AN ACQUITTAL AND A SENTENCE.
The Blackamoor, in his mysterious abode, beheld the successful progress
of his grand schemes; and while all London was busy with conjectures
relative to the daring unknown who seemed to have constituted himself
the instrument of justice and the champion of innocence wrongly accused,
the object of this general interest and curiosity remained in impervious
concealment.
The Secretary of State offered a reward of two hundred pounds to any one
that should give such information as to lead to the discovery of the
person who had enticed Sir Christopher Blunt to his unknown abode, and
who had caused Dr. Lascelles to be conveyed thither by force; and the
most astute Bow Street agents were employed in instituting enquiries in
every part of the metropolis with a view to find out the dwelling of the
individual in question.
The newspapers teemed with the most absurd and contradictory reports on
the subject; and a thousand wild rumours were constantly circulating
throughout the metropolis. The result of all this was that those who
were employed in the enquiries above alluded to, were so mystified and
bewildered, that they worked like drunken men in the dark,—taking up and
following any ridiculous information which they obtained either from
wags or from persons who wished to appear more knowing than their
neighbours,—and pursuing what at first might seem to be a clue, but
which invariably led to nothing satisfactory at last.
The Blackamoor's own retainers, who were all faithful to their master,
augmented this confusion of rumours and ideas, by mingling amongst the
gossips in places of public resort, and gravely propagating reports
which were sure to direct the attention of the Bow Street runners from
the very point where its object lay; and all that Dr. Lascelles had been
known to hazard in the shape of conjecture in the matter, was a hint
that, to the best of his belief, the carriage in which he had been borne
away on the memorable night of the confession, had eventually stopped in
one of the most easterly suburbs of the metropolis. The consequence of
this suggestion was, that Wapping, Whitechapel, Bethnal Green, and Globe
Town were regularly explored by the Bow Street officials—but entirely
without success.
Although the innocence of Mr. Torrens was universally believed, yet, as
he had been committed for trial, it was necessary that he should undergo
the ordeal. This ceremony took place a few days after the publication of
the confession of the real murderers—indeed, on the very Monday
following the grand entertainment at Carlton House.
The prisoner was arraigned on the charge of having assassinated Sir
Henry Courtenay; and the Recorder of London presided on the bench. The
counsel for the prosecution merely stated the particulars of the
discovery of the corpse of the deceased baronet, and the circumstances
which had led to the prisoner's committal; but he did not for a moment
insist that those circumstances were conclusive against him. Sir
Christopher Blunt then detailed in evidence all that he had given in
narrative at Bow Street; and Dr. Lascelles corroborated his statement.
The confession signed by Joshua Pedler and Timothy Splint, and likewise
the one in which Martha Torrens had attested to certain facts in favour
of the prisoner, were read by the clerk of arraigns; and the counsel for
the defence was about to address the Court, when the jury declared that
their minds were already made up.
The _acquittal_ of the prisoner immediately followed; and the first
person who shook hands with him as he was released from the dock, was
Sir Christopher Blunt.
Mr. Torrens accepted a seat in the knight's carriage, and repaired to a
friend's house in the neighbourhood, where Clarence Villiers, Adelais,
Rosamond, and Esther de Medina were assembled to welcome his acquittal,
relative to which none of them had felt at all uneasy.
But it was evident that, although thus relieved from the dreadful charge
and appalling danger which had recently hung over him, Mr. Torrens was
an altered man. He had received a blow which had shaken his constitution
to its very basis:—his mental energies were impaired;—and instead of a
hale man of between fifty-five and fifty-six, which was his actual age,
he seemed to be a feeble, tottering octogenarian.
When the excitement produced by the meeting with his family after his
release had somewhat subsided, Mr. Torrens said with nervous impatience,
"Rosamond, my dear child, I shall leave England this very day. Will you
accompany your father?"
"Leave us the moment you are restored to us!" exclaimed Adelais,
bursting into tears.
"Yes—yes," returned the unhappy man: "I cannot—dare not remain in
England. Though released from a criminal gaol, yet I am in danger of
being plunged into a debtors' prison; for I am ruined, as you all
know—totally, irredeemably ruined. Besides—never, never again could I
dwell in that house where so many frightful things have occurred. Yes,"
he repeated, "I must leave England at once; and you, my poor Rosamond,"
he added, with tears trickling down his sunken cheeks, "will have to
support your father, by means of your accomplishments, in a foreign
land."
"No—that must not be," said Esther de Medina, passing a handkerchief
rapidly over her eyes: "Rosamond has friends to whom, although they have
known her but for so short a period, her welfare is dear. Foreseeing
some such decision as that to which you have now come, relative to
leaving England, my father has desired me to place a thousand pounds at
your daughter's disposal," continued the beautiful Jewess, addressing
herself to the wondering Torrens, and at the same time placing a sealed
packet in Rosamond's hands.
"Oh! my generous—my excellent-hearted friend," exclaimed Rosamond,
embracing the Jewess tenderly: "how is it possible that I could have
merited this kindness—this extraordinary bounty at your hands?"
"We are fellow-creatures, though of a different creed," said Esther
modestly;—but she was compelled to receive the thanks of the astonished
Torrens and of the admiring Clarence and Adelais.
Villiers now drew his father-in-law aside, and spoke to him concerning
Mrs. Torrens.
"I cannot see her, Clarence—I cannot meet her again," he replied.
"Besides, an interview would be useless. Our marriage was not one of
affection, as you are well aware: and, moreover——But," he added,
suddenly interrupting himself, and looking tremblingly in the young
man's face, while his voice sank to a low, hollow whisper,—"she has
doubtless told you _all_?"—and then he glanced toward Rosamond, who was
conversing with Esther de Medina and Adelais at the farther end of the
room.
"Yes—I know _all_," returned Villiers; and the words seemed to convulse
his wretched listener with horror. "But it is too late to amend the
past—and it is not for me to reproach you _now_. Your own conscience,
Mr. Torrens, will prove a sufficient punishment for the frightful wrong
you have done to that poor girl. And fear not that I shall impart the
sickening truth to my wife, who is already too deeply affected by all
that has lately occurred."
"Thank you, Clarence—thank you, at least for that assurance," said the
old man, his voice almost suffocated with terrible emotions. "You
perceive how impossible it is that I should remain in England—with so
many dreadful reminiscences to make me ashamed to look those who know me
in the face. This very instant will Rosamond and myself set out on our
way to a foreign land: you will be kind enough to send my trunks after
me to Dover."
"I do not attempt to dissuade you from this step," observed Villiers;
"because I can see no more agreeable alternative."
Mr. Torrens' decision was then communicated to the three ladies: and the
farewell scene between the sisters was affecting in the extreme. Nor
less did Adelais deplore the necessity which compelled her to separate
from her father; but she at least had a consolation in the midst of her
grief—a solace in the possession of a husband who loved her devotedly,
and whom she adored.
A post-chaise was speedily in attendance: and Mr. Torrens took his
departure from the English capital, in company with his younger
daughter.
Esther de Medina did not take leave of Clarence and Adelais before she
had made them promise to pay her an early visit at Finchley Manor; and
the young couple returned to Torrens Cottage more than ever prepossessed
in favour of the beautiful Jewess, who seemed to delight only in doing
good.
* * * * *
On the ensuing day Martha Torrens was placed in the dock, before the
Recorder of London, charged with the crime of forgery.
The court of the Old Bailey was crowded with persons belonging to those
religious associations of which the prisoner had lately been so
conspicuous a member. There was Mr. Jonathan Pugwash, President of the
_South Sea islands Bible-Circulating Society_, not only with a face
indicative of its owner's attachment to brandy, but also with a breath
smelling very strongly of that special liquor: there also was the
Reverend Malachi Sawkins, looking so awfully miserable at the scandal
brought by the prisoner's conduct on the religious world, that a
stranger would have supposed him to be at least her brother, if not her
husband;—and there likewise was the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks, who,
having made his peace with the members of the above-mentioned Society,
had latterly come out much stronger than ever in the shape of a saint.
Many other sleek and oily, or thin and pale, religious gentlemen were
present on this occasion; and in the gallery were numerous old ladies,
all belonging to the ultra-evangelical school, and who appeared to
divide their attention between the task of wiping their eyes with white
cambric handkerchiefs and strengthening their nerves by means of
frequent applications to little flasks or bottles which they took from
their pockets or muffs.
Mrs. Torrens was supported into the dock by two turnkeys of Newgate; for
she was overcome with shame and grief at the position in which her crime
had placed her. She was indeed a pitiable object; and it was evident
that, whatever penalty the Bench might award, her punishment in this
world had already begun.
The indictment being read, she pleaded _Guilty_ in a faint voice; and
the prosecutors strongly recommended her to mercy.
The Recorder[42] put on the black cap, and proceeded to address the
prisoner in a most feeling manner. His lordship said that the law left
him no alternative but to pronounce sentence of death. He however
observed that, considering the contrition manifested by the plea of
_Guilty_ and the intercession of the bankers who had been defrauded of
their money by the forgery, he should recommend the prisoner to the
mercy of the Crown. His lordship concluded by an intimation that she
must make up her mind to pass the remainder of her days as an exile in
the penal settlements, but that her life would be spared.
She was conveyed in a fainting state away from the dock; and the
religious gentlemen present gave so awful and simultaneous a groan, that
the judge was quite startled upon the bench, and the jury were horrified
in their box.
-----
Footnote 42:
At the period of which we are writing, this high civic functionary
tried cases involving capital penalties as well as those of a less
serious nature. Since the establishment of the Central Criminal Court,
the great judges of the kingdom preside at the Old Bailey to try
prisoners charged with grave offences.
CHAPTER XCVIX.
THE CONDITION OF THE WORKING CLASSES.
In the afternoon of that same Monday on which Mr. Torrens was acquitted
and his wife condemned, vast crowds collected in the vicinity of the
Houses of Parliament.
The multitude consisted chiefly of members of the industrious classes,
many individuals being accompanied by their wives and children. They
were attired in the best raiment that they possessed; and their conduct
was most orderly and creditable.
At about a quarter to five o'clock, the carriages began to arrive and
set down at the respective entrances the Members of the two Houses of
Parliament: some, however, proceeded thither on horseback; and others on
foot. The crowds neither cheered the popular, nor hissed the unpopular
legislators who thus passed through the mass which had divided to make
way for them; until at last one long, hearty, and glorious outburst
welcomed the appearance of the Earl of Ellingham, as he proceeded on
horseback, attended by his groom, to St. Stephen's.
