Thus passed the evening; but Markham was reserved and melancholy. It was in vain that Isabella exerted herself to instil confidence into his mind, by means of those thousand little attentions and manifestations of preference which lovers know so well how to exhibit, but which those around perceive not. Richard was firm in those resolutions which he deemed consistent with propriety and honour; and he deeply regretted the explanation and its consequences into which the enthusiasm of the moment had that evening led him.
At length the hour for retiring to rest arrived.
Richard repaired to his chamber—but not to sleep. His mind was too much harassed by the events of the evening—the plans which he had pursued, and those which he intended to pursue—the love which he bore to Isabel, and the stern opposition which might be anticipated from her father—the persecution to which he was subject at the hands of the Resurrection Man—and the train of evil fortune which appeared constantly to attend upon him;—of all these he thought; and his painful meditations defied the advance of slumber.
The window of his bed-chamber overlooked the garden at the back of the house; from which direction a strange and alarming noise suddenly broke in upon his reflections. He listened—and all was quiet: he therefore felt convinced that his terror was unfounded. A few moments elapsed; and he was again alarmed by a sound which seemed like the jarring of an unfastened shutter. A certain uneasiness now took possession of him; and he was determined to ascertain whether all was safe about the premises. He leapt from his bed, raised the window, and looked forth. The night was now pitch dark; and he could distinguish nothing. Not even were the outlines of the trees in the garden discernible amidst that profound and dense obscurity. Markham held his breath; and the whispering of voices met his ears. He could not, however, distinguish a word they uttered:—a low hissing continuous murmur, the nature of which it was impossible to mistake, convinced him that some persons were talking together immediately beneath his window. In a few moments the jarring of a door or shutter, which he had before heard, was repeated; and then the whispering ceased.
By this time his eyes had become accustomed to the darkness; and he could now faintly discern the outlines of three human forms standing together at the back door of the house. He could not, however, distinguish the precise nature of their present employment. It was, nevertheless, evident to him that they were not there with any honest intention in view; and he resolved to adopt immediate measures to defeat their burglarious schemes. He hastily threw on his clothes, struck a light, and issued from his room.
Cautiously advancing along a passage was the count, only half-dressed, with a pistol in each hand, and a cutlass under his arm.
“This is fortunate!” whispered the count: “I was coming to alarm you: there are thieves breaking in. You and I can manage them; it is of no use to call Bounce or Dapper. Take this cutlass and let us descend gently. Here come the men-servants.”
The count hurried down stairs, followed by Markham, and the three male domestics of the household.
A noise was heard in the pantry, which was situate at the back of the house on the same level with the hall.
“Douse the darkey, blow the glim, and mizzle,” cried a hoarse gruff voice, as the count, Richard, and the servants approached the pantry: “there’s five on ’em—it’s no use——”
The count rushed forward, and burst open the door of the pantry, closely followed by Markham, holding the candle.
Two of the burglars made a desperate push down the kitchen stairs and escaped: the third was captured in an attempt to follow his companions.
The light of the candle fell upon the villain’s countenance, which was literally ghastly with a mingled expression of rage and alarm.
Richard shuddered: for the captured burglar was no other than the Resurrection Man.
“Wretch!” exclaimed Markham, recovering his self-command: “the law will at length reach you.”
“What! do you know this fellow?” demanded the count, somewhat surprised by the observation.
“Know me!” cried the Resurrection Man: “of course he does. But supposing some one was to tell you a piece of valuable information, count—about a matter closely concerning yourself and family—would you be inclined to be merciful?”
“Of what nature is that information? It must be very valuable indeed, if you think that I will enter into any compromise with such as you.”
“Pledge me your word that you will let me go scot free, and I will tell you something that concerns the peace and happiness—perhaps the honour of your daughter.”
“Miscreant!” cried Markham: “profane not that lady by even alluding to her!”
“Stay—curse the fellow’s impudence,” said the count: “perhaps he may really have somewhat worth communicating. At all events, I will try him. Now, then, my man, what is it that you have to say? If your statement be worth hearing, I swear that I will neither molest you, nor suffer you to be molested.”
“Hold count,” exclaimed Markham: “make no rash vow—you know not what a wretch——”
“Silence, my dear friend,” said the count authoritatively: “I will hear the man, let him be who or what he may!”
“And you will do well to hear me, sir,” continued the Resurrection Man. “You harbour a villain in your house; and that villain is now before you. He boasts of having secured the affections of your daughter, and hopes to gull you into allowing him to marry her.”
“Miscreant—murderer!” exclaimed Markham, no longer able to contain his indignation: “pollute not innocence itself by these allusions to a lady whose spotless mind ——”
“Hush!” said the count. “Let us hear patiently all this man has to say. I can soon judge whether he be speaking the truth; and if he deceives me, I will show him no mercy.”
