“Ye may go to Bath,” replied the fair one, “and if that does’nt agree with your constitution, why go to ———” and she named a locality of much higher temperature.
“I say, Sall, ye vont go, vont ye?” and Mr. Spicer made an advance three steps nearer to the lemon box.
“Not the length of that nose of yours, and its the longest and ugliest in the room. If it would’nt be an impertinent question, Mr. Spicer, what did ye do wid ye’r other nine wives?—By gogstay—if all the neighbours say is true, Bluebeard was a gentleman to ye!”
The remark was an unhappy one. A lady, whom Mr. Spicer in earlier life had honoured with his hand, had been found dead under suspicions circumstances, which rendered it a doubtful point to determine whether her sudden exit was attributable to gin or strangulation. In consequence, Mr. S. had to enter into a lengthened explanation at the Old Bailey; and “having the luck of thousands,” the jury gave him the benefit of a doubt, and finally left it upon gin. The allusion, therefore, touched rather a tender point, and hurried matters to a crisis.
Mr. Spicer sprang forward, and seized his lady by the arm—and Mark Antony, retaining the other, put in a decided remonstrance. In Scott’s parlance—
“Few were the words, and stern, and high,
That mark’d the foemen’s jealous hate;
For question fierce, and proud reply,
Gave signal soon of dire debate.”
Mr. Spicer, discommoding himself of his coat and neckcloth, made a sporting offer to fight for five pounds, which Mr. O’Toole accepted, only making the consideration love, and not money—a proposition that was received with general applause.
To all official accounts of modern battles, “preliminary observations” are prefixed. In early life, Mr. Spicer had been professional—but, obtaining what he considered a safer line of business, he abandoned the ring, to repose himself under the shade of his own laurels. Blinded by the green monster, he reckoned a little too much upon his former science, forgetting the odds that youth and superior size had placed against him. Both parties had their backers.—“Now, old-un, mind your dodge!” exclaimed the supporters of Mr. Spicer—while the admirers of Mark Antony, recommending the “young-un to be awake,” added, “that the ould file was a deep dodger;” and intimated that it would be advisable to “look sharp to his left daddle, for that was his nasty one.” One other appeal—and a last one, came from the corner; “For the sake of Jasus, to keep the skrimmage as far from the corps as they could.” The admonition was the cry of wisdom, and it was disregarded accordingly.
A briefer conflict never disappointed a sporting assembly. The artful dodge, on which Mr. Spicer depended, failed; and in trying his left, he received a per contra favour that brought the battle to a close. A flush hit sent him into the corner with astonishing velocity; and in his rapid transit, he took with him not only the master of the ceremonies, but also, the mortal remains of Mistress Malone, and the whole apparatus on which the defunct lady had been extended.
At this appalling catastrophe, the outbreak of the chief mourner was responded to by “the cry of women.” The single-legged professor declared his ruin complete, that instrument from which he discoursed such excellent music being “in smithereens,” while it was exceedingly doubtful, whether that Mr. Spicer was not defunct as Mrs. Malone. When the first uproar had partially subsided, the corpse was lifted by the ladies—the polygamist raised by his friends and allies—and the fiddler allowed to regain his perpendicular as he best could—while the admirers of Mark Antony, after eulogizing his pluck, and paying a delicate compliment to his powers as “a punisher,” hinted that it would be prudent to withdraw, that it might be ascertained if Mr. Spicer had been gathered to his fathers, or whether he was only “kilt, not killed and, finally, until the mortal remains of Mrs. Malone should be duly reported in statu quo ante bellum,” which, being translated, means “stretched genteelly as before the shindy had occurred.”
To the ratcatcher the prudence of an immediate retreat was manifest; and while general attention was divided between “the dying and the dead,” the fosterer and his friend quietly levanted, leaving, what a few minutes before had been an harmonious assemblage, in most admired disorder.
The rapidity with which Irish rows are commenced and concluded is proverbial. Under the directions of a sailor, the wreck was cleared; and Mr. Spicer, whose advent had brought on the battle and “crossed the obsequies, and true-love’s rights,” was declared to be still a living man; and being resuscitated by gin and neighbourly attention, he was once more committed to the care of his gentle helpmate. The dear departed one again received
“The latest favour at the hands
That, living, honoured her;”
and the wake being restored to pristine solemnity, the afflicted husband resumed his seat, vented his sorrows in soft melody, and again gratified the company with a song. What were the after-proceedings at Mr. Malone’s evening party we are not prepared to say; but no doubt some notice touching the wind-up of the symposium, might be discovered by the curious in the police chronicles of the time.
On the following afternoon, the funeral of Mrs. Malone was correctly “performed;” and on the same evening on which I had made my entree on the world, that lamented gentlewoman bade it a last adieu. The mourners separated at the grave-yard, each to return to his respective vocations; and the captain and the fosterer retired to the Fox and Goose, to deliberate on affairs of paramount importance. The question was one of ways and means; and, as it would appear, the subject had not been considered until circumstances imperatively required that financial arrangements should be entered on.
“What the devil’s to be done?” observed the ratcatcher. “We’re down to thirty shillings between us—and a week’s rent due to-morrow.”
“I thought, before now,” returned the fosterer, with a sigh, “that something would have turned up—but I’m afraid, copteeine, we settled in the wrong quarter of the town for any thing but love, drink, and fighting.”
“Feaks,” said the ratcatcher, “and I’m pretty nearly of the same opinion. Mark, jewel—what if we step over to the other side of the city—and may be we might hear of something that one could turn his hand to?”
“It’s too late this evening,” replied the fosterer.