The young nobleman acknowledged this outpouring of a people's
gratitude—not with a patronising condescension, but with an affability
which seemed to say, "I am one of yourselves—we're all equal—and I am
proud of being considered your _friend_!"
Long after he had entered the portals of the House of Lords, and was
lost to the public view, did the cheering continue outside; for the
multitudes appreciated all that was great and generous in the task which
a member of a proud aristocracy had undertaken to perform that day in
their behalf.
There was a full attendance of Peers, Temporal and Spiritual; and the
strangers' galleries, overlooking the throne and the woolsack, were
crowded with fashionable gentlemen and elegantly dressed ladies. Amongst
the audience there assembled, were Lady Hatfield, Mr. de Medina, and
Esther. Georgiana was not however seated near the Jew and his daughter,
she being unacquainted with them otherwise than by name, as the reader
is already aware.
Soon after five o'clock the Earl of Ellingham rose from his seat,
advanced towards the table, and proceeded to address the House on the
motion of which he had given notice.
[Illustration]
He began by expressing a regret that so important a subject as that
which he proposed for discussion—namely, the condition of the
industrious population—should not have been taken up by some noble
lord more competent than himself to do it adequate justice; and he
declared most solemnly that no selfish idea of obtaining popularity
had influenced him in the course which he was pursuing. He then
proceeded to expatiate upon the state of the working classes, and to
urge upon the House the necessity of adopting measures to ameliorate
their lamentable condition. It was too frequently alleged, he
observed, that those classes were thoughtless, improvident,
ungrateful, and intellectually dull; but this assertion he
emphatically denied. Despair, produced by their unhappy condition,
naturally led to dissipation in many instances; but were the
working-man placed in a position so that his livelihood should be
rendered less precarious than it now was—were his labour adequately
remunerated—were he more fairly paid by the representatives of
property—were a scale of wages established, having a fixed _minimum_,
but no fixed _maximum_, the increased comfort thus ensured to him
would naturally remove from his mind those cares which drove him to
the public-house. His lordship would have no fixed _maximum_ of wages,
because wages ought always to be increased in proportion to the value
of productive labour to employers: but he would have a _minimum_
established, to obviate the cruel and disastrous effects of those
periods when labour exceeded the demand in the market. This could not
be considered unfair towards employers, because when the markets were
brisk and trade was flourishing, they (the employers) reaped the
greatest benefit from that activity, and enriched themselves in a very
short time: therefore, when markets were dull and trade was stagnant,
they should still be compelled to pay such wages as would enable their
employed to live comfortably. The profits gained during prosperous
seasons not only enabled employers to enjoy handsome incomes, but also
to accumulate considerable savings; and as the best wages scarcely
enabled the employed to make any thing like an adequate provision for
periods of distress, it was not fair that the representatives of
property should use the labour of the working classes just when it
suited them, and discard it or only use it on a miserable recompense
when it did not so well suit them. For the labour of the employed not
only made annual incomes for the employers, but also permanent
fortunes; and the value of that labour should not be calculated as
lasting only just as long as it was available for the purpose of
producing large profits. Labour was the working man's _capital_, and
should have constant interest, as well as money placed in the
funds—that interest of course increasing in proportion to the
briskness of markets; but never depreciating below a standard
value—much less being discarded as valueless altogether, in times of
depression. A thousand pounds would always obtain three per cent.
interest, under any circumstances; and, at particular periods, might
be worth six or seven per cent. Labour should be considered in the
same light. Stagnant markets diminished the profits of employers, but
did not ruin them: if they did not obtain profit enough to live upon,
they had the accumulations of good seasons to fall back upon. But how
different was the case with the employed! To them stagnation of
business was ruin—starvation—death;—the breaking up of their little
homes—the sudden check of their children's education—the cause of
demoralisation and degradation—and the terrible necessity of applying
to the parish! The supply and demand of labour were necessarily
unequal at many times, and in many districts; and the Government
should therefore adopt measures to prevent those frightful
fluctuations in wages which carried desolation into the homes of
thousands of hard-working, industrious, and deserving families. In
fact, a law should be passed to ensure the working-man against the
casualty of being employed at a price below remuneration. In England
the poor were not allowed to have a stake in the country—there were no
small properties—the land was in the possession of a few individuals
comparatively; and thus the landed interest constituted a tremendous
monopoly, most unjust and oppressive to the industrious classes. The
only way to remove this evil influence, and ameliorate the condition
of the working population—the only way to countervail the disastrous
effect of that monopoly, short of a Revolution which would treble or
quadruple the number of landed proprietors,—was to compel property to
maintain labour as long as labour sought for employment and
occupation. The noble Earl then proceeded to state that if the
working-classes were thus treated, they would not be driven by their
cares and troubles to the excessive use of alcoholic liquors: they
would not become demoralised by being compelled to migrate from place
to place in search of employment—going upon the tramp, sleeping in
hideous dens of vice, where numbers were forced to herd together
without reference to age or sex: they would not be unsettled in all
their little arrangements to bring up their children creditably and
with due reference to instruction;—they would not be made
discontented, anxious for any change no matter what, vindictive
towards that society which thus rendered them outcasts, and sullen or
reckless in their general conduct. But as things now were, the
industrious man never felt settled: he knew that the hut which he
called his home, was held on the most precarious tenure;—he felt the
sickening conviction that if he had bread and meat to-day, he might
have only bread to-morrow, and no food at all the day after. It was
positively frightful to contemplate the condition of mental
uncertainty, anxiety, and apprehension in which millions of persons
were thus existing; and those who reproached them with recklessness or
sullenness, should blame themselves as the causes of all that they
vituperated. Lord Ellingham next proceeded to show that although there
had been a vast increase of wealth and comfort amongst the middle and
upper classes, yet the condition of the industrious millions was not
only unimproved, but had positively deteriorated. The population was
increasing at the rate of 1000 souls a day—and pauperism was keeping
pace with that increase. Unrepresented in Parliament—without any means
of making their voice heard—positively incapacitated from having a
stake in the country, the industrious millions were the mere slaves
and tools of the wealthy classes. Thus an immense mass of persons was
kept in bondage—in absolute serfdom by an oligarchy. Was such a state
of things just? was it rational? was it even humane? The millions were
ground down by indirect taxes, in which shape they actually
contributed more to the revenue, in proportion to their means, than
the rich. The only luxuries which the poor enjoyed, and which had
become as it were necessaries,—namely, tea, sugar, tobacco, beer, and
spirits,—were the most productive sources of revenue. If noble lords
reproached the poor for dirty habits, as he well knew that it was
their custom to do, he would ask them why soap was made an article
subject to so heavy a tax? It was a contemptible fallacy to suppose
that because the poor contributed little or nothing in the shape of
direct taxation to the revenue, they were positively untaxed. He would
again declare that the poor paid more in indirect taxes than the rich
did in both direct and indirect ways, when the relative means of the
two parties were taken into consideration. From these subjects the
Earl passed to the consideration of the inequality of the laws, and
the incongruity, severity, and injustice of their administration
towards the poor. Every advantage was given to the rich in the way of
procuring bail in those cases where security for personal appearance
was required; but no poor man could possibly give such security. He
must go to prison, and there herd with felons of the blackest dye.
Perhaps on trial his innocence would transpire; and then what
recompense had he for his long incarceration—his home broken up during
his absence—and his ruined family? It was possible—nay, it often
happened that a man would lie thus in prison for four or five months
previously to trial; and during that period it would be strange indeed
if he escaped gaol contamination. Then, again, there were offences of
a comparatively venial kind, and for which penalties might be
inflicted in the shape of fines, the alternative being imprisonment.
These fines were insignificant trifles in the estimation of a rich
man; but the smallest of them was quite a fortune in the eyes of the
poor. Even a person with a hundred a-year would pay a fine of five
pounds rather than go to prison for a month or six weeks: but a
labouring man, earning ten or twelve shillings a week, could no more
satisfy the demand thus made upon him than he could influence the
motion of the earth,—unless, indeed, he pawned and pledged every
little article belonging to him; and the infliction thereby became a
blow which he never afterwards recovered. Did a poor man offend a
clergyman, he was forthwith put into the Spiritual Court, as the
common saying was; and the expensive proceedings, which he could not
stay, involved him in utter ruin. When a poor man was oppressed by a
rich one, it was vain and ludicrous to assert that the Courts of Law
were open to him: law was a luxury in which only those who possessed
ample means could indulge. In a case where some grievous injury was
sustained by a poor man—the seduction of his wife or daughter, for
instance—redress or recompense was impossible, unless some attorney
took up the case on speculation; and this was a practice most
demoralising and pernicious. But if left entirely unassisted in that
respect, the poor man could no more go to Westminster Hall than he
could afford to dine at Long's Hotel. With regard to the subject of
education, the noble Earl declared that it was positively shocking to
think that such care should be taken to convert negroes to
Christianity thousands of miles off, while the most deplorable
ignorance prevailed at home. The Church enjoyed revenues the amount of
which actually brought the ministers of the gospel into discredit, as
evidencing their avaricious and grasping disposition;—while the people
remained as uneducated as if not a single shilling were devoted to
spiritual pastors or lay instructors. He boldly accused both Houses of
Parliament and the upper classes generally of being anxious to keep
the masses in a state of ignorance. Where instruction was imparted
gratuitously, it was entirely of a sectarian nature; just as if men
required to study grammar, history, arithmetic, or astronomy on Church
of England principles. The whole land was over-run by clergymen, who
lived upon the fat of it—Universities and public schools had been
richly endowed for the purpose of propagating knowledge and
encouraging learning,—and yet the people were lamentably ignorant. It
was a wicked and impudent falsehood to declare that they were
intellectually dull or averse to mental improvement. Common sense—that
best of sense—was the special characteristic of the working classes;
and those who could read, were absolutely greedy in their anxiety to
procure books, newspapers, and cheap publications for perusal. The
fact was, that the mind of the industrious population was a rich soil
wherein all good seed would speedily take root, shoot up, and bring
forth fruit to perfection: but the apprehensions or narrow prejudices
of the upper classes—the oligarchy—would not permit the seed to be
sown. Now, as the soil must naturally produce something, even of its
own accord, it too often gave birth to rank weeds; and this was made a
matter of scorn, reviling, and reproach. But the real objects of that
scorn—that reviling—and that reproach, were those who obstinately and
wickedly neglected to put the good soil to the full test of
fertilization. Lastly, the Earl of Ellingham directed attention to the
state of the criminal laws. These were only calculated to produce
widely spread demoralization—to propagate vice—to render crime
terribly prolific. A man—no matter what his offence might have
been—should be deemed innocent and untainted again, when he had paid
the penalty of his misdeed; because to brand a human being eternally,
was to fly in the face of the Almighty and assert that there should be
no such thing as forgiveness, and was no such thing as repentance. But
the nature of punishments in this country was so to brand the
individual, and so to dare the Majesty of Heaven. For the gaols were
perfect nests of infamy—sinks of iniquity, imprisonment in which
necessarily fastened an indelible stigma upon the individual. He
either came forth tainted; or else it was supposed that he must be so.
