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

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “Loaded, your Highness, is the technical term,” observed Pocock. “That scoundrel there,” pointing to Chichester, “once told me all about them things, at the time I was leagued with him and his baronet friend.”

  “I hope your Highness will not make this affair public,” said Lord Dunstable, his manner having changed to the most cringing meekness. “Egerton—you cannot wish to ruin me altogether?”

  “Would you not have ruined me?” inquired the young man, bitterly.

  “Oh! what a blessed day it is for me to be a high-witness of the disposure of them scoundrels Marlborough and Winchester!” ejaculated the old butler, rubbing his hands joyfully together. “Send ’em to Newgate, my lord—send ’em to Newgate—and then let ’em be disported to the spinal settlemints, my lord!”

  “Pray have mercy upon me—for the sake of my father and mother!” said Dunstable, whose entire manner expressed the most profound alarm. “Your Highness is known to possess a good heart—”

  “It is not to me that you must address yourself,” interrupted Markham, in a severe tone. “Appeal to this young man whom you have basely defrauded of large sums—upon whom you have been preying for weeks past—and whom you have tutored in the ways that lead to destruction:—appeal to him, I say—and not to me.”

  “I am entirely in the hands of your Highness,” observed Egerton, with a grateful glance towards the Prince.

  “Then we will spare these men, bad and unprincipled though they be,” exclaimed Richard: “we will spare them—not for their own sakes, Egerton—but for yours. Were it known, through the medium of the details of a public prosecution, that you have been so intimately connected with a gang of cheats and depredators, your character would be irretrievably lost; for the world is not generous enough to pause and reflect that you were only a victim. Therefore, as you are determined to retrieve the past, it will be prudent to forego any criminal proceedings against those who have made you their dupe.”

  “Your Highness has spoken harshly—very harshly,” said Lord Dunstable; “and yet I feel I have deserved all that vituperation. But this leniency with which your lordship has treated me—and your forbearance, Egerton—will not have been ineffectual. I now see the fearful brink upon which I stood—and I shudder; for had you resolved to drag me before a tribunal of justice, I would have avoided that last disgrace by means of suicide!”

  The young nobleman spoke with a feeling and an evident sincerity that touched both our hero and Egerton; but Cholmondeley turned away in disgust from his penitent friend, and Harborough exchanged a contemptuous look with Chichester.

  “Lord Dunstable,” said Markham, in an impressive tone, “your conduct has been bad—very bad; but much of its blackness is already wiped away by this manifestation of regret and contrition. Do not allow that spark of good feeling to be extinguished—or destruction must await you. And above all, I conjure you to avoid the companionship of such men as those who have even now by their manner scoffed at your expressions of repentance.”

  “Farewell, my lord,” returned the young nobleman, tears trickling down his cheeks: “the events of this evening will never be forgotten by me. Egerton, take this pocket-book: it contains the greater portion of the last sum of money that I borrowed of you; and I shall never know peace of mind, until I have restored all of which I have been instrumental in plundering you.”

  With these words, Dunstable bowed profoundly to the Prince, and hurried from the room, without casting a single glance upon his late confederates in iniquity.

  “My lord, isn’t Newgate to become more formiliarly acquainted with them scrape-graces Aldborough and Winchester?” asked the old butler, as soon as Dunstable had disappeared from the room.

  “Were it not that I had promised this honest and grateful man,” said the Prince, turning towards the engraver, “that no criminal proceedings should be instituted on the document that he obtained from you, Sir Rupert Harborough, and from you also, Mr. Chichester, I should consider myself bound, in justice to myself and as a duty owing to society, to expose in a public tribunal the black artifices by which you once inveigled me into your toils. But for his sake—for the sake alike of his personal security and of the good character which he now enjoys—I must leave your punishment to your own consciences. And, though scoffing smiles may now mark the little weight which my prediction carries with it in respect to you, yet rest assured that the time will come when your misdeeds shall be visited with those penalties which it may seem wise to a just heaven to inflict.”

  Having uttered these words, the Prince turned away, with undisguised aversion, from the two villains whom he had so impressively and solemnly addressed.

  They slunk out of the apartment, with chap-fallen countenances, while Whittingham followed them to the door of the dining-room, through which they passed, and conveyed to them the satisfactory intelligence that “if it had impended on him, they should have been confided with strong letters of communication to the governor of Newgate.”

  As soon as they had departed, Colonel Cholmondeley inquired in an insolent tone whether the Prince had any thing to say to him; but finding that Markham turned his back contemptuously upon him, he swaggered out of the room, muttering something about “satisfaction in another manner.”

  Early the next morning, Mrs. Bustard received the following letter:—

  “King Square, Goswell Road.

  “Faithful to the promise which I made to you the day before yesterday, my dear aunt, I have quitted the West End, and am once more located in a quiet neighbourhood. Thanks to the kind interference of that most amiable and excellent nobleman the Prince of Montoni, and to the encouragement given me by your forgiveness of the deception which I so shamefully practised upon you, I have been completely awakened to the errors of my late mode of life. I shall pledge myself to nothing now: my future conduct will prove to you how effectually wise counsels and past experience have changed my habits, my inclinations, and my ideas. One thing, however, I may state on the present occasion: namely, that I am convinced there is no character so truly dangerous and so thoroughly unprincipled as the one who delights in the name of ‘the man about town.’