“Not at all, Mark—it’s scarcely gone eight.”
“But Shemus, the truth is, I have a bit of an engagement.”
“Where, and what to do?” inquired the ratcatcher, suspiciously.
“Why,” said the fosterer, “just as they sodded Mrs. Malone, a girl slipped this letter into my hand.”
“What is it about?”
“Nothing, but an invitation to tea.”
“Taa!” ejaculated the captain, horror-struck. “If ye take to taa-drinkin’, Hector, avourneeine, its over with ye! What destroyed Dick Macknamara but these accursed taa-parties? May the devil smother the first inventer of the same!—And where are ye invited to?” The fosterer, instead of answering the inquiry, presented the billet he had received in the grave-yard to the honest ratcatcher, who, with some difficulty having managed to decypher the writing, read the contents, which were as follow:—
“leg lane, thursday, six o’clok.
“dear Sir,—i was gratley Consarnt you shood get in Trubbil on my Acount last Nite, and the Naybors alow ye Behavd lik a Reglar gentleman. Spicer’s gon to the Sittay on bisnis that’il keep him All evenin’—So if you Cood make it Convanient to slip in fair an asey About 8 o’clok, wee wood have a Cup of taa, an’ sum Agreeabel con-versashin. The Favir of yer Compnay will grateley Obleege,
“Yours to Comand,
“Sarah Spicer.”
“P. S.—For the Seak of Geesus, don’t let aney body no Nothin’ at the Fox and Gose—they’r’ Sure to split, an’ no mistake. If Mister Magrale wood sit in the wee Windy next the Door of the Fox, and the divell druv Spicer horn, he’d be sure to see the oul screw Turnin’ the corner, and have Time to give us the offis.
‘My Pen is Bad, my ink is pale,
But my Hart too you will niver fail.’
“Your Lovin’ friend, S.— S —.”
“n.b.—You’l Fine the door onley shut too—Push, an’ it will Opin.
“Yours, as Before.
“Too Mister Otool, ecc. &c. &c. &c.”
“You would not be mad enough to go,” said the captain, as he returned Mrs. Spicer’s flattering invitation.
“And how can I get over it?” inquired the fosterer.
“Now mark my words—for you’re bent on it, I see,” continued Shemus Rhua—“your taa-drinkin’ will end in trouble. They say here, that Spicer’s house is notorious for harbouring the most desperate characters in the Dials. If you’re caught—no fair play like the wake—but you’ll be set on by half a score, out and out, murdered, and no one to assist you. Mark, astore—stay where ye are!”
But, like his greater namesake, Mark Antony, led by Dan Cupid, seemed determined to run blindly to destruction; and, disregarding the warnings of the ratcatcher, he resolved
“To love again, and be again undone”—
and accordingly departed for the domicile of Mr. Spicer.
Shemus Rhua, when left alone, ensconced himself in the casement described in the lady’s letter, as “the wee windy next the door,” to take out-post duty for the evening, and secure the fosterer against surprise. Full of dark forebodings, he recalled to memory the divers misfortunes which had befallen his unlucky protegee, Dick Macnamara, and all were clearly attributable to his unfortunate predilection for drinking tea; and therefore, that Mark Antony’s visit to Mrs. Spicer would prove disastrous, he fatally anticipated. Between every blast of the dhudheeine, he turned a suspicious eye to the corner of the street from which danger might have been expected, and proved himself thus invaluable as a videt, as he had been prudent as a counsellor.
The door of Mr. Spicer’s mansion was exactly in the state that the lady had described it—and, yielding to his push, the fosterer found himself in the presence of the lady.
Aware that time was valuable, Mrs. Spicer, after mutual wishes of good health had been ratified by a glass of rum, proceeded at once to business. She hinted at the infelicity of her marriage—and expressed her determination to effect a divorce according to the forms of St. Giles, by which the tedious formalities of law are avoided, and no necessity exists for troubling the House of Peers. Of course, she must, as a prudent woman, provide herself with a future protector; and, in brief terms, she confessed the secret of her love, and tendered her hand and fortune to the safe custody of Mr. O’Toole.
How much soever the fosterer might have been flattered into a temporary flirtation by the declared preference of a pretty woman, still, true to the cantatrice and plighted faith, he declined the offer. But Mrs. Spicer was not easily to be refused; and considering that charms might do much, but money more, she added that inducement. Taking a key from her bosom, she proceeded to unlock a strong cupboard built into the Avail of the apartment, and, from external appearances, formed for a place of security.
“This,” she said, “is the place the ould fellow keeps his cash in—and may be ye’ll be after askin’, how I came by the key?—Feaks, an’ I’ll tell ye.—You see, Spicer used to get mixed when any of the lodgers would stand the liker—and we had a cracksman over-head, and he was so smart a young man, and so obligin’! Well, I picks the ould file’s pocket, an’ he blind drunk; and, before he woke again, Sam Parkins had fitted this one to the lock. Poor Sam!—he was a spicy cove not like the dark sneaking body-snatcher that came after him.‘Gad, I’m half afeerd to go up the stairs at night, for fear I would tumble over a stiff-un in a sack, as I did last Tuesday comm late from Con Halligin’s house-warmin’.” As she spoke, she applied the key, while the fosterer was lost between feelings of astonishment and disgust.
“Stop! What are you doing?” he exclaimed. But the deed was already done, and Mr. Spicer’s treasury feloniously opened to inspection. From this depositary, his faithless spouse produced a small box; and on lifting the lid, the fosterer perceived that it contained a number of bank notes, with money in every variety of coinage, being the produce of that worthy gentleman’s long and industrious life. The lady looked at her intended lover with a smile of triumph—
“You see, Mark dear, I won’t go to you empty-handed.”
