Colin's interview with Squire Lupton, and what it led to—A bait to catch the Doctor.
ON reaching the hotel, according to appointment, Colin found Mr. Lupton seated in a private room up-stairs, with a table neatly spread for two beside him, but as yet containing nothing beyond the requisite materials for handling that dinner, which was brought up at the Squire's summons very shortly after his arrival. During their repast the young man could not avoid being continually reminded with what kind familiarity he was treated by his wealthy entertainer,—a degree of familiarity which seemed the more unaccountable to him, perhaps, simply because all his previous ideas of the manners of the higher classes of society had been derived almost solely from casual observation of that high bearing and seeming austerity of feeling, which sometimes exists in their common intercourse with the rustic inhabitants of a country district.
To be sure, he had once rendered the Squire an essential service, by saving him from severe personal injury, if not possibly from a premature death; but that service he thought might be equally well rewarded without all this personal association with, and condescension to, one who possessed no qualifications save those which nature had given him, for admission into a kind of society of which, up to this time, he could not possibly know anything. But Mr. Lupton seemed to take pains even to render him easy in his new situation,—to make him at home, as it were, and cause him to feel himself as essentially upon a level in all things with himself.
Though Colin could not account exactly for all this, it had its due effect upon him. By the time their meal was over, and at the Squire's most pressing solicitations he had imbibed various glasses of sherry during the repast, he found himself as much at liberty, both in limb and tongue, as though he had been seated in Miss Sowersoffs kitchen, with no higher company than herself and Palethorpe.
As Mr. Lupton evinced considerable anxiety to know what had brought him to London, and Colin himself on his part felt no less desirous to explain every circumstance connected not only with himself, but also those bearing upon the infamous conduct of Doctor Rowel, touching the affair of Lawyer Skinwell and James Woodruff, two long after-dinner hours scarcely sufficed for the detail of a narrative which, in all its particulars, caused in the mind of Mr. Lupton the utmost astonishment.
The freedom with which Colin expressed his own sentiments respecting the death of the lawyer, and the hand which he firmly believed Doctor Rowel had had in that event, somewhat raised the Squire's doubts of the young man's prudence, though at the same time it went far to convince him of the propriety, if not the absolute necessity, of placing the Doctor himself in some place of security, until a more full and searching investigation could be gone into. That he was open to a serious charge was evident; and, supported as that charge was by the corresponding conduct he had pursued with respect to James Woodruff, the Squire could come to no other conclusion than that it was his clear duty, both as a man and a magistrate, to have the Doctor apprehended as soon as possible.
While Colin related in quiet and unassuming language his own scarcely less than heroic attempt to set Woodruff at liberty, together with the disasters which had pursued him afterwards in consequence thereof, Mr. Lu ton's countenance grew now grave, now expressive of admiration, and anon slightly and apparently involuntarily convulsed with emotions which he would not express, though he could not conceal. His lips quivered, and his eyes were occasionally forcibly closed, as though to force back the generous tears which were welling up from his bosom. In truth, thefather'sheart was touched.Hefelt where another man would not, and admired as the height of nobleness and magnanimity what other men might barely have commended merely as a good action, which anybody else would have done if placed in similar circumstances.
All this time, too, he kept supping his wine and cracking his walnuts, picking his almonds, and demolishing his dried fruit with a degree of unconscious industry, that could not but have proved highly interesting and edifying to any observing spectator.
When Colin had concluded, the Squire looked earnestly in his face during a few moments; he cast them to the ground again, and said nothing; he filled his glass, and Colin's too, but with an effort, for his hand slightly trembled as he did it; again he looked at him, and again his eyes were earthwards.
“My dear boy!” said he, but the words faltered on his lips,—“my dear boy! I am proud of you; but your presence makes me ashamed. I bitterly regret it—deeply and bitterly—and yet I ought not, when it has given me such a noble mind as this!”
He paused a moment, and then, as though with some sudden determination to shake off certain unwelcome and misplaced reflections, observed—“But, come,—drink your wine. I was not thinking much what I was talking about. Let us to business. I told you some time ago I should do something for you. What I have heard to-night has not lessened that determination. In the first place, have you left that vagabond place you were living in?”
Colin replied, that he had informed Peter Veriquear of his intention to leave, and was at liberty to take his departure at any hour.
“Then leave to-morrow,” observed Mr. Lupton. “I will find you fitting apartments elsewhere. Do you like reading?”
“Much more,” replied the young man, “than my opportunities have enabled me to gratify.”
