“They are at this moment at Shoreditch Church,” returned the young man; “they are engaged in exhuming a corpse for a surgeon whom they were to meet at half-past one at the back of the burial ground.”
“And it is now three o’clock,” said the Superintendent. “I dare say they have got over their business by this time. You had much better sit down here by the fire and rest yourself; and when it is day-light some one shall see you home to your friends.”
“Sit here tranquilly, when justice claims its due!” ejaculated Markham; “impossible! If you will not second my endeavours to expose a most appalling system of wholesale murder——”
“My dear sir,” interrupted the Superintendent, “do compose yourself, and get such horrid thoughts out of your head. Come—be reasonable. This is London, you know—and it is impossible that the things you have described could be committed in so populous a city.”
“I tell you that every word I have uttered is the strict truth,” cried Markham emphatically.
“And how came you to escape from such a place?” demanded the Superintendent.
“The villain who attacked me thought me dead—he fancied that I was killed by the blow; but it had only stunned me for a few moments——”
“Just now there were three murderers,” whispered one policeman to another: “now there is only one. He is as mad as a March-hare.”
“Then I was decoyed into a deep pit,” continued Markham; “and I escaped through an aperture opening into another pit, with stone steps to it, in the next house.”
The two policemen turned round to conceal their inclination to laugh; and the Superintendent could scarcely maintain a serious countenance.
“And now will you come with me to Shoreditch Church, and capture the villains?” cried Markham.
“We had better wait till morning. Pray sit down and compose yourself. You are wet and covered with mud—you have evidently been walking a great distance.”
“Oh! now I understand the cause of your hesitation,” ejaculated Markham: “you do not believe me—you fancy that I am labouring under a delusion. I conjure you not to suffer justice to be defeated by that idea! The tale is strange; and I myself, had it been communicated to me as it now is to you, should look upon it as improbable. No doubt, too, my appearance is strange; and my manner may be excited, and my tone wild;—but, I swear to you by the great God who hears us, that I am sane—in the possession of my reason,—although, heaven knows! I have this night passed through enough to unhinge the strongest intellects!”
“Can you lead us to the house where you allege that these enormities are committed?” demanded the Superintendent, moved by the solemnity and rationality with which Markham had uttered this last appeal to him.
“No, I cannot,” was the reply: “I had lost my way amongst those streets with which I was totally unacquainted: the night was dark—dark as it is now;—and therefore I could not guide you to that den of such black atrocities. But, I repeat: the murderers left that house a little after one to commit a deed of sacrilege in Shoreditch Church. You say that it is now three: perhaps their resurrection-labours are not terminated yet; and you might then capture them in the midst of their unholy pursuits.”
“And if we do not find that Shoreditch Church has been broken open?” said the Superintendent, “you will admit ——”
“Admit that I am mad—that I have deceived you—that I deserve to be consigned to a lunatic asylum,” exclaimed Markham, in a tone which inspired the Superintendent with confidence.
That officer accordingly gave instructions to four constables to accompany Markham to Shoreditch Church.
The little party proceeded thither with all possible expedition; but the clock struck four just as they reached the point of destination.
They hastily scaled the railings around the burial-ground, and proceeded to the very door from which the body-snatchers had emerged an hour previously.
One of the policemen tried the door; and it immediately yielded to his touch. At the same moment his foot struck against something upon the top step. He picked it up:—it was a padlock with the semicircular bolt sawed through.
The policemen and Markham entered the church; and the former commenced a strict search by means of their bull’s-eye lanterns.
“There’s no doubt that the gentleman was right and all he said was true,” observed one of the officers; “but the birds have flown—that’s clear.”
“Well—they must have done their work pretty cleverly if they haven’t left a trace,” said another.
“I have heard it stated,” remarked Richard, “that resurrection-men are so expert at their calling, that they can defy the most acute eye to discover the spot upon such they have been operating.”
“Well, if we don’t find out which vault they have opened, it’s no matter. We have seen enough to convince us that you were right, sir, in all you told us.”
“And as the body-snatchers are not here,” added another police-officer, “we had better get back as quick as we can and report the church’s having been broke open to our Superintendent.”
“And I will return with you,” said Markham; “for when it is light I may perhaps be enabled to conduct you to within a short distance of the street—even if not into the very street itself—where the den is situated which those monsters frequent or inhabit.”
The officers and Richard accordingly returned to the station-house whence they came; and as soon as the Superintendent heard that the church had really been broken open, he apologised to Markham for his former incredulity.
“You will, however, admit, sir,” said this functionary, “that your narrative was calculated to excite strange suspicions relative to the condition of the intellects of the person who told it.”
“I presume you fancied that I had escaped from a madhouse?” observed Markham.
“To tell you the truth, I did,” answered the Superintendent: “you were in such a dreadful condition! And that reminds me that you are all wet and covered with mud: please to step into my private room, and you will find every thing necessary to make you clean and comfortable.”
