“My good friends,” said he, “I was in the station-house last night when you arrived; and your sad tales touched me to the quick. Now, with regard to you, my poor lad,” he continued, addressing himself to the rogue and vagabond, “what prospect have you before you? In what way could a friend aid you?”
“My brother, sir, is well off, and would assist me,” replied the poor creature, “if I could but get to him. He lives in Edinburgh, and is well to do as a wheelwright.”
“Here are two guineas for you, my friend,” said Richard. “They will take you home; and then may your reception be as favourable as you seem to think. There—I do not want you to thank me: go—and commence your journey at once.”
The poor fellow pressed Markham’s hand with the most enthusiastic gratitude, and took his departure with tears in his eyes and gladness in his heart.
“And now, my good man,” said Richard to the owner of the apple-cart, “what do you propose to do?”
“To speak the truth, sir, I don’t know. The police seem determined that I shan’t earn an honest livelihood: and as I am equally resolved not to see my children starve before me, I have nothing left to do but to become a thief. I shan’t be the first whom the police have driven to that last resource in this city.”
“You speak bitterly,” said Markham.
“Yes—because I tell the truth, sir. My cart is to be returned to me; but of what use is it, or the stock that is in it, since I don’t dare go about to sell fruit?”
“Could you not open a little shop?”
“Ah! sir—that requires money!”
“How much?”
“A matter of four or five pounds, sir,” replied the man; “and where could a poor devil like me——”
“I will give you five pounds for the purpose;” interrupted Markham; and taking from his pocket-book a bank note, he handed it to the poor man.
We will not attempt to depict his gratitude: words would completely fail to convey an idea of the exuberant joy which filled the heart of that good and affectionate father, who would rather have become a thief than seen his children starve!
“And now, my good woman, what can I do for you?” said Markham, turning to the third object of his charity. “How in the name of heaven, came you reduced, with three children, to such a state of want and destitution?”
“My husband, sir, is in prison,” answered the poor creature, bursting into tears, while her children clung the more closely around her.
“In prison! and for what crime?”
“Oh! crime, sir—it is only a crime in the eye of the law, but not in the eye of either man or heaven.”
“My good woman, this is absurd. Is there any offence of which the law alone takes cognizance, and which is not reprehensible in the eye of God?”
“On the contrary, sir—God has given us for our general use and benefit the very thing which the law has forbidden us to take.”
“This is trifling!” exclaimed Richard impatiently. “Can you, whom I behold so affectionate to your children, be hardened in guilt?”
“Do not think so, sir! My husband was a hard working man—never spent an hour at the public-house—never deprived his family of a farthing of his wages. He was a pattern to all married men—and his pride was to see his children well-dressed and happy. Alas, sir—we were too happy not to meet with some sad reverse! My husband in an evil hour went out shooting one afternoon, when there was a holiday at the factory where he worked; and he killed a hare upon a nobleman’s grounds near Richmond. He was taken up and tried for poaching, and was sentenced to a year’s imprisonment with hard labour! This term expires in six weeks; but in the meantime—O God! what have we not suffered!”
“Ah! forgive me,” ejaculated Markham, deeply touched by this recital: “I spoke harshly to you, because I did not remember that the law could be guilty of a deed of such inhuman atrocity. And yet I have heard of many—many such cases ere now! Merciful heavens! is it possible that the law, which with the right hand protects the privileges of the aristocracy, can with the left plunge whole families into despair!”
“Alas! it is too true!” responded the poor woman, pointing towards her pale and shivering offspring.
“Well—cheer up—your husband will be restored to you in six weeks,” said Markham. “In the meantime here is wherewith to provide for your family.”
Another five-pound note was taken from the pocket-book, and transferred to the hand of the poor but tender-hearted mother. The children clung to Richard’s knees, and poured forth their gratitude in tears: their parent loaded him with blessings which came from the very bottom of her heart, and called him the saviour of herself and famished little ones. Never until that day had Richard so entirely appreciated the luxury of possessing wealth!
Scarcely was this last matter disposed of, when information arrived that Markham’s case would be heard in about ten minutes. To the police-court did he and the constable who had charge of him, proceed accordingly; and in due time the young man found himself standing at the bar in the presence of a magistrate.
The usual questions were put relative to name, age, and residence, to all of which Richard answered in a candid and respectful manner. The constable then stated the nature of the charge, with which the reader is already acquainted. Evidence was also gone into to show that the officer, whose death had led to the irruption into the gambling-house on the part of the police, had died by his own hand, and not in consequence of any violence. This point was sufficiently proved by a medical man.
Markham, in his defence, stated he had accompanied some friends, whose names he declined mentioning, to the gaming-house on the preceding evening; that he had not played himself, nor had he intended to play; and that he had been led into the establishment without previously being acquainted with the exact nature of the place he was about to visit.
