Then, rising from his seat, he dashed it with some degree of violence upon the hard ground.
It exploded in the twinkling of an eye, with a din as loud as that of a blunderbuss; and both Vernon and the Resurrection Man were immediately enveloped in a dense cloud of black and sulphurous-smelling smoke.
When the dark volume had blown away, Vernon beheld the cadaverous countenance of the Resurrection Man looking towards him with a grin of ferocious satisfaction.
“Well—will that do?” cried Tidkins, triumphantly.
“Admirably,” answered Gilbert, averting his face—for there was something fiend-like and horrible in the leer of his companion.
There was a short pause; and then those two villains resumed their conversation. But as the remainder of their discourse was connected with the last act of their tragic drama, which we shall be compelled to relate in detail, it is unnecessary to record in this place any more of what passed between them upon the present occasion.
After having been nearly an hour together, Gilbert Vernon and the Resurrection Man separated, in order to return by different routes to the Hall.
Five minutes after they had left the building, the head of a man looked cautiously over the brink of the empty cistern to which Tidkins had jocularly alluded, and which stood on the top of the least dilapidated portion of the lodge.
Seeing that the coast was now perfectly clear, the person who was concealed in the cistern emerged from his hiding-place and let himself drop lightly upon the ground.
This individual was the gipsy, Morcar.
Being on his way to London,—alone, and upon some business connected with his tribe,—he had stopped to rest himself in those ruins: but he had not been there many minutes, when he heard the sound of footsteps; and, almost immediately afterwards, he beheld, through a cranny in the wall behind which he was seated, the well-known form and features of the Resurrection Man.
His first impulse was to dart upon the miscreant and endeavour to make him his prisoner; but, seeing that Tidkins looked suspiciously about, Morcar instantly imagined that he had some object in seeking that place. At the same time it struck him, from his knowledge of the Resurrection Man’s character, that his object could be no good one, and he resolved to watch the villain’s proceedings.
Thus, while Tidkins was waking the circuit of the ruins, Morcar clambered noiselessly and rapidly up to the cistern, in which he concealed himself.
The consequence was, that the gipsy overheard the entire discourse which shortly afterwards ensued between Tidkins and Vernon; and a scheme of such diabolical villany was thus revealed to him, that his hair almost stood on end as the details of the fearful plot were gradually developed by means of that conversation.
When the Resurrection Man and Gilbert Vernon had taken their departure, and Morcar had emerged from his hiding-place, his first impulse was to proceed to Ravensworth Hall and communicate everything he had overheard to the lady of that mansion.
But, ere he took that step, he sate down, with the usual caution that characterizes his race, to ponder upon the subject.
We have before stated that it is repugnant to the principles of the Zingarees to be instrumental in delivering a criminal over to any justice save their own and Morcar knew that if he did adopt such a course, he must necessarily appear as a witness against the two villains whose dark designs he had so strangely discovered. This appearance in a court of justice would sorely damage him with his tribe, over whom he was to rule at his father’s death.
It is, however, probable that the excellent effects of Richard Markham’s example upon the generous-hearted Morcar would have hushed those scruples and induced him to do what his good sense told him was his duty towards society, had not the sudden reminiscence of a certain portion of the conversation he had overheard confirmed him in the opinion that he should be acting more prudently to counteract the project of the two villains at the moment it was to be put into execution, rather than deliver them up to justice ere it was attempted.
“I am now so bent upon the deed,” had one of the miscreants said, “so resolved to become the owner of these broad lands and yon proud mansion—that I will even risk my neck to attain that end!”
The reasoning which these words now engendered in Morcar’s mind, was coincidentally similar to that upon which Eliza Sydney’s conduct had been based.