  “I must also declare that I yesterday handled the dice-box for the last time. Much as I loathed the idea, after the dread warnings which I received from the lips of the Prince, I nevertheless consented to play a last game—and it shall remain the last! But, start not, dear aunt—I did so by the desire of the Prince, and that I might induce one of my false friends to produce the dice which he always carried about with him. The result was as the Prince had anticipated: those dice were so prepared that it was no wonder if their owner was constantly a winner. And had not the Prince known my repentance to be sincere, he would not for a moment have permitted me to touch those dice again—even though it were to accomplish an aim that might the more effectually expose the men by whom I was surrounded!

  “To the Prince my unbounded gratitude is due. He has saved me from utter ruin, and has advised me how to employ the remainder of my fortune so as to recover by my industry what I have lost by my folly. It appears that his august father-in-law, the sovereign of Castelcicala,—and who has set so good an example to the Italian States by giving a Constitution and a national representation to his own country,—has established a line of steam-packets between London and Montoni; and it is my intention to trade between the two capitals. But the details of this project I will explain to you to-morrow, when I shall have the pleasure of calling upon you.

  “Your affectionate Nephew,

  “ALBERT EGERTON. “

  CHAPTER CCLI.

  THE OBSTINATE PATIENT.

  It was about a week after the exposure which had taken place in Stratton Street, that the following events occurred at the splendid mansion of the Marquis of Holmesford.

  Although the time-piece upon the mantel of this nobleman’s bed-roo
m had only just proclaimed the hour of three in the afternoon, yet the curtains were drawn close over the windows, and the chamber was rendered as dark as possible.

  In that apartment, too, there was a profound silence—broken only by the low but irregular breathing of some one who slept in the bed.

  By the side of the couch sate two elderly men, dressed in black, and who maintained a strict taciturnity—doubtless for fear of awakening the sleeper.

  On a small table between them were various bottles containing medicines.

  The bed stood upon a sort of dais, or raised portion of the floor, this platform being attained by two steps. High over the couch was a canopy of velvet and gold, surmounted by the coronet of a Marquis, and from whence the rich satin curtains, of dark purple, flowed over that voluptuous bed.

  The room itself was furnished in the most luxurious manner. The rose-wood tables were inlaid with mother of pearl: the chairs were of antique form, with high backs carved in the most exquisite manner;—the mirrors were large, the pictures numerous, and all set in magnificent frames;—and the toilette-table was of the most elegant and costly description.

  And yet he, for whom all this gorgeousness and splendour had been devised,—he, whose wealth had converted the entire mansion into a palace that would have even delighted the proudest Sultan that ever sate on an oriental throne,—this man, for whom earth had such delights—the world so many enjoyments,—this man—the Marquis of Holmesford—was about to succumb to the power of the Angel of Death.

  Oh! what a mockery was it to behold,—when the window-curtains were drawn back, upon the Marquis awaking from his uneasy slumber,—what a mockery was it to behold that truly imperial magnificence surrounding the couch whereon lay a thin, weak, haggard, and attenuated old man, in whose eyes was already seen that stony glare which marks the last looks of dissolving nature!

  The nobleman awoke, and turned round towards his physicians, who watched at the bed-side.

  One of them rose and drew back the window-curtains as noiselessly as possible; and then the pure light of a lovely day streamed into the apartment.

  The other medical attendant quietly took the nobleman’s hand, anxiously felt his pulse, and inquired in a low whisper “how his lordship felt now?”

  “Just the same—or may be a little worse,” answered the Marquis, in a hollow but feeble tone. “And yet it is impossible that I should be in any real danger! Oh! no—I was only taken ill last night; and men surely do not—do not—die,” he added, pronouncing the fatal word with a most painful effort, “upon so slight and slender a warning.”

  “Your lordship is far from well—very far from well,” said the physician, emphatically; “and I consider it is my duty to assure you of that fact.”

  “But you—you do not think, doctor,” stammered the Marquis, “that I am in any—any real—real danger?”

  And as he spoke, his glassy eyes were for a few moments lighted up with the evanescent fire of intense excitement—the agitation of a suspense ineffably painful.

  “My lord,” answered the physician, in a solemn tone, “if you have any affairs of a worldly nature to settle——”

  “No—no: it can’t be! You are deceiving me!” almost shrieked the old nobleman, starting up wildly to a sitting posture: “do you mean to offend—to insult me when I am a little indisposed? For I am positively convinced that this is only a trifling indisposition—a mere passing illness.”

  “My dear Marquis,” said the second physician, advancing towards the bed, “my colleague performs but his duty—painful though it be—when he assures you——”

  “Oh! yes—I understand you,” again interrupted the nobleman, catching at a straw: “you do right to prepare me for the worst! But mine is not an extreme case—is it? Oh! no—I am certain it cannot be! You are both clever men—well versed in all the mysteries of your profession—and you can soon restore me to health. There! I will give you each a cheque for five thousand pounds the day that you tell me that I may get up again!”