“I am glad to hear it. You shall have books, and fit yourself for better things than you seemed to be born to. But never mind that,—never mind that. And money? I suppose the bottle-merchant has not filled your pockets to the neck.”
Colin observed in answer, that he had ten pounds in his pocket, though not through the hands of Peter Veriquear. At the same time he related to the Squire in what manner he had come by it, and how Miss Wintlebury's conduct on this occasion had convinced him she was a most worthy and estimable young woman.
“Have nothing to do with a girl like that,” said Mr. Lupton. “I have seen similar things before now, and known many a man pay d—d expensively for a poor and frail commodity. No, my boy; take my advice, and think nothing more about her. She may be all very well, perhaps; but many others are better. I like charity; but the world renders it needful for people to hold their heads on their own level. As I shall make something of you, you must look higher. There is more in store for you than you can anticipate. I have no other than—Well, never mind. But the law knows me, my boy, as the last of my family; for, unluckily, my marriage has been like no marriage. Did you ever see Mrs. Lupton at Kiddal?”
“Never, that I am aware of,” answered Colin.
The Squire fell into a fit of musing, during which he beat his foot upon the ground abstractedly, as though all things present were momentarily forgotten.
“Well!” he again exclaimed, as if starting afresh to life, “there is that Doctor. We must catch him somehow. He is a scoundrel after all, I am afraid; though it seems a pity to hang the poor devil, too. I should like to lay hold of him without any trouble, and I 'll tell you how we will do it. I will write down to him in the course of a day or two, inviting him here on especial business. He will suspect nothing, and come up of course. You shall have an opportunity of meeting him face to face. We will hear what he has to say for himself, in contradiction of your statement; and if I find him guilty, means shall be provided beforehand, and kept in readiness to seize him.”
This excellent proposition, then, for entrapping the wily Doctor having been finally decided upon, with the understanding that Colin should early be apprised of his arrival in town, in order to have an opportunity of reiterating his statement to that gentleman's face, he received a hearty shake of the hand from Mr. Lupton, and took his leave.
In accordance with the Squire's wishes, Colin took his leave the very next day of the Veri-quear family, and repaired to a comfortable suite of apartments in the neighbourhood of Bedford Square, which Mr. Lupton had engaged for him. Neither did that gentleman forget to despatch him to a tailor's, for the purpose of being, like an old vessel, thoroughly new-rigged.
Some few days afterwards, a note from the Squire informed him that Rowel had taken the bait, and would be at his hotel at seven in the evening.
Elated with the hope not only of now securing Woodruff's liberation, but also of getting the Doctor punished as he deserved, Colin set out at an early hour on his expedition, and arrived at the appointed place some twenty minutes before the time fixed for Rowel's appearance.
NOT long did they wait. Scarcely had the clock struck seven before the professional gentleman of whom they were in expectation was introduced into the room.
He addressed himself very familiarly to the Squire, but scarcely cast a look upon Colin, whom, “disguised as a gentleman,” he did not seem to recollect, until such time as Mr. Lup-ton formally introduced him to the Doctor by name. Then, indeed, he started, and looked perplexed in what manner to regard the young man, whether as friend or foe.
“Happy to see you, Mr. Clink,” said he. “I have been anxious to meet with you now for some time past. If I am not mistaken, you are the same gentleman who did me the honour to climb the wall of my premises by night, a while ago?”
“The very same, sir,” replied Colin.
“Ah!—indeed! Well, that's plain, at all events. You hear that, Mr. Lupton?”
The Squire assumed an air of astonishment at the scene before him, in order to encourage the Doctor in what appeared likely to prove a somewhat ludicrous mistake. It was evident he fancied he had unexpectedly got Colin “on the hip,” and was drawing from him a confession of his guilt before the very face of a witness and a magistrate; while the well-played expression of Mr. Lupton's countenance tended powerfully to confirm the notion.
“But, sir,” said the Doctor, very blandly addressing the last-named gentleman, “you have business with me, which I will not interrupt. Only, as I have a serious charge to make against this young gentleman, and have most unexpectedly met with him here—”
“I beg by all means you will proceed,” objected the Squire; “and be assured, if you have any charge to make against him, I shall most gladly hear it; for I have taken him into my confidence, in consequence of certain good qualities which seemed to be displayed in him. And if I am deceived—”
“Sir,” said the Doctor, gravely, “I deeply fear you are. You know who he is, of course?”
“Why, sir, who is he?” demanded Mr. Lupton, with feigned amazement.