The Magistrate remonstrated with him upon the impropriety of being seen in such houses, and inflicted a fine of five pounds, which was of course immediately paid.
As he was leaving the police-court, Markham was informed by a beadle who accosted him, that his presence would be required at the gambling-house that same afternoon, at four o’clock, to give evidence at the coroner’s inquest concerning the means by which the deceased officer came by his death.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE BEGINNING OF MISFORTUNES.
AT eight o’clock in the morning after the scene at the Hell, and while Richard was still in the custody of the police, Sir Rupert Harborough and the Honourable Arthur Chichester were hastening, in a handsome cabriolet, belonging to the former, to Markham Place.
The conversation of these gentlemen during the drive will tend to throw some light upon one or two preceding incidents that may have appeared a little mysterious to the reader.
“I wonder what became of him last night,” said Chichester.
“Upon my honour at the moment I did not care,” returned the baronet.
“Nor I either. I was only intent upon getting off myself.”
“He will not be pleased at our having left him in that unceremonious manner.”
“Oh! trust to me—any explanation will do. He is so exceedingly green.”
“And so marvellously particular in his conduct. If it had not been for us, he would have remained quite a saint.”
“I am not afraid,” observed Chichester, “of being able to manage him and of turning him to immense advantage in our plans. But that vulgar beast Talbot will most certainly spoil all. Even the idea of the fellow’s wealth and charities will not always induce Markham to put up with his vulgarities. Besides, the wretch has such execrable bad taste. Last evening, for instance, when I casually dropped a neat little lie about the soup at the King of Prussia’s table, Talbot instantly paraded the Duke of Lambeth’s pea-soup.
Only fancy a Duke and pea-soup united together!”
“And then his dog’s nose, and sore feet, and boiled tripe,” said the baronet. “After all the drilling we gave him in the first instance, when he stipulated upon associating with us in order to see how we worked the thing, he is still incorrigible. Then, when I think of all the money I have already laid out in buying the materials—in getting the proper paper—and in keeping him in feather all the time he was at work, my blood boils to see that he hangs like a millstone round our necks, and threatens by his vulgarity to spoil all.”
“But what could we do?” cried Chichester. “You told me in the first instance to find an engraver on whom we could rely; and I was compelled to enlist the fellow Pocock in our cause. He was the very man, so far as knowledge went, having been employed all his life in working for Bankers. But his atrocious vulgarity is his bane; and even his aristocratic name of Talbot which I made him assume, does not help him to pass himself off as a gentleman. It was a pity he could not listen to reason and take the sum of ready money down, which you offered him in the first instance. But, no—he must needs cry thirds, and insist upon going about with us to see fair play.”
“And get his share,” added the baronet.
“Yes. Even the very first night that he ever saw Markham,” continued Chichester, “his greediness would have induced him to risk the ruin of everything by winning a few paltry pounds of the young fellow at Diana’s lodgings. But I d—d soon stopped that. I didn’t even want to take the twenty pounds yesterday, which Markham offered for the poor family concerning whom I invented so capital a story.”
“No—it is not a few pounds that will do us any good, or remunerate me for my large outlay,” said the baronet. “We want thousands—and this Markham is the very instrument we require. The first trial was made yesterday, and succeeded admirably. The note has actually been changed at a banker’s: no one can expect a better test than that. Now if this Talbot is to ruin us with Markham—the very person we want—the most excellent medium we could require—himself being above all suspicion, and entertaining no suspicion ——”
“It would be enough to break one’s heart,” added Chichester.
“Besides, my creditors are so clamorous, settle with them I must,” continued the baronet. “And then Diana costs me a fortune. I must get rid of her without delay; for I expect that she is getting sentimental on this youth, and will not interest herself in our affair for fear of letting him into a scrape.”
“Why, it is very certain,” observed Chichester, “that according to the admirable way in which we have arranged our plans, if an explosion took place, we could not possibly be implicated. However—we must make haste and work London, and then off to Paris. We might get rid of four or five thousand pounds worth amongst the money-changers in the Palais-Royal. Then off to Germany in due rotation—Italy next—touch at Spain—and home to England.”
“Upon my honour, it is a noble scheme—a grand, a princely scheme!” cried the baronet, elated with the idea. “My God! if it were spoilt in its infancy by any fault of ours or our associates!”
“And Talbot is such a drunken beast, that we can scarcely rely upon him,” said Chichester. “He will one day commit himself and us too: the fellow does not know how to get tipsy like a gentleman.”
“We will tell him the candid truth and see what he says,” pursued the baronet. “When he finds that we are determined not to tolerate him with us, and that we will quash the whole thing at once if he insists upon remaining, he must yield. There was that young Walter Sydney who seemed at first to have taken a fancy to Diana. I thought of making use of him too;—but he never called again after that drunken display of Mr. Talbot’s. He was evidently disgusted with him for his conduct, and with us for associating with him.”
