Mr. Whittingham was quite astounded; and he delivered himself of many impressive observations upon the affair, but which we shall not be cruel enough to inflict upon our readers.
It was about half-past twelve o’clock when Richard returned home. His countenance was pale and anxious; and he vainly endeavoured to smile as he encountered his faithful old dependant.
“Ah! Master Richard, I was sadly afraid that you had fallen into some trepidation!”
“A very unpleasant adventure, Whittingham—which I will relate to you another time—kept me away from home. I was with Sir Rupert Harborough and Mr. Chichester——”
“Mr. Chichester ain’t no good, sir,” interrupted the butler emphatically.
“What do you mean, Whittingham?”
“I mean exactly what I say, Master Richard,—and nothing more nor less. Both the baronet and Mr. Chichester have been here this morning.”
Then, with a considerable amount of circumlocution and elaborate comment, the butler related the conduct of Chichester towards Snoggles, and their accidental meeting that morning.
“This is very extraordinary,” said Richard, musing.
“I can’t say I ever regularly admired this Mr. Chichester,” observed Whittingham. “He seems too dashing, too out-and-out, and too—too—circumwenting in his discourse, to be anythink exceeding and excessive good. Now I like the baronet much better; he isn’t so formiliar in his manners. Whenever he speaks to me he always says ‘Mr. Whittingham;’ but Mr. Chichester calls me plain ‘Whittingham.’ As for that wulgar fellow Talbot, who has called here once or twice, he slaps me on the shoulder, and bawls out, ‘Well, Whittingham, my tulip, how are you?’ Now, you know, Master Richard, it’s not conformant to perceived notions to call a butler a tulip.”
“I have been deceived in my acquaintances—no doubt I have been deceived,” said Richard, musing audibly, and pacing the library with agitated steps. “There is something suspicious in the connexion of that man Talbot—however rich he may be—with so elegant a gentleman as the baronet;—then this conduct of Chichester’s towards his servant—their taking me to a common gambling-house—their deserting me in the moment of need,—yes, I have been deceived! And then, Diana—I ought never more to see her: her influence, her fascination are too dangerous!”
“A gambling-house!” ejaculated Whittingham, whose ears caught fragments of these reflections.
“My old friend,” said Richard, turning suddenly towards the butler, “I am afraid I have been enticed—inveigled into society which is not creditable to me or my position. I will repair my fault. Mr. Monroe, my guardian, advised me some weeks ago to indulge in a tour upon the continent: I will avail myself of this permission. At four o’clock I have an appointment—a pressing appointment to keep in town: by seven at latest I shall return. Have a post-chaise at the door and all things in readiness: we will proceed to Dover to-night. You alone shall accompany me.”
“Let’s do it, sir—let’s do it,” exclaimed the faithful old dependant: “it will separate you from them flash fellows which lead young men into scrapes, and from them wulgar persons which call butlers tulips.”
Whittingham retired to make the preparations for the contemplated journey, and Richard seated himself at the table to write a couple of letters.
The first was to Mrs. Arlington, and ran thus:—
“Circumstances of a very peculiar nature, and which I cannot at present explain to you, compel me to quit London thus abruptly. I hope you will not imagine that I leave your agreeable society without many regrets. We shall probably meet again, when I may perhaps confide to you the motives of this sudden departure; and you will then understand that I could not have remained in London another minute with safety to myself. I scarcely know what I write—I am so agitated and uneasy. Pray excuse this scrawl.
“RICHARD MARKHAM.”
The second letter was to Mr. Monroe, and was couched in the following terms:—
“You will be surprised, my dear sir, to find that I am immediately about to avail myself of your kind recommendation and permission to visit the continent. I conceive it to be my duty—in consequence of rumours or reports which may shortly reach your ears concerning me—to inform you that I have this moment only awoke to the fearful perils of the career in which I have for some weeks past been blindly hurrying along, till at length yesterday——: but I dare not write any more. I am penitent—deeply penitent: let this statement induce you to defend and protect my reputation,
“Ever your sincerely obliged,
“R. MARKHAM.”
Having hastily folded, addressed, and sealed these letters, Markham hurried up to his bed-room to select certain articles of clothing and other necessaries which he should require upon his journey.
He was interrupted in the middle of this occupation, by the entrance of Whittingham, who came to announce that two persons of somewhat strange and suspicious appearance desired an immediate interview with him.
Scarcely was this message delivered, when the two men, who had followed Whittingham up-stairs, walked very unceremoniously into the bed-room.
“This is Richard Markham, ’spose?” said one, advancing towards the young man.
“Yes—my name is Markham: but what means this insolent and unpardonable intrusion?”
“Intrusion indeed!” repeated the foremost of the ill-looking strangers. “However, not to keep you waiting, my young friend, I must inform you that me and this man here are officers; and we’ve a warrant to take you.”
“A warrant!” ejaculated both Richard and Whittingham at the same moment.
“Come, come, now—I des say you haven’t been without your misgivings since yesterday;—but if young gen’lemen will play such pranks, why, they must expect some time or another to be wanted—that’s all!”