“Whose property is that?” inquired the fosterer, suspiciously.
“Whose but the ould screw’s,” returned the lady. “Say but the word, and, Mark, every shilling shall be yours.”
“What! would you rob? and rob your husband too?” ^
“Ay, and not leave the ould rogue a mag to bless himself upon,” returned the unblushing offender.
“Let me out!” exclaimed the indignant fosterer. “By heaven! I should fear if I remained longer that the roof would fall!”
“Stay, Mark darline”—and Mrs. Spicer endeavoured to arrest the escape of her refractory admirer. “Where will you get one that loves you so tenderly, and that will bring you such a lump of money into the bargain as myself?”
“And how is that money to be gotten?” returned the fosterer, indignantly. “By the worst robbery of all—the plunder of a husband by the woman who should stick to him to the death!”
“Stay, just and hear me.”
“Not another minute!” exclaimed Mark Antony. “Every moment I remain here, I feel as if I were giving encouragement to a thief.”
It has been said, that “hell has no fury like a woman spurned; and Airs. Spicer proved that truth. Her colour fled the glow of passion with which she had vainly urged the honest Irishman to share her ill-acquired wealth, changed to the ashy hue of hatred and, springing suddenly forward, she placed her back against the door to bar the fosterer’s egress. He took her arm, and firmly but quieth, repeated his determination to leave the house.
“Never!” she exclaimed, “unless you take me with you.”
“Are you mad, woman?” returned the fosterer; “and would you keep me here until your husband returned, and discovered jour villanous intentions against himself?”
At the moment, a strong force from without dislodged the lady from the door, and the voice of the ratcatcher continued,—“And, upon my soul! that may be done without much loss of time, as the honest man and a couple of d——d ill-looking acquaintances, are coming round the corner.”
The announcement of Mr. Spicer’s advent produced an instant and awful effect on the feelings and countenance of his amiable consort.
“Holy Antony!” she exclaimed; “we’re all ruined and undone. Off with ye at once!” and she sprang forward to the window, and after a hurried glance down the street, added, in a voice of terror, “Lost! lost!—it’s too late—and there will be murder! Ha! I have it—quick, quick!” and after locking Mr. Spicer’s treasury, she rushed up stairs, followed by Mark Antony and his guardian genius, Shemus Rhua.
Mrs. Spicer stopped before a door on the first landing-place of the upper story, and unlocking it, introduced her visitors into a dark apartment, filled with lumber and old furniture; and having cautioned them to be silent, as every movement could be heard in the next room, she hastily retired, with an assurance that she would deliver them from captivity so soon as she “made the ould screw safe.”
“‘Pon my conscience,” whispered the ratcatcher, “we’re in a nate situation, Mark astore! What did I tell ye ye’r taa-drinkin’ would bring us to? Cromwell’s curse on the importer of the same herb, say I—for luck nor grace niver attended them that took to it! Here we are, as snug as if we were in Newgate, and that’s pleasant.”
“Hush, Shemus,” returned the captain’s companion; “they’re come!” as the steps and voices of several men were heard ascending the lower stairs.
During this brief colloquy, the ratcatcher and his élève had each applied an eye to a fissure in the wood-work; while, ensconced in darkness, they saw distinctly afterwards all that passed within. The room and its occupants are easily described.
The former was a comfortless attic, with a blinded window, a truckle bed, and a few mean articles of furniture. In one corner, there were mattocks and shovels, with other implements of unusual formation, used by gentlemen in the resurrection line; while in another, there appeared a choice collection of jemmies, skeleton keys, and every tool employed in burglary; all bespeaking that the tenant of the room was a person of general acquirements, and equally an adept, whether taken as a cracksman or a body-snatcher.
The appearance of the twain was most remarkable. The elder was, a stout, ill-visaged, swarthy Hebrew, with voluminous whiskers, and a most repulsive face; the other, that thing of legs and arms, whom we have already introduced as the confidant of Mr. Brown.
“How devilish dark!” remarked the hunchback.
“The better at times for business,” returned a second voice. “Stop—there’s a tinder-box on the table;” and the sparkle of flint on steel, was followed by the steadier glare proceeding from a lighted candle.
It was quite apparent that the caution to remain silent from Mrs. Spicer was necessary; for through the chinks in the crazy wood-work of a door which divided the apartments, the slightest sound was heard distinctly.
“We’re full late, and the sooner we are off the better,” returned the first speaker.
“We’ll be time enough for some people, for all that. A man can’t go without his tools, Master Frank; and just keep yourself quiet, and I’ll be with you in a shake.”
“Make haste, Josh. All’s ready; and fortune has done more for us than I could expect.”
“Well,” said the Jew to the hunchback, “and how is the trick to be done?”
“Safely,” replied the other. “Julia Travers has got him to meet her. Lord, what a girl it is!—There’s not a decoy in London to be compared to her. He believes her to be a soldier’s orphan—and she played her game so deep, and dressed so well too—I would have passed her myself in the street, and never suspected she was anything but a regular respectable. Well, Jim and the smasher are waiting at the dark turn of the alley—we follow—and while the chap’s attention is engaged in front, his back will be to you.”
“I understand ye; and this shall settle matters.”
The ruffian took from the implements of his villanous profession, a murderous weapon formed of whalebone and lead, and then producing a glass and bottle, the hunchback and he drank a glass to good-luck, extinguished the candle, and, locking the door of the apartment, descended the staircase, and closed the street door heavily.
