Tidkins turned to the most recent Police Intelligence, and found his own case duly reported. Nothing, however, was said in that or any other department of the paper, which tended to excite an alarm lest his house in Globe Town had been discovered or any of his accomplices in his various crimes had been traced.
Thus reassured, he drank off the contents of his glass, and then recollected that he had no money in his pocket to pay for it. All he had about him when he was arrested, had been taken from him, according to custom, on his removal to Coldbath Fields.
Scarcely had this new embarrassment presented itself to his mind, when the door of the tap-room opened, and a man came forth. To Tidkins’s infinite relief it proved to be the Buffer, who started when he saw his old friend at liberty.
The Resurrection Man placed his finger upon his lip; and the Buffer instantly checked the ejaculation of astonishment which had risen to his tongue.
The trifling debt incurred for the liquor was immediately settled by the Resurrection Man’s friend; and the precious pair left the boozing-ken together.
As they walked along towards Globe Town, Anthony Tidkins related the particulars of his escape, at which the Buffer was monstrously delighted. Then, in reply to the Resurrection Man’s questions, the other stated that he had seen Banks on the previous afternoon, and that no inquiries of a suspicious nature had been made at that individual’s abode.
When they reached the door of the Resurrection Man’s house in Globe Town, the Buffer took leave of his friend, with a promise to call in the course of the day and bring the morning’s newspapers.
Tidkins was overjoyed when he again set foot in his back room on the first floor: and finding some gin in the cupboard, he celebrated his escape and return with a copious dram.
He did not immediately retire to bed, although he was sadly fatigued and bruised by the achievements of the night; but, taking down a bundle of keys from a shelf, he paid a visit to the subterranean department of his establishment.
The moment he placed the key in the lock of the private door up the narrow alley, he uttered a curse, adding, “This lock has been tried—tampered with! I know it—I could swear to it: I can tell by the way that the key turns!”
And the perspiration ran down his countenance:—for he trembled for the safety of his treasure!
With feverish impatience he opened the door, and entered that part of his strangely-built house.
Having obtained a light, a new circumstance of alarm struck him: the door of the back room was standing wide open!
“And I can swear that I closed it the last time I ever came here!” he cried aloud. “Some one has been to this place;—and that some one must be Banks! The sneaking scoundrel! But he shall suffer for it.”
With a perception as keen as that of the North American Indian following the trail of a fugitive foe, did the Resurrection Man examine the floor of the room; and his suspicions that some one had been thither were confirmed by the appearance of several particles of damp dirt, which had evidently been left by the feet of an intruder within the last few hours.
“Worse and worse!” thought the Resurrection Man. “And, by Satan! the trap has been raised!”
This was evident; for the brick which covered the iron ring in the masonry of the chimney, had not been restored to its place.
“I could not have left it so!” cried Tidkins, aloud: “no—it is impossible! Some one has been here!”
With almost frantic impatience he raised the trap, and descended into the subterranean.
Entering one of the cells,—not the same whence the Rattlesnake had stolen his treasure,—he raised a stone, and then almost shrank from glancing into the hollow thus laid open.
But mastering his fears,—those fears which owned the influence of avarice far more than that of danger or of crime,—he held the lantern over the hole, and plunged his eyes into its depth.
“Safe!—all safe—by God!” he exclaimed, as four or five canvas bags met his view.
Then, in order to convince himself of the reality of the presence of his treasure, he opened the bags one after the other, and feasted his sight upon their glittering contents.