“Who is he, sir! I 'll tell you, sir, who he is. That young man, sir,—he, sir,—he is neither more nor less, sir, than the son of a little huckster woman in your own village, sir. I know it for a fact; for I attended his mother myself.”
“And what then, Doctor?”
“Besides that, Mr. Lupton, he is an incipient housebreaker. I charge him with having made a burglarious attempt on my premises at Nabbfield, for which he was obliged to fly the country; and you, sir, with all due deference, as a magistrate, will see the propriety of putting his person in a position of security.”
“Then you feel convinced his intention was to rob you?” asked the Squire.
“Nay, sir,” replied the Doctor, “the thing speaks for itself. A young man forms a plan to enter my premises: comes at ten o'clock at night,—a burglarious hour, according to law; climbs my outer wall by a rope-ladder—”
“It seems more like a love affair,” interrupted the Squire.
“So I thought myself,” answered Rowel, “at first; because I found some fragments of a letter, which had previously been thrown over the wall; but I could make nothing material of them.”
“Have you those fragments by you?”
“I have a copy of them, which I kept in case of need,” said the Doctor.
“Perhaps you will read it, Mr. Rowel, for my satisfaction,” observed Mr. Lupton.
“Certainly,” replied he; and drawing from his pocket-book a paper containing some scattered portions of the letter which Colin Clink had addressed to James Woodruff, and the torn fragments of which Rowel had detected after James had buried them in the earth, he handed it in the following shape to the Squire:—
“The young woman—is necessary—in your yard until ten o'clock atnight.—If you should—try — ——until you do succeed———stand——thickest———in the corner. Colin Clink—will do his best to get—Fanny will be able——any night—at ten o'clock.”
No sooner had Mr. Lupton perused this precious fragment than he pronounced the whole to have been unequivocally a love affair. There could be no doubt about the matter remaining in the mind of any commentator of ordinary sagacity who weighed well the general drift of the text in hand.
Rowel objected to this interpretation, and persisted in expressing his opinion that, the young man harboured no good motives; although, in fact, he felt secretly as assured of the real object of the attempt as was Colin himself.
“But perhaps,” said he, addressing Colin, “perhaps you will so far oblige Mr. Lupton as to explain what really were your motives on that occasion?”
“He need not be at that trouble,” observed Mr. Lupton, “or at least not until I have asked you, Doctor, a few questions which, I dare say, you can readily answer if you please.”
“Oh, yes; certainly, sir. Ask anything you think proper. I shall have great pleasure indeed in affording you every information in my power. And allow me to add, my good sir, how deeply I feel the honour you have done me in demanding my attendance, while you are surrounded by so much of the first talent, knowledge, and experience that the profession can boast of. I trust the case is not a very serious one. Allow me, sir.”
And the Doctor drew up his chair near that of Mr. Luptons, and solicitously extended his fingers in order to feel his pulse. The last-named gentleman pretended not to observe this invitation, as he remarked, in reply to the Doctor's concluding words.
“I am afraid, Mr. Rowel, the caseisa very serious one indeed.”
“Indeed! Let us hope for the best. It is of no use to be down-hearted. Now, sir, explain the symptoms, if you please.”
“The first symptom, then,” replied the Squire, “is this:—that youth with whom you have been talking appears to have well founded reasons for believing, that for many years you have kept imprisoned in your house, as a lunatic, a man of perfectly sound mind, who never ought to have been there.”
The Doctor's countenance underwent a sudden change, as this remark came so unexpectedly upon him.
“Sir!” he exclaimed, “you are not serious?”
“I certainly am not joking,” replied Mr. Lupton.
“Then am I to believe it possible,” rejoined the Doctor, “that you, sir, can havedescended, I may say, so far as to listen to the idle tales and ridiculous nonsense which such a boy as this may have picked up amongst the gossips and old women of a village, about matters of which they cannot possibly know anything? It surely, sir, cannot be needful for me to disabuse your mind of prejudices of this kind,—to inform you how the suspicions and conjectures of the ignorant and vulgar are apt to attach to any professional man, associated so peculiarly as I am with a very unfortunate class of patients.”
“I anticipate all you would say,” observed the Squire, “and sufficiently appreciate the force of your remarks. At the same time I should be glad to know whether you have or have not a patient named Woodruff confined on your premises?”
“Emphatically, then, sir,” replied the Doctor, “I HAVE NOT.”
“And never had?”
“That I will not say.”
“You have removed him?”
“There is no such individual in my care.”
“Is he at liberty?”