Before the fosterer and his friend could express their mutual astonishment, the key was turned in the door of the closet where they had lain perdue, and Mrs. Spicer presented herself.
“Hush!” she said, “for the sake of Heaven!—My husband has gone for a minute to the Fox!—Hurry—or we’re ruined!”
She took Mark Antony’s hand—piloted him down stairs—the ratcatcher followed—and when both had gained the street, she shut the door suddenly, leaving her lover and his friend, as they say in Ireland, “on the right side to run away.”
The rapidity with which Mrs. Spicer had effected their deliverance, enabled Mark Antony and his companion to reach the street so close upon the heels of the ruffians, that they saw them turn the corner. By a sort of mutual consent, they too took the same direction; and, keeping the scoundrels in sight, regulated their movements as they proceeded. As the clock struck ten, St. Paul’s churchyard was at the same moment honoured with the presence of divers personages—to wit, myself and the incognita, the Jew and the hunchback—and, by a strange accident, the fosterer and Shemus Rhua. How singular—that my deliverance from certain death should have been effected through the agency of my foster brother!
While the parties paused for a few moments in the church-yard, the brief remarks that passed indicated the feelings and business of the triads.
“How imprudent this meeting must appear, sir! and how unguarded in a female to venture out at this unseasonable hour!” was whispered in the softest voice imaginable to some remark of mine, as I passed the arm of the incognita through mine.
“By Heaven, the thing is safe!” said the hunchbacked villain, in an under-tone, to his confederate. “See how blindly the poor flat runs into the snare, and follows the beck of the deepest dodger that ever betrayed a fool! Stick close; and mind your blow! Oh, that I had man’s strength!—there’s not in Britain one who loves a daring deed more dearly.—Would that the arm was equal to the heart!—How I shall delight to see that tall idiot, who would stare or smile at my deformity, grovelling on the earth, and wondering how he contrived to get his skull cracked, while he thought only of Julia’s charms, and fancied himself in full security.”
“Can ye see them, captain?” whispered the fosterer; “I can’t distinctly, the night’s so dark.”
“Many a darker one I have watched the soldiers pass me on the heather, after I was an outlaw,” replied the ratcatcher. “I see a man and woman. See, they turn to the right, under yonder drowsy-looking lamp; and there—those other two—one the dark scoundrel we overheard, and the cursed cripple he was talkin’ to. What are we to do, Mark?”
“Stick to the villains like a brace of blood-hounds,” replied the fosterer.
“I don’t half like it,” said the ratcatcher; “remember, Mark, how nearly I was being hanged about the tailor’s wife. There’s sure to be murder; and, holy Mary! all this comes out of taa-drinkin’!”
Through dark and intricate turnings, the soldier’s daughter conducted me. I found the arm that was locked in mine tremble, and yet the night was far from cold. As we advanced, the lanes became darker and less frequented, and I could not avoid remarking, how dreary and deserted the immediate neighbourhood of my young friend’s residence appeared to be. She replied—the tone of voice was agitated. Was she ill? I asked the question, and gently put my arm round her for support. Suddenly, some terrible emotion convulsed her.
“No—no—no!” she exclaimed: “not for thousands will I do it! There’s guilt enough upon my soul already!”
“Come, Julia,” I said, not clearly hearing what she said; “I must get you assistance. Come on.”
“Not another step,” she murmured. “Return—quick, quick—away, away!”
She caught my hand convulsively, turned her lips to my ear, whispered in a deep, low voice, “Ten paces further, and you are murdered!” and bounding from my side, vanished in the darkness, leaving me the most confounded gentleman that ever followed that will-o’-the-wisp—a woman.
“Malcolm. This murderous shaft that’s shot,
Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way
Is, to avoid the aim.”
“For ‘tis the sport, to have the engineer
Hoist with his own petar.”
Shakspeare.
It was pitch dark, and the locality as much unknown as if I had been dropped into Kamschatka. What the devil was I to do? I threw my cloak off, rolled it round my left arm, and firmly grasped my sapling; then, commending myself to the especial protection of St. Patrick, I endeavoured to retrace my steps.
I blundered on for half a minute, a low rascally whistle immediately in my rear assuring me that I was in vicarious society, from which the sooner I parted company the better. Moving a pace or two forward, my steps evidently attracted the attention of the scoundrels, for a low voice inquired, “Is that you—Josh?”
I never felt less inclination to be communicative, and silently continued my retreat. The suspicions of the cut-throats were confirmed. I heard a voice desire his comrade to “Come on,” adding, with an oath, “the bird’s alarmed!”
It was idle attempting to steal a march upon an enemy already on the alert; and a dreadful conviction shot across my mind, that escape from assassination was hopeless. To be coldly butchered in the dark—to be hurried from the stage of life at the very moment of my entrance on it—and in the spring of manhood to fill a bloody grave, with every thing prospectively before me which renders human existence desirable—the thought was horrible. These feelings were but momentary, and other ideas filled my mind. To resist to the uttermost—to display, even in death, a tiger-like ferocity—this changed the current of my thoughts, and a soul-sinking despondency gave place to the terrible calmness which desperate circumstances produce. I quickened my pace—my steps fell heavily on the pavement—the murderers increased their speed—and both parties rushed forward in the dark; I at random, and they in the full expectancy of attaining their object, and gaining the recompense which was to be contingent on my destruction.
Acquainted with the locality of the dark lanes in which I found myself unfortunately involved, the scoundrels closed upon me fast, and at last I was regularly brought to bay.
“Back, villains!” I exclaimed.
“All’s right—that’s he—at him, Jim!” was responded.
