The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics)

by George W. M. Reynolds

  But it was immediately followed with a terrific cry of agony; and the Resurrection Man fell heavily against the door.

  “My eyes! my eyes!” he exclaimed, in a tone indicative of acute pain: “O God! I am blinded!”

  “Sight would be of no use in that dark dungeon,” said Crankey Jem, with inhuman obduracy of heart towards his victim.

  “Are you not satisfied now, demon—devil—fiend!” almost shrieked the Resurrection Man. “The powder has blinded me, I say!”

  “It was damp, and only exploded partially,” said the avenger. “Try again!”

  “Wretch!” exclaimed Tidkins; and James Cuffin heard him dash himself upon the paved floor of the cell, groaning horribly.

  * * *

  Ten days afterwards, Crankey Jem set to work to open the door of the dungeon.

  This was no easy task; inasmuch as the nails which he had driven in were strong, and had caught a firm hold of the wood.

  But at length—after two hours’ toil—the avenger succeeded in forcing an entrance into the cell.

  He knew that he incurred no danger by this step: for, during that interval of ten days, he had scarcely ever quitted his post outside the door of the dungeon; and there had he remained, regaling his ears with the delicious music formed by the groans—the prayers—the screams—the shrieks—the ravings—and the curses of his victim.

  At length those appalling indications of a lingering—slow—agonising death,—the death of famine,—grew fainter and fainter; and in the middle of the ninth night they ceased altogether.

  Therefore was it that on the morning of the tenth day, the avenger hesitated not to open the door of the dungeon.

  And what a spectacle met his view when he entered that cell!

  The yellow glare of his lantern fell upon the pale, emaciated, hideous countenance of the Resurrection Man, who lay on his back upon the cold, damp pavement—a stark and rigid corse!

  Crankey Jam stooped over the body, and examined the face with a satisfaction which he did not attempt to subdue.

  The eyes had been literally burnt in their sockets; and it was true that the Resurrection Man was blinded, in the first hour of his terrible imprisonment, by the explosion of the gunpowder in an iron pipe running along the wall of the dungeon!

  The damp had, however, rendered that explosion only partial: had the train properly ignited, the entire dwelling would have been blown into the air!

  * * *

  A few hours afterwards, the following letter was delivered at Markham Place by the postman:—

  “Your mortal enemy, my lord, is no more. My vengeance has overtaken him at last. Anthony Tidkins has died a horrible death:—had he lived, you would have become his victim.

  “JAMES CUFFIN.”

  CHAPTER CCLVIII.

  THE APPOINTMENT KEPT.

  It was the 10th of July, 1843.

  The bell upon the roof of Markham Place had just proclaimed the hour of nine, and the morning was as bright and beautiful as the cheerful sun, the cloudless sky, and the gentle breeze could render a summer-day,—when a party of eight persons ascended the hill on which stood the two trees.

  Those emblems of the fraternal affection of early years were green, verdant, and flourishing; and on the one which had been planted by the hands of the long-lost brother, were the following inscriptions:—

  Eugene.

  Dec. 25, 1836.

  Eugene.

  May 17th, 1838.

  Eugene.

  March 6, 1841.

  Eugene.

  July 1st, 1843.

  This last inscription, as the reader will perceive, had only been very recently added; and Richard regarded it as a promise—a pledge—a solemn sign that the appointment would be kept.

  It was nine o’clock in the evening when the parting between the brothers took place in the year 1831; and, although it was impossible to determine at what hour of the day on which the twelve years expired, Eugene would return, nevertheless Richard, judging by his own anxiety to clasp a brother in his arms, felt certain that this brother would not delay the moment that was to re-unite them.

  Accordingly, at nine o’clock on the morning of the 10th of July, 1843, the Prince repaired to the eminence on which he hoped—oh! how fondly hoped—full soon to welcome the long-lost Eugene.

  His seven companions were the Princess Isabella, Ellen, Mr. Monroe, Katherine, Mario Bazzano, Eliza Sydney, and the faithful Whittingham.

  Richard could not conceal a certain nervous suspense under which he laboured; for although he felt assured of Eugene’s appearance, yet so long a period had elapsed since they had parted, and so many vicissitudes might have occurred during the interval, that he trembled lest the meeting should be characterised by circumstances which would give his brother pain.

  The Princess Isabella, naturally anxious to become acquainted with her brother-in-law, also looked forward to the return of the long-lost one with emotions which enabled her to comprehend those that animated her husband; and pressing his hand tenderly as they seated themselves on the bench between the trees, she whispered, “Be of good cheer, Richard: your brother will keep the appointment—and oh! what joy for us all!”

  On her side, Katherine was the prey to various conflicting feelings,—anxiety to know a brother whom she had as yet never seen—fear lest he should not come—and curiosity to be convinced whether he were as amiable, as generous-hearted, and as deserving of her sisterly love as Richard.

  And Ellen—poor Ellen!—how difficult for her was the task of concealing all the emotions which agitated her bosom now! But she nevertheless derived much encouragement and hope from the frequent looks of profound meaning which were directed towards her by Eliza Sydney.