“I think, Mr. Lupton,” replied the Doctor, very smoothly, “you will allow that, without offence, I may decline, after what has been said, to give any farther explanation of a purely professional affair, for which I do not hold myself responsible, save as a matter of courtesy, to any man or any power in existence.”
“Sir,” replied the Squire, more seriously, “where any reason exists for even the slightest suspicion,—I do not say that wronghasbeen done, but that itmaypossibly exist,—I beg to state, that the responsibility you disclaim cannot be set aside, and, if need be, must absolutely make itself be felt; and that some suspicion Idoentertain, it is needless to scruple at avowing.”
“Did I not feel assured,” answered Rowel, “from the many years during which I have enjoyed the honour of Mr. Lupton's acquaintance, that he can scarcely intend to offer me a deliberate insult, the course I ought to adopt—”
“Whatever course you may think proper to adopt,” interrupted the Squire, “will not alter mine. A very remarkable disclosure has been made to me respecting a patient in your keeping, as well as regarding the death of the late lawyer of Bramleigh.”
Those words startled and excited the Doctor in an extreme degree. They seemed to strike him as might a sudden sickness that turns the brain giddy; and starting from his chair, with his eyes fixed fiercely on Colin, he advanced towards him, exclaiming, “What other falsehoods, you villain, have you dared to utter concerning me or mine? If there be law, sir, in the land for such infamous slander, such base defamation as this, I 'll punish you for it, you rogue, though it cost me my very life! Have you dared to say thatIhad anything to do with Skinwell's death, sir?”
“I have said to Mr. Lupton, what I will say again,” replied Colin, “because I believe it to be true, and that is, that you helped to kill him.”
“It's a lie!—a lie!—a d—d lie! you slanderous vagabond!”
The Doctor would inevitably have committed a personal assault upon Colin of a very violent nature, had he not in the very midst of his rage been still restrained from so doing by certain prudential reasons, arising from the evident strength and capability of the young man to turn again, and, in every human probability, convert the chastiser into the chastised. He therefore contented himself with fuming and fretting about the room as might some irritated cur, yet haunted with the spectre of a tin-pot appended to his tail. In the midst of this, the “very whirlwind of his passion,” he snatched up his hat, as though unexpectedly seized with an idea of the propriety of taking his leave; but Mr. Lupton had kept an eye upon him.
“Not yet, sir, if you please,” observed the Squire, interposing himself between the Doctor and the door. “I must perform an exceedingly unpleasant office; but nevertheless, Mr. Rowel, it has become my duty to tell you that, for the present, you are my prisoner.”
“I deny it, sir!” exclaimed the Doctor. “I am no man's prisoner!”
“That we will soon ascertain,” replied Mr. Lupton, as he rapped loudly on the table, while the Doctor used his best endeavours to force his way out.
Before he could resort to any violence in order to effect this object, the door was thrown back, and two servants of the law entered. A warrant, which Mr. Lupton had taken care to have prepared beforehand, was produced by one of them, and in the course of a very comfortable space of time the Doctor was placed in a coach, and driven on his way to certain particularly appropriate lodgings, which the country has provided for ladies and gentlemen who chance to have been so unlucky as to be inveigled into the commission of offences of a criminal nature.
The removal of James Woodruff from the Doctor's establishment at Nabbfield has been before briefly alluded to; while the declaration made by that worthy to Mr. Lupton that he had no such person confined on his premises, has borne evidence to the fact.
It was quite true. For, after the attempt which Colin had so unsuccessfully made to effect Mr. Woodruff's escape, Doctor Rowel became convinced—as the secret was out—that his troublesome charge would no longer be safe within the precincts of the asylum at Nabbfield. He therefore seized the earliest opportunity that the needful arrangements would permit, to convey him secretly by night from thence to the residence of the Doctor's own brother,—an old-fashioned brick mansion of very ample dimensions, which stood upon the borders of a heathy waste, which formerly constituted one of the finest portions of the old forest of Sherwood, in the northern part of Nottinghamshire.
It was even still studded with the dying remains of ancient oaks, which had sheltered many a bold archer in times gone by, but which now sufficed only to give additional dreariness to the solitary landscape, that stretched in picturesque undulations, but open as the ocean north and eastwards for many miles.