In one thing the darkness favoured me. My sapling was unperceived; the ruffians closed fearlessly—and the first intimation that they had “caught a tartar” was by the bolder of the twain being sent to the ground with a crashing blow that shattered his jawbone, and rendered him hors de combat. His companion instantly fell back, and I was about to wheel round and continue my retreat, when a heavy blow from behind knocked off my hat, and a knife grazed my arm through the folds of the cloak that, fortunately for me, had formed its protection. Need I say that the fresh assailants were the bravo and hunchback? while, encouraged by their assistance, the scared ruffian resumed the offensive.
My chances of escape appeared utterly hopeless. The ruffians, by dividing my attention on either side, had enabled the hunchback to creep in and grasp my legs within his long and bony arms. Happily the knife dropped from his hold in his first attempt to stab me, and the night was too dark to enable him to pick it up again. I strove to shake him off, but the wretch clung to me with that virulent tenacity with which a reptile coils itself around its victim. In the attempt to free myself from the cripple, I struck my foot against a stone, stumbled, and, before I could recover my footing, a blow brought me to the ground, the assassins sprang in, and my fate seemed sealed.
That brief space of exquisite agony I shall never forget. Oh, God.’ how hard it is to die! and die, as I should, by felon hands, prostrate and powerless, murdered “i’ the dark,” without the satisfaction of even in an expiring effort “stinging the wretch that stung me.” That moment’s misery was ended. Steps were heard. I hallooed “Murder!”
A voice, and, saints and angels! an Irish one, replied.
The hunchback then hastily cried, “Quick!—strike!—brain him!”
I caught the miscreant by the throat as the last word passed his lips—and next moment two figures flitted past my fading vision, as a blow fell upon my head, and laid me senseless.
Presently I awoke as from a dream. A man supported me; another put a cup of water to my lips; and a couple of crippled watchmen held their lanterns over us. I looked at my supporter; he was strange. My eye turned to his companion. In the dim light his features were not remembered—and yet the hand that held the water to my lips was my foster brother’s. By degrees consciousness returned.
“Where am I?” I muttered.
“Arrah, the Lord only knows!” responded the ratcatcher.
“Was I not attacked—stabbed—knocked down? Who were the assailants? Where are they?” I continued, as wandering recollections of the past flitted across my memory.
“Sorra one of us knows who they were; but if you searched London through, you would’nt pick out an uglier couple. One was a spider-built divil without a back, and the other a black-muzzled thief of a Jew, with whiskers you could hang your hat on. They’re off—had luck pursue them!—and among these twists and turnings, ye might as well look for a rat in a rabbit warren, as ferret them out, the ruffins of the world!”
I rose with slight assistance, but staggered like a drunken man, and, preceded by the watchmen to give us light, walked slowly on, leaning on the arms of my deliverers. We reached a public-house at no great distance; and having committed me to the care of the landlord and Shemus Rhua—guided by a Charlie, Mark Antony set out to find a surgeon, perfectly unconscious who the stranger was, whom timely assistance had so miraculously preserved from murder.
He returned; the discovery was made; and need I describe what a meeting between persons attached by the tie of fosterage, under such circumstances, would be? I heard the detail of my deliverance. The surgeon dressed my wounds, and pronounced them merely flesh ones; for the knife had only razed the skin, and, in the dark, the blow intended as a coup de grace, had missed the head, struck against the kerb-stone, and fallen on the shoulder lightly. That I had been marked out for deliberate assassination, the gipsy’s warning, the adventure in Mr. Spicer’s house, and the discovery of a clasp-knife and jemmy dropped on the field of battle, sufficiently established. We received those trophies from the venerable conservator of the city’s peace, paid him a fitting remuneration for the services of his lantern, and parted nearly at the same spot from which a woman’s wiles had so recently seduced me—to wit, St. Paul’s; I to return to my own inn by a hackney coach, and the ratcatcher and my foster brother to repair to the place from whence they came, with an arrangement to meet next morning—
“That we would all our pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels we had something heard,
But not intentively.”
I drove to Mr. Hartley’s residence. He was at home; and as Dominique had signified that I was anxious to speak with him before he retired for the night, he was waiting my return in the drawing-room. I found him leaning against the mantel-piece, buried in deep thought. His back was turned from me; and as I unclosed the door softly, for a few moments he was unconscious of my presence.
“Might he be trusted yet?” he muttered to himself. “I think so—for he loves her. Would it not be premature?” He raised his eyes—“Ha, Hector! returned! What means that patch across your forehead?”
“An attempt,” I answered, “has been made upon my life, and failed.”
“Indeed! Where—and by whom?” he asked eagerly.
Here was I again in trouble. To recount the evening’s “moving accidents” without a formal introduction of the soldier’s daughter, would, as a narrative, prove lame and inconclusive, as to enact Hamlet with the omission of the Prince of Denmark. I doubted whether Mr. Hartley would approve of my advocating the young lady’s claims upon the government; and, from his starched notions respecting female propriety, it was most probable he would consider a nocturnal interview not exactly a regular procedure. I commenced accordingly, “in fear and terror,” as the lawyers say; told a confused story of meeting a girl in a fog; blundered at bringing her into a tavern; and totally broke down when we met in St. Paul’s churchyard, on our way to the domicile of her respectable relative. As we proceeded in the dark, no doubt I stammered more.
“Come, Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, “out with the whole truth; I hate half confidence.”
On I went. With the acute auditor I had to deal with, it would be useless to attempt concealment; and he listened with deep interest, and, as I fancied, no trifling mixture of displeasure, until I brought my story to a close.