“But what have I done?” demanded Richard. “There must be some mistake. I cannot be the person whom you require.”
“Did you not call at a certain bankers’ in the City yesterday?” demanded the officer.
“Certainly—I had some money to receive, which Mr. Monroe my guardian had paid into their hands for my use.”
“And you changed a five hundred pound note? The clerk did it for your accommodation.”
“I do not deny it: I required change. But how is all this connected with your visit?”
“That five hundred pound note was a forgery!”
“A forgery! Impossible!” cried Richard.
“A forgery!” said Whittingham: “this is really impudence of too consummating a nature!”
“Come, there’s no mistake, and all this gammon won’t do. Me and my partner came in a hackney-coach, which stands at the corner of the lane; so if you’re ready, we’ll be off to Bow Street at once.”
“I am prepared to accompany you,” said Richard, “because I am well aware that I shall not be detained many minutes at the magistrate’s office.”
“That’s no business of mine,” returned the principal officer: then, addressing his companion, he said “Jem, you’ll stay here and take a survey of the premises; while I get off with the prisoner. You can follow as soon as you’ve satisfied yourself whether there’s any evidence upon the premises.”
It was with great difficulty that Richard overruled the desire of Whittingham to accompany him, but at length the faithful old man was induced to comprehend the necessity of staying behind, as an officer was about to exercise a strict search throughout the house, and Markham did not choose to leave his property to the mercy of a stranger.
This point having been settled, Richard took his departure with the officer in whose custody he found himself. They entered the hackney-coach, which was waiting at a little distance, and immediately proceeded by the shortest cuts towards the chief office in Bow street.
&nb
sp; Upon their arrival at that ominous establishment, Richard’s pocket-book and purse were taken away from him; and he himself was thrust into a cell until the charge at that moment before the magistrate was disposed of.
Here must we leave him for the present; as during the night which followed his arrest, scenes of a terrible nature passed elsewhere.
CHAPTER XVII.
A DEN OF HORRORS.
HOWEVER filthy, unhealthy, and repulsive the entire neighbourhood of West Street (Smithfield), Field Lane,[36] and Saffron Hill, may appear at the present day, it was far worse some years ago. There were then but few cesspools; and scarcely any of those which did exist, possessed any drains. The knackers’ yards of Cow Cross, and the establishments in Castle Street where horses’ flesh is boiled down to supply food for the dogs and cats of the metropolis, send forth now, as they did then, a fœtid and sickening odour which could not possibly be borne by a delicate stomach. At the windows of those establishments the bones of the animals are hung to bleach, and offend the eye as much as the horrible stench of the flesh acts repugnantly to the nerves. Upwards of sixty horses a day are frequently slaughtered in each yard; and many of them are in the last stage of disease when sent to their “long home.” Should there not be a rapid demand for the “meat” on the part of the itinerant purveyors of that article for canine and feline favourites, it speedily becomes putrid; and a smell, which would alone appear sufficient to create a pestilence, pervades the neighbourhood.
As if nothing should be wanting to render that district as filthy and unhealthy as possible, water is scarce. There is in this absence of a plentiful supply of that wholesome article, an actual apology for dirt. Some of the houses have small back yards, in which the inhabitants keep pigs. A short time ago, an infant belonging to a poor widow, who occupied a back room on the ground-floor of one of these hovels, died, and was laid upon the sacking of the bed while the mother went out to make arrangements for its interment. During her absence a pig entered the room from the yard, and feasted upon the dead child’s face!
In that densely populated neighbourhood that we are describing hundreds of families each live and sleep in one room. When a member of one of these families happens to die, the corpse is kept in the close room where the rest still continue to live and sleep. Poverty frequently compels the unhappy relatives to keep the body for days—aye, and weeks. Rapid decomposition takes place;—animal life generates quickly; and in four-and-twenty hours myriads of loathsome animalculæ are seen crawling about. The very undertakers’ men fall sick at these disgusting—these revolting spectacles.
The wealthy classes of society are far too ready to reproach the miserable poor for things which are really misfortunes and not faults. The habit of whole families sleeping together in one room destroys all sense of shame in the daughters: and what guardian then remains for their virtue? But, alas! a horrible—an odious crime often results from that poverty which thus huddles brothers and sisters, aunts and nephews, all together in one narrow room—the crime of incest!
When a disease—such as the small-pox or scarlatina—breaks out in one of those crowded houses, and in a densely populated neighbourhood, the consequences are frightful: the mortality is as rapid as that which follows the footsteps of the plague!
These are the fearful mysteries of that hideous district which exists in the very heart of this great metropolis. From John Street to Saffron Hill—from West Street to Clerkenwell Green, is a maze of narrow lanes, choked up with dirt, pestiferous with nauseous odours, and swarming with a population that is born, lives, and dies, amidst squalor, penury, wretchedness, and crime.