Under these circumstances, he vainly endeavoured to obtain employment;
and, utterly failing in his attempt to earn an honest livelihood, he
was compelled perforce to relapse into habits of crime and
lawlessness. This fact accounted for an immense amount of the
demoralization which the Bishops so much deplored, but the true causes
of which they obstinately refused to acknowledge. The criminal gaols
were moral pest-houses, in which no cures were effected, but where the
contagious malady became more virulent. Society should not immure
offenders solely for the sake of punishment—but with a view to
reformation of character. The noble Earl then summed up his arguments
by stating that he was anxious to see measures adopted for a _minimum_
rate of wages, to prevent the sudden fluctuation of wages, and to
compel property to give constant employment to labour:—he was desirous
that indirect taxes upon the necessaries of life should be
abolished;—he wished the laws and their administration to be more
equitably proportioned to the relative conditions of the rich and the
poor;—he insisted upon the want of a general system of national
education, to be intrusted to laymen, and to be totally distinct from
religious instruction and sectarian tenets;—he desired a complete
reformation in the system of prison discipline, and explained the
paramount necessity of founding establishments for the purpose of
affording work to persons upon leaving criminal gaols, as a means of
their obtaining an honest livelihood and retrieving their characters
prior to seeking employment for themselves;—and he hoped that the
franchise would be so extended as to give every man who earned his own
bread by the sweat of his brow, a stake and interest in the country's
welfare. The noble Earl wound up with an eloquent peroration in which
he vindicated the industrious millions from the aspersions,
misrepresentations, and calumnies which it seemed to be the fashion
for the upper classes to indulge in against them; and he concluded by
moving a number of resolutions in accordance with the heads of his
oration.
The Earl's speech was received with very partial cheering by the
assembled Lords, to whom its tenor was most unpalatable: but such was
its effect upon the auditors in the strangers' galleries, that, contrary
to the established etiquette, it was loudly applauded by them. The Lord
Chancellor immediately called to order; and in a few minutes a dead
silence reigned throughout the House.
The leading Minister present then rose to answer the Earl's oration;
which he did in the usual style adopted by official men under such
circumstances. Entirely blinking all the main arguments, he declaimed
loudly in favour of the prosperity of the country—dwelt upon the
happiness of English cottagers—lauded the "wisdom of our
ancestors"—uttered the invariable cant about our "glorious
institutions"—spoke of Church and State as if they were Siamese twins
whom it would be death to sever—and, after calling upon the House to
resist the Earl of Ellingham's motion, sate down.
Several noble Lords and Right Reverend Fathers in God took part in the
discussion; and at length the House divided, when the Earl's motion was
of course lost by an overwhelming majority against it. Arthur was by no
means disappointed: he had foreseen this result—but he had made up his
mind to renew the subject as often as he could, in the full hope that a
steady perseverance would ultimately be crowned with success.
The House adjourned—the strangers' galleries were speedily cleared—and
the Lords, Spiritual and Temporal, rolled home in their carriages, the
multitudes, who still remained assembled in the vicinity of St.
Stephen's, preserving a profound silence, until the Earl of Ellingham
was observed to issue forth by those persons who were nearest to the
Lords' entrance. Then arose a shout more loud—more hearty even than that
which had greeted his arrival a few hours previously: it was the voice
of a generous and grateful people, expressing the sincerest thanks for
the efforts which the noble patriot had exerted in their cause.
CHAPTER C.
THE EARL OF ELLINGHAM AND ESTHER DE
MEDINA.
It was about two o'clock in the afternoon of the day following the scene
just described, that the Earl of Ellingham and Esther de Medina were
walking in the gardens attached to Finchley Manor.
The beautiful Jewess leant upon the arm of that fine young nobleman who
had suddenly appeared before the world in the light of the champion of
the industrious classes.
Never had Esther seemed so ravishingly lovely as on this occasion:—a
rich carnation hue tinged her cheeks, beneath the clear, transparent
olive of her complexion; and her fine large black eyes mirrored the
enthusiasm of her soul, as she listened to her companion, who was
expatiating upon the wrongs and sufferings endured by the sons and
daughters of toil.
Her generous heart beat in entire sympathy with his own in this respect.
Until the previous evening she had known little more of the condition of
the people than is generally gleaned by young ladies of good education
from the works which they peruse. But the Earl's lucid and convincing
exposure had shed a marvellous light upon her soul: she comprehended how
much the industrious millions were neglected by the Government—how
sorely they were oppressed by a selfish, grasping, greedy oligarchy—how
noble a task it was which the Earl had imposed upon himself.
His brilliant eloquence—his logical reasoning—the tone of deep
conviction in which he had spoken—the conscientious earnestness of his
manner—and the honest fervour that animated him when, having disposed of
the more argumentative portion of his speech, he burst forth in his
impassioned peroration,—all this had made a profound impression upon
Esther de Medina. For hitherto her gentle heart had loved him for all
those qualities of person and of mind which usually engender tender
feelings in the maiden's bosom: but now she felt that she could adore
him—that she could worship him as a hero who had stood forth in honest
championship of a cause which it was so glorious to undertake.
Therefore was it that her cheeks were tinged with the carnation glow of
youthful enthusiasm: therefore was it that her fine dark eyes flashed
with the fires of so generous a fervour, as she now dwelt upon every
word that the nobleman was uttering in reiteration of those sentiments
which he had so boldly enunciated the night before.
But by degrees the conversation took a different and more tender turn;
and as they entered an avenue of trees verdant with the foliage of an
early Spring, the nobleman found himself speaking in obedience to those
feelings of admiration which he experienced towards the beautiful
Jewess.
"It was not to treat you with a political disquisition, Miss de Medina,"
said the Earl, "that I came hither to-day. I had another and very
different object in view; for I am about to ask you to bestow upon me a
boon which, if accorded, shall ever—ever be most highly prized.
Esther—dearest Esther," added the nobleman, sinking his voice to a
tender whisper, and gazing upon her affectionately, "it is this fair
hand which I solicit!"
"Oh! my lord," murmured Esther, casting down her swimming eyes, while
she felt that her cheeks were burning with blushes, "you have not well
considered the step which you are now taking."
"I have reflected deeply upon the course which I am adopting," answered
the nobleman, "and I am convinced that my happiness depends upon your
reply. Tell me, Esther dearest—can you love me? Will you accept me as
your husband?'
"Did I consult only my own heart, my lord," replied the beautiful
Jewess, her countenance still suffused in virgin blushes, and her voice
tremulously melodious, "I should not hesitate how to reply—oh! how could
I? But I cannot forget, my lord, that I am the daughter of a despised—a
persecuted—a much maligned race,—that the prejudices of your country and
your creed are hostile to such an alliance as this, the proposal of
which has done me so much honour."
"You are well aware, my beloved Esther," said the Earl, "that I have
none of those absurd prejudices. The proudest Christian who wears a
crown might glory in being the son-in-law of such a man as Mr. de
Medina; and, even were he otherwise than what he is, it were a worthy
aim of ambition to become the husband of his daughter Esther."
"I am well aware, my lord," resumed Esther, "that your heart harbours
every noble and ennobling sentiment—that you are all that is great, and
liberal, and good. Proud and happy, then, must that woman esteem herself
who shall be destined to bear your name. But not for me, my lord—not for
the despised Jewess must that supreme honour be reserved. No," she
continued, her voice faltering, and her bosom heaving convulsively,—"no,
my lord,—it may not be!"
"Esther," exclaimed the Earl of Ellingham, in an impassioned tone, "tell
me—I conjure you—is this the only motive which induces you to hesitate?
Is it simply on account of those absurd prejudices which my illiberal
fellow-countrymen entertain in reference to your race? is it solely on
this account that you deny me the boon I demand?"
"That reason—and another," murmured the lovely Jewess, in a
low—hesitating—and tremulous tone.
"Ah! that _other_—I can divine it!" cried the young nobleman. "You know
that I was engaged to Lady Hatfield;—but that engagement exists no
longer—has ceased to exist for some time! I will not attempt to persuade
you, dearest Esther, that I did not love Georgiana;—but I now feel that
my passion in respect to her was very different from the affection which
I entertain for you. Georgiana was the idol of my imagination—you are
the mistress of my soul. My attachment to her was wild and passionate—to
you it is tender and profound. Dazzled by her splendid beauty, I was
bewildered—captivated—held in thraldom: but such a love as that
contained not those elements which might render it durable. Your modest
and retiring charms, sweet Esther—your amiability—your gentleness—your
goodness, all combine to render my love permanent and impossible to
undergo diminution or change. Moreover, circumstances which I need
not—cannot explain to you, suddenly transpired to alter my sentiments in
respect to Lady Hatfield—to make me look upon her as a sister, and never
more in any other light. But if you will give me your love, my Esther,
you shall experience all the happiness which can arise from an alliance
with one who will make your welfare the study of his life. Indeed, if
you still hesitate on the score of those prejudices to which we just now
alluded,—then—sooner than resign my hope of possessing this fair hand of
your's, I will renounce the society in which I have been accustomed to
move—I will dwell with you, when heaven's blessing shall have united us,
in some charming seclusion, where we shall be all in all to each other—I
will devote myself entirely to you and to that task which I have taken
upon myself in respect to the industrious classes—that fine English
people, in whom my sympathies are so deeply interested—"
"Oh! my lord," murmured Esther, in a joyous though subdued tone, "how
have I merited all the proofs of attachment which you now lavish upon
me?—how can the obscure Jewess flatter herself that she is worthy of
becoming the bride of one of England's mightiest nobles?"