“You have had a marvellous deliverance, Mr. O’Halloran”—(He mistered me, and that looked squally)—“and you seem a man born to be the dupe of villains, through the agency of that worst of curses, a vicious woman. One would have thought that your recent escape from spoliation and disgrace by that amiable coterie in Jermyn Street, would have made you rather cautious in forming acquaintanceships with strangers, and believing every fabricated tale you heard. I am a candid man, and pardon me, while I give you a proof of my sincerity.
“I credit your tale, and totally disbelieve your motives. You could not be fool enough to remain for a second, in ignorance of the true character of this lady of the fog; for none but the profligate of her sex would accede to the request of a young gentleman of twenty-one, and, at first sight, grant him a nocturnal interview. This may seem impertinence in me, who, apparently, have no right or interest in inquiring into your love affairs—although I must confess, that in the selection of your female acquaintances you have not been particularly fortunate.”
“However imprudent, or, indeed, improbable my conduct may appear, I assure you, sir, upon the unblemished honour of a gentleman, that my motives were precisely what I described them,” I replied, with a firmness of voice and manner, that at once guaranteed my truth.
Mr. Hartley looked at me for a moment. He saw that his suspicions had hurt me; and, convinced of my sincerity, he held out his hand, which I accepted.
“Hector, I believe you, and acquit you of every thing but concealment. Did you know the deep interest I feel in all that concerns your character and future fortunes, you would forgive me in testing your motives and actions so rigidly as I do, and have done. No more of this at present. Where is that scrawl you received this evening from the woman whom you encountered with my daughter in the park? Your hand is feverish. Although you may not feel it at present, you could not have passed through the deadly struggle you have described uninjured. To bed, friend Hector; Dominique, a second time, shall look to your wounds, and I for once play gallant, and keep your appointment with the lady of the bridge. Hark! the clock chimes. Half-past eleven. The ‘trysted hour’ is twelve.”
I assured Mr. Hartley that I neither required leechcraft nor repose, but was most willing he should bear me company. The negro was summoned; his master gave orders in a whisper; I filled a glass of wine and water; Mr. Hartley unlocked a mahogany case, presented me with a brace of beautiful pistols, and put another brace into his own pockets; told me they were loaded; and next moment the sable functionary appeared with a dark lantern in one hand, and a bludgeon in the other. All we required was the companionship of the ratcatcher and Mark Antony, to enable us to take, regularly to the road, and rob every coach within sound of Bow bell; at least, so said Mr. Hartley.
Were it possible, the night was darker than when I kept my assignation with the soldier’s orphan. Three quarters chimed; and ere the hour of meeting struck, we were punctually at the place appointed.
The bridge was wrapped in fog; and the two or three lamps that still burned, flared such a dull and yellow light, as merely rendered “darkness visible.” The night was raw and chilly, and, save a few passing citizens, “few and far between,” the causeway of Blackfriars was deserted. It was an hour when none but the unfortunate are abroad; a night when only the houseless are encountered. All that was orderly were in-doors; and the elderly gentlemen, to whom watch and ward were entrusted, properly declined to exhibit a bad example of being found upon the streets, and ensconced themselves in comfortable corners of the night-houses most contiguous to their respective beats, leaving the dreary pavement to persons of indifferent reputation. No wonder, then, that we found ourselves in unmolested possession of the bridge. I took a position at that extremity which the gipsy’s billet had pointed out; while Mr. Hartley and his attendant occupied the recess immediately opposite my post.
A quarter chimed—another—and another. At last, dull as a muffled drum, one heavy stroke boomed from the clock-tower of St. Paul’s, and announced the first hour of morning.
“Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, as he crossed the bridge, “it is useless to remain longer here. Your prophetic friend for once has broken her promise.”
“‘Tis false!” replied a voice within half-a-dozen paces—“she is here!” and a figure too much concealed for recognition flitted from the centre of the bridge, and boldly joined us.
Again the scene must change; and once more we shall carry the indulgent reader into the close alley where Mr. Brown’s domicile was situated, and, at half-past eleven, introduce him to old acquaintances—the worthy owner of the mansion, and Mr. Sloman, his respected friend.
They were seated at the table, with all the appurtenances that rendered their former interview so pleasant; but the present mood of the worthy couple was very different from the former one. The countenances of both betrayed anxiety and impatience. To plot is one thing—to perpetrate another; and a deed of blood propounded and agreed to on their first meeting, was now in course of execution. No wonder that the scoundrels felt ill at ease; not that either felt the slightest compunction for hurrying a fellow-creature into eternity; the failure of the attempt was what they dreaded, with a fear, if the deed were done, that some circumstances should attend it which ultimately might compromise their safety. They drank, but the wine had no flavour; or if it had, it failed to call forth their approbation. They spoke but little; the sentences that passed were brief and in an under tone; and at the slightest noise without both started; each appearing impatient for intelligence, and yet half afraid to hear what the result had been.
“What the devil can delay them?” observed Mr. Brown. “The thing should have come off an hour ago.”
“They may have failed,” replied Mr. Sloman; “or have done it, and been detected; or—but, thank God, I know nothing of the matter.”
“Pish! as much as I do,” returned the owner of the mansion.
“How can you say so, Mr. Brown?” returned Mr. Sloman, angrily.
The host directed a meaning look at his visitor.
“Slowey, how soft you are! Well, don’t fear; in England there’s not a better hand at cracking a skull than Josh Levi; and at the knife—the creature’s too weak for anything but light work—I’ll back Frank for a hundred.”
“Damn it, don’t tell me particulars,” exclaimed the lawyer. “I wish all was over; I safe in Mary Axe; and you with your four hundred snug in pocket.”
“Is the cash right?” inquired Mr. Brown.