  Bazzano endeavoured to soothe the anxiety of his beloved Katherine; while Mr. Monroe and Whittingham shared to a considerable degree the suspense which now animated them all.

  * * *

  It was about a quarter past nine o’clock, when Mr. Greenwood halted by the road-side, at a spot which commanded a view of the hill-top whereon stood the two trees.

  He was on foot; and though he had so far recovered from his recent accident as to exhibit only a very trifling lameness in his gait, still the short walk which he had taken from Islington to the immediate vicinity of Markham Place, compelled him to pause and rest by the way-side.

  He looked towards the hill, and could plainly distinguish the number of persons who were stationed on that eminence.

  A deadly pallor overspread his countenance; and tears started from his eyes.

  But in a few moments he exercised a violent effort over his emotions, and exclaimed aloud, with a kind of desperate emphasis, “I have promised her to go through the ordeal—and I must nerve myself to do so! Ah! Ellen,” he added, his voice suddenly changing to a plaintive tone, “you have forced me to love you—you have taught me to bless the affectionate care and solicitude of woman!”

  This apostrophe to his wife seemed to arouse all the better feelings of his soul; and without farther hesitation, he pursued his way towards the hill.

  In a few minutes he reached a point where the road took a sudden turn to the right, thus running round all one side of the base of the eminence, and passing by the mansion itself.

  There he paused again;—for although the party assembled on the hill were plainly perceived by him, he was yet unseen by them—a hedge concealing him from their view.

  “Oh! is the dread ordeal so near at hand?” he exclaimed, with a temporary revival of bitterness of spirit. “Scarcely separated from him by a distance of two hundred yards—a distance so soon cleared—and yet—and yet——”

  At that instant he caught sight of the figure of his wife, who, having advanced a few paces in front of her companions, stood more conspicuously than they
upon the brow of the hill.

  “She anxiously awaits my coming!” he murmured to himself. “Oh! why do I hesitate?”

  And, as he spoke, he was about to emerge from the shade of the high hedge which concealed him,—about to turn the angle of the road, whereby he would immediately be perceived by those who stood on the hill,—when his attention was suddenly called elsewhere.

  For, no sooner had the words—“Oh! why do I hesitate?” issued from his lips, than a post-chaise, which was dashing along the road towards London at a rapid rate, upset only a few paces from the spot where he had paused to glance towards the hill.

  One of the fore-wheels of the vehicle had come off; and the chaise rolled over with a heavy crash.

  The postillion instantly stopped his horses; while a man—the only traveller whom the vehicle contained—emerged from the door that was uppermost, and which he had contrived to open.

  All this occurred so rapidly that the traveller stood in the road a few instants after the upsetting of the chaise.

  Greenwood drew near to inquire if he were hurt: but, scarcely had his eyes caught a glimpse of that man’s features, when he uttered a cry of mingled rage and delight, and sprang towards him.

  For that traveller was Lafleur!

  “Villain!” cried Greenwood, seizing hold of the Frenchman by the collar: “to you I owe all my misfortunes! Restore me the wealth of which you vilely plundered me!”

  “Unhand me,” exclaimed the ex-valet; “or, by heaven——”

  “Wretch!” interrupted Greenwood: “it is for me to threaten!”

  Lafleur gnashed his teeth with rage, and endeavoured to shake off his assailant with a sudden and desperate effort to hurl him to the ground.

  But Greenwood, weakened though he was by illness, maintained his hold upon the Frenchman, and called for assistance.

  The postillion knew not whose part to take, and therefore remained neutral.

  Lafleur’s situation was most critical; but he was not the man to yield without a desperate attempt to free himself.

  Suddenly taking a pistol from his pocket, he aimed a furious blow, with the butt-end of the weapon, at the head of Greenwood, whose hat had fallen off in the struggle.

  The blow descended with tremendous force: and in the next moment Greenwood lay senseless on the road, while Lafleur darted away from the spot with the speed of lightning.

  For an instant the postillion hesitated whether to pursue the fugitive or attend to the wounded man; but he almost immediately decided in favour of the more humane course.

  Upon examination he found that Greenwood’s forehead had received a terrible wound, from which the blood was streaming down his temples.

  He was moreover quite senseless; and the postillion, after binding the wound with a handkerchief, vainly endeavoured to recover him.

  “Well, it won’t do to let the poor gentleman die in this way,” said the man to himself; and, after an instant’s reflection, he remembered that Markham Place was close at hand.

  Depositing Greenwood as comfortably as he could on the cushions which he took from the chaise, he hastened to the mansion, and related to the servants all that had occurred.

  Without a moment’s hesitation,—well knowing that their conduct would be approved of by their excellent master,—three stout footmen hastened, with the means of forming a litter, to the spot where the postillion had left Greenwood.

  On their arrival they found that he had to some extent recovered his senses; and a cordial, which one of the footmen poured down his throat, completely revived him.

  But, alas! he was aroused only to the fearful conviction that he had received his death-blow; for that mysterious influence which sometimes warns the soul of its approaching flight, was upon him!

  “My good friends,” he said, in a faint and languid tone, “I have one request to make—the request of a dying man!”