"Then you _do_ consent to become mine, Esther?" cried the handsome young
peer; and, reading her answer in her eloquent eyes, he caught her in his
arms—he pressed her to his heart—and on her virgin lips he imprinted the
first kiss which Esther had ever received from mortal man save her own
father.
A few minutes elapsed in profound silence,—a few minutes, during which
the happy pair exchanged glances of sincere, and pure, and hallowed
love.
Suddenly the sound of footsteps drawing near fell upon their ears: they
turned, and beheld Mr. de Medina approaching down the avenue of trees.
Then the Earl of Ellingham, taking Esther's hand, advanced towards the
Jew and said in a firm and manly tone, "Mr. de Medina, I am glad that
you have come hither at this moment, for I have a great boon to beg of
you—a precious gift to solicit!"—and he glanced tenderly towards the
blushing maiden who stood by his side.
"I understand you, my dear Arthur," returned Mr. de Medina, smiling.
"But I presume that the whole business is already settled and arranged
between you," he added, looking slily and benignantly at his daughter.
"Miss de Medina has consented to bestow her hand upon me, my dear sir,"
answered the nobleman; "and I scarcely dread a refusal on your part."
"A refusal!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina, the tears of joy and gratitude
starting to his eyes: "there is indeed no danger of that! On whom would
I consent to bestow my jewel, my pride, if not upon you—_you_, my dear
Arthur, who are all that an Englishman ought to be? Yes—I give you my
daughter; and may God ensure your happiness!"
The venerable Jew embraced the Earl and Esther; and the happiness of
those three deserving and admirable persons was complete.
The Earl of Ellingham passed the remainder of that day at Finchley
Manor; and it was past eleven o'clock in the evening when he alighted
from his carriage at the door of his own abode.
On the ensuing morning Clarence Villiers called upon the nobleman, by
whom he was most courteously received; and the Earl proceeded to explain
to him the nature of the business which had induced him to request the
favour of that interview.
"Mr. Villiers," said Arthur, "it will be sufficient for me to inform you
that I had reasons for experiencing a more than common interest in
behalf of Thomas Rainford, with whom you were somewhat intimately
acquainted. What those precise reasons were, you, as a gentleman, will
not enquire: but I believe that you have in your possession a particular
letter, which Thomas Rainford entrusted to you; and circumstances now
render it necessary that this document should pass from your hands into
mine."
"The high character of your lordship commands immediate compliance on my
part," said Villiers, producing the letter from his pocket-book and
tendering it to the Earl.
"I thank you for this proof of confidence, Mr. Villiers," observed the
nobleman: "but to set your mind completely at rest, I can show you a
written authorization, signed by Thomas Rainford, to enable me to
receive the paper from you."
"It is not at all necessary, my lord," answered Clarence, rising to take
his departure.
"One moment," said the Earl, much struck by the frank, candid, and
gentlemanly demeanour of Villiers: "any one who felt an interest in
Thomas Rainford—especially one in whom he reposed sufficient confidence
to entrust with that letter—has a claim on my friendship. I should
therefore be delighted to serve you, Mr. Villiers; and let this
assurance tend to convince you that I am animated by no idle curiosity
in enquiring relative to your position in life. I believe you hold a
situation in Somerset House?"
Villiers answered in an affirmative.
"And the salary you at present receive is only ninety or a hundred
pounds a-year?" continued the Earl. "You see that Thomas Rainford made
me acquainted with your circumstances, and that I have not forgotten
them. Indeed, he requested me to exert myself in your behalf; and I am
anxious to fulfil his desire. I called at your lodgings in Bridge
Street, and learnt that you had been very recently married. Now, ninety
or a hundred pounds a-year," continued the Earl, with a smile, "are
little enough to enable you to support your changed condition in
comfort; and the state of political parties forbids me to ask any
favours of the men in power. I will make you a proposal, which you may
take time to reflect upon. I require a private secretary: and that post
I offer to you. The emoluments are four hundred a-year, and a house
rent-free. The dwelling is a beautiful cottage belonging to me, and
situate at Brompton. Moreover, I will give you three hundred guineas for
your outfit and furniture."
Clarence Villiers was astonished—nay, perfectly astounded by the
liberality of this offer; and, unable to utter a word, he gazed upon the
Earl with eyes expressive of the most sincere gratitude, mingled with
admiration at his generous behaviour.
"I know," resumed the Earl, "that a government situation is a certainty,
and that you have every chance of rising in your present sphere: think
not, therefore, that I now offer you a precarious employment. No—whether
I continue in that activity of political existence on which I have just
entered—or whether I be compelled by circumstances to renounce it,—you
shall be duly cared for."
"My lord, I accept your generous proposal," exclaimed Clarence, at
length recovering the power of speech; "and I shall exert myself
unweariedly to deserve your lordship's good opinion of me."
"The bargain is therefore concluded," said the nobleman. "I will give
you a note to my solicitor, who will immediately put you in possession
of the lease of the house at Brompton."
The Earl seated himself at a writing-table, and penned the letter to his
professional agent: he also wrote a cheque on his bankers for three
hundred guineas; and the two documents he handed to Clarence Villiers,
who took his leave of the kind-hearted nobleman, his soul overflowing
with emotions of gratitude and admiration.
How joyous—oh! how joyous a thing it is to carry glad tidings to the
beloved of one's bosom,—to hasten home to a fond, confiding, adoring
wife, and be able to exclaim to her, "The smiles with which thou
greetest me, dearest, will not be chased away from thy sweet lips by the
news which I have in store for thee! For God is good to us, my angel—and
happiness, prosperity, and buoyant hopes are ours! From comparative
poverty we are suddenly elevated to the possession of affluence; and we
enjoy the protection of one who will never desert us, so long as we
pursue the paths of rectitude and honour!"
Oh! to be enabled to say this to a loved and loving creature, is
happiness ineffable; and that felicity was now experienced by Clarence
Villiers, and shared by his charming wife.
Wealth in the hands of such a man as the Earl of Ellingham was like
anodynes in the professional knowledge of the physician who attends the
poor gratuitously:—the power to do good is the choicest of the unbought
luxuries of life, and far more delicious than all the blandishments that
gold can procure.
From the midst of a selfish and bloated aristocracy, how resplendently
did the Earl of Ellingham stand forth as a glorious example of
generosity, manliness, and moral worth! He was the true type of a
sterling English gentleman—an Englishman of education, enlightened soul,
and liberal sentiments;—not one of those narrow-minded beings, who
believe that birth and wealth are the only aristocracy, and whose ideas
are limited as the confines of the land to which they belong. Your
prejudiced Englishman is a most contemptible character:—borrowing so
much as he does from foreign nations—even to the very fashion of his
coat and hat, or his wife's gown—he boasts in his absurd and pompous
pride, that England is all and every thing in itself. Britain is indeed
a wonderful country; but Britain is not the whole world, after all. In
all that is useful as far as the solid comforts of life are concerned,
she stands at the head of civilisation; but she cannot compete with
France in the refinements and elegancies of existence, nor in the
progress of purely democratic principles. If Great Britain be a
wonderful country, the French are a wonderful—aye, and a mighty and
noble nation, likewise; and in France at least the principles of
equality are well understood, and the battering ram of two Revolutions
has knocked down hereditary peerage—class distinctions—religious
intolerance—and that vile _prestige_ which makes narrow-minded
Englishmen quote the "wisdom of their ancestors" as a reason for
perpetuating the most monstrous abuses!
But let us return to the Earl of Ellingham, who, having terminated his
interview with Clarence Villiers, repaired to the dwelling of Lady
Hatfield.
Georgiana was at home, and Arthur was immediately admitted to the
drawing-room where she was seated.
He had not now the same feelings of pleasure which had lately animated
him, when entering the presence of one whom he had sought to love as a
sister: the scene at Carlton House haunted him like an evil dream;—and
as he contemplated the calm and tranquil demeanour of Georgiana, he felt
grieved at the idea that beneath this composure must necessarily reign
the excitement experienced by a woman who had resolved on becoming the
King's mistress.
Nevertheless, in pursuance of the resolutions already established in his
mind, he conquered—or rather, concealed his sentiments; and, though a
bad hand at any thing resembling duplicity of conduct, he managed to
greet her without exhibiting any thing peculiar in his manner.
"I have two important communications to make to you, Georgiana," he
said, as he seated himself opposite to her. "The first relates to a
delicate subject, which we will dispose of as soon as possible. In a
word, I have this morning seen Mr. Villiers; and he has given me this
paper."
Lady Hatfield eagerly received the document from the hands of the
nobleman, and ran her eyes rapidly over it. Her countenance grew deadly
pale, and tears trickled down her cheeks, as she murmured in a tone of
subdued anguish, "My God! they were in want—they were starving—that
woman and my child—and I——"
Then, stopping suddenly short, she threw herself back upon the sofa,
covered her face with her hands, and no longer sought to repress the
outpourings of her grief.
The Earl interrupted her not: he understood the nature of those emotions
which constituted a subject of self-reproach on the part of the unhappy
lady, who was so deeply to be commiserated; and he thought within
himself, "She possesses a kind—a feeling heart!"
At length Georgiana broke the long silence which prevailed.
"Yes—there can be no doubt?" she exclaimed: "that boy is my child—and he
is now with his father! May heaven bless him!"
"Rest assured that he is with one who will treat him kindly, although
some weeks must elapse ere _he_ can learn who the boy really is,"
observed the Earl of Ellingham. "And now for the second communication
which I have to make to you, Georgiana," continued the nobleman,
desirous to change the topic as speedily as possible. "I have taken your
advice—I have followed your counsel——"
"And Esther de Medina is to become the Countess of Ellingham?" said Lady
Hatfield, in a low and mournful tone of voice.
"Esther has consented to be mine," added the Earl; "and her father has
expressed his joy and delight at the contemplated alliance."
For a few moments Georgiana turned aside her head, and appeared to
struggle violently and painfully with the emotions which filled her
bosom.
"Arthur," she said at last, evidently scarcely able to stem the flood of
her agitated feelings, "I am happy to learn these tidings. You will be
blessed in the possession of one who has been represented to me in such
an amiable—such an estimable light. I congratulate you—and _her_
likewise. You deserve all the felicity which this world can give; and
she who is destined to be—your bride," added Georgiana tremulously,
"must feel proud of you. Yes, Arthur—your high character—your
talents—your generous disposition—your noble nature——"
She could say no more: in summing up all his good qualities, she seemed
to be reminded how much she had lost—and she burst into tears.
