Stephens ceased; and taking a long rope from the corner of the barn where he had concealed it, he fastened it to the cord which already confined the hands and feet of Greenwood. He then attached the ends firmly to one of the upright beams of the barn, so as to prevent the captive from crawling away from the place.
This precaution being adopted, Stephens took his departure.
It would be impossible to describe the rage, vexation, and disappointment which filled the breast of Greenwood while Stephens addressed him in the manner described, and then bound him with the cord. Yet during this latter process he lay perfectly quiet,—well aware that any attempt at escape on his part would at that moment be totally unavailing.
Five minutes elapsed after Stephens had left the barn, and Greenwood was marvelling within himself how long he should have to remain in that unpleasant position—bound with cords, and gagged in such a way that he could only breathe through his nostrils,—when the sounds of footsteps fell upon his ear, and the light of the Cracksman’s lantern again flashed through the barn.
“Well, sir,” said the Cracksman, “your friend is gone now; and so we can have a word or two together. You see, we couldn’t help you afore, ’cos we was obliged to fulfil our agreement with the man which hired us for the evening. Now it is just likely that you may have to remain here for some hours if so be we don’t let you loose; so tell us what you’ll give us for cutting them cords.”
The Cracksman removed the gag from Greenwood’s mouth, as he uttered these words.
“I will give you my purse,” exclaimed the discomfited financier, “if you will release me this moment. It contains ten or a dozen guineas.”
“Thank’ee kindly,” said the Cracksman, drily; “we’ve got that already. We helped ourselves to it as we came across the fields. Don’t you see, we always make it a rule to have the plucking of all pigeons which we’re hired to snare. You told us we might take all we found on the swell in the sky-blue cab; and that man with the sallow complexion that hired us to do this here business to-night, said, ‘I will give you twenty pounds, and you can help yourselves to all you find about the gentleman you’re to operate on.’”
“Call upon me to-morrow, and I will give you another twenty pounds to free me from these bonds,” said Greenwood.
“That’s only the price of a good corpse,” said the Resurrection Man. “Make it thirty.”
“Yes—make it thirty,” added the Cracksman.
“Well—I will give you thirty guineas,” cried Greenwood: “only delay not another instant. My limbs are stiffening with the cold and with the confinement of these accursed cords.”
“Let it be thirty, then,” said the Cracksman. “Here, Tony,” he added, turning towards his companion, “hold this here light while I cut the cords. And while I think of it, Mr. Greenwood, I shan’t call upon you for the money; but you’ll send it to the landlord of the Boozing-ken, where your servant came and found me. Mind it’s there by to-morrow night, or else you’ll repent it—that’s all. Blowed if we haven’t had two good nights’ work on it, Tony. But, my eye! wasn’t I surprised yesterday when the man with the sallow face which hired us for to-night, told me that we was to come to that there willa yonder, and I found out as how it was the same that I’d cracked three year ago along with Bill Bolter and Dick Flairer. Arter all, there’s been some curious things about all these matters—partickler our having to tackle to-night the wery gentleman which we served last night.”
“Come—don’t talk so much, Tom,” said the Resurrection Man; “but let’s make haste and be off.”
“There—it’s done,” exclaimed the Cracksman: “the cords is all cut: you can get up, sir.”
Greenwood arose from the straw upon which he had been lying, and stretched his limbs with as much pleasure as if he had just recovered from a severe cramp.
He then reiterated his promise to the two men relative to the reward to be paid for the service just rendered him; and, having inquired of them which was the nearest way to the West End, he set out upon his long and lonely walk home, depressed, disappointed, and hesitating between plans of vengeance against Stephens and fears of exposure in his own vile and defeated machinations with regard to the beautiful Eliza Sydney.
CHAPTER LI.
DIANA AND ELIZA.
ON the morning following the events just narrated, Mrs. Arlington was seated at breakfast in a sweet little parlour of the splendid mansion which the Earl of Warrington had taken and fitted up for her in Dover Street, Piccadilly.[126]
It was about eleven o’clock; and the Enchantress was attired in a delicious deshabillé. With her little feet upon an ottoman near the fender, and her fine form reclining in a luxurious large arm-chair, she divided her attention between her chocolate and the columns of the Morning Herald. She invariably prolonged the morning’s repast as much as possible, simply because it served to wile away the time until the hour for dressing arrived. Then visits received, filled up the interval till three or four o’clock, when the carriage came round to the door. A drive in the park, or shopping (according to the state of the weather) occupied the time until six or seven. Then another toilet in preparation for dinner. In the evening a tête-à-tête with the Earl of Warrington, who had, perhaps, arrived in time for dinner,—or a visit to a theatre, the Opera, or a concert,—and to bed at midnight, or frequently much later.
Such was the routine of the Enchantress’s existence.
The Earl of Warrington behaved most liberally towards her. On the first day of every month he enclosed her a cheque upon his banker for two hundred guineas. He supplied her cellar with wine, and frequently made her the most splendid presents of jewellery, plate, cachmeres, &c. The furniture for her mansion had cost fifteen hundred pounds; and all the bills were paid in her name. She was not extravagant, as women in her situation usually are; and therefore, so far from incurring debts, she saved money.