“Well,” said Chichester, “let us resolve, then, to have an explanation with Talbot in the sense you have mentioned; and you must also speak seriously to Diana and get her to make use of young Markham.”
“And if she will not,” added the baronet, “I shall get rid of her without delay. What is the use of having an expensive mistress, unless you can use her either as a blind or a plant?”
The delectable conversation terminated here, because those who had carried it on, were now arrived at their destination.
The baronet’s tiger knocked at the front door, and Mr. Whittingham speedily made his appearance.
“Is your master at home?” demanded Chichester.
“No sir; he has not domesticated himself in his own abode since he went out shortly after you yesterday. But a person of my acquaintance—a man of perfect credibleness—has just come to ensure me that my young master will be here again in the currency of the day.”
“Where did this person see your master?” enquired Chichester, struck by the absence of Markham the entire night.
“His respondencies is evasive and dissatisfactory,” said Whittingham.
“This is very remarkable!” ejaculated Chichester: then, after a pause, he added, “But we will await Mr. Markham’s return; and I will just see this man and interrogate him alone—alone, do you hear, Whittingham.”
“I hear, sir, because my accoustic propensities is good. I will send this person to you into the library.”
Mr. Chichester alighted from the vehicle and hastened to the library, while the baronet repaired to the stables to see that his horse (concerning which he was very particular) was properly cared for.
Mr. Chichester walked up and down the library, reflecting upon the probable causes of Richard’s absence. At the moment he fancied that he might have fallen into the hands of the police; but then he thought that, had this been the case, Markham would have sent for himself or the baronet. He did not imagine that the noble nature of the young man whom he was conducting headlong to his ruin, would scorn to take any steps calculated to compromise his friends.
The door of the library opened, and a man entered.
“What? John!” ejaculated Mr. Chichester, turning very pale and manifesting much confusion.
“Mr. Winchester!” cried Snoggles—for it was he.
“Hush, my good fellow—don’t say a word!” said Chichester, recovering his presence of mind. “I am really glad to see you—I have often thought of you since that unpleasant affair. I hope it put you to no inconvenience. At all events, I will make matters all right now.”
“Better late than never,” said Snoggles.
“Well—and you must promise me faithfully not to mention this affair to any one, and I will always stand your friend. And, remember—my name is Chichester now—not Winchester. Pray do not forget that.”
“No—no: I’m fly enough—I’m down to trap,” replied Snoggles, with a leer of insolent familiarity.
“Here is a twenty-pound note—that will cover all your losses, and recompense you into the bargain.”
“That’ll do.”
“It would be better that you should not say that you ever knew me before.”
“Just as you like.”
“I prefer that course. But now to another point. Where did you see Mr. Richard Markham?”
“At the station-house, in ——— street.”
“The station-house! And for what?”
“Ah! there you beat me. I can’t say! All that I know is that he gave me half-a-sovereign to come and tell his old butler this morning that he should be home in the course of the day.”
“And that is all you know?”
“Everything.”
“Now can I rely upon you in respect to keeping the other matter secret?” demanded Chichester.
“I have already told you so,” answered Snoggles.
“And you need not tell old Whittingham that his master is at the station-house.”
Snoggles withdre
w; and Mr. Chichester was immediately afterwards joined by the baronet.
“Markham is at the station-house in ——— street.”
“The deuce he is! and for what?”
“I cannot learn. Do you not think it is odd that he did not send for either of us?”
“Yes. We will return to town this moment,” said the baronet, “and send some one unknown to him to hear the case at the police-office. We shall then learn whether anything concerning the notes transpires, and what to say to him when we see him.”
“Yes: there is not a moment to lose,” returned Chichester.
The cabriolet was brought round to the door again in a few minutes, during which interval Chichester assured Whittingham that he had learned nothing concerning his master, and that he and the baronet were only returning to town for the purpose of looking after him.
As soon as the vehicle was out of sight, Mr. Whittingham returned in a disconsolate manner to his pantry, where Mr. Snoggles was occupied with a cold pasty and a jug of good old ale.
“Well, I’ve learnt someot to-day, I have,” observed Snoggles, who could not keep a secret for the life of him.
“What’s that?” demanded Whittingham.
“Why that Winchester is Chichester, and Chichester is Winchester.”
“They are two irrelevant cities,” observed the butler; “and not by no manner of means indentical.”
“The cities is different, but the men is the same,” said Snoggles.
“I can’t apprehend your meaning.”
“Well—I will speak plain. Did you hear me tell Suggett the story about my old master, last night at the Servants’ Arms?”
“No—I was engaged in a colloquial discourse at the time.”
“Then I will tell you the adventur’ over agin;”—and Mr. Snoggles related the incident accordingly.
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 14