“This man,” thought Morcar, “who dared to utter such sentiments, is the member of a noble family—the next heir after an infant child, to the title and lands of Ravensworth. Would the word of a wandering gipsy be for a moment credited against his indignant denial of the accusation which I should make against him, were he now delivered up to justice? And, were he to escape from that accusation, would he not commence anew his dark plots against the life of that child who seems to stand in his way? Far better will it be for me to counteract his scheme, and then proclaim his guilt when my evidence can be corroborated by the fact that he did attempt the deed of which he will stand accused! Yes—it must be so. Then will the law for ever remove him from a scene where his detestable machinations would sooner or later prove fatal to their innocent object!”
Having devised a mode of proceeding, Morcar quitted the ruins, and bent his way towards the Three Kings public-house, which was about a mile distant.
On his arrival at the little rustic inn, the gipsy sauntered into the tap-room, where he sate down, and ordered some refreshment.
At one of the tables five men were busily engaged in devouring bread and cheese and washing down the same with long draughts of Barclay and Perkins’s Treble X. They were thin, but well-made and athletic-looking fellows; and were dressed in garments of which fustian and corduroy were the principal materials. On the bench near them were several bundles tied up in handkerchiefs, through the openings and holes of which the quick eye of the gipsy caught sight of certain nankin breeches and flesh-coloured stockings, such as are worn by itinerant mountebanks. In a corner of the room stood a large drum, and near it a wicket basket with a lid.
Morcar was convinced that these persons were the same to whom Vernon and Tidkins had alluded.
His object was now to get into conversation with them; and this was easily effected by one of those casual remarks upon the weather which invariably commence a discourse between strangers in this country.
“Fine day,” said the gipsy, after quenching his thirst with half the contents of a pint of porter.
“Very, indeed,” replied one of the men. “Have you walked far this morning?”
“Pretty well,” returned Morcar. “I’m going to London presently,” he added with apparent carelessness, “to try and astonish the people a little.”
“Ah!” exclaimed another of the jugglers: “and how so? For it must be a clever feller to do that with the Londoners. But may be your people have got hold of some new way of telling fortunes—for the old one is veared out by this time, I should think.”
“You suppose that because I am of the gipsy race I must be connected with women who tell fortunes,” said Morcar, laughing good-naturedly. “Well, so I have been; but now I’m going to begin in a new line. In fact I don’t mind telling you what it is—it’s no secret; and I’m half inclined to believe that it’s more or less in your way also,” he added, glancing significantly towards the drum and the bundles.
“If you could only do some new trick in our line,” cried one of the men, eagerly, “you’d make your fortune: but it must be a good one, mind.”
“I can do a trick that, I flatter myself, no other man in England can perform,” said Morcar, still speaking in a careless, indifferent kind of way. “But as you tell me that you are in the juggling line——”
“Yes—we are; and we ain’t ashamed on ’t,” exclaimed two or three of the men together.
“Well—then I’ll explain to you what I can do,” continued
Morcar. “I’ve made a net that winds round an immense long roller, which must be raised upon two upright stakes. When the net is drawn out at dusk, or in a darkened room, it shows a thousand different figures—men, animals, fish, birds, snakes, and monsters of all kinds.”
“Capital!—capital!” exclaimed the jugglers.
“But that isn’t all,” continued Morcar. “These figures all move about—skip—leap—dance—fly—crawl—or seem to swim, according to their nature.”
“Come, come—that won’t do!” said one of the men, who began to think the gipsy was bantering them.
“It’s as true as you’re there,” answered Morcar seriously; “and it’s very easy to do, too:—only a little phosphorus and other chemical things, skilfully used in a particular way. I reckon upon setting all the young children wild with delight when they see it.”
“And if you can really do what you say,” observed the man who had last spoken, “you’re safe to make your ten bob a-day. But then,” he added, with a sly glance towards his companions, “the trick won’t take so well alone: it ought to come after the usual exhibition of chaps like us.”
“That’s just what I have been thinking myself,” cried Morcar. “Only, as I didn’t know any people in your way——”
“Well, now you know some, at all events,” interrupted the spokesman of the party of jugglers; “and though I say it what shouldn’t perhaps, you won’t find a jollier or better set of fellers than us in all England. What should you say to making a bargain with us?”