We cannot say that the Earl of Warrington positively loved her. His first affections in life had experienced such a blight, that they might almost be said to have been interred in the grave of defeated hopes and aspirations. He could therefore never love again. But he liked Mrs. Arlington; and he had every reason to believe that she was faithful to him. He was charmed with her conversation and her manners: he saw in her a woman who gave herself no airs, but, on the contrary, exerted herself in every way to please him;—she never attempted to excite his jealousy, nor affected gusts of passion merely for the sake of asserting her independence or of proving the hold which she possessed over him;—and in her society he forgot the cares of politics (in which he was profoundly interested) and all those other little annoyances, real or imaginary, to which every one in this world is subject, be his condition never so prosperous!
And Diana was faithful to him. She was a woman naturally inclined to virtue:—circumstances had made her what she was. She looked upon the Earl of Warrington as a benefactor; and, although she did not actually love him more than he loved her, she liked him upon pretty nearly the same principles that he liked her. Her vanity was flattered by having captivated and being able to retain a handsome man, whose wealth and high rank rendered him an object of desire on the part of all ladies situated as was Diana;—she moreover found him an agreeable companion, kind, and indulgent;—and thus their liaison continued upon a basis which nothing appeared to threaten, nor even to weaken.
They never spoke of love in reference to their connection. The earl was never upon his knees at the feet of his mistress; nor did he repeat vows of constancy and fidelity every time he saw her. She acted on the same principle towards him. There was a great amount of real friendship and good feeling between those two;—but not an atom of mawkish sentimentality. The earl could trust Diana: he consulted her upon many of his plans and proceedings, whether in regard to his political career or the management of his estate; and she invariably te
ndered him the advice which appeared most consistent with his interests. He therefore placed the fullest confidence in her;—and hence have we seen her carrying out all his generous plans with reference to Eliza Sydney.
But to continue.
Mrs. Arlington was seated at breakfast, as we have before stated, when a servant entered and informed her that Miss Sydney requested a few minutes’ conversation with her. Diana immediately ordered Eliza to be admitted.
“Pardon this early and unceremonious visit, my dear friend,” said Eliza, affectionately grasping the hand that was stretched out to welcome her.
“I am always at home to you, Eliza,” answered the Enchantress. “But how pale you are! Come—sit down here—close by me—and tell me in what way I can be of service to you.”
“My dear friend,” continued Eliza, “I have a secret to reveal to you—and a deed of infamy to narrate——”
“Oh! you alarm me, Eliza! Has any harm happened to yourself?”
“No, thank heavens! The compunction of one man saved me from disgrace and ruin. But read this—it will explain all.”
With these words, Eliza handed to Mrs. Arlington the letter which Stephens had thrust under the stair-carpet at the villa on the preceding evening.
Diana perused the letter with attention; and a flush of indignation animated her fine countenance, as she thus made herself acquainted with the atrocious plot contrived by Greenwood against the honour of Eliza Sydney.
“Such is the villany of George Montague!” cried Diana at the termination of the perusal of that letter.
“Forgive me, dearest friend,” said Eliza, taking the hand of Mrs. Arlington and pressing it between her own;—“forgive me if I have kept back one secret of my life from your knowledge. That George Montague—I once loved him!”
“You!” exclaimed Mrs. Arlington in surprise.
“Yes, Diana—I once loved that man—before the fatal exposure which led to my imprisonment;—but he behaved like a villain—he endeavoured to take advantage of my affection;—and I smothered the feeling in my bosom!”
“Oh! you did well—you did well thus to triumph over a passion which would have been fatal to your happiness;—for never would your hopes have been fulfilled—with honour to yourself,” added Mrs. Arlington, sinking her voice almost to a whisper.
“Alas! you are right! I stood upon the brink of a precipice—I escaped;—but Montague, or Greenwood,—whichever he may choose to call himself,—pursues me with a view of accomplishing my dishonour.”
“The crimes of that man are unlimited, and his perseverance is unwearied,” said Diana.
“What plan can I adopt,” demanded Eliza, “to escape his machinations? What system can I pursue to avoid his persecution? Conceive my affright when upon awaking this morning, I remembered that I had not retired to bed last evening of my own accord—that I could think of nothing that had occurred since supper-time! Then I found that the bell-rope in my sleeping-room was cut, and that a weapon which I have been in the habit of keeping beneath my pillow ever since I first dwelt in the villa, had disappeared! Oh! I was alarmed—I shuddered, although it was broad day-light, and every thing was calm and silent around. At length I summoned the servant—and she entered, bearing a letter which she had discovered a few moments before beneath the stair-carpet. That letter is the one you read ere now;—and it explained all. Tell me—tell me, Diana, how am I to avoid the persecution, and combat the intrigues of this man?”
“Alas! my dear friend,” replied Mrs. Arlington, after a few minutes’ consideration, “I know of no effectual method save that of leaving London.”
