doctor and a private madhouse--that is what I have to find without
loss of time."
Then, after walking a little further, cudgelling his brain in the effort
to remember all he had ever heard about the incarceration of madmen in
England, he reverted to a question which was more perplexing to him
than the ravings of Fétis.
"Lavendale, _que diable allait il faire dans cette galère_? what the
deuce can impel Lavendale to patronise my valet? and why should his
lordship's society revive old associations with Venice, and reduce the
man from semi-lunacy to dumb melancholic madness, as I doubt his state
must be to-day, if his wife speaks truth? There is mystery and mischief
here, and I cannot too soon protect myself from the chances of awkward
revelations. There must be some private way of dealing with madmen,
without shutting them up in that great hospital by London Wall, where
all the world may see them at a penny a head, easier and cheaper than
the lions in the Tower. I remember how Lavendale and his friend were
struck by that marvellous likeness between Miss Bosworth and Margharita;
yet what should come of that, an accidental resemblance, curious, but of
no significance? I almost hated that girl for the shock her face gave me
every time we met. It was a constant oppression to my spirits to have
her in my house. And now they say Durnford has run away with her, and
married her at Keith's Chapel, and that her father has thrown her off in
consequence, so that my gentleman has but a penniless beauty for his
partner in life, and no doubt will soon repent his bargain. Why should
Lavendale invite my valet? O, a whim, no doubt, a trick, a practical
joke, such as Wharton and his Schemers used to hatch t'other day--some
conspiracy against a woman's peace or reputation. Something modish,
witty, and iniquitous, no doubt. Why should I fancy there is mischief to
me amidst such random follies? But the fact remains that Fétis has taken
to blabbing, and must be gagged. Yes, my poor, good, faithful,
self-serving servant, you were a very convenient and useful person so
long as you knew how to hold your tongue, but now you have turned
babbler you must be provided for accordingly. The wife can be easily
dealt with. She is vain, silly, and selfish, and can be bought cheap."
Mr. Topsparkle was now in St. James's Street, in front of White's
chocolate house, which was one of his chief resorts when he wanted to
kill time between the morning undress saunter in the Mall and the
afternoon parade in the Ring. 'Twas here he heard the latest news of the
town, such floating scandals as had not yet been transfixed by the
_Flying Post_ or the _St. James's Journal_; and it was here he met the
innumerable gentlemen who were pleased to be bosom friends with one of
the richest men in London.
"Why, Top," exclaimed one of these gentry--an easy-going young
gentleman, who had spent a brace of fortunes, his own and his wife's,
and so deemed he had earned the right to live upon his friends and the
general public--"thou art younger by ten years than thou wert last week.
Thou look'st like Hyperion new lighted on a heaven-kissing hill."
"And thou, Chambers, wast at the playhouse last night, I take it; and
supped on champagne afterwards, and art not yet sober," answered Mr.
Topsparkle somewhat coolly, as he seated himself at his favourite table.
"Thou hast hit the mark, Top. Invite me to a dish of tea, and sober me;
I have not the price of one in my pocket."
"Sit down then, and behave decently while the Bohea is brewing."
"Pekoe, friend, Pekoe; nothing like Pekoe to clear the fumes of last
night's wine. Do you hear, waiter; Mr. Topsparkle's chocolate _à la
vanille_, and a dish of your strongest Pekoe for Mr. Topsparkle's
friend, with cream, scoundrel, with plenty of cream."
White's was full at this leisure hour before dinner, and there were many
greetings for Mr. Topsparkle, of a less exuberant but no less friendly
tone than that of Captain Chambers. He sipped his chocolate in a
leisurely manner, looked about him, and listened, returned every
salutation, kissed his hand to acquaintances at the further end of the
room, and said very little. He was wondering which of all these men was
most likely to be of use to him in the matter he had in hand. He wanted
to obtain information of a peculiar character without appearing too
curious on the subject. He wanted to be advised without asking for
anybody's advice.