Arthur was painfully affected: he had not expected such a scene as this!
Was it possible that a woman who, either yielding to the cravings of a
voluptuous disposition or dazzled by an ignoble and false ambition, had
consented to become the mistress of a King,—was it possible that such a
woman could manifest so much true and profound feeling on learning that
he whom she had once loved was about to wed another, she herself having
counselled the alliance? Was it possible that he was still so dear to
her, and that her own generous nature had suggested that union through a
conscientious belief that it would result in his happiness, though she
herself sacrificed all her tenderest feelings in urging him to adopt a
course which must necessarily interfere even with the friendship which
had conventionally succeeded their love? He had indeed, in the first
instance, fancied that the advice which Georgiana had given him arose
from the best and kindest motives; but the scene at Carlton House had
made him mistrustful of her. Now, then, all his good opinion of her
revived in its pristine strength;—and yet he was bewildered when he
thought that one, who was susceptible of such noble conduct, could have
become so suddenly depraved as to consent in a single hour to resign all
the purity of her soul in homage to the advances of a royal voluptuary.
But Georgiana understood not what was passing in his mind; and she
supposed, by his embarrassed manner and air of profound thought, that he
felt only for her in regard to the position in which they had been
formerly placed.
"Let no thought for me mar your happiness, Arthur—dear Arthur," she
said, in a voice of solemn mournfulness. "Believe me, I have your
welfare sincerely—deeply at heart—far more than perhaps you imagine,"
she added, with strange yet unaccountable emphasis. "At the same time, I
am but a poor weak woman, and cannot altogether restrain my feelings. I
rejoice that you are about to form an alliance with an amiable and
beautiful young lady, who is so well deserving of your love: at the same
time, my memory—oh! too faithful memory—carries me back to those
days—indeed, to only a few months ago, when _my_ hopes were exalted and
_my_ prospects of happiness bright indeed. However," she added hastily,
"let me not dwell upon that topic—and pardon my momentary weakness,
Arthur. May God bless you!"
With these words, Lady Hatfield hurried from the room; and the Earl of
Ellingham took his departure, grieved and bewildered by all that had
just occurred.
"If Georgiana be really serious in resigning herself to King George the
Fourth," thought Arthur, as he returned in his carriage to Pall Mall,
"she sacrifices the purity of the most generous—the tenderest—the
noblest heart with which woman ever was endowed,—save and excepting my
own well-beloved Esther!"
CHAPTER CI.
THE BLACKAMOOR'S STRANGE ADVENTURE.
It was about nine o'clock in the evening of the same day on which the
above-recorded interview took place between the Earl of Ellingham and
Lady Hatfield, that the Blackamoor, clad in a very plain—almost a mean
attire, sauntered along Pall Mall West, and stopped for a few moments in
front of the nobleman's house.
He gazed wistfully at the windows—murmured something to himself—uttered
a sigh—and passed on.
His appearance attracted the notice of two gentlemen who were walking
arm-in-arm in the same direction; and, as they examined him more closely
by the light of an adjacent lamp, one said to the other, "Since his
Majesty has taken it into his head to have a black servant, I really
think that the very man to suit the purpose is now before us. He is a
well-made, good-looking fellow."
"My dear Warren," said the gentleman thus addressed, "you are positively
absurd with your notions that you have only to _ask_ in a King's name in
order to _have_. How do you know that this man wants a situation?"
"He looks as if he did, Harral," replied Sir Phillip Warren. "See—he
lounges along as if he had no fixed object in view—his clothes do not
appear to be any of the best—and his whole demeanour gives me the idea
of a lacquey out of place."
"My dear friend," whispered Sir Randolph Harral—who, like his companion,
was one of the King's courtiers, "you are really wrong. That man is
something far superior to what you conceive him to be: there is even an
air of subdued gentility about him——"
"Pooh! pooh! Harral," interrupted Sir Phillip Warren: "you do not
understand these matters so well as I do. At all events there is no harm
in questioning that fellow—for I should rejoice to be able to fulfil
to-night a whim which our royal master only expressed this afternoon
when he saw the French Ambassador's splendid black _chasseur_."
"Well, as you please, Warren," observed Sir Randolph Harral: "but as I
do not wish to get myself knocked down for insulting a person of a
superior class to what you imagine, I shall leave you to pursue the
adventure alone."
This conversation had been carried on so close to the Blackamoor, that,
although the two courtiers had spoken in a very low voice, and had not
of course intended that their remarks should be overheard, yet scarcely
a word had escaped his ears. Affecting, however, all the time to
continue his lounging, listless walk, he took no apparent notice of the
gentlemen behind him, and even pretended to start with surprise when Sir
Phillip Warren—Sir Randolph Harral having re-entered Carlton
House—tapped him on the shoulder.
"My good man," said the courtier, in a patronising fashion, "I wish to
have a few moments' conversation with you."
"Certainly, sir," exclaimed the Blackamoor, touching his hat just like a
lacquey, and assuming the tone and manner of one.
"I thought so—I knew I was right?" exclaimed Sir Phillip, rubbing his
hands in proof of his satisfaction; then, attentively scanning the Black
from head to foot, by the aid of the lamp at the door of a neighbouring
mansion, he said in a less excited tone, "I suspect you, my good fellow,
to be a person in search of employment——"
"Yes—sir," interrupted the Blackamoor, now enjoying the farce that he
was playing; "I should very much like to obtain a good situation, and
can obtain a first-rate character from my late master."
"The very thing!" cried Sir Phillip Warren, hugely delighted at the
opportunity of crowing over his friend Sir Randolph Harral: then, once
more addressing himself to the Black, he said, "Now what should you
think if I proposed to you to enter the household of his most gracious
Majesty?"
"I should be afraid that the offer was too good to be realized, sir,"
was the answer, delivered in a tone of deep respect; although the
Blackamoor was laughing in his sleeve the whole time.
"It all depends upon me, my good fellow," said Sir Phillip: "and if _I_
am satisfied with you, the matter is settled immediately. But we cannot
continue to talk in the open street: so follow me to my own apartments
in the palace."
Thus speaking, the courtier led the way to Carlton House, the Blackamoor
following at a respectful distance, and saying to himself, "What object
I propose to myself in embracing this adventure, I know not. It,
however, tickles my fancy, and I will go on with it. Besides, having an
hour to spare, I may as well divert myself in this way as any other."
Accordingly, he followed Sir Phillip Warren into the royal dwelling; and
in strict silence did they proceed, until they reached an ante-room
leading to a suite of apartments which were occupied by the old
courtier. In that ante-room they stopped; for Sir Phillip was
immediately accosted by his valet, who, starting from a seat in which he
had been dozing, said, "If you please, sir, his Majesty has sent twice,
during the last half-hour, to desire your presence."
"Very good, Gregory," exclaimed Sir Phillip: "I will attend to the royal
command this moment; and do you take the present of hot-house fruit at
once to my sister, Lady Maltoun. Her ladyship requires it for her grand
supper to-night. Tell her that I am enabled to send it through the
goodness of my royal master."
"Yes, sir," answered the valet, and instantly took his departure.
"My good fellow," said Sir Phillip Warren, turning towards the
Blackamoor, "you perceive that it is impossible for me to speak to you
at present. You must sit down and wait patiently until my return. I
shall not be very long away; but, in any case, wait!"
Sir Phillip Warren, having issued these injunctions, hastened into the
inner apartments to amend his toilette after his evening's stroll; and
in a short time he came forth again, with knee-breeches and silk
stockings, all ready to attend upon the king. In passing through the
ante-chamber he repeated his command that the Black should await his
return; and the latter promised to obey.
When left alone, this individual seated himself, and gave way to his
reflections, forgetting for a time where he was. At length he started
up, looked at his watch, and found that upwards of half-an-hour had
elapsed since the old courtier had left him. He was already wearied of
waiting; but a natural love of adventure and of the excitement of
novelty induced him to remain a little longer to see the issue of the
affair which had led him thither. He accordingly whiled away another
half hour with a newspaper which lay on the table; and, that interval
having passed, he began to think of taking his departure without farther
delay.
Issuing from the ante-room, he proceeded along a well-lighted corridor,
from the extremity of which branched off two smaller passages, one to
the right, and the other to the left. The Blackamoor was now at a loss
which path to pursue; for he could not, for the life of him, remember by
which passage the old courtier had led him on his arrival an hour
previously.
He was not, however, a man at all capable of hesitating to explore even
a royal palace, in order to find a mode of egress, when it did not suit
him to wait for the return of his guide: and taking the passage to the
right, he hastened on until he reached a pair of colossal folding doors.
Perfectly recollecting to have passed through those doors on his
arrival—or at all events through folding-doors exactly like them—he
pushed them open, and entered a large ante-room, well lighted, and
containing four marble statues as large as life.
"Now," thought the Blackamoor, "I am mistaken; for I do not remember to
have seen those statues as I followed the old gentleman into the palace
just now. And yet I might have passed through this room without noticing
them. At all events, I well recollect those large and splendid
folding-doors; and so I must be right."
It happened, however, that he was altogether wrong in the path which he
had pursued in order to find an egress from the palace; and he was
deceived by the fact that at each end of the long passage, from the
middle of which the corridor branched off, there were folding-doors of
an uniform shape, size, and appearance. But, conceiving himself to be in
the right road, he crossed the ante-room, and, pushing open a door at
the farther extremity, found himself in a magnificent apartment, the
furniture of which was of the French fashion of King Louis the
Fifteenth's time. The hangings and drapery were of crimson velvet, of
which material the cushions of the chairs and the sofas were also made.
Several fine pictures, by old masters, and vast mirrors with elaborately
decorated frames, graced the walls; and the whole was displayed by a
rich, subdued, golden lustre, diffused throughout the room by lamps, the
globes of which were of very thick ground glass. It was a mellow light,
sufficient, yet without glare—misty, without being positively dim—and
calculated to produce a lulling sensation of voluptuous indolence,
rather than to dazzle the eyes with a wakeful brilliancy. In fact, there
was altogether something ineffably luxurious in the general appearance
of this apartment, which was magnificent without being spacious, and the
perfumed atmosphere of which stole like a delicious languor on the
senses.