Mr. Sloman deigned no reply; but, producing a leather case from his side-pocket, he reckoned over nine bank notes.
“I don’t know a nicer thing to look at, than a clean hundred-pound flimsey fresh from the Bank,” observed Mr. Sloman, playfully.
Suddenly the street-bell rang, and a low and peculiar whistle followed the sound. Mr. Brown started.
“By Heaven! that’s not Frank’s signal,” lie exclaimed. “Something is wrong, or the hunchback would be the first to bring intelligence.”
Another, and a louder ring, told the impatience of the midnight visitor; and Mr. Brown descended to the lower story to ascertain who it was that at this late hour required admission. The answers from without satisfied him that the stranger might be let in. The chains rattled; the bolts were drawn; again the door was carefully secured; and Mr. Brown returned to his state apartment, accompanied by a very repulsive-looking gentleman, namely, the swarthy Israelite, who earlier in the evening had been reconnoitred by the captain and his companion while lying perdu in Mr. Spicer’s lumber-room.
The ruffian’s face was flushed, one eye was swollen and discoloured, the collar was torn from his coat, and blood-stains were visible on his hands and linen. His whole appearance was that of a man recently engaged in some sanguinary affray.
A pause ensued. Mr. Brown filled a glass of brandy, which the Jew drained to the bottom.
“What news, Josh?” said the host, in an under tone. “Is the job done?”
“No mistake about it,” returned the bravo.
“You had a tussle for it,” remarked the host, as he threw a careless look over the outer man of the dew, which gave ample indication that the affair he had been recently employed in, to him had proved no sinecure.
“I tell you what, Mr. Brown, I have been in the general line of bisness these fifteen year; lifted three stiff’uns of a night; been shot at half-a-dozen times; got lagged; escaped transportation; and gone through as much rough work as any man in the trade; and in the course of my practice, 1 never had a tougher trial than to-night. Another drop of the brandy, if ye please.”
“But is the thing right, Josh?” inquired Mr. Brown, who always came to business.
“Safe as a trivet! I’ll tell you all.”
“No, no—curse particulars!” exclaimed Mr. Sloman. “You may mention the thing in confidence to Mr. Brown. I know nothing of what you are alluding to, remember that.”
“‘Well, no matter, Slowey; Josh and I will talk it over presently. But where is Frank? No harm done him, I hope. I wouldn’t lose that hunchback for a hundred.”
“Is he not here?” was the Jew’s unsatisfactory reply.
“Here? No! We have expected him an hour ago,” returned his master.
“Then I’m blowed if I know any thing of him.”
“But out with it. Tell us how matters went,” said Mr. Brown.
“Not in my presence,” exclaimed Mr. Sloman, springing from his chair.
“Well, if you’re so devilish leary, you may go into that there closet,” and he rose and opened a door, through which Mr. Sloman immediately retreated; “and Slowey,” continued Mr. Brown, in a lower voice, “you’ll find a slit in the door, and hear as much through it as will suit your purpose.”
“I don’t like that’ere chap, he’s so etarnal cautious,” observed the Jew to Mr. Brown, when he returned. “If men mean wots right—as they ought—why be afeard to talk on bisniss?”
“Hush!” returned the host, as he applied his finger to his nose; “and now about the job, old boy. Drink slow, Josh; a third glass will smother ye.”
The Israelite replaced the brandy he was about to bolt, and then continued his narration, which, though delivered in a low voice, was perfectly audible in Mr. Sloman’s concealment—the fissure in the wood having been cunningly constructed for the purposes of professional espionage.
“Well, ye see,” said the bravo, commencing his murderous narration, “Frank and I—and he’s a handy little creature for a thing of legs and arms—were true to time at St. Paul’s; and there we spied our man reg’lar in tow with Julia. Away they goes together, and we follows close behind. When we comes to the place, the girl had mizzled, and Jim and ‘the smasher’ gone too soon to work; and, my eyes—if they hadn’t cotched it heavy! At him we goes from behind; Frank with his gully, and I with this here preserver;” and the scoundrel exhibited the murderous implement he used. “I niver, nowhere, saw a chap more wide awake. He fought like a good-un; and he was so knowin’, that it was almost impossible to draw him. At last Bill and I divides his attention, while Frank gripped him round the legs. He stumbled, fell, and the game was up; for I fetched him a blow across the skull that would have shattered a horse’s head, and left him dead upon the kerb-stones. Before I could strike again—for one likes to make things safe, ye know, Mr. Brown—two chaps jumps in as if they had riz out of the paving-stones. ‘The smasher’ was grassed in a moment—and I knocked clean away. I nivir got sich a nasty one in my life! I was all astray after it—and I know nothing more whatsomever, only lights came up, and fresh ones joined the others. I sneaked off as well as I could, reeling like a drunken man, and leaving our customer dead as a mackarel.”
“You’re sure he’s done for?” inquired Mr. Brown.
“Done for!” and a second time the scoundrel produced his implement of murder. “Is there a skull in England that would require a second blow of that small article?”
“The man is safe enough, no doubt,” returned Mr. Brown; “but what can have happened to Frank? Hark—by Heaven! he’s at the door!—All’s right!”
The signal was a curious imitation of angry cats, accompanied by a low sound upon the house-bell. Mr. Brown at once hurried down, and gave admission to his hunchbacked favourite, who followed him to the upper-chamber, accompanied by the ruffian called “the smasher.”