“It can hardly be Banks who has been here,” he mused to himself, as he restored the bags to their place of concealment, and then rolled the stone back into its setting: “nothing could escape the keenness of his scent! He would have pulled up all the pavement sooner than have missed what he came to look for. And then, too, he is not the man to leave the brick out of its place, so as to show the secret of the stone-trap to any other curious intruder that might find his way here. No—no: Master Banks would pay a second and a third visit to this place, if he felt sure of finding any thing concealed here; and he would leave every thing close and snug after each search. But some one has been here! Unless—and I might have done such a thing as to forget to replace the brick,—I might have done so;—and yet it is barely possible!” continued Tidkins, in deep perplexity, and almost as much alarmed as Robinson Crusoe was upon discovering the print of the human foot upon the sand of his island. “Then there is that damp mud, too—and the door that was open—and the lock that has been tampered with! But suppose the mud came from my own shoes the last time I was here? the place is very damp—and it mayn’t have got dry. It might also have been myself that left the door open;—and as for the lock—it is an old one, and may begin to work badly. Besides—I remember—the last time I was here, I was in a deuce of a hurry: it was just before I went down to Banks’s to see him settle that job with Kate Wilmot. So, after all—my fears may be all idle and vain! However, I shall send for Banks presently, when the Buffer comes again; and I’ll precious soon tell by his sneaking old face whether he has been here, or not, during my absence!”
Thus reasoning against the feasibility of his fears,—as men often do in cases of doubt and uncertainty, and when they are anxious to persuade themselves of the groundlessness of their alarms,—Tidkins left the subterranean, and returned to his chamber, where he immediately went to bed.
But his fears were well founded: some one had visited the subterranean during the hours while he himself was occupied in escaping from Coldbath Fields’ Prison.
That intruder was not, however, Banks—nor any one of the Resurrection Man’s accomplices in crime.
CHAPTER CCXXIX.
THE WIDOW.
We must now return to that beautiful little villa, in the environs of Upper Clapton, to which we introduced our readers in the early portion of this history, and where we first found Eliza Sydney disguised in the garb of a man.
Nothing was altered in the appearance of that charming suburban retreat, either externally or internally,—unless it were that there were no dogs in the kennels nor horses in the stables, and that the elegant boudoir no longer displayed articles of male attire.
But the trees around were green with the verdure of Spring; the fields, stretching behind far as the eye could reach, were smiling and cultivated; and umbrageous was the circular grove that bounded the garden.
In the parlour on the ground-floor still hung the miniatures of Eliza and her dead brother—that brother whom she had personated with such fatal consequences to herself!
And now on the sofa in that parlour sate Eliza Sydney herself,—dressed in deep mourning.
She was pale—but beautiful as ever!
The snow-white widow’s cap concealed her bright chesnut hair, save where the shining masses were parted, glossy and smooth, over her lofty and polished forehead.
The high black dress and plain collar covered the snowy whiteness of her neck, but still displayed the admirable contours of her bust.
Her countenance bore a somewhat melancholy but resigned expression; and the amiability of her soul shone in her large, soft, melting hazel eyes.
It was noon—about a week after the date of the in
cidents related in the preceding chapter.
Scarcely had the time-piece upon the mantel proclaimed the mid-day hour, when a carriage drove up to the front door of the villa.
A few moments elapsed; and three visitors were ushered into the parlour where Eliza awaited them.
These were the Prince and Princess of Montoni and Katherine Markham.
Eliza extended her hand with ingenuous courtesy towards Richard, saying, “Prince, no selfish feelings can prevent me from congratulating you on that proud position which your prowess and your virtues have achieved for yourself.” Then, offering her hand to Isabella, she added, “Nor need I wait for a formal introduction to one whom I now see for the first time, but of whom I have heard so much that I am well prepared to become her friend—if her Highness will permit me.”
There was something so sweet and touching—something so frank and sincere—in the manner of the exiled Grand-Duchess of Castelcicala, that Isabella’s heart was instantaneously warmed towards her. Moreover, the young Princess felt all the noble generosity of that conduct on the part of one who had lost a throne by the events which had led to the happiness of herself and her husband, and which had achieved the exaltation of her parents.
Thus were those two beauteous creatures attracted to each other the instant they met; and Isabella, instead of receiving the outstretched hand that was offered as the pledge of friendship, threw herself unto Eliza’s arms.
It was a touching picture,—the embrace of that charming bride and that scarcely less charming widow!