* * * * *
Day dawned shortly after seven; and at that time might be seen Richard Markham, accompanied by an officer in plain clothes, and followed by others at a distance, threading the streets and alleys in the neighbourhood of the Bird-cage Walk.
The sun rose upon that labyrinth of close, narrow, and wretched thoroughfares, and irradiated those sinks of misery and crime as well as the regal palace and the lordly mansion at the opposite end of London.
But the search after the house in which Markham had witnessed such horrors and endured such intense mental agony on the preceding night, was as vain and fruitless as if its existence were but a dream.
There was not a street which Markham could remember having passed through; there was not a house to which even his suspicions attached.
And yet, may be, he and his official companions proceeded up the very street, and went by the door of the very house, which they sought.
After a useless search throughout that neighbourhood for nearly four hours, Markham declared that he was completely at fault.
The police accordingly abandoned any further proceedings on that occasion. It was however agreed between them and Markham that the strictest secresy should be preserved relative to the entire business, in order that the measures to be subsequently adopted with a view to discover the den of the murderers, might not be defeated by the tattle of busy tongues.
CHAPTER XLVI.
RICHARD AND ISABELLA.
RICHARD MARKHAM had determined to lose no time in revealing to Count Alteroni those adventures which had rendered him an inmate of the Giltspur Street Compter for two years.
And yet it was hard to dare th
e destruction of the bright visions which had dawned upon him in respect to the Signora Isabella: it was cruel to dash away from his lips the only cup of enjoyment which he had tasted for a long time.
He knew not how the count would receive such a narrative as he had to tell. Doubtless it would alarm him: “for society,” thought Richard, “was too apt to judge rashly by outward appearances.” Should the count nobly and generously rise above the prejudices of the world, and believe the statement of Markham’s innocence, corroborated as it was by the document signed by Talbot, alias Pocock, much would have been gained by a candid and honourable confession. But if the reverse ensued, and the count banished Richard from his friendship, the young man felt that he himself would only have performed a melancholy duty, and broken asunder of his own accord those bonds which, were he to remain silent, an accident might one day snap abruptly and rudely.
“I feel happy,” said Markham to himself, as he arose in the morning after the day on which the fruitless search mentioned in the preceding chapter took place,—“I feel happy even while about to consummate a sacrifice which may destroy the most golden of my dreams! The Infinite Being has declared that the days of our life shall be marked with sorrow; and they are—as I can well testify! But the afflictions to which we are subject are attended with blessed antidotes;—moral sources of enjoyment are given to us, as fruits and flowers for the soul; and the teachings of interest, as well as the impulses of gratitude, should lead us to consider with attention those duties we owe each other, for the sake of the bounties the Almighty showers upon us.”
So reasoned Richard Markham.
That evening he arrived at the count’s abode near Richmond, a few minutes before dinner.
A kind welcome awaited him on the part of the count and countess; and the eyes of Signora Isabella expressed the satisfaction she experienced at his return.
When Markham was seated with the count after dinner, he determined to commence the explanation which he had resolved to give.
He was just about to broach the subject, when the count observed, “By the bye, I am happy to inform you that I received letters from Greenwood this morning; and he assures me that the speculation looks admirably.”
“I am delighted to hear it,” returned Richard. “But the chief object of my present visit ——”
“Was to speak about this Steam Packet business, no doubt,” interrupted the count. “Well, if you like to take shares in it, it is not too late. But what do you think? I am going to tell you a secret. You know that I look upon you as a friend of the family; besides, I am well aware that you respect Isabel and love her like a brother——”
“What did you say, count?” stammered Markham.
“I was going to tell you that Mr. Greenwood—who is immensely rich—has taken a liking to Isabella——”
“Indeed!”
“Yes—and I gave him some little encouragement.”
“What! without previously ascertaining whether the Signora’s feelings are reciprocal?” cried Richard.
“As for that, my dear Markham, remember that a dutiful daughter knows no will and no inclination save those of her parents.”
“This is not an English doctrine,” said Markham, “so far as the principle applies to affairs of the heart.”
“It is nevertheless an Italian doctrine,” exclaimed the count, somewhat haughtily; “and I have no doubt that Isabella will ever recognise the authority of her parents in this as in all other matters.”
As the count uttered these words, he rose and led the way to the drawing-room; and thus deprived Markham of that opportunity of making the confession he had intended.
Richard was unhappy and dispirited. He perceived that the count was inclined to favour Mr. Greenwood’s suit; and he now felt how dear Isabella was to him—how profoundly seated was his love for the beauteous Italian!
Misfortunes never come alone. Richard was destined to receive a crushing blow, although innocently inflicted, the moment he entered the drawing-room.
The countess was conversing with her daughter upon her own family connections.