“I have no objection,” replied Morcar: “we can but give the thing a trial. But I would rather begin in the country, if possible, than in London.”
“The very ticket!” cried the man: “you shall begin to-night. We’re hired to perform at that great house which you see from the window: and, as we are to be there about half an hour before sunset, it will just be dark enough at the end of our performances for you to show yours. What do you say?”
“Let us settle the terms,” answered Morcar; “and I’ve no objection.”
The five jugglers, who were evidently much delighted at the prospect of securing so valuable an addition to their troop, consulted together in whispers for a short period, while Morcar hummed a tune as if perfectly indifferent whether a bargain were concluded or not. The men did not fail to remark his free and off-hand manner, and took it as an unquestionable proof of his confidence in the value of his invention and the success which must attend upon its exhibition. They therefore resolved to enlist him on almost any terms.
“Well,” said the spokesman of the party, at length turning towards Morcar once more, “me and my partners here have no objection to give you one-third of the earnings.”
“That will suit my purpose uncommonly,” replied Morcar: “so let us shake hands upon it.”
“And wet it,” added one of the jugglers, who, as the gipsy subsequently discovered, was the musician of the party—his instrumental harmony being composed of the huge drum and a set of Pandean pipes, vulgarly called a mouth-organ.
The process of shaking hands all round and of imbibing more strong beer was then gone through; after which the jugglers became very anxious to see the marvellous net that was to make their fortunes. They were, therefore, somewhat disappointed when Morcar informed them that one of the tribe had conveyed it to London in his cart the day before; but their elongating countenances expanded once more into smiles of satisfaction when he assured them that he would instantly set off after it, and be with them again at least an hour previously to the time when they intended to visit the mansion in the neighbourhood.
Matters being thus arranged, Morcar took his departure—rejoiced at the success of his project, though somewhat annoyed at having been compelled to utter so many falsehoods to the credulous jugglers. But this vexation was speedily dissipated by the remembrance of the important duty which he had undertaken; and he moreover intended to make the poor fellows a handsome recompense for the disappointment they were destined to experience relative to the wonderful net.
It is not necessary to follow the gipsy’s footsteps to the metropolis, and back to the Three Kings again: suffice it to say that he made his appearance at the little public-house shortly after six o’clock in the evening—much to the joy of the five jugglers, who began to imagine that he had been hoaxing them.
But all their suspicions vanished when they beheld the gipsy return, with an iron rod, as long as a hop-pole, and round which the magic net was rolled, over his shoulder.
This rod was not much thicker than the thumb, but the bulk of the burden was considerably increased by the folds of the net.
And at that net did the jugglers stare with such eager eyes, that Morcar could hardly contain his laughter: for the net was nothing more than a common one of the very largest size, such as poachers use to drag canals and small rivers. It was, however, very strong, and when stretched out would cover a room eighteen feet long, by twelve in width.
The iron rod was about thirteen feet long, and the net was rolled round it breadthways.
“You will let us have a sight of the thing before we go?” said one of the jugglers.
“I had rather rest myself for half an hour, or so if you please,” returned Morcar. “My walk to-day has been none of the shortest; and I am sadly fatigued. Your curiosity will keep till by and by; for as I have fulfilled my word in coming back, you surely can trust me when I tell you that this net, simple as it may appear, will do all I have promised. Besides, we should only have the trouble of darkening the room, which must be done with blankets, as there are no shutters.”
“Let our new friend have his own way, Mike,” said the musician of the troop.
“And now,” continued Morcar, “I must propose a certain condition, without giving any explanation, but it belongs to my part of the performance. What I require is this:—one of you must remain entirely with me from the moment I pitch the stakes to which this net is to be fastened; and the one who so remains with me, must do just as I direct him in the arrangement of the net; because I must seize a particular time of the evening, in regard to the twilight, to unrol it.”
