The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics)

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “Ah! you’ll never guess where you’ve been locked up for the last ten or twelve days,” said the Resurrection Man, with a low chuckle.

  “Never—as sure as she’s a sinful old creetur’!” remarked Banks.

  The worthy trio then pursued their way to Golden Lane.

  On their arrival at the court, the hag uttered an exclamation of delight when she beheld the filthy place of her abode once more: but her joy was suddenly changed into sadness as a thought struck her; and she exclaimed, “I wonder what has become of the poor dear children that are dependent on me?”

  She alluded to the juvenile prostitutes whom she had tutored in the ways of vice.

  Heaving a deep sigh at the reflection, she took a key from her pocket, and opened the door of her house.

  A little delay occurred in obtaining a light; but at length she found a candle and matches in a cup-board at the end of the passage.

  Mr. Banks now officiously opened the door of the old woman’s parlour; but this act was followed by a sweeping, rustling noise—and the undertaker started back, uttering a yell of agony.

  The hag screamed too, and nearly dropped the light; for her large black cat had flown at Banks as he entered the room.

  The fact was that the poor animal had been left in that apartment, when the old woman first set out with the Resurrection Man and the undertaker for Hounslow; and it had gone mad through starvation.

  Tidkins rushed forward the moment his friend gave vent to that scream of anguish, and caught the cat by the neck and hind legs with his powerful fingers, as it clung, furious with rage, to the breast of the undertaker, whose dingy shirt frill and front its claws tore to rags.

  “Don’t strangle it—don’t strangle it!” cried the hag, with unfeigned anxiety—for the only thing she loved in the world was her huge black cat.

  “Stand back, old witch!” exclaimed Tidkins: “this beast is capable of tearing you to pieces.”

  And in spite of the violent pressure he maintained with his fingers upon its throat, the animal struggled fearfully.

  “They say the cussed wessel has nine lives,” observed Mr. Banks, dolefully, as he beheld the tattered state of his linen and smarted with the pain of the cat’s scratches upon his chest.

  “Don’t kill it, I say!” again screamed the hag: “it will be good with me—it will be good with me.”

  “Too late to intercede,” said the Resurrection Man, coolly, as he literally wrung the cat’s neck: then he tossed the carcass from him upon the stairs.

  “Poor thing!” murmured the old woman: “poor thing! I will bury it decently in the yard to-morrow morning.”

  And she actually wiped away a tear,—she who felt no pity, no compunction, no sympathy in favour of a human soul!

  “She’ll bury it, will she?” muttered Banks, endeavouring to smooth his linen: “on economic principles, I suppose.”

  The trio then entered the parlour: but before she could compose herself to attend to business, the old hag was compelled to have recourse to her gin; and fortunately there was some in her bottle. Her two companions refreshed themselves in a similar manner; and Tidkins then said, “Now for the proofs of all you’ve said in your history.”

  “Not all—not all: I never said all,” cried the hag; “only of a part. And so, if you will lay the other ten sovereigns on the table, you shall have the papers.”

  The old woman spoke more confidently now; for she felt herself to be less in the power of her two companions than she so lately was.

  The Resurrection Man understood her, and smiled grimly, as he counted the money before her.

  She then took a pair of scissors, cut a small hole in the mattress of her bed, and drew forth a pocket-book, which she handed to Tidkins.

  It was tied round with a piece of riband—once pink, now faded to a dingy white; and its contents were several letters.

  The Resurrection Man glanced over their superscriptions, muttering to himself, “Well, you have not deceived me: I have brought you to reason—I thought I should. Ha! what have we here? ‘To Mr. Markham, Markham Place, Lower Holloway.’—And here is another to him—and another.—But this next is different. ‘To the Marquis of Holmesford, Holmesford House.’—Slap-up fellow, that—a regular old rake: keeps a harem, they say.—And here is another to him.—Then we have one—two—three, all directed alike—to ‘Mrs. Wilmot,’ and no address: conveyed by hand, I suppose. And that’s all.”

  With a complacent smile—as complacent as a smile on such a countenance could be—the Resurrection Man secured the pocketbook with its contents about his person.

  He and Banks then took their leave of the old woman.

  CHAPTER CCXXI.

  THE RETURN TO ENGLAND.

  It was on a beautiful morning, in the first week of March, that a large war-steamer passed Gravesend, and pursued its rapid way towards Woolwich.

  She was a splendid vessel, rigged as a frigate, and carrying twelve carronades. Her hull was entirely black, save in respect to the gilding of her figure-head and of her stern-windows; but her interior was fitted up in a style of costly magnificence. Large mirrors, chaste carving, rich carpets, and soft ottomans gave to the chief cabin the air of a princely drawing-room.

  On the deck every thing denoted the nicest order and discipline. The sailors performed their duties with that alacrity and skill which ever characterise men-of-war’s men who are commanded by experienced officers; and two marines, with shouldered firelocks, paced the quarter-deck with measured steps.

  The white sails were all neatly furled; for the gallant vessel was now progressing by the aid of that grand power which has achieved such marvellous changes on the face of the earth. The tall chimney sent forth a volume of black smoke; and the bosom of the mighty river was agitated into high and foam-crested billows by the play of the vast paddle-wheels.

  From the summit of the main-mast floated the royal standard of Castelcicala.

  And on the deck, in the uniform of a general officer, and with a star upon his breast, stood the Marquis of Estella, conversing with his aides-de-camp.

  At a short distance was Morcar—in plain, private clothes.

  Richard was now returning to his native shore—occupying in the world a far more exalted position than, in his wildest imaginings, he could ever have hoped to attain. He had left England as an obscure individual—a subordinate in a chivalrous expedition—under the authority of others:—he came back with a star upon his breast—having achieved for himself a renown which placed him amongst the greatest warriors of the age! Unmarked by title, unknown to fame, was he when he had bade adieu to the white cliffs of Albion a few months previously:—as the Regent of a country liberated by himself—as a Marquis who had acquired nobility by his own great deeds, did he now welcome his native clime once more.

  Tears of joy stood in his eyes—emotions of ineffable bliss arose in his bosom, as he thought of what he had been, and what he now was.

  But vanity was not the feeling thus gratified: at the same time, to assert that our hero was not proud of the glorious elevation which he had reached by his own merits, would be to deny him the possession of that laudable ambition which is an honour to those who entertain it. There is, however, a vast distinction between vanity and a proper pride: the former is a weakness—the latter the element of moral strength.

  Yes: Richard was proud—but not unduly so—of the honours which were now associated with his name;—proud, because he had dashed aside every barrier that had once seemed insuperable between the Princess and himself.

  And, oh! he was happy, too—supremely happy; for he knew that when he landed at Woolwich he should behold her whom we have before declared to be the only joy of his heart—the charming and well-beloved Isabella!

  The gallant steamer pursued its way: Erith is passed;—and soon Woolwich is i
n sight.

  And now the cannon roars from the English arsenal: the volumes of white smoke sweep over the bosom of the Thames;—the artillery salutes the royal standard of Castelcicala.

  The troops are drawn up in front of the barracks to do honour to their heroic fellow-countryman, who retains his almost sovereign rank until the moment when he shall resign it into the hands of that Prince on whose brow he has come to place a diadem.

  It is low water; and the Castelcicalan steamer drops her anchor at some little distance from the wharf. Then, under a salute from the cannon of the gallant vessel, the Marquis of Estella descends into a barge which has been sent from the arsenal to waft him ashore.

  But while he is still at a distance from the wharf his quick eye discerns well-known forms standing near the spot where he is to land. There are the Grand-Duke Alberto and the Grand-Duchess, attended by the commandant of Woolwich and his staff; and leaning on her father’s arm, is also the Princess Isabella.

  The Grand-Duke is in plain clothes: he has come as it were incognito, and as a friend, to receive him to whom he is indebted for that throne which awaits him; and he is moreover anxious that all the honours proffered on this occasion shall be acknowledged by him who still bears the rank of Regent of Castelcicala.

  The barge touches the steps: Richard leaps ashore. He hurries up the stairs—he stands upon the wharf; and, while the guard of honour of British soldiers presents arms, he is affectionately embraced by the Grand-Duke.

  “Welcome—welcome, noble youth!” exclaimed Alberto, straining him to his breast, as if he were a dearly beloved son.

  “I thank heaven, that you, most gracious sovereign, are pleased with my humble exertions in favour of Castelcicalan freedom,” replied Markham, whose heart was so full that he could with difficulty give utterance to those words.

  “Humble exertions do you call them!” cried the Grand-Duke. “At all events they have deserved the highest reward which it is in my power to offer.”

  And, as he thus spoke, Alberto placed the hand of our hero in that of the beauteous Isabella, while the Grand-Duchess said in a voice tremulous with joyful emotion, “Yes, dear Richard—you are now our son!”

  Markham thanked the parents of his beloved with a rapid but expressive glance of the deepest gratitude; and he and Isabella exchanged looks of ineffable tenderness, as they pressed each other’s hand in deep silence—for their hearts were too full to allow their lips to utter a syllable.

  But those looks—how eloquent were they! They spoke of hopes long entertained—often dim and overclouded—but never completely abandoned—and now realized at last!

  To appreciate duly the sweets of life, we should have frequently tasted its bitters; for it is by the influence of contrast, that the extent of either can be fully understood. Those who have been prosperous in their loves,—who have met with no objections at the hands of parents, and who have not been compelled to wrestle against adverse circumstances,—are incapable of understanding the amount of that bliss which was now experienced by Richard and Isabella. It was indeed a reward—an adequate recompense for all the fears they had entertained, the sighs they had heaved, and the tears they had shed on account of each other!

  And we ourselves, reader, pen these lines with heartfelt pleasure; for there are times—and the present occasion is one—when we have almost fancied that our hero and heroine were real, living characters, whom we had seen often and known well;—and we are vain enough to hope that this feeling has not been confined to our own breast. Yes—we can picture to ourselves, with all its enthusiasm, that delightful scene when the handsome young man,—handsomer than ever in the uniform which denoted his high rank,—exchanged those glances of ineffable tenderness and devoted love with the charming Italian maiden,—more charming than ever with the light of bliss that shone in her eyes, made her sweet bosom heave, and brought to her cheeks a carnation glow beneath the faint tint of bistre which denoted her southern origin without marring the transparency of her pure complexion.

  And now, the first delights of this meeting over, Richard presented his aides-de-camp to the illustrious family; then, beckoning Morcar towards him, he took the gipsy by the hand, saying, “It is to this faithful friend that Castelcicala is indebted for the first step in that glorious career which was finally crowned with triumph beneath the walls of Montoni.”

  “And I, as the sovereign of Castelcicala,” returned the Grand-Duke, shaking Morcar warmly by the hand, “shall find means to testify my gratitude.”

  “Your Serene Highness will pardon me,” said Morcar, in a firm but deferential manner, “if I decline any reward for the humble share I enjoyed in those successes of which his lordship ere now spoke. No:—the poor Zingaree has only done his duty towards a master whom he loved—and loves,” continued Morcar, looking at Richard and dashing away a tear at the same time; “and it only remains for him to return to his family—and to his roving life. The sole favour I have to ask at the hands of those whom I have now the honour to address, is that when they hear—as they often may—the name of Gipsy vilified and abused, they will declare their belief that there are a few favourable exceptions.”

  “But is it possible that I can do nothing to serve you?” exclaimed the Duke, struck by the extreme modesty and propriety of the Zingaree’s words and manner. “Consider how I may ameliorate your condition.”

  “I require nothing, your Highness,” answered Morcar, in the same respectful but firm tone as before,—“nothing save the favour which I have demanded at your hands. No recompense could outweigh with me the advantage which I have received from the contemplation of a character as good as he is great—as noble by nature as he now is by name,” continued the gipsy, once more looking affectionately towards Markham;—“and, from the moral influence of his society and example, I shall return to my people a new man—a better man!”

  Having thus spoken, Morcar wrung the hand of our hero with a fraternal warmth, and was about to hurry away,—leaving all his hearers deeply affected at the words which he had uttered,—when Isabella stepped forward, caught him gently by the arm, and said in her sweet musical voice, now so tremulously clear,—“But you have a wife, Morcar; and you must tell her that the Princess Isabella is her friend! Nor will you refuse to present her with this small token of that regard which I proffer her.”

  Thus speaking, the Princess unfastened a gold chain from her neck, and forced it upon Morcar.

  “Yes, lady,” said the gipsy, “Eva shall accept that gift from you; and she shall pray morning and night for your happiness. Nay, more,” he added, sinking his voice almost to a whisper, “she shall hold up to her son the example of him who is destined, lady, to make you the happiest woman upon earth.”

  With these words, Morcar hurried away—hastened down the steps, leapt into a wherry, and directed the rowers to push the boat instantly from the wharf.

  When it was some yards distant, Morcar turned his head towards the group upon the quay, and waved his hand in token of adieu;—and every member of that group returned his salutation with gestures that expressed the kindest feelings towards him.

  The party now proceeded to the residence of the commandant, where a splendid déjeuner was served up. Richard sate next to his Isabella, and was supremely happy.

  “Oh! how rejoiced shall I feel,” he whispered to her, “when we can escape from all the ceremony which accompanies rank and power, and indulge uninterruptedly in that discourse which is so dear to hearts that love like ours! For I have so much to tell you, beloved one; and now that all the perils of war and strife are past, I can look with calmness upon that series of events of which I was only enabled to send you such slight and rapid accounts. But, believe me, Isabella—I would much rather have come back to my native shores unattended by all that ostentation and formal observance which have accompanied my return: nevertheless, the high office with which I was invested
, and the respect due to your father by the one who came to announce with befitting ceremony that a throne awaited him, demanded the presence of that state and required that public demonstration. You must not, however, imagine, dearest one, that a sudden elevation has made me vain.”

  “I have too high an opinion of your character, Richard,” answered Isabella, “to entertain such an idea for a single moment. I know that you are not unduly proud; but I, Richard, am proud—proud of you!”

  “And yet, dear girl,” whispered our hero, “all I have done has been but through the prompting of your image; and so did I write to you in the evening after that dreadful battle which decided the fate of Castelcicala.”

  “Ah! Richard, you know not the deep suspense which we experienced, and the moments of indescribable alarm which I felt, during the intervals between the letters announcing your several successes,” said the Princess. “But all fear has now vanished—and happiness has taken its place. When we glance at the past, it will only be to rejoice at those events which have prepared so much joy for the future. Do you not remember how often I bade you hope, when you were desponding? Oh! heaven has indeed rewarded you, by placing you in so proud a position, for all the misfortunes which you have endured.”

  “Rank and honours were nothing in my estimation,” answered Richard, “had they not removed the obstacles which separated me from you!”

  A domestic now entered and stated that the carriages were in readiness; and the illustrious party having taken leave of the commandant and officers of the garrison, proceeded to the mansion at Richmond.

  Alberto and Richard Markham were then closeted for some time together. Our hero presented his Highness with the official despatches from the Ministers announcing his proclamation as Grand Duke, and inviting him to return to Castelcicala to take possession of the throne.

  “Your Serene Highness will not deem me presumptuous,” said Richard, when these documents had been perused, “in accepting the executive sway immediately after the battle of Montoni. My object was to ensure the tranquillity of the country, and to lay the foundation of that liberal system of government which I knew to be congenial to the sentiments of your Highness. I appointed a Ministry formed of men who had shown their devotion to the Constitutional cause, and who were worthy of the confidence thus reposed in them. With respect to the late sovereign, Angelo III., I learnt a few hours ere my departure, that he had taken refuge in Austria; but in reference to the Grand-Duchess Eliza I have obtained no tidings.”