At any other time he would have received Captain Chambers's familiar
advances with an icy reserve; but to-day he was inclined to be
indulgent; for he told himself that Chambers was just the kind of scamp
who might be useful in an emergency; a man who, with his last guinea,
had parted with his last scruple, a perfect specimen of the relentless
gentlemanly villain, without heart, conscience, or honour, a scourge to
confiding tradesmen, a traitor to trusting women, a bad son, a bad
husband, a worse father, and a very pleasant fellow to fill a gap at a
dinner-party.
"How's your wife, Bob?" asked a man at the next table. "I saw her in the
Ring a week ago in the old dowager's carriage, looking as ill as if she
was going to die and give you the chance of an heiress."
"Egad, I shall have to commit bigamy if she doesn't; so for conscience'
sake she ought to give up the ghost," answered Chambers. "I have been
seriously meditating running off with an Irish heiress, under a false
name, and settling in some corner of her barbarous country, where I
could live upon her fortune, and escape all the vexations of this
accursed town."
"I don't think you should anathematise a town, Bob, which has allowed
you to cut a very pretty figure and to spend twice your fortune," said
his friend.
"O, your damned shopkeepers have been civil enough," answered Chambers,
lolling back in his chair and picking his teeth languidly. "I had a bevy
of them in my dressing-room every morning teasing me for orders long
after I was absolutely insolvent. But 'twas my tailor finished me."
"Indeed! How was that? Surely he never caught you in so soft a mood as
to pay him?"
"O, it was a bite of the most diabolical nature. 'Twas soon after I
married that the fellow began to get importunate. I had run up a pretty
long bill with him--birthday-suits, hunting clothes, an occasional
hundred on my I O U--when I was hard up for card-money. Your West End
snip is generally a money-lender in disguise. I suppose the total must
have been close upon four figures; but I had never bothered myself about
the matter. One morning the insolent rascal congratulated me upon having
married an heiress. No doubt he knew Belle's poor little fortune to a
guinea. I thanked him for his compliments in a manner which was as good
as telling him to mind his own business, and next week he asked me for
five or six hundred on account. 'Shillings, d'ye mean, sirrah?' says I.
'No, Captain, guineas,' says he; 'your bill, including money lent, is
over twelve hundred.' This staggered me for I had not a sixpence of my
own, and my wife's modest dowry of seven thousand pounds was tightly
settled upon herself. I have always thought with Dick Steele that our
new fashion of marriage-settlements is the most detestable form of
bargaining that was ever invented. Mr. Snip looked black as thunder when
I frankly confessed my inability to pay him till I dropped into an
expected legacy from my East Indian godfather, who had long been ailing.
Need I say that I invented the godfather and the legacy on the spot?"
"And was Snip satisfied to accept your Oriental security?"
"Alas, no. He told me that unless my wife would guarantee the payment of
his bill he should be under the painful necessity of consigning me to
the Fleet Prison and the tender mercies of that notorious friend of
humanity, Governor Bambridge. The fellow was evidently in earnest, so to
make a long story short, poor Belle consented to be responsible for the
scoundrel's account, and all went merrily for the next three years,
when, after worrying damnably with lawyers' letters, of which I
naturally took no notice, he put in an execution, and had to be paid off
in a lump sum of 6859_l._ 7_s._ 11-1/2_d._, and poor Belle found her
fortune was altogether swamped by this one liability."
"How did she take it?" asked his friend.
"Like an angel; and I believe she would have been a loving wife to the
end, in spite of all my peccadilloes, debts, cards, and women included;
but the old Dowager came swooping down like Medea in her chariot, and
carried her lost lamb back to the family fold in Golden Square, where
they all pig together upon shoulders of mutton and cow-heel, but
contrive to keep up a show of gentility in the way of a worn-out coach
and a leash of hungry footmen."
"Very wonderful are the struggles of polite poverty," said the other;
"but it is still more wonderful to me, Bob, how you contrive to keep
out of the sponging-house, _criblé de dettes_ though you are."