In due course Markham presented his sister to the exiled Grand-Duchess, who received her in the most affable and cordial manner.
When the first excitement of this meeting was over, and they were all seated, Eliza broke a temporary silence which ensued.
“The last time we met, Prince,” she said, addressing herself to our hero, “no human foresight could have divined the great events that were so shortly to ensue—the brilliant destinies that were in waiting for yourself.”
“And if there be one regret which I have experienced,” observed Richard, “arising from those events, it is that they deprived an amiable lady of that throne which her virtues embellished. But the cause of Castelcicalan freedom outweighed all other considerations; and the duty imposed upon me by those adherents who made me their Chief, was stern, solemn, and imperative.”
“You need not reproach yourself,” exclaimed Eliza: “you need not entertain a moment’s regret on my account! All that occurred was inevitable—and it was for the best. Castelcicala panted for freedom—and she had a right to claim it. This I may assert without injustice—without insult to the memory of my husband. And had no such reclamation been made by the people of Castelcicala—had no revolution occurred—had Angelo been more prudent, and less severe—Alberto would still at this moment be the sovereign of that country. For my husband had long been afflicted with a disease of the heart that was incurable, and that must inevitably have terminated in a sudden death. As I informed you in my letter of yesterday, he had scarcely reached the city of Vienna, where he was received as became his rank, and lodged in one of the imperial palaces, when he was taken ill, and in a few hours breathed his last. His misfortunes could not have accelerated an event which his physicians had previously seen to be near at hand—although this prescience was all along religiously concealed from me. You have therefore, Prince, naught wherewith to reproach yourself on that head.”
“Your kind assurances are conveyed in a spirit worthy of your generous heart,” said Richard—and Isabella, who was greatly affected by the noble behaviour of Eliza, enthusiastically echoed her husband’s sentiments.
“It was but a week ago,” continued Eliza, “that I received the tidings of the late Grand-Duke’s death. He had misunderstood me—he had suspected me—and we had parted in anger: nay—I had fled to save myself from his fury!”
“May I hope—and yet I dare not—that the generous behaviour of your Serene Highness towards me,” observed Richard, “proved not the cause of that lamentable misunderstanding?”
“Oh! I should be grieved—deeply grieved, were such indeed the case!” exclaimed Isabella; “for Richard has made me acquainted with all the details of your Serene Highness’s noble conduct towards him after he was taken prisoner at Ossore.”
“I will explain all,” said Eliza. “But, in the first place,” she added, with a sweet smile, “let me entreat a favour of you all. You style me by that title which became mine when I was honoured with the hand of the late Grand-Duke Angelo, and which still is mine, did I choose to adopt it;—for the new Government has passed no decree to deprive me of it.”
“Nor ever will!” exclaimed Richard, warmly.
“And yet I now value it not,” continued the royal widow. “Thanks for that assurance, Prince;—but it is unnecessary. I was ever happier as Eliza Sydney, than as the Marchioness of Ziani, or as the Grand-Duchess of Castelcicala. As Eliza Sydney I left England: as Eliza Sydney I returned to England;—and by that name do I wish to be known. Nay—I implore you not to interrupt me: if you would please me—if you would do aught to contribute to my happiness—if you value my poor friendship,—that friendship, which, poor as it is, I so cordially offer to you all,—let me henceforth be Eliza Sydney, as I once was. When I came back three months ago to my native land, I re-entered this house—which is my own—with feelings of a far more peaceful happiness than those which I experienced when I first set foot as its mistress in the palace of Montoni. Here do I hope to pass the remainder of my days; and if you will sometimes come to cheer my solitude, I shall require no other source of felicity—no other society.”
“We will visit you often, dearest Eliza—for so you will permit me to call you,” said Isabella; “and you must come to our dwelling frequently—very frequently! It shall be the care of my husband, his dear sister Katherine, and myself, and also of the friends who dwell with us, to contribute to your happiness to the utmost of our power!”