The Blackamoor forgot for a few moments that he was an intruder—or, if
he remembered the fact, he was indifferent to it: and, though the
instant he entered this apartment he saw that he had indeed taken a
wrong path, yet he could not help advancing farther into it to admire
its sumptuous elegance and fine pictures. He was thus gratifying his
curiosity, when he heard voices in the ante-room through which he had
just passed; and, obeying a natural impulse, he slipped behind the rich
velvet curtains drawn over the immense window, near which he happened to
be standing at the moment.
The door opened, and two persons entered the apartment.
"I will await her here, Warren," said one, in a commanding and
triumphant tone: "and see that during our interview, we are secured
against interruption of any kind."
"Your Majesty shall be obeyed," answered Sir Phillip. "Have you any
farther orders, sire?"
"None, my faithful friend," returned the King. "Stay—have I the
document?"
"I gave it to your Majesty ere now, after having myself fetched it from
the Home Office," said the courtier.
"True! I have it safe," said George the Fourth. "And now hasten to
receive the fair one, Warren: it is past ten o'clock, and I am impatient
to behold her charming countenance again."
Sir Phillip departed; and the King, throwing himself upon one of the
voluptuous ottomans, exclaimed aloud, "Now for a new pleasure! I know
not how it was, but I never before took so sudden and ardent a fancy for
any woman, as for this Georgiana Hatfield. There is something truly
bewitching—ineffably captivating in her sweet countenance; and the calm
repose which characterises the general expression of that face, has for
me an influence profoundly voluptuous. Then her bust—oh! her bust—_that_
is charming indeed,—so full—so richly proportioned—and yet evidently so
firm! She has never been married, and Warren says that her reputation is
untarnished. It will be a luxury of paradise to revel in her virgin
charms. And yet, somehow or other, the joys of love are not generally
unknown to ladies in the fashionable world who have reached the age of
four or five and twenty. No matter! be she virgin or not, she is an
adorable woman; and I am madly impatient for her coming."
The King rose from the ottoman, and walked slowly across the apartment,
stopping opposite a mirror in which he surveyed himself. His admirably
fashioned wig was entirely to his taste: there was not a curl nor a wave
which he could have wished otherwise than it was. His false teeth were
white, fixed firmly in his mouth, and had a perfectly natural
appearance. The tie of his cravat—borrowed from the fashion set by his
once all-powerful favourite, Beau Brummell—was unexceptionable. The
white waistcoat had not a crease, so perfectly did it fit the portly
form of the royal voluptuary. The above-mentioned Beau Brummell could
not, even in his ire against the King, have found the shadow of an
excuse for a cavil against the black dress-coat, so artistically was it
made. No tailor in the famous city of Paris could have achieved a
greater triumph in respect to the pantaloons: and as for the polished
dress-boots——O immortal Hoby!
Well satisfied with the result of his survey, George the Fourth returned
to the ottoman, and relapsed into a train of voluptuous imagings with
respect to Lady Hatfield. This current of thought, whereby, in his
emasculated old age, he endeavoured to invigorate his physical powers
through the medium of an excited and heated imagination, led him to
reflect upon all the beauteous women—and their name was Legion—who had
ever surrendered themselves to his embraces; and his ideas naturally
wandered to the enjoyments, luxuries, and pleasures which his exalted
rank and immense resources enabled him to procure. Then he chuckled with
triumphant delight at the egregious folly of the great and powerful
English people tolerating a King at all. But he likewise knew that his
own conduct and example had done more harm to the cause of Monarchy than
all the republic pamphlets or democratic disquisitions ever published.
He was well aware that, without intending to be so, he was the most
effectual means of opening the eyes of the civilised world to the
insanity and madness of maintaining monarchical institutions: and,
though he foresaw that the industrious millions of this realm must
inevitably, sooner or later, overthrow Monarchy and establish a pure
Democracy, yet he consoled himself, in his revolting selfishness, with
the conviction that "the throne would last during his time, at all
events."
[Illustration]
It was about half-past ten, when the door opened; and the Blackamoor,
peeping from behind the curtains, beheld a lady, closely veiled, enter
the room, the door immediately closing behind her.
"Adorable Georgiana!" exclaimed the King, hastening forward to receive
her, and then conducting her to a seat: "I am rejoiced that you have
thus yielded to my wishes—that you have come to me this evening."
"But wherefore, sire, did you insist upon this visit?" asked Lady
Hatfield, in a low and tremulous tone. "Our compact stipulated that I
was first to receive a certain document, as a proof of your Majesty's
sincerity——"
"Dearest Georgiana, raise that odious veil—lay aside that invidious
bonnet, which conceals your charming countenance!" exclaimed the
monarch, in an impassioned voice.
"Oh! sire, I have taken a step at which I tremble," said Lady Hatfield,
raising her veil, but retaining her bonnet. "On my way through the
corridors, guided by Sir Phillip Warren, I met two or three of your
Majesty's retainers; and if they recognised me—in spite of the thick
veil——"
"Fear not on that account," interrupted the King. "I admit our compact
was as you just now stated it to be, and that the paper should have been
forwarded to you. But I was so anxious to see you soon again, that I
could not resist the temptation of that idea which suggested to me how
much better it would be to solicit you to come hither this evening and
receive from my hands the document which you so much desire. Here it is,
beloved Georgiana—signed by myself, and countersigned by the Secretary
of State."
The King presented the paper to Lady Hatfield, who received it with joy
flashing from her eyes: and she immediately secured it about her person.
"My curiosity prompts me to ask an explanation of the extraordinary
contents of that document," said the monarch; "but, on the other hand,
delicacy forbids."
"And I thank you for this delicacy, sire," exclaimed Lady Hatfield, with
earnest sincerity. "It were a long tale to tell—and an useless one——"
"Yes—useless, indeed, when we have a far more interesting topic for our
discourse," interrupted George the Fourth, throwing one of his arms
round the lady's neck.
"Sire!" cried Georgiana in a reproachful tone, as she hastily withdrew
herself from that half-embrace, and retreated to the further end of the
ottoman.
"Oh! wherefore play the coy and the cruel?" exclaimed the King. "Have I
not given you a signal proof of my attachment, by affixing my signature
to a paper the contents of which I scarcely understand, and by ordering
the Minister to legalize it with his name? And think you, sweet lady,
that it was an easy task to induce that responsible functionary to obey
me in this respect? But I menaced and coaxed by turns; and all this for
your sake! Do I not, therefore, deserve the reward of your smiles—the
recompense of your caresses?"
"I recognise all that is generous in the conduct of your Majesty towards
me in respect to this document," said Lady Hatfield: "but were I to
succumb to you now, sire, I should loathe myself—I should become
degraded in my own estimation—I should feel that I had been purchased by
a bribe! No—sire: I cannot renounce every consideration of purity—every
sentiment of propriety, in a single moment."
"What further proof do you require of my attachment?" demanded the King,
in a tone of vexation which he could not altogether subdue.
"No other proof, save your forbearance on this occasion," answered
Georgiana. "Remember, sire, what I told you the other night: I am not a
woman of impure imagination—no—nor of depraved character; and I cannot
consent to become your mistress, without a mental effort on my
part—without wooing on your's. In yielding myself to your Majesty, it
will be as a wife who is forced to dispense with the ceremony which
alone can make her one in reality; and if your Majesty deem me worth the
winning, let me be won by means of those delicate attentions which would
be shown in honourable courtship."
"Perdition!" ejaculated the King, who was as much unaccustomed to hear
such language as he was to sue at the feet of beauty: "how long will you
keep me in this suspense, fair lady?—how long must I endure the tortures
of deferred hope? Consider—I love you madly: you are so beautiful—so
sweetly beautiful! Oh! to press you in my arms——"
"Pardon me, sire, for daring to interrupt you," said Georgiana; "but if
there be nothing save the impulse of the senses in this _liaison_ of
ours, your Majesty will soon become wearied of me—and I shrink in horror
from the idea of becoming the cast-off mistress of even Royalty itself.
Let me seek to engage your affections, as you must endeavour to enchain
mine; so that our connexion may be based upon the sentiments and
feelings of the heart."
"But I already love you sincerely—devotedly, cruel Georgiana!" cried the
King, his eyes greedily running over the outlines of the exquisitely
proportioned form of the lady, and the rapid survey exciting his desire
almost beyond endurance.
"Not with a love calculated to be permanent," said Georgiana quietly;
"and unless I become the object of such an affection, never—never shall
I so far forget myself——"
"This is cruel—this is maddening!" exclaimed the King; and he extended
his arms towards Lady Hatfield.
"Sire, do not treat me with outrage," she said, rising from the ottoman,
and speaking in a dignified manner. "If your Majesty supposed that your
sovereign rank would so far dazzle my imagination as to make me throw
myself into your arms at the very first words of encouragement which
fell from your lips, your Majesty has sadly misunderstood the character
of Georgiana Hatfield."
"Be not angry with me, adorable creature!" exclaimed the King: "I love
you too much to risk the chance of losing you by any misconduct on my
part. Name, therefore, your own terms. Or rather, let me ask whether you
will consent to visit me every evening for an hour, and allow us an
opportunity to become better acquainted with each other?"
"Now your Majesty speaks in a manner calculated to win my esteem,"
observed Lady Hatfield, avoiding a direct reply to the question put to
her; "and when the esteem of a woman is once secured——"
"I understand you," interrupted George the Fourth, hastily: "her love
speedily follows. Be it as you say, sweet lady," he continued, in a
slower tone; "and let us secure each other's affections. You shall find
me docile and obedient to your will—and this is much for _me_ to
promise. But let me hope that the period of probation will not be
long—that the hour of recompense is not far distant——"
"Hush, sire!" exclaimed Georgiana, in a reproachful voice: "this is the
language of sense—whereas you must secure my affections by the language
of sentiment. If you treat me as a woman who is to be purchased as your
mistress, let our connexion cease this moment: but if you will woo me as
a wife should be won—although I am well aware that your Majesty's wife I
can never be——"
"Would that I could marry you this moment!" cried the King, fixing his
eyes upon her beauteous countenance; "for you are ravishingly lovely! I
would give a year of my life to obtain all I crave this night. Oh!
Georgiana, be not so coy and cruel with me—for you madden me—my veins
seem to run with molten lead. Be mine at once—and render my happiness
complete. Behold that small low door in yonder corner: it opens into a
room which may serve as our nuptial chamber. Come, then, dearest
Georgiana—let me lead you thither—not cold, hesitating, and
resisting—but warm, and impassioned, and prepared to revel in the
delights of love! Our privacy will be complete: no intruder need we
fear;—and the world will never know that you have become mine."