"Ah, that is indeed a miracle," replied Chambers. "I sometimes catch
myself wondering at the long-suffering of my creditors. Yet their
patience is not altogether unrewarded. I have introduced some very
pretty fellows to my old purveyors. There are innocent young gentlemen
from the country who would never know where to go for their finery if
there wasn't an experienced man of fashion to put them in the right
path."
"Ay, Bob, we all understand your pleasant ways. When a man loses the
ability to spend on his own account, he may still flourish as the source
of spending in others. Tradesmen are always civil to Captain Rook if he
visits them in company with Squire Pigeon."
"'Sdeath, Middleton, d'ye mean to insult me?" cried Chambers, with his
hand on his sword.
"Nay, Captain, I did but respond in tune with your own ethics, which
were never of the strictest."
"Faith, you're right, friend! I was never given to riding the high horse
of morality. I spent my money like a gentleman, and any wife's money
after it, and have earned the right to take things easily."
"Till you find yourself in the sponging-house, Bob. That evil day must
come. All your creditors will not be equally placable."
"Whenever I get into the sponging-house, the odds are I shall be kicked
out again for want of funds to make me worth keeping. Your
sponging-house, kept by some dirty Jew, and waited on by a drab, is the
most expensive hotel in London."
"Then they'll put you among the poor prisoners, and let you fetch and
carry for those that are better off. 'Twill be a sorry end for Buck
Chambers, the man who used to keep two servants to attend to his
jackboots."
"Hang it! 'twas no superfluity of service. No man can be expected to do
more than look after three horses or six pairs of boots."
"If they do nab you, Bob," said another friend, who had been attracted
from a neighbouring table as the conversation grew louder, Mr.
Topsparkle sipping his chocolate silently all the while, and listening
in a half-abstracted mood, only reflecting within himself much as Romeo
did about the apothecary, that here was a fellow who would do anything
for gold; "if the limbs of the law do get you in their clutches, let us
hope, for the sake of a world that could scarce exist pleasurably
without you, that they won't put you into Marjory's."
"Marjory's! What, the sponging-house in Shoe Lane!" cried Chambers;
"'tis an execrable den, but not a whit worse than their other holes. I
have hobbed and nobbed with my friends in most of their rat-traps, and
know the geography of them. I'd as lief be at Marjory's as anywhere
else, if I must needs have the key turned upon me."
"Not just now, Bob; for there was an honest fellow--an Exeter tradesman
up in London for a holiday, and arrested by mistake for another--who
died of smallpox at Marjory's only yesterday morning; and they say the
disease rages in the house, and has done for the last ten days."
The Captain sprang to his feet in a fury.
"And yet they go on taking prisoners there," he cried; "poor innocent
wretches, whose only crime is to have lived like gentlemen! What a vile
world we live in!"
"A vile world with a vengeance. Marjory's is a gold-mine for Bambridge.
He claps all his prisoners into that hell, and makes them pay heavily
before he allows them to be removed to the purgatory of another house,
or the paradise of prison and chummage. This poor wretch from Exeter had
not a stiver about him, so they refused to shift him. He was put in a
room with three other men, one of whom was just recovering from the
disease. The Exeter man took it badly, and died off-hand."
The Captain put on his hat.
"Farewell, friends," he said; "I'm off by to-night's fast coach to
Bristol, and from thence to the wilds of Connemara. I was not born to be
carrion for the vulture Bambridge."
He pulled himself together with a debonair movement, and staggered gaily
out of the house, amidst the laughter of his friends.
"Was there ever such a good-humoured hardened villain?" exclaimed
Middleton; "'tis a perpetual conundrum to me how he keeps out of gaol."
"He will get there some day," said a gentleman of clerical aspect; "our
friend will have his pennyworth of prison, with a noose to follow."
Mr. Topsparkle paid his score, and sauntered away.
Not a word had he heard, nor had he made any inquiry, about madhouses,
public or private; yet it seemed to him that he was wiser than when he
entered the chocolate house, and that he knew all he wanted to know.