The removal, however, of James Woodruff from his previous confinement to this place had not been effected without Fanny's knowledge; and, for the possession of this fact, it is believed, she was indebted to the friendly agency of Mrs. Rowel. Not knowing in her present dilemma what other step to take, Fanny was no sooner made acquainted with the removal which Rowel contemplated, than she forthwith communicated it to her master, the young man who had succeeded to the business of the deceased Mr. Skinwell, one Sylvester by name; and a man who, though but a crest-fallen looking affair outside, had yet, when occasion needed, a pretty considerable amount of spirit at command within. No sooner was he informed of the particulars of the affair than he volunteered his immediate assistance. He and Fanny were fully prepared on the intended night of Woodruff's removal, quietly to follow the vehicle that contained him until it should arrive at its ultimate destination; after having ascertained which, they would be prepared to take the most prompt steps within their power to insure his restoration to his liberty, property, and friends. In accordance with this arrangement they had acted, and at a convenient distance had followed in a gig, and, as they thought, unobserved. On Sylvester's subsequently making application at the house already described, and to which he had seen the carriage containing Woodruff driven, he found Doctor Rowel there, who expressed great surprise at seeing him, and on being informed of the nature of his mission, at once frankly declared that Mr. Sylvester was totally mistaken. In proof whereof, and to establish his own innocence the more completely, he conducted him up-stairs into a chamber where lay a gentleman sick in bed, and who the Doctor averred, was the identical person he had brought in his carriage the night before, and whom he had thus removed to his brother's for the benefit of the purer air of the forest. Beyond this Sylvester saw nothing to warrant Fanny's suspicions; while the girl herself declared on seeing him that that man certainly was not the father of whom they were in search. In fact, so admirably had the Doctor managed matters, that Fanny began to think herself that she was labouring under some very strange mistake; more especially when, on the question being put to him, the sick man himself concurred in the statement made by the Doctor, and solemnly averred that he had, as previously stated, been brought from Nabbfield the preceding night. And so far he spoke the literal truth; for, in fact, the sick man was no other than Robson, the Doctor's assistant, fitted with a very consumptive and deranged-looking night-cap, a bedgown slipped over his shirt, and a big bottle of hot water at his heels to make him look like an invalid; while James Woodruff himself, very shortly after his arrival, had been again removed—in consequence of the Doctor's suspicions that he was followed—to another and a more secret place in the very heart of the waste, where, it was confidently trusted, he might be safely kept the remainder of his days, beyond the possibility of human discovery.
In consequence of the success of the Doctor's stratagem, Fanny and Mr. Sylvester returned disappointed and out of spirit to their home.
Such, in substance, was the brief story related by Fanny to Colin on the occasion of her visit to town; and which he had a few days before communicated to Mr. Lupton.
Whether the arrest of Doctor Rowel, when it became known amongst his friends, and to the brother, of whom we have above spoken, might not have precipitated some tragical conclusion or other of Woodruff's life,—is doubtful, perhaps highly probable; had not a singular and very mysterious communication concerning him been made to Colin, and from a quarter equally mysterious, some month or so after the occurrences above described.
IT was about four o'clock—sometime before daylight—one morning, nearly a month after the events last described, that Mr. Lupton and Colin might have been seen wending their way along the chilly and silent streets, in the direction of London Bridge. Saving the deliberate footfalls of the night-watch, the far-heard rattle of some early carriage over the resounding pavement, or perhaps now and then the smothered asthmatical cough of some poor old creature or other turned out thus early, in cloak and covered chair, to sit with charcoal fire and coffee in the streets, there were no audible signs that any soul existed there besides themselves. London was asleep. This Goliah of earthly cities had lain itself down wearied, and for a time lost itself in forgetfulness of all the world. Its labours suspended, its pleasures wearied into pains, and laid all aside, its virtue dreaming innocently, its vice steeped painfully in the burning phlegethon of disturbed stupor, like a half-dreamed hell; its happy, hopeful of the morrow; its miserable, dreading the approach of another sun. While itself, the carcass of the great city, lay stretched athwart the banks of the broad river, as, overpowered with the mighty labours which it had achieved within the last four and twenty hours, and unconsciously receiving strength from repose for that additional exertion, whose repetitions day by day, year by year, and age after age, no man can count to the end.
“Five o'clock exactly,” said Colin, “is, I think, the time appointed, and on the city side of the bridge.”
As he said this he drew from his pocket the communication to which allusion was made at the conclusion of the last chapter, and again perused it.
The reader must here be informed that the letter now in Colin's hands had been addressed to him in the first instance at Mr. Veriquear's, and thence had been forwarded to his present residence. It came from some anonymous correspondent, evidently residing not far from the place to which James Woodruff had been carried; but as its contents will perhaps better explