“But I did not violate my promise to you,” observed Richard. “I pledged myself, on the occasion of our interview at Montoni, never to draw the hostile weapon in Castelcicala, save at the command of Alberto and in a just cause, or to relieve the Grand-Duchy from a foreign invader.”
“Yes, Prince,” returned Eliza; “you kept your word—for the Austrians were in the land when you became the champion of the Constitutionalists. I have now but a few words more to say in reference to myself. When the news of the battle of Montoni reached England, accompanied with the statement that the Grand-Duke Angelo had fled into the Roman States, I felt persuaded that he would repair to Vienna, the Austrian Emperor being his near relative. I accordingly wrote to my husband, addressing my letters to him in that city. I explained all that had occurred between yourself, Prince, and me at our interview immediately after the defeat of the Constitutionalists at Ossore: I told him how deeply he had wronged me with the most injurious suspicions; and I implored him to allow me to join him, and comfort him in his exile—in his misfortunes! The answer I received was satisfactory—was in itself all I could wish;—but it was accompanied by the tidings of his death! On the bed from which he never rose again, he recognised my innocence—he acknowledged his injustice—he besought me to forgive him!”
“Heaven be thanked that, through your goodness towards me, you were not doomed to undergo the additional torment of his dying enmity!” ejaculated the Prince, fervently.
“Rest tranquil on that head,” returned Eliza. “I have now told you all that concerns myself. I may, however, observe that I should have sought an interview with you sooner, only I was unwilling to disturb the first few days of your happiness with your charming bride.”
“Would that you had written to me the moment I arrived in England!” cried Richard. “The parents of Isabella would have been rejoiced to obtain your friendship! But you have not yet told us what has become of the faithful Mario Bazzano. I owe him a debt of deep gratitude; and if he be in this country still——”
“He is in England,” interrupted Eliza; “and as I felt persuaded that you would comply with the request contained in my letter of yesterday, and come hither to-day, I wrote to Signor Bazzano to request his presence in the afternoon. We may, therefore, expect him shortly. He has grown very melancholy of late—I know not why: some secret care appears to oppress him! On our arrival in England, he hired apartments at the West-End; but shortly afterwards he encountered an English officer with whom he had formed an acquaintance some years ago in Montoni. It appears that this officer was travelling at that time in Italy and during his temporary stay in the Castelcicalan capital, he and Signor Bazzano grew intimate. When they met at the West-End two or three months ago this officer pressed Signor Bazzano to stay with him at some town near London, where his regiment is stationed. Signor Bazzano accepted the invitation; and for some weeks I saw nothing of him. Since his return to London he has not appeared to be the same being. It is true that I see him but seldom: still that change has not escaped my notice. He is fond of solitude and long lonely walks, in which he employs the greater portion of his time—save those hours which he devotes to the study of English by the aid of a master; and I can assure you that his progress in acquiring our language has been truly remarkable.”
“Perhaps his melancholy is produced by absence from his native land,” said Richard. “There can be no possible reason for him to remain in exile against his inclination; and should he wish to return to Italy, I will provide him with strong recommendations to the Grand-Duke.”
“No—he does not desire to leave England,” answered Eliza; “for I myself have questioned him upon that subject. I am rather inclined to believe that some motive of a more tender nature—some hopeless attachment, perhaps—has produced in him the alteration which I have seen and deplored But he will be here shortly; and——”
Eliza was interrupted by a loud knock at the front door.
Katherine sighed: for the words of the royal widow had aroused within her gentle breast painful remembrances of her own romantic and apparently hopeless attachment!
The door opened; and Signor Bazzano was introduced.
Richard immediately hastened forward to greet him.
But—how strange!—a cry of wild delight burst from the lips of the handsome Castelcicalan, as his eyes encountered one particular countenance in that room;—and at the same moment Katherine clung convulsively to Isabella’s arm, as if to save herself from falling from the sofa.
For Mario Bazzano was the hero of the young maiden’s romantic adventures at Hounslow!
Katherine, with the ingenuous confidence of a sister, had revealed to her brother, and also to Isabella, the particulars of those strange meetings with the “handsome unknown,” and had not attempted to disguise the impression made upon her heart by that individual,—an impression against which she had vainly endeavoured to struggle.
Thus, when those tokens of recognition were manifested alike by Mario Bazzano and Katherine Markham, both Richard and Isabella instantly divined the cause.
“Pardon me, your Highness,” exclaimed the Castelcicalan officer, endeavouring to throw off the trammels of embarrassment, and speaking in excellent English; “but—that young lady—I think I have seen her——before——I——”
“Perhaps,” interrupted the Prince, laughing. “At all events I will introduce her to you now—for she is my sister.”
“Your sister, my lord!” cried Mario, in a tone which expressed some degree of vexation at this announcement—as if he dared not aspire to so near a relative of a personage of our hero’s rank.
“Throw aside all ceremony with me, Bazzano,” said Richard, shaking him warmly by the hand. “I am your debtor—deeply your debtor. You saved my life after the defeat of Ossore: your conduct was too generous—too noble ever to be lightly valued. But, say—was it near Hounslow that you have met my sister?”
And as he spoke, he glanced slily towards the blushing Katherine, who was half hiding her countenance behind Isabella.
“It was—it was!” exclaimed Mario. “And will your Highness be offended if I confess that your charming sister made a profound impression upon my mind? Although believing her to be only the daughter of the tenants of that farm-house near which I encountered her in her walks, I felt myself irresistibly attracted towards her! And,—but your Highness will laugh at my romantic dreams,—I determined to acquire the English language for her sake—that I might speak to her—that I might render myself intelligible to her!”
“We will give you an opportunity of convincing her of your proficiency in our native tongue, Mario,” said the Prince, again smiling—but with kindness, and in a manner well calculated to reassure the young Italian officer, whom he led towards Katherine.
And, oh! how the bashful maiden’s heart beat, and how crimson became her sweet countenance, as she felt her hand pressed in that of him who had now for some months occupied so large a portion of her thoughts!
“You guessed rightly as to the cause of Signor Bazzano’s melancholy and altered appearance,” whispered Isabella to Eliza, as they walked towards the window from which Richard was now gazing upon the prospect spread before the villa.
Then Mario and Katherine began to converse,—timidly and with frequent intervals of silence at first: but by degrees those intervals became shorter and shorter;—and at length the young officer found himself describing how he had felt deeply grieved at being unable to utter a word to her in her own tongue when they had met in the fields near the farm,—how he had torn himself away from the spot and returned to London to study English,—how he had gone back to Hounslow a few days afterwards, and vainly wandered about in those fields with the hope of seeing her,—how he conceived at length that she must purposely remain within the house to avoid him, the idea that she had left the neighbourhood never entering his mind,—how he had returne
d again to London and pursued his English studies under the romantic impression that they would some day serve him in respect to the attachment he had formed for her—and how he paid frequent visits to the vicinity of the farm, and was at length almost compelled to abandon the hope of ever seeing her again.
All this he suddenly found himself telling her; and she as suddenly found herself listening to him with attention,—neither quite recollecting how the subject had first been touched upon.
Their pleasant tête-à-tête was at length interrupted by Eliza Sydney, who tapped them each on the shoulder, with the laughing assurance that the servant had already announced luncheon three times; and then Kate’s countenance was again suffused with blushes, as she took the proffered arm of her lover to repair to the apartment where an elegant collation was served up.
The afternoon passed speedily away; and all were so happy that they were in no haste to break up such a pleasant party. Eliza accordingly insisted that her guests should remain to dinner—an invitation which was accepted.
Indeed, it was eleven that night ere the Prince’s carriage and Mario’s horse were ordered round to the door.
And when the young officer separated from Katherine, it was not without an assurance from her brother that he would always be a welcome guest at Markham Place.
Great was the surprise, but not less the joy, of Ellen Monroe, when Katherine, on her return home, and ere the two young ladies sought their couch, made her friend acquainted with the elucidation of the mystery of “the handsome stranger.”
CHAPTER CCXXX.
BETHLEM HOSPITAL.
What contrasts does mortal existence present to view!
While some are joyous and happy in one place, others are overwhelmed with sorrow and affliction elsewhere! At the same moment that the surgeon ushers a new being into life, the hand of the executioner cuts short the days of another. Here the goblet sparkles with the ruby wine—there the lip touches the poisoned glass of suicide:—in this abode a luxurious banquet is spread upon the table—in that the wretched inmate has not a crust to stay the cravings of famine!
Thus was it that while the hostess and the guests were blithe and happy in the villa near Clapton, a painful scene was in process of enactment elsewhere.
It was about five o’clock on that same evening when a cab stopped at the prisoners’ gate of Newgate; and from the vehicle stepped a tall, powerfully-built and rather good-looking man dressed in plain clothes. He was accompanied by a Superintendent and Serjeant of Police.
They were immediately admitted into the lobby of the gaol; and the turnkey, after bestowing upon them a nod of recognition, said, “You needn’t tell me to guess what you’re come about. So the youngster is to go over, then—after all?”
“Yes,” replied the tall man in plain clothes. “The Secretary of State’s warrant was sent down here about an hour ago. I suppose Cope is in?”
“Step into the office, Mr. Busby, and see,” answered the turnkey.
The tall man, who responded to the name of Busby, accordingly passed from the lobby into the governor’s office.
“Any thing new?” asked the turnkey, rubbing his nose with the end of the massive emblem of his office, and accosting the two police authorities, who had seated themselves on the bench facing the gate.
“Not that I know on,” returned the Serjeant; “leastways nothink partickler—unless it is that my Superintendent here is doing someot in the littererry line, and writing a book about Great Criminals, and Police, and Prisons, and all that there kind of thing.”
“You don’t say so?” ejaculated the turnkey.
“Yes, sir—Mr. Crisp is quite right,” said the Superintendent, pompously: “I ham getting up a work on them subjects; but my official po-sition will compel me to publish it enonnymusly, as they say. And while we’re here, Crisp, we may as well take down a few notes—for I must inform you,” continued the Superintendent, addressing himself once more to the turnkey, “that my friend and subordingate Mr. Crisp is helping me in this here labour of love.”
“Well, sir,” returned the gaol functionary, “any information that I can give you, I shall be most happy to furnish you with, I’m sure.”
“Thank’ee kindly,” said the Superintendent. “Now, Crisp, out with your note-book, and fall to. Busby will be half an hour or so in the office. Pray, sir, what may be the anniwal average of prisoners, male and female, in Newgate?”
“About three thousand males and eight hundred females,” answered the turnkey.
“Put that down, Crisp. I suppose in the males you includes boys, and in the females you comprises gals?”
“Certainly,” was the reply.
“Put that down, Crisp. Now what’s the state of discipline here?” asked the Superintendent. “I’ve heerd a good deal about it, in course; but I’d rayther have it direct from a ’ficial source.”
“Why, there isn’t much to say on that point,” returned the functionary thus appealed to. “We let the prisoners have pretty much their own way: they gamble, play at ball, fight, swear, sing, and lark in the wards just as they like.”
“Put that down, Crisp. It’s a blessing to think of the state of freedom one enjoys even in the gaols of this enlightened and liberal nation.”
“To be sure it is,” said the turnkey. “The young thieves consider Newgate to be a capital school for improvement in their profession: when they’re at chapel, they’re always practising pick-pocketing on each other.”
“What’s bred in the bone will never go out of the flesh,” observed the Superintendent. “But the poor creeturs must have some diwersion. Put that down, Crisp.”
“Ah! Newgate has seen some rum things in its time,” moralised the turnkey. “It has been a felon’s gaol for well-nigh seven hundred years.”
“Has it, though?” cried the Superintendent. “Now, then, Crisp—put that down.”
“And ever since I first come here,” continued the turnkey, “there have been constant Reports drawn up about the state of discipline; but I never see that any change follows.”
“Put that down, Crisp. When my book is published, my good fellow, you’ll jist see what the world will say about a change! There’s no need of change—and that I’ll undertake to prove. Newgate is the very palace of prisons. Lord bless us! it would do half the Aldermen themselves good to pass a few days in such a pleasant place.”
“Sometimes we have a few discontented fellows here that don’t like to associate with the rest,” proceeded the turnkey; “and then they ask to be thrown into solitary cells.”
“Put that down, Crisp. I suppose they’re always gratified in their wishes?” asked the Superintendent.
“Oh! always,” replied the turnkey. “But the worst of all is that the chaplain here is nothing more or less than a regular spy upon the governor and the officials, and constantly reports to the Home Office every thing that occurs.”
“Put that down, Crisp. Such conduct is shameful; and I wonder the Gaol Committee of Aldermen don’t take the matter up.”
“So they will,” rejoined the turnkey. “But here comes Busby.”
And, as he spoke, the tall man in plain clothes re-entered the lobby.
“All right?” asked the Superintendent.
“Yes. We’ll take him over at once,” was the reply.
The turnkey stepped into a passage leading to the interior of the gaol, and gave some instructions to a colleague who was stationed there.
A few minutes afterwards Henry Holford, dressed in his own clothes, and not in the prison-garb, was led into the lobby by the official to whom the turnkey had spoken.
The youth was well in health, and by no means cast down in spirits. His face, at no period remarkable for freshness of colour, was less pallid than it ever before had been. There were, however, a certain apathy and indiffere
nce in his manner which might have induced a superficial observer to conclude that his reason was in reality affected; but a careful examination of the expression of his countenance and a few minutes’ study of his intelligent dark eyes, would have served to convince even the most sceptical that, however morbid his mind might for an interval have become, that excitement or disease had passed away, and he was now as far removed from insanity as the most rational of God’s creatures.
“Come, young man,” said Mr. Busby, with great kindness of manner, as if he were endeavouring to a conciliate an individual whom he actually deemed to be of disturbed intellects; “you are going along with me—and I’ll take you to a nice house with a pleasant garden, and where you’ll be well treated.”
“I am at no loss to imagine the place to which you allude,” said Holford, an expression of slyness curling his lip. “Better Bedlam than Newgate.”
“He’s no more mad than me, Crisp,” whispered the Superintendent to the Serjeant.
“Not a bit, sir,” was the reply.
“You may put that down, Crisp,” continued the Superintendent, still speaking aside to his subordinate. “It will all do to go into our report to the Home Secretary. How capital that turnkey allowed himself to be pumped by me, to be sure! Don’t you think I did it very well?”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 101