“Well—that can be managed without difficulty,” said the man who had been addressed as Mike. “It is always my business to collect the coppers after the exhibition; and I take no share in the performances. So I can remain with you—and whatever you tell me to do, shall be done.”
“So far, so good,” exclaimed Morcar. “And now as it is pretty nearly time to set off, we had better begin to dress.”
“Are you going to dress too?” demanded Mike, with mingled satisfaction and astonishment.
“Only just to disguise myself a bit,” answered Morcar, taking a huge red wig from one pocket and a hideous mask from another; “because there’s often a prejudice amongst people—especially young ones—against gipsies.”
“So there is,” observed Mike. “Besides, it’s much better to go in character, as they say.”
The jugglers were now in high spirits; and they speedily addressed themselves to the process of changing their common apparel for the professional costume.
CHAPTER CCXXXVIII.
THE PERFORMANCE.
The evening was serene and beautiful.
A few thin vapours floated lazily through the blue arch, the hue of which was deliciously mellowed by the golden light of the sun.
It was about seven o’clock; and the principal inmates of Ravensworth Hall were collected in the drawing-room.
Adeline, pale, emaciated, and care-worn, was reclining upon the sofa; and near her sate Eliza Sydney.
The nurse was walking up and down the apartment, with the infant heir in her arms.
Gilbert Vernon was standing outside the window, on a spacious balcony, around which were placed green wooden boxes and garden-pots containing shrubs and early flowers.
/> “The evening is very beautiful,” said Eliza, in a low tone, to Adeline: “will you not walk with me through the Park? The nurse shall accompany us, and the child can be well wrapped up. But, indeed, there are no dangers to fear—for the earth is parched with the heat of the day.”
“I feel incapable of any energy,” answered Adeline, mournfully—very mournfully. “Never have my spirits been so depressed as they are this evening. Methinks that a presentiment of evil near at hand, weighs upon my soul. Oh! when will this dread state of suspense terminate? For five long weeks has it now lasted——”
“Hush! lady—speak lower!” interrupted Eliza. “Mr. Vernon might suddenly enter from the balcony.”
“Ah! my dear friend,” returned Adeline; “do I not suffer a fearful penalty for my crimes? But human nature cannot endure this doubt—this appalling uncertainty any longer! What does he mean? what can be his plans?”
“Would that we were indeed able to read them!” said Eliza, earnestly. “But the term of this strange drama must speedily arrive,” she continued, sinking her voice to a scarcely audible whisper, as she leant over the unhappy lady whom she thus addressed. “Vernon does not remain here from motives of pleasure: he has not abandoned his projects.”
“Yet wherefore should he appear so affectionate towards the child?” asked Adeline. “When he first took my sweet Ferdinand in his arms, oh! how I trembled lest he should strangle him in his embrace; and had not a look from you reassured me, I should have shrieked with terror! But now I scarcely entertain a fear when I see my brother-in-law fondle my child. Tell me, dear friend—how must I account for this altered state of feelings?”
“Habit has taught you to subdue your alarms in this respect,” replied Eliza Sydney. “Your brother-in-law has gradually devoted more and more of his attention to your dear Ferdinand; and as he never seeks to take him—nor even to approach him—save with your consent, you are to some extent thrown off your guard. Then, as a mother, you are naturally inclined to think better of that man since he has thus seemed to manifest an affection for his nephew. But, be not deceived, lady—his soul is deep and designing! Think you that he cares for a babe not yet ten weeks old? Oh! no—it is not probable! And when he talks in a hypocritical tone of his lamented brother’s child—and expresses those apparently earnest hopes that the heir of Ravensworth may eventually prove an honour to the noble house to which he belongs, and to the ancient name which he bears,—ah! be not deceived by him, lady—I implore you: he means nothing that is good—he is playing a part, the true object of which I cannot fathom!”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 109