“But, count—allow me one word—I myself will unfold ——”
“Excuse me, Markham,” interrupted the Italian noble, with dignified firmness: “I will hear this man first. Proceed!”
“The villain I allude to is of course that Markham,” continued the Resurrection Man. “It was him, too, that induced me and my pals, the Cracksman and the Buffer, to make this attempt upon your house to-night.”
“What foul—what hideous calumny is this!” almost screamed the distracted Markham, as this totally unexpected and unfounded accusation met his ears.
The count himself was shocked at this announcement; for he suddenly recollected Richard’s moody, embarrassed, and thoughtful manner the whole evening, and his sudden intention of departing the next day.
“Go on,” said the count.
“I met that man,” continued the body-snatcher, pointing contemptuously towards Markham, “a little more than a fortnight ago in this neighbourhood: he was walking with your daughter, and it was in consequence of certain little arrangements with me that he went back to London next day. Oh! I am well acquainted with all his movements.”
“And you sought my life in a manner the most base——” began Markham, unable to restrain his feelings.
“Silence, Markham!” exclaimed the count, still more authoritatively than before. “Your time to speak will come.”
“We planned this work while he was in London,” continued the Resurrection Man; “and this very evening he told me over the garden wall that all was right.”
“Merciful God!” cried the count: “this is but too true!”
“Yes, sir—I certainly spoke to him,” said Richard,—“and from the garden too——”
“Mr. Markham, this continued interruption is indecent,” exclaimed the count emphatically, while a cold perspiration burst out upon his forehead, for he had recalled to mind the incident respecting the garden.
“I have little more to add, count,” said the Resurrection Man. “This Markham told me t
hat you had plenty of plate and money always in the house, and as he had lost nearly all his property, he should not be displeased at an opportunity of getting hold of a little swag. It was agreed that we should meet in London to arrange the business; and so we did meet at the Dark House in Brick Lane, where we settled the affair along with the Cracksman and the Buffer, who have just made off. This is all I have to say—unless it is that me and your friend Markham first got acquainted in Newgate——”
“Newgate!” ejaculated the count, with a thrill of horror.
“Yes—Newgate; where he was waiting to be tried for forgery, for which he got two years in the Compter. And that’s all. Let him deny it if he can.”
Scarcely were these terrible words uttered by the Resurrection Man, when a loud—long—and piercing scream was heard, coming from the direction of the staircase; and then some object instantly fell with violence upon the marble floor of the hall.
“Isabella! Isabella!” ejaculated Markham, turning hastily round to hurry to her assistance.
“Stop, sir—seek not my daughter,” cried the count, in a stern voice, as he caught Richard’s arm, and held him back. “Let not a soul stir until my return!”
There was a noble and dignified air of command about Count Alteroni, as he uttered these words, which could not escape the notice of Richard Markham, even amidst the crushing and overwhelming circumstances that surrounded him.
The count took the candle from Markham’s hand, and hastened to the aid of his daughter, who, half-dressed, was lying upon the cold marble of the hall. He hastened to raise her; and at that moment the countess appeared upon the stairs, followed by a lady’s-maid bearing a lamp.
The count reassured her in respect to the safety of the house, consigned Isabella to her care, and then returned to the pantry, where his presence was awaited in silence.
“Have you any thing more to say?” demanded the count of the Resurrection Man.
“Nothing. Have not I said enough?”—and he glanced with fiendish triumph towards Markham.
“Now, sir,” said the count, turning to Richard; “is the statement of this man easy to be refuted?”
“Alas! I am compelled to admit that, the victim of the most extraordinary circumstantial evidence ever known to fix guilt upon an innocent man, I was a prisoner in Newgate and the Compter; but——”
“Say no more! say no more! God forgive me that I should have allowed such a man to become the friend of my wife and daughter!”
The count uttered these words in a tone of intense agony.
“Count Alteroni, allow me one word of explanation,” said Richard. “Only cast your eyes over this paper, and you will be convinced of my innocence!”
Markham handed the document signed by Talbot, alias Pocock, to the count; but the nobleman tossed it indignantly on the floor.
“You have confessed that you have been an inmate of the felons’ gaols: what explanation can you give that will wipe away so foul a stain? Depart—begone! defile not my house longer with your presence!”
Vainly did Markham endeavour to obtain a hearing. The count silenced him with an air of command and an imposing dignity of manner that struck him with awe. Never did the Italian nobleman appear more really noble than when he was thus performing that which he considered to be an imperious duty. His fine form was drawn up to its full height—his chest expanded—his cheeks were flushed—and his eyes flashed fire. Yes—even beneath his dark complexion was the rich Italian blood seen mantling his countenance.