  “Name it, sir,” returned the senior footman; “and command us as you will.”

  “I conjure you, then,” exclaimed Greenwood, speaking with more strength and animation than at first,—“I conjure you to remove me on that litter which your kindness has prepared, to the spot where your master, his family, and friends are now assembled. You hesitate! Oh! grant me this request, I implore you—and the Prince will not blame you!”

  The servants were well aware of the motive which had induced their master and his companions to repair to the hill-top thus early on this particular day; and the urgent request of Greenwood now excited a sudden suspicion in their minds.

  But they did not express their thoughts: there was no time to waste in question or comment—for the wounded gentleman, who had proffered so earnest a prayer, was evidently in a dying state.

  Exchanging significant glances, the servants placed Greenwood upon the litter; and, aided by the postillion, set out with their burden towards the hill.

  The angle of the road was passed; and the party bearing the wounded man, suddenly appeared to the view of those who were stationed on the hill.

  “Merciful heaven!” exclaimed Richard, with a shudder: “what can this mean?”

  “Be not alarmed,” said Ellen: “it can have no reference to Eugene. Doubtless some poor creature has met with an accident——”

  “But my own servants are the bearers of that litter which is approaching!” cried the Prince, now becoming painfully excited. “A man is stretched upon it—his head is bandaged—he lies motionless—Oh! what terrible fears oppress me!”

  And as he uttered these words, Richard sank back almost fainting upon the seat.

  The gallant warrior, whose heart had never failed in the thickest of the battle—whose courage was so dauntless when bullets were flying round him like hail—and whose valour had given him a name amongst the mightiest generals of the universe,—this man of a chivalrous soul was subdued by the agonising alarm that had suddenly menaced all his fond fraternal hopes with annihilation!

  For so ominous—so sinister appeared to be the approach of a litter at the very moment when he was anxiously awaiting the presence of a long-lost brother, that his feelings experienced a revulsion as painful as it was sudden.

  And now for a few moments the strange spectacle of the litter was forgotten by those who crowded round our hero in alarm at the change which had come over him.

  Even Ellen turned away from the contemplation of that mournful procession which was toiling up the hill;—for she had seen Greenwood on the preceding evening—she had left him in good health—she had raised his spirits by her kind attentions and her loving language—and she did not for one moment apprehend that he could be the almost lifeless occupant of that litter!

  “Pardon me, sweet Isabella—pardon me, dear Kate—and you also, my devoted friends,” said Richard, at the expiration of a few minutes: “I am grieved to think that this weakness on my part should have distressed you—and yet I cannot be altogether ashamed of it!”

  “Ashamed!” repeated Isabella, tenderly: “Oh! no, Richard—that word can never be associated with act or feeling on your part! For twelve years you have been separated from your brother—that last inscription on his own tree promises his return—and your generous heart is the prey of a suspense easily aggravated by the slightest circumstance of apparent ill omen.”

  “You describe my feelings exactly, dearest Isabel,” said Markham, pressing with the tenderest warmth the hand of his lovely young wife.

  “Because I know your heart so well,” answered the Princess, with a sweet smile.

  “Let us not believe in omens of an evil nature,” said Katherine. “Some poor creature has met with an accident——”

  “But wherefore should the servants bring him hither?” asked Richard.

  This question produced a startling effect upon all who heard it: and no wonder that it did so—f
or the consideration which it involved had escaped all attention during the excitement of the last few minutes.

  “Oh! heavens—now I am myself alarmed!” whispered Ellen to Eliza Sydney. “And yet it is foolish——”

  At that moment the litter had approached so near the brow of the hill, that as Ellen glanced towards it while she spoke, her eyes obtained a full view of the countenance of him who lay stretched upon that mournful couch.

  A piercing shriek burst from her lips; and she fell back, as if suddenly shot through the heart, into the arms of Eliza Sydney.

  Richard sprang forward: a few steps brought him close by the litter, which the bearers now placed upon the ground beneath the foliage of the very tree whereon the inscriptions were engraved!

  One look—one look was sufficient!

  “Eugene—my brother Eugene!” exclaimed our hero, in a tone of the most intense anguish, as he cast himself on his knees by the side of the litter, and threw his arms around the dying man. “Oh! my God—is it thus that we meet? You are wounded, my dearest brother: but we will save you—we will save you! Hasten for a surgeon—delay not a moment—it is the life of my brother which is at stake!”

  “Your brother, Richard!” cried Isabella, scarcely knowing what she said in that moment of intense excitement and profound astonishment: “your brother, my beloved husband? Oh! no—there is some dreadful mistake—for he whom you thus embrace is Mr. George Montague Greenwood!”

  “Montague—Greenwood!” ejaculated Richard, starting as if an ice-bolt had suddenly entered his heart. “No—no—impossible, Isabella! Tell me—Eugene—tell me—you cannot be he of whom I have heard so much?”

  “Yes, Richard—I am that villain!” answered Eugene, turning his dying countenance in an imploring manner towards his brother. “But do not desert me—do not spurn me—do not even upbraid me now!”