Leading out of Holborn, between Field Lane and Ely Place, is Upper Union Court—a narrow lane forming a thoroughfare for only foot passengers. The houses in this court are dingy and gloomy: the sunbeams never linger long there; and should an Italian-boy pass through the place, he does not stop to waste his music upon the inhabitants. The dwellings are chiefly let out in lodgings; and through the open windows upon the ground-floor may occasionally be seen the half-starved families of mechanics crowding round the scantily-supplied table. A few of the lower casements are filled with children’s books, pictures of actors and highwaymen glaringly coloured, and lucifer-matches, twine, sweet-stuff, cotton, &c. At one door there stands an oyster-stall, when the comestible itself is in season: over another hangs a small board with a mangle painted upon it. Most of the windows on the ground-floors announce rooms to let, or lodgings for single men; and perhaps a notice may be seen better written than the rest, that artificial-flower makers are required at that address.
It was about nine o’clock in the evening when two little children—a boy of seven and a girl of five—walked slowly up this court, hand in hand, and crying bitterly. They were both clothed in rags, and had neither shoes nor stockings upon their feet. Every now and then they stopped, and the boy turned towards his little sister, and endeavoured to console her with kind words and kisses.
“Don’t cry so, dear,” he said: “I’ll tell mother that it was all my fault that we couldn’t bring home any more money; and so she’ll beat me worst. Don’t cry—there’s a good girl—pray don’t!”
And the poor little fellow endeavoured to calm his own grief in order to appease the fears of his sister.
Those children had now reached the door of the house in which their mother occupied an attic; but they paused upon the step, evincing a mortal repugnance to proceed any farther. At length the little boy contrived by promises and caresses to hush the violence of his sister’s grief; and they entered the house, the door of which stood open for the accommodation of the lodgers.
Hand in hand these poor children ascended the dark and steep staircase, the boy whispering consolation in the girl’s ears. At length they reached the door of the attic: and there they stood for a few moments.
“Now, Fanny dear, don’t cry, there’s a good girl; pray don’t now—and I’ll buy you some nice pears to-morrow with the first halfpenny I get, even if I shouldn’t get another, and if mother beats me till I’m dead when we come home.”
The boy kissed his sister once more, and then opened the attic-door.
A man in a shabby black coat, and with an immense profusion of hair about his hang-dog countenance, was sitting on one side of a good fire, smoking a pipe. A thin, emaciated, but vixenish looking woman was arranging some food upon the table for supper. The entire furniture of the room consisted of that table, three broken chairs, and a filthy mattress in one corner.
As soon as the boy opened the door, he seemed for a moment quite surprised to behold that man at the fireside: then, in another instant, he clapped his little hands joyously together, and exclaimed, “Oh! how glad I am: here’s father come home again!”
“Father’s come home again!” echoed the girl; and the two children rushed up to their parent with the most pure—the most unfeigned delight.
“Curse your stupidity, you fools,” cried the man, brutally repulsing his children; “you’ve nearly broke my pipe.”
The boy fell back, abashed and dismayed: the little girl burst into tears.
“Come, none of this humbug,” resumed the man; “let’s know what luck you’ve had to-day, since your mother says that she’s been obliged to send you out on the tramp since I’ve been laid up for this last six months in the jug.”
“Yes, and speak out pretty plain, too, Master Harry,” said the mother in a shrill menacing tone; “and none of your excuses, or you’ll know what you have got to expect.”
“Please, mother,” said the boy, slowly taking some halfpence from his pocket, “poor little Fanny got all this. I was so cold and hungry I couldn’t ask a soul; so if it ain’t enough, mother, you must beat me—and not poor little Fanny.”
As the boy uttered these words in a tremulous tone, and with tears trickling down his face, he got before his sister, in
order to shield her, as it were, from his mother’s wrath.
“Give it here, you fool!” cried the woman, darting forward, and seizing hold of the boy’s hand containing the halfpence: then, having hastily glanced over the amount, she exclaimed, “You vile young dog! I’ll teach you to come home here with your excuses! I’ll cut your liver out of ye, I will!”
“How much has he brought?” demanded the man.
“How much! Why not more than enough to pay for the beer,” answered the woman indignantly. “Eightpence-halfpenny—and that’s every farthing! But won’t I take it out in his hide, that’s all?”
The woman caught hold of the boy, and dealt him a tremendous blow upon the back with her thin bony fist. He fell upon his knees, and begged for mercy. His unnatural parent levelled a volley of abuse at him, mingled with oaths and filthy expressions, and then beat him—dashed him upon the floor—kicked him—all but stamped upon his poor body as he writhed at her feet.
His screams were appalling.
Then came the turn of the girl. The difference in the years of the children did not cause any with regard to their chastisement; but while the unnatural mother dealt her heavy blows upon the head, neck, breast, and back of the poor little creature, the boy clasped his hands together, exclaiming, “O Mother! it was all my fault—pray don’t beat little Fanny—pray don’t!” Then forgetting his own pain, he threw himself before his sister to protect her—a noble act of self-devotion in so young a boy, and for which he only received additional punishment.
At length the mother sate down exhausted; and the poor lad drew his little sister into a corner, and endeavoured to soothe her.
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 15