“Go, sir—hasten your departure—stay not another minute here! A man accused of forgery—condemned to an infamous punishment,—a liberated felon—a freed convict in my family dwelling——Holy God! I can scarcely restrain myself within the bounds of common patience when I think of the indignity that myself, my wife, and my innocent daughter have endured.”
With these words the count pushed Markham rudely from the pantry, and ordered a servant to conduct him to the front door.
The blood of the young man boiled in his veins at this ignominious treatment;—and yet he dared not rebel against it!
The Resurrection Man took his departure at the same time by the garden at the back of the house.
As Markham turned down the shrubbery, a window on the third floor of the count’s dwelling was thrown open; and the voices of Sir Cherry Bounce and the Honourable Captain Dapper were heard loading him with abuse.
Bowed down to the earth by the weight of the misfortune which had just fallen upon his head,—crushed by unjust and unfounded suspicions,—and sinking beneath a sense of shame and degradation, which all his innocence did not deprive of a single pang,—Markham dragged himself away from the house in which he had passed so many happy hours, and where he left behind him all that he held dear in this life.
He seated himself upon a mile-stone at a little distance from the count’s mansion, to which he turned his eyes to take a last farewell of the place where Isabella resided.
Lights were moving about in several rooms;—perhaps she was ill?
Most assuredly she had heard the dread accusations which had issued from the lips of the Resurrection Man against her lover;—and she would haply believe them all?
So thought Richard. Human language cannot convey an adequate idea of the heart-rending misery which the poor oppressed young man endured as he sate by the road-side, and pondered upon all that had just occurred.
Shame upon shame—degradation upon degradation—mountain upon mountain rolled on his breast, as if he were a modern Titan, to crush him and keep him down—never more to rise;—this was now his fate!
At length, afraid of being left alone with his own thoughts, which seemed to urge him to end his earthly woes in the blood of a suicide, he rose from the cold stone, turned one last sorrowful and lingering glance towards the mansion in the distance, and then hurried along the road to Richmond as if he were pursued by bloodhounds.
And not more fearful nor more appalling would those bloodhounds have been than the horrible and excruciating thoughts which haunted him upon his way, and of which he could not divest himself; so that at length a species of delirium seized upon him as he ran furiously onward, the mark of Cain appearing to burn like red-hot iron upon his brow, and a terrible voice thundering in his ear—“FREED CONVICT!”
CHAPTER XLVII.
ELIZA SYDNEY.
THE reader will remember that the events already related have brought us up to the close of 1838.
Thus three years had elapsed since the memorable trial which resulted in the condemnation of Eliza Sydney to an imprisonment of twenty-four long months in Newgate; and a year had passed since her release from that dread abode.
We therefore return to her again in December, 1838—about the same time that those incidents occurred which we detailed in the last few chapters.
Probably to the surprise of the reader, we again find Eliza Sydney the mistress of the beautiful villa at Upper Clapton.
Yes: on the evening when we once more introduce ourselves to her, she was sitting alone in the drawing-room of that house, reading by the side of a cheerful fire.
She was now twenty-eight years of age; and, although somewhat more inclining to embonpoint than when we first described her, she was still a lovely and fascinating woman. That slightly increased roundness of form had given her charms a voluptuousness the most ravishing and seductive, but the effects of which upon the beholder were attempered by the dignity that reigned upon her high and noble brow, and the chaste expression of her melting hazel eyes.
She was one of those fine creatures—one of those splendid specimens of the female sex, which are alone seen in the cold climates of the north; for it appears to be a rule in nature that the flowers of our species expand into the most luscious loveliness in the least genial latitudes.
Her mind was at ease, because she was pure in heart and virtuous in intention,—because she knew that she had erred innocently when she lent herself to the fraud for which she had suffered,—because she possessed a competency that secured her against care for the present and fear for the future,—and because she dwelt in that strict solitude and retirement which she loved, and which was congenial to a soul that had seen enough of the world to learn to dread its cruel artifices and deceptive ways.
We said that it was evening when we again introduce Eliza to the readers. A cold wind whistled without; and a huge Christmas log burnt at the back of the grate, giving an air of supreme comfort to that liberally-furnished room.
The French porcelain time-piece upon the mantel proclaimed the hour of eight.
Scarcely had the silvery chime ceased, when Louisa entered the room in great haste and excitement.
“Oh, ma’am! who do you think is here?” she cried, closing the door carefully behind her.
“It is impossible for me to guess, Louisa,” said Eliza, smiling.
“Mr. Stephens!” exclaimed the servant: “and he earnestly implores to see you!”
“Mr. Stephens!” echoed Eliza. “Impossible!”
“It is him, flesh and blood: but so pale—so ghostly pale—and so altered!”
“Mr. Stephens!” repeated Eliza. “You must be mistaken—you must be dreaming; for you are aware that, in accordance with his sentence, he must be very—very far from England.”
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 46