To the joint inquiries of the Jew and Mr. Brown, the deformed one gave satisfactory replies. It appeared that in the act of falling, I had kicked the weak wretch from me with such violence as drove him across the narrow lane; and before he could gather himself up again, the fosterer and his friend achieved my rescue. Self-preservation was now the hunchback’s care; and, crawling away unperceived in the confusion, he coiled himself in an obscure corner, from which, though concealed himself, all that passed subsequently was visible. Thence, he witnessed my recovery, and saw me, with slight assistance, leave the scene of the attempt upon my life. In several efforts to get off, the scoundrel had been nearly detected; and when he did succeed, he and his confederate were delayed by the removal of their disabled comrade; and hence, an hour elapsed before he could reach the dwelling of his worthy master.
“Where’s Bill?” was Mr. Brown’s first inquiry.
“Stretched with a broken jawbone in the Fortune of War,” was the reply.
“It seems the job was any thing but an easy one. But it’s done—and that’s a satisfaction.”
“It would have been,” returned the hunchback, “if I had not dropped the gully.”
“What the devil do ye mean?—Isn’t he finished?”
“No more than you are,” was the answer.
The Jew broke in with a coarse contradiction, and swore lustily that I was regularly defunct.
“Well, all I can say,” continued the being of legs and arms, “that for a dead gentleman he spoke as plain as I do. He was a little groggy when he got up, but in a few minutes he walked away as steadily as I can.”
“Damnation! Speak low—but all is overheard—and the reward is lost, I fear,” muttered Mr. Brown.
“The worst of it is,” continued the hunchback, “that my name is on the knife, and Bill has dropped his jemmy.”
“Ay, and the least clue will send the Bow-street villains after us immediately.”
“I won’t remain another moment,” exclaimed Mr. Sloman, hurrying from the closet, and catching up his hat.
“Stop, my dear friend; all may be yet put right. Frank, bring these gentlemen to the parlour. They will require a bit of bread and cheese after their exercise; and when I have spoken a few words to Mr. Sloman”——
“That an’t my name!” exclaimed the alarmed lawyer, as the scoundrels left the room. “Damn it, Mr. Brown,” he continued, “how can you be so stupid? I thought I was dealing with a safe man of business. What the devil do ye call men by their right names for?”
“It was an oversight,” returned the host. “Don’t mind, Slovey—all’s safe here—and we’ll do the job better the next time we get an opportunity. Do we touch upon account to-night?”
“Not a rap!” exclaimed Mr.. Sloman, peevishly; “but won’t you return the hundred?”
Mr. Brown answered only by a look, but that look was an expressive one. It said, or seemed to say, in the elegant parlance ol the present time, “Don’t you wish you may get it?”
“I want to be off,” observed the lawyer, seeing that all chance of restitution was hopeless, “and I don’t like to be stared at by those body-snatchers in the parlour. The scoundrels never forget a man; and, as I attend the Old Bailey professionally, they might remember me on their trial, and call upon me to speak to character.”
“Stop, my dear friend, a minute where you are, and I’ll do the business effectually. Do take a little brandy and water before you start. It’s not to every body I give that Cognac,” and the host left Mr. Sloman to refresh himself before he should set out upon his return homewards.
The hunchback and his companions were seated at a table in the lower room, when Mr. Brown glided softly in. They had drunk freely, for the failure of the night seemed to have occasioned a general annoyance.
“By Heaven!” said the larger of the Jews, “I never, in the ring itself, received such punishment. And then the risk—and nothing for it. The attempt at murder is now a hanging matter. There’s law for ye! Well, I suppose that chap Sloman will make us some amends, and come down handsome, as he should do, for our being regularly served out in trying to oblige him.”
“You’ll never find grace or gratitude in a lawyer,” returned the hunchback.
“If he does not stump up, why I say he has no conscience,” observed the smasher, “but here is Mister Brown.”
“What are we to have for this night’s trouble?” inquired the stouter Jew.
“Sloman won’t stand a rap, because the thing’s a failure. I tried him hard; but he won’t bleed, nor come down with a single flimsey; and yet I’d give a hundred for what he has in the side-pocket of his coat; ay, and gain another by the bargain.”
“You would, would ye?” inquired “the smasher.”
“Ay, and drop a pony over and above. Come here, Frank;” and Mr. Brown retired with the hunchback, and left the ruffians to commune with themselves.
What passed between the owner of the mansion and his favourite is wrapt in mystery. The former returned to the apartment overhead, “to do the civil thing” to Mr. Sloman; the latter, to arrange some pressing business with his confederates in the parlour. In ten minutes Frank announced that “the gentlemen below” were gone; and Mr. Sloman, having expressed his satisfaction at the intelligence, buttoned his coat closely over the side-pocket where his note-case was deposited, put on his wrap-rascal, wound a shawl around his throat to secure it against the night air, was conducted to the churchyard door by the host, and respectfully lighted out by the hunchback.
“No failure, I hope, next time, Mr. Brown,” was the lawyer’s valediction.
“It’s all made safe already. God bless you, Mr. Sloman!”
And these excellent gentlemen parted with a hearty “Good night.” Frank closed the door, Mr. Brown returned to his great chamber, and Mr. Sloman hurried away in the direction of his own residence.
An unbuilt piece of ground, not a hundred yards from the small cemetery we have described as the place on which Mr. Brown’s house abutted, was early next morning the scene of public curiosity. There, a man had been discovered dead; his skull fractured by the blow of some blunt instrument, and his pockets rifled of every thing they had contained. Within an hour the body was duly recognised. The deceased was Mr. Sloman.
Who were the murderers? Gentle, reader, I think you have a shrewd suspicion already. But “time tells many secrets,”—so says the Gaelic adage; and as none have doubted its accuracy, we’ll wait for further information on the subject.