“Do not let us interrupt your conversation,” said the count, as he took his seat upon the sofa near his wife.
“We were only talking about the Chevalier Guilderstein, whose death was mentioned in yesterday’s newspaper,” observed the countess. “I was saying that I remembered how delighted I was when I discovered a few years ago that the chevalier was not related to our family, as he had always pretended to be.”
“And why so?” inquired the count.
“Because the father of the chevalier was put to death in Austria for coining—or rather upon a charge of coining,” answered the countess; “and although his innocence was discovered and proclaimed a few years after his death, I should not like to have amongst my ancestors a man who had been criminally convicted, however innocent he may in reality have been.”
“Certainly not,” said the count. “I should be very sorry for any one whose character had ever been tainted with suspicion, to have the slightest connection with our family.”
“I cannot say that I agree with you,” observed Isabel. “There can be no disgrace attached to one who has suffered under a false accusation: on the contrary—such a person is rather deserving of our deepest sympathy and——”
“Heavens, Mr. Markham!” ejaculated the Countess; “are you ill? Bella, dear—ring the bell—get Mr. Markham a glass of water——”
“It is nothing—nothing, I can assure you,” stammered Richard, whose countenance was as pale as that of a corpse. “Miss Isabella, do not give yourself any trouble! It was only a sudden faintness—a spasm: but it is over now.”
With these words Markham hurried to the bed-chamber which was always allotted to him when he visited the count’s residence.
All the horrible tortures which man can conceive, harassed him at that moment. He threw himself upon his couch—he writhed—he struggled, as if against a serpent which held him in its embraces. His eyes seemed as if they were about to start from their sockets; his teeth were fast closed—he wrung his hair—he beat his breast—and low moans escaped from his bosom. The fiat of the count had gone forth. He who would claim or aspire to connection with his family must be like the wife of Cæsar—beyond all suspicion. It was not enough that such an one should be innocent of any crime: he must never have even been accused of one. Such was the disposition of the count—elicited by an accident and unexpectedly; and Markham could now divine the nature of the treatment which he would be likely to experience, were he to reveal his misfortunes to a nobleman who entertained such punctilious and extremely scrupulous notions!
“But I was mad to imagine that Isabella would ever become mine,” thought Markham within himself, as soon as he became somewhat more tranquillised. “It was folly—supreme folly—rank, idiotic, inconceivable folly, in me to have cherished a hope which could never be realised! All that now remains for me to do, is to abandon myself to my adverse fate—to attempt no more struggles against the destinies that await me,—to leave this house without delay—to return home, and bury myself in a solitude from which no persuasions nor attractions shall henceforth induce me to emerge! Would that I could leave this house this very evening;—but appearances compel me to remain at least until to-morrow! I must endeavour to assume that ease of manner—that friendly confidence, which is reciprocal here:—for a few hours I must consent to act the hypocrite; and to-morrow—to-morrow, I shall be relieved from that dread necessity.—I shall be compelled to bid adieu to Isabella for ever! No avowal of my past sufferings is now required—since I shall to-morrow leave this hospitable mansion, never to return!”
A flood of tears relieved the unfortunate young man; and he descended once more to the drawing-room—very pale, but as calm and tranquil as usual. Isabella glanced towards him
from time to time with evident anxiety; and, in spite of all his endeavours to appear cheerful and at his ease, he was embarrassed, cool, and reserved. Isabella was wounded and mortified by his conduct:—she attempted to rally him, and to ascertain whether he was really chilling in his manners on purpose, or only melancholy against his will: but she received frigid and laconic replies, which annoyed and disheartened the poor girl to such an extent that she could scarcely refrain from tears. Markham felt that, as an honourable man, he could no longer aspire to the hand of the signora, after the expression of opinion accidentally conveyed to him by the count and countess; and he therefore forbore from any attempt to render himself agreeable, or to afford the slightest testimony of his passion. Acting with these views, and endeavouring to seem only properly polite, he fell into the opposite extreme, and grew cold and reserved. The count and countess imagined that he was unwell, and were not therefore annoyed by his conduct;—but poor Isabella, who was deeply attached to him, set down his behaviour to indifference. This idea on her part was confirmed, when Markham, in the course of conversation, intimated his intention of returning home on the following day.
“Return home! and what for?” ejaculated the count. “You have no society there, and here you have some—unamusing and tedious though it may be.”
“Never did I pass a happier period of my existence than that which I have spent in your hospitable abode,” said Richard.
“Then remain with us at least ten days or a fortnight,” cried the count. “We shall then be visiting London ourselves, for we have promised to pass a few weeks with Lord and Lady Tremordyn.”
“Lord Tremordyn!” exclaimed Richard.
“Yes—do you know him?”
“Only by name. But did not his daughter marry Sir Rupert Harborough?” said Markham, shuddering as he pronounced the abhorred name.
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 44