  And once more did he contemplate them with eager—anxious glances, expressive alike of uncertain, feverish hope and tremendous terror.

  “Speak—speak!” he cried: “answer me! Five thousand pounds for each of you, the day that I leave this bed!”

  “Were your lordship to offer us all your fortune,” answered the elder physician—he who had first spoken,—“we could not do more for you than we are now doing. And if you excite yourself thus——”

  “Excite myself, indeed!” ejaculated the Marquis, attempting a laugh—which, however, rather resembled a death-rattle that seemed to shake his crazy old frame even to the very vital foundations: “is it not enough to make me excited, when you are so foolish as to joke with me about my being in danger—although you know that I must recover soon? Don’t you know that, doctor?—tell me; dear doctor—shall I not be well in a few days—or at all events a few weeks? Come—reassure me: say that you only spoke in jest! Danger, indeed! Why, doctor, I possess a constitution of iron!”

  And, thus rapidly speaking, the Marquis fell back upon his pillow, in a state of extreme exhaustion.

  The younger physician forced him to swallow some medicine; and for a few minutes he lay panting and moaning as if the very chords of existence were snapping rapidly one after the other.

  At length he turned again towards his medical attendants.

  “Well, I do believe that I am rather worse than I just now fancied myself to be,” he said, in a very faint and feeble tone: “but still I am sure of getting better soon. That medicine has already done me good. Three or four bottles of it—and I shall be quite well. Ah! my dear friends, you are profoundly skilled in all the secrets of the human frame; and with two such physicians as you, it would be impossible to—to—die so soon!”

  “Pray, my lord, do not excite yourself,” observed the elder medical attendant. “Repose and rest often prove more efficacious than drugs and potions.”

  “Well—well—I will be quiet—I will tranquillise myself,” said the Marquis. “But you must not frighten me any more—you must not talk to me about settling my worldly affairs—just as if I were indeed about to die,” he added, with a ghastly attempt to smile away that expression of profound terror which he felt to be imprinted on his countenance. “No—no; it is too ridiculous to put such ideas into one’s head! Why—how old do you take me to be, doctor?”

  “My lord, you afflict me greatly by this style of discourse,” said the elder physician, who was thus appealed to. “Most solemnly do I adjure your lordship to compose your mind to that state in which every Christian should be prepared for the worst.”

  “Doctor—doctor, you cannot be serious!” again half shrieked the affrighted nobleman. “What! am I indeed so very ill? No—no: consider the strength of my constitution—remember how able I am to procure by my wealth every means that may conduce to my recovery—think of what you yourself can do for me——”

  “My lord,” said the physician, solemnly, “we will exert all human efforts to save you: but the result is with God!”

  The Marquis uttered a hollow groan, and, closing his eyes, appeared to be suddenly wrapt in profound meditation.

  The scene which we have just described, was a most painful one—even to those two physicians whose experience in such matters was so extensive. There was something peculiarly horrible in that old man of shattered health and exhausted vigour, boasting of the strength of a constitution ruined by a long career of debauchery,—boasting, too, even against his own internal convictions!

  But, like all men who fear to die, the Marquis would not admit in words what his soul had acknowledged to itself. He seemed to feel as if there were a possibility of staving off the approach of death, merely by reiterating a disbelief that the destroyer was advancing at all. Thus, though his mind was filled with the most appalling apprehensions, he
nevertheless clung—he knew not how nor wherefore—to a hope that his physicians might be deceived—that they had exaggerated his danger—that their skill was potent enough to wrestle with the dissolution of nature—in a word, that it was quite possible for him to recover.

  And, if he feared to die, it was not precisely because he dreaded the idea of being suddenly plunged into eternity; for he had been a sceptic all his life, and was by no means convinced that there was any future state at all. But his mind shrank from the thought of death as from a revolting spectacle; and moreover the world had so many charms—such boundless attractions for him—that he could not endure the prospect of being called away from those delicious scenes for ever!

  He remained for nearly a quarter of an hour buried in the most profound and abstruse meditation.

  “My worthy friends,” he at length said, opening his glassy eyes once more, and turning towards his physicians, “I am now prepared to hear without excitement any thing you may deem it advisable or proper to communicate. In one word, is my state really one of great and impending peril?”

  “Your lordship now speaks as becomes a man of strong mind,” answered the elder physician; “and in this altered mood you will receive with due tranquillity the sad announcement which I am bound to make.”

  “And that announcement?” said the Marquis, hastily.

  “Is that your lordship’s recovery is in the hands of heaven,” replied the physician, solemnly: “for no human agency can enable you to quit that bed in health again.”

  “And this is your serious conviction?”’ said the Marquis, grasping the bed-clothes tightly with both his hands, as if to restrain an explosion of his agonising feelings.

  “My duty towards your lordship compels me to answer in the affirmative,” returned the physician.