“And if I leave London, I will leave England,” said Miss Sydney. “But I can do nothing without the consent of him to whom I am under such deep obligations.”
“You mean the Earl of Warrington,” observed Mrs. Arlington. “I admire the sentiment of gratitude which animates you. The earl will do all he can to forward your views and contribute to your happiness. You shall pass the day with me, Eliza; here at least you are safe;—and I will immediately write a note to the earl, and request him to call upon me without delay.”
“His lordship will be perhaps annoyed——”
“Fear nothing, Eliza. I will see the earl in another room. And let not this disinclination to meet you on his part, cause you pain: you well know the motive of his conduct. The memory of your mother——”
“I am well aware he can have no antipathy towards me, on my own account,” interrupted Eliza; “else he could not have acted towards me in a way which claims all my gratitude!”
Mrs. Arlington dispatched the note to Lord Warrington, and then hastened to dress to receive him.
In an hour the earl arrived.
He and Mrs. Arlington were then closeted together for a considerable time.
It was four o’clock when the nobleman took his departure, and Diana returned to the room where she had left Eliza Sydney.
“The Earl of Warrington,” said the Enchantress, whose countenance was animated with joy, “has listened with attention to the tale of atrocity which I have related to him in respect to George Montague Greenwood. His lordship and myself—for he does me the honour to consult me—have debated upon the best means of ensuring your tranquillity and safety; and we have decided that you had better quit England for a time. The perseverance of that bold bad man, backed by his wealth, may succeed in effecting your ruin—you yourself remaining innocent of guilty participation! The earl has recommended Italy as the country most likely to please you—and the more so because he himself possesses a charming villa in the State of Castelcicala.”
“How kind of his lordship!” exclaimed Eliza, tears of gratitude starting into her eyes.
“Some years ago,” continued Diana, “the earl set out upon a continental tour, and passed two years at Montoni, the capital of the Grand Duchy of Castelcicala. So charmed was he with that delightful city, that he purchased a small estate in the suburbs, with the idea of spending the summer from time to time amidst Italian scenery and beneath an Italian sky. The idea has, however, been displaced by others arising from new occupations and fresh interests; and for a long period has the villa at Montoni remained uninhabited, save by an old porter and his wife. The house is situate upon the banks of the river which flows through Montoni, and commands the most delicious views. That villa is to be your residence so long as it may be agreeable; and the earl will make arrangements with his London bankers so that your income may be regularly paid you by their agents at Montoni. His lordship has moreover instructed me to supply you with the necessary funds for your travelling expenses.”
“Oh! my dearest friend, how can I ever testify my gratitude——”
“Not a word—not a word!” interrupted Mrs. Arlington, playfully closing Eliza’s lips with her hand. “The earl conceives that he is performing a duty, sacred to the memory of his deceased uncle, in thus caring for you, who are the offspring of that uncle’s daughter; and, on my part, Eliza—on my part, it is a pleasure to do you a service. But I have not yet finished. The earl has gone straight to Richmond, to call upon a certain Count Alteroni—a noble exile from the Grand Duchy of Castelcicala—with whom it appears the earl was acquainted in Italy. His object is to obtain for you a few letters of introduction to some of the best families of Montoni, so that you may not want society.”
“I shall live in so retired a manner,” said Eliza, “that this additional act of kindness was scarcely necessary.”
“The earl will have his own way; and perhaps those letters may prove useful to you—who can tell?” exclaimed Mrs. Arlington. “But I must observe that I cannot think of parting with you any more until you leave England altogether. In three or four days the necessary preparations for your journey will be completed: meantime you must remain here as my guest. The earl himself recommended t
his step; that is,” added Mrs. Arlington, “if my house be agreeable to you, and my society——”
“Oh! how can you entertain a doubt on that head?” cried Eliza, embracing Diana with the most grateful fervour. “Ah! it is but a few hours since I said how happy I should be to call you by the endearing name of Sister?”
“And would you not blush, Eliza, to call me your sister?” said Mrs. Arlington, in a tone deeply affected.
“Blush to call you my sister!” exclaimed Miss Sydney, as if she repelled the idea with indignation: “Oh! no—never, never! You are the most noble-hearted of women, and as such, I love—I revere you!”
“We will then be sisters in heart, although not in blood,” said Diana, warmly returning her friend’s embrace; “and perhaps our affection towards each other will be more sincere than that existing between many who are really the offspring of the same parents.”
Mrs Arlington gave directions to her servant that she was not “at home” to a soul, save the Earl of Warrington; and the ride in the park—the shopping—the theatre in the evening—all were sacrificed by Diana to the pleasure of Eliza’s society.
Miss Sydney dispatched a note to the villa at Upper Clapton, announcing her intention of staying a few days with Mrs. Arlington. In the evening, Louisa, who had just returned from the journey on which the fictitious letter written by Stephens had sent her, made her appearance in Dover Street, with clothes, &c. for her mistress, and she then received instructions relative to the intended departure for the Continent.
CHAPTER LII.
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 52