Eliza pressed Isabella’s hand, and smiled sweetly upon her and Katherine through the tears that stood upon her lashes.
“But I promised you an explanation of those events which led to my precipitate departure from Castelcicala,” continued Eliza, after a short pause. “You must know that the loss which the ducal troops experienced at Ossore—chiefly through your prowess, Prince—overwhelmed my late husband with a fury which rendered him terrible to all around. He threatened the most deadly vengeance against the Constitutional prisoners, and was only persuaded by my entreaties and prayers to relinquish the extreme measures which he at first conceived against them. It was, I think, on the fourth day after you, Prince, left Montoni, disguised as an artist, and with a passport made out in a fictitious name, that the usher who had admitted you into the palace, and who, it appeared, had listened at the door of the room where our interview took place, betrayed the whole circumstances to the Grand-Duke. The Grand-Duke came immediately to my apartment, overwhelmed me with reproaches, and levelled the most unjust accusations against me. But I will not insult you nor your amiable bride by repeating all that the Duke said on that occasion. Never were suspicions more cruel: never was woman’s conduct so thoroughly misunderstood—so unjustly interpreted! His Serene Highness commanded me to keep my own chamber—to consider myself a prisoner! An hour afterwards, Signor Bazzano contrived to obtain access to me, unperceived by the spies set to watch me. His uncle was, as I think I informed you when we met at Montoni, Prince, the Under-Secretary of State for the Home Department; and from that relative Bazzano had learnt the fearful tidings which he came to impart to me. It appeared that the Grand-Duke intended to appoint a Commission of Judges and Councillors of State to try me—me, his wife! All his former affection for me had suddenly changed, beneath the weight of his injurious suspicions, into the most unbounded hatred. I knew that he would form the commission of men rather inclined to do the royal bidding
than to investigate the entire matter with justice and impartiality. He was a prince who knew no other law than his own sovereign will! Alas! that was his failing; and it triumphed over all the better feelings of a mind naturally generous! Signor Bazzano also informed me that spies had been sent out all over the country to track you, Prince; and that your death, should you be captured, was determined upon. Fortunately, however, you escaped the pursuit of your foes!”
“And yet what danger must you have incurred!” exclaimed Isabella, gazing with tearful affection at her husband.
“Providence shielded you, dearest brother,” murmured Katherine.
“Yes—Providence shielded him for its own wise and good purposes,” added Eliza Sydney. “To continue the thread of my narrative, I must observe that the information brought me by the faithful Bazzano filled me with alarm. I already saw myself disgraced by an unjust verdict:—my life was even in danger. I was not compelled to implore Signor Bazzano to assist me to escape: he proposed the step as the only means of safety alike to myself and to him—for he was already endangered by the revelations of the usher, although the influence of his uncle had served to shield him from the immediate vengeance of the Grand-Duke. A post-chaise was procured by Bazzano that same afternoon; and I managed to escape from the palace, accompanied by Louisa—a faithful Englishwoman who has been in my service for some years. At Friuli Signor Bazzano met you, Prince, and gave you a timely warning, the nature of which you can now understand. For it was known that you had quitted Montoni, attended by a servant of dark complexion; and the spies sent after you were therefore led to inquire for two persons answering a certain description, and journeying together. Thence the recommendation to separate company, which Bazzano so wisely gave you; and perhaps to that circumstance of thus parting from your servant you each owed your safety. In reference to my own flight it only remains for me to say that we proceeded to Montecuculi, having left behind us at Friuli an impression that we were going in quite another direction. Arrived in safety at Montecuculi, we sent back the chaise to Montoni, and secured places in a public vehicle for the nearest town in the Roman States. Our perils were soon over:—we travelled day and night until we reached Leghorn, in Tuscany, where we embarked on board a vessel bound for England. Shortly after my arrival here, the news of the Castelcicalan insurrection reached this country; and then I heard, Prince, that you were at the head of the Constitutionalists.”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 100