"Sire, this language on your part—in spite of all the arguments and
remonstrances which I have used," exclaimed Lady Hatfield, "is unworthy
of a great King and a polished gentleman."
"The madness of love knows nothing of regal rank nor the shackles of
etiquette," said the monarch, speaking in a tone of great excitement;
"and, in spite of the promises which I just now so rashly made, I cannot
endure delay. No—sweetest lady—you must be mine at once!"—and he wound
his arms around Georgiana's form, the fury of his desires animating him
with a strength against which she could not long have resisted.
But at that moment succour was at hand!
Forth from his place of concealment sprang the Blackamoor; and an
ejaculation of surprise and rage burst from the lips of the King, while
a cry of joy emanated from those of Lady Hatfield.
"Who are you? and what signifies this intrusion?" demanded George the
Fourth, instantly releasing his intended victim at this sudden
apparition.
But, without answering the monarch, the Blackamoor hastily led the
half-fainting Lady Hatfield to the door—opened it to allow her to pass
out of the room—and, closing it behind her, placed his back against
it,—the whole being effected with such speed, that Georgiana had
disappeared before the King could recover from the astonishment into
which the very first step of the bold proceeding had thrown him.
"Villainous negro!" cried the disappointed monarch, at length recovering
the power of speech: "do you know who I am, that you have thus dared to
outrage me?"
"I know full well who you are, sire—and I am grieved to the very soul at
the idea of being compelled to acknowledge you as my King," returned the
Black, in a calm—collected—and somewhat mournful tone.
"This insolence to me!" ejaculated George the Fourth, becoming purple
with rage. "Make way, sirrah, for me to pass hence!"
"Not until I have allowed Lady Hatfield sufficient time to escape from
this house which the country has given as a palace for your Majesty, but
which seems to be used for purposes too vile to contemplate without
horror," was the firm reply.
The King fell back a few paces in speechless astonishment. Never before
had he been thus bearded:—but in that momentary interval of silence, a
crowd of recollections rushed to his mind, warning him that the
individual who thus seemed to defy his rank and power, had been present
during the whole of the interview with Lady Hatfield,—and that this
individual had learnt how the Royal and Ministerial signatures had been
given as a means of propitiating a coy beauty, without any reference to
the interests of the State:—when the King remembered all this, he was
alarmed at the serious manner in which he suddenly found himself
compromised. For that Blackamoor could make revelations of a nature to
arouse against him the indignation of the whole kingdom; and, reckless
as George the Fourth was of public opinion, he trembled at the idea of
exciting public resentment.
Thus did a few moments of reflection show him the precipice on which he
stood, and carry to his mind a conviction of the necessity of making
terms with the sable stranger who had obtained such a dangerous power
over him. But the mere thought of such a compromise was sorely repugnant
to the haughty spirit of George the Fourth: and yet there was no
alternative! He accordingly addressed himself with the best grace he
could assume, to the task of conciliation.
"My good sir," he said, approaching the Black, "I seek not to deal
harshly with you: and yet you owe me an explanation of the motives which
induced you to penetrate into the palace, and the means by which you
gained access to my private apartments."
"I feel bound to answer your Majesty with candour and frankness, in
order to clear myself from any injurious suspicion which my concealment
in this room might naturally engender," was the reply. "The explanation,
sire, is briefly given:—I was accosted by an elderly gentleman in Pall
Mall, and asked if I required a situation. In truth I do not; but it
being intimated to me that the proffered place was in the royal
household, curiosity prompted me to follow the gentleman into the
palace. He left me alone in his ante-room for upwards of an hour; and,
growing weary of waiting, I sought a means of egress. But, losing my
way, I found myself at length in this room; and almost immediately
afterwards your Majesty entered with the very gentleman I am speaking
of, and whose name I learnt to be Warren. I concealed myself behind the
curtains—with no bad intention; and indeed I was about to come forth and
explain the reasons of my presence to your Majesty, when certain words
which fell from your Majesty's lips made me acquainted with the fact
that Lady Hatfield was expected here every moment. That name nailed me
to the spot—and I was prompted by an uncontrollable curiosity to wait
and satisfy myself whether Lady Hatfield could have become so depraved
as to surrender herself to your arms."
"You are acquainted with her, then!" exclaimed the King. "And yet," he
added, a moment afterwards, "she did not appear to recognise you."
"No, sire—she did not recognise me," returned the Black.
"But you must know her well, since the mere mention of her name rendered
you thus anxious to see the issue of our interview?" said the King,
impatiently.
"I know her well, sire," was the guarded response: "and yet she knew not
me."
"Who _are_ you, then?" demanded George the Fourth, fixing a searching
look upon the stranger. "You certainly are not what Sir Phillip Warren
took you for——"
"I must firmly, though respectfully, decline to give any account of
myself," said the Blackamoor. "Your Majesty will now permit me to
withdraw."
"One moment," cried the King. "How stand we in respect to each other? Do
you constitute yourself the enemy of your sovereign?—will you publish
your knowledge of all that has transpired here this evening?—or can I
offer you some earnest that I myself am not offended by the manner in
which you ere now thought fit to address me?"
"I have no interest in making known to the public those secrets which
have so accidentally been revealed to me," answered the Blackamoor. "It
is never a pleasing task to an honest man to publish the frailties or
failings of a fellow-creature—much less when that fellow-creature is
placed at the head of the nation. As for any reward—or rather _bribe_,
to induce me to remain silent, none is necessary. At the same time," he
added, hastily correcting himself as a second thought struck him, "it
may be as well that I should avail myself of your Majesty's offer; for
it might so fall out that the privilege of claiming a boon at your royal
hands——"
"May prove serviceable to you some day or another—eh?" added the King,
impatiently. "Well—be it so; and, stranger though you be to me, I rely
in confidence upon your solemn pledge to place a seal on your lips
relative to the incidents of this night."
Thus speaking, the monarch seated himself at the nearest table, and
opening a drawer, took forth writing materials: then, with a haste which
showed his desire to put an end to a painful interview, he penned the
following lines on a slip of paper:—
"We acknowledge a sense of deep obligation to the bearer of this
memorandum, the said bearer having rendered us especial service; and
we hold ourselves bound to grant him any boon which he may demand at
our hands, so that it be not inconsistent with our royal honour, nor
prejudicial to the interests of the State.
"Given this 3rd of March, in the year 1827.
"GEORGE REX." (L.S.)
The King lighted a taper, and affixed his royal seal to this document,
which he then handed to the Blackamoor, saying, "You perceive what
confidence I place in you: see that the good name of Lady Hatfield on
the one side, and your Sovereign's honour on the other, be not
compromised by any indiscreet revelations on your part."
"Your Majesty may rest assured that I shall maintain the incidents of
this evening a profound secret, and that I shall not abuse the privilege
conferred upon me by this paper which bears your royal signature."
The Blackamoor bowed, and retired from the presence of King George the
Fourth, whom he left in no very pleasant humour at the turn which his
meditated attack upon the virtue of Lady Hatfield had taken.
On this occasion, the Black had no difficulty in finding the way to the
private staircase up which Sir Phillip Warren had originally introduced
him; and he was about to issue forth from Carlton House, when he
suddenly encountered that old courtier and Sir Randolph Harral in the
hall.
These gentlemen were disputing in a loud tone; but the moment the
Blackamoor appeared, Sir Phillip Warren sprang towards him, exclaiming,
"Why, where have you possibly been? But no matter," he added, in a
triumphant tone, "since you are here at length to settle the question
between me and my friend."
"The fact is, my good sir," said Sir Randolph, "I have laid Sir Phillip
Warren twenty guineas——"
"Yes—twenty guineas," interrupted Sir Phillip hastily, "that you are——"
"That you are _not_——" cried Sir Randolph.
"I say that you are!" exclaimed Sir Phillip.
"And I say that you are _not_!" vociferated Sir Randolph.
"Gentlemen, pray explain yourselves," said the Blackamoor.
"Well—I say that you are a lacquey out of place," observed Sir Phillip
Warren.
"And I say that you are _not_," cried Sir Randolph Harral, in his turn;
"whereupon we have bet twenty guineas."
"And you must decide who has won," added Sir Phillip.
"Then, gentlemen," said the Blackamoor, in a merry tone, "I can soon set
the matter at rest. So far from being a lacquey out of place, I have
upwards of a dozen dependants of my own. I wish you a very good night."
"Why—I am robbed as if it were on the highway!" exclaimed Sir Phillip
Warren, his countenance suddenly becoming as awful and blank as such a
Port-wine visage could possibly be.
"Ha! ha!" chuckled Sir Randolph: "robbed or not—please to hand me over
twenty good guineas."
And the cachinnation of the winning courtier was echoed by the merry
laugh of the Blackamoor, as this individual issued forth from Carlton
House.
Again, as he passed along Pall Mall, did the Black pause for a few
moments opposite the splendid mansion of the Earl of Ellingham, and gaze
at it with the attention of no common observer. He was about to continue
his way, when two men, belonging to the working class, stopped likewise
for an instant in front of the house; and one said to the other, "That
is where the Earl lives. God bless him!"
"Yes—God bless him!" repeated his companion, with the emphasis of
unfeigned sincerity: "for he is the people's friend."
The two men then passed on.
"Who dares to say that the industrious millions have no gratitude?"
murmured the Blackamoor to himself, as he also pursued his way. "O
Arthur! you are now indeed worthy of the proud name which you bear: and
I likewise exclaim from the very bottom of my heart, '_May God bless
you!_'"
CHAPTER CII.
A STATE OF SIEGE.
Return we now to Frank Curtis, his excellent wife, and Captain
O'Blunderbuss, who were living in a complete state of siege at the house
in Baker Street.
The captain was the commandant of the garrison, and superintended all
the manœuvres and the devices which it was necessary to adopt to keep
out the enemy. The front-door was constantly chained inside; and every
time there was a knock or a ring, John the footman reconnoitred from the
area. Whenever any one was compelled to go out to order in provisions,
the captain stood at the door, armed with the kitchen poker, and looking
so grim and terrible that the officers who were prowling about in
different disguises, dared not hazard an encounter with the warlike
gentleman.
The grocer, the butcher, and the baker lowered their respective
commodities down the area by means of a rope and basket provided for the
purpose; but they all took very good care to receive the cash first. The
milkman and pot-boy were enabled to supply their articles through the
opening afforded by the door with the chain up inside; and they likewise
strenuously advocated the ready-money principle.
This condition of siege was a source of great delight to Captain
O'Blunderbuss. He was completely in his element. Little cared he for the
opinion of neighbours: _his_ feelings were by no means concerned. The
house, from the first moment he set foot in it, was in a state of
perpetual excitement. He was constantly ordering the servants to do
something or another: a dozen times a-day did he perform what he called
"going his rounds," armed with the poker in case a bailiff should have
crept into the place through some unguarded avenue;—and it was indeed
with the greatest difficulty that Mrs. Curtis could divert him from a
plan which he had conceived and which he declared to be
necessary—namely, the drilling of all the inmates of the house, male and
female, including the five children, for an hour daily in the yard. As
it was, he compelled John, the footman, to mount sentry in the yard
aforesaid, every morning while the housemaid was dusting her carpets and
so forth—indeed during the whole time that the domestic duties rendered
it necessary to have the back-door open. If John remonstrated, the
captain would threaten, with terrible oaths, to try him by a
court-martial; and once, when the poor fellow respectfully solicited his
wages and his discharge, the formidable officer would certainly have
inflicted on him the cat-o'-nine-tails, if the cook had not begged him
off—she being the footman's sweetheart.
Mrs. Curtis took a great fancy to the captain, and allowed him to do
pretty well as he chose. She considered him to be the politest,
genteelest, bravest, and most amusing gentleman she had ever known; and
it soon struck her that his various qualifications threw her husband
considerably into the shade. Whenever she felt low-spirited, he had a
ready remedy for her. If it were in the forenoon, he would exclaim,
"Arrah and be Jasus, Mim, it's no wonther ye're dull, with the inimy
besaging us in this way: and it's a nice mutton chop and a glass of
Port-wine that'll be afther sitting ye to rights, Mim." Then forthwith
he would ring the bell, and order three chops, so that himself and Frank
might keep the dear lady company. If it were in the evening that Mrs.
Curtis was attacked by those unwelcome visitors termed "blue devils,"
the captain would recommend "a leetle dhrop of the potheen, brewed
afther the fashion in ould Ireland;" and while he exhausted all his
powers of eloquence in assurances that it should be "as wake as wather,
and not too swate," he would mix the respectable lady such a stinger,
that her eyes would fill with tears every time she put the glass near
her lips. Sometimes he would undertake to amuse the children up in the
nursery, by going on all fours and allowing them to play at
horse-soldiers by riding on his back; and then, what with his shouting
and bawling, and their laughing and screaming, it was enough to alarm
the whole neighbourhood—and very frequently did.
All these little attentions on the part of the captain either to herself
or her children, gave Mrs. Curtis an admirable opinion of him; and he
rose rapidly in her favour. His success in obtaining the five hundred
pounds from Sir Christopher Blunt was considered by her as sublime a
stroke of mingled policy and daring as ever was accomplished; and his
tactics in opposing a successful foil to all the stratagems devised by
the sheriff's-officers to obtain admission into the dwelling, made her
declare more than once that had _he_ commanded the Allied Army at
Waterloo, it would have been all up with the French in half-an-hour.
The female servants in the house did not altogether admire the position
in which they were placed; but, they were so dreadfully frightened at
the captain, that they never uttered a murmur in his hearing. They
moreover had their little consolations; for Sir Christopher's five
hundred pounds enabled the besieged to live, as the captain declared,
"like fighting-cocks,"—so that the kitchen was as luxuriously supplied
with provender as the parlour; and no account was taken of the quantity
of wine and spirits consumed in the establishment.
We have before hinted that the house was a perfect nuisance in Baker
Street. And no wonder, indeed, that it should have been so considered;
for it seemed to be the main source whence emanated all the frightful
noises that could possibly alarm nervous old ladies or irritate gouty
old gentlemen. No sooner did the day dawn, than Captain O'Blunderbuss
would fling up the window of his bed-room, which was at the back of
the house, with a crashing violence that made people think he was mad;
and, thrusting forth his head with a white night-cap upon it, he would
roar out—"John! John! to arms!" as lustily as he could bawl. This was
not only to save himself the trouble of repairing to the footman's
chamber to summon him, but also for the purpose of letting the
sheriff's-officers, if any were in the neighbourhood, know that he was
on the alert. Then John would poke his head out of another window, and
answer the captain's call; and a few minutes afterwards the back-door
would open and shut with a terrific bang, and John would be seen to
sally forth to mount sentry in the yard, with shouldered poker. Then
an hour's interval of comparative silence would prevail, while the
captain turned in again to take another nap; but, at length, up would
go the window again—out would come the head—and, "John! hot wather!"
would roll in awful reverberation throughout the entire neighbourhood.
The confusion and dismay produced by these alarms were terrific; and the
neighbours all threatened their landlords to give warning on the next
quarter. For it was not only in the morning that the noise prevailed,
but throughout the entire day—aye, and the best part of the night also.
Sometimes the captain would take it into his head to discharge his
pistols in the yard: or else he would have a fencing-match with Frank
Curtis, the weapons being pokers, which made a hideous clang. Then there
were the rows in the nursery, which were truly awful; and, by way of a
variety, Captain O'Blunderbuss would occasionally show himself at the
drawing-room windows and vociferate the most appalling abuse at any
suspicious characters whom he might happen to behold prowling about.
These exhibitions frequently collected crowds in front of the house; and
the captain would harangue them with as much earnestness as if he were a
candidate at a general election. On one of these occasions the
parish-beadle made his appearance, and from the pavement remonstrated
with the gallant officer, who kept him in parlance until Frank Curtis
had time to empty a pitcher of water over the enraged functionary from
the front bed-room window.
But the worst part of the whole business consisted in the goings-on at
night-time. Just when sedate and quiet people were getting cozily into
their first sleep at about eleven o'clock, Mr. Frank Curtis was getting
uncommonly drunk; and, though the captain seemed proof against the
effects of alcohol, no matter in what quantity imbibed, he nevertheless
grew trebly and quadruply uproarious when under the influence of poteen.
Thus, from eleven to twelve the shouts of laughter—the yells of
delight—the cries of mirth—and the vociferations of boisterous hilarity,
which came from the front parlour, made night perfectly hideous: but no
amount of human patience ever possessed by good and forgiving
neighbours, could possibly tolerate the din and disturbance which
prevailed during the "small hours." Then would the captain and his
friend Curtis rush like mad-men into the yard, shouting—roaring—and
bawling like demons, so that the residents in the adjacent houses leapt
from their beds and threw up their windows in horror and alarm,
expecting to find the whole street in a blaze. These performances on the
part of Frank and O'Blunderbuss were intended to show the officers that
they were upon the alert; and they not only had the desired effect, but
accomplished far more—inasmuch as they produced an absolute panic
throughout an entire neighbourhood.
Thus it was that Mr. Curtis's abode—lately so serene and quiet in the
time of Mrs. Goldberry—became a perfect nuisance and a scandal; and had
Bedlam in its very worst days been located there, the noise and alarm
could not have been greater.
It will be remembered that the captain's plan, when first he took up his
residence in Baker Street, was to get Mr. and Mrs. Curtis and the
children away on a Sunday night, and sell off all the furniture on the
Monday morning. But this scheme was postponed at first for one week—then
for another, because the officers kept such a constant look-out, that
the captain saw the necessity of standing the siege until the creditors
should be completely wearied of paying those disagreeable spies to watch
the premises. This determination was the more readily come to, inasmuch
as the five hundred pounds obtained from Sir Christopher Blunt, supplied
sinews to carry on the war in grand style.
When the captain paid the second financial visit to the worthy knight
with a view to the effecting of a further loan on the assignat which
himself and Frank Curtis had resolved to issue, it was not because money
was scarce in Baker Street; but simply because the captain admired "the
fun of the thing," and also considered it prudent to raise as ample a
supply of bullion as possible. The rage which he experienced at his
discomfiture on this occasion, can be better conceived than described;
and, firmly believing that it was Sir Christopher himself who had dealt
him from the carriage window the tremendous blow which sent him
sprawling on the pavement in a most ignominious manner, he vowed the
most deadly vengeance against the new Justice of the Peace. Picking
himself up as well as he could—for the gallant gentleman was sorely
bruised—he repaired to the nearest public-house, to "cool himself," as
he said in his own mind, with a tumbler of the invariable poteen; and,
having reflected upon the insult which he had received, he thought it
best not to communicate his dishonour and discomfiture on his return to
Baker Street. Accordingly, having returned to "the garrison," into which
he effected an easy entry—for no one dared approach the door when it
opened to give _him_ egress or ingress—he assured Mr. and Mrs. Curtis
that the knight was out of town, and would not be back for a week.
However, in a couple of days, the wonderful adventures of Sir
Christopher Blunt and Dr. Lascelles burst upon the metropolis like a
tempest; and, as the morning newspapers were duly dropped down the area
of the besieged dwelling in Baker Street, the entire report was read
aloud by Frank Curtis at the breakfast table. It therefore being evident
that Sir Christopher was not only in town at that moment, but was
likewise in London when the captain had called upon him, the gallant
gentleman affected to fly into a violent rage, swearing that the knight
was denied to him on purpose, and vowing to make him "repint of his
un-gintlemanly conduct." O'Blunderbuss did not, however, in his heart
mean to do any such thing as call again in Jermyn Street; for he had
despaired of inducing the knight, either by threatenings or coaxings, to
advance a further supply; and, now that the worthy gentleman was a
Justice of the Peace, the captain thought that it would be somewhat
imprudent to visit him for the mere sake of committing an assault and
battery. He accordingly invented divers excuses, day after day, for
remaining in "the garrison;" and as funds were abundant, no one urged
him to undertake another financial mission to Sir Christopher Blunt.
The reader must remember that Messrs. Mac Grab and Proggs were very
roughly handled by captain O'Blunderbuss, when they visited the house in
Baker Street for the purpose of arresting Mr. Frank Curtis; and, the
honour of a sheriff's-officer being particularly dear to its possessor,
those worthies considered their's to be at stake, unless they fully
vindicated it by capturing the aforesaid Mr. Curtis in the long run.
They therefore had recourse to all kinds of devices to obtain an entry
into the house, being armed not only with a writ against that
gentleman's person on behalf of Mr. Beeswing, but also with an execution
against the furniture at the instigation of another of Mrs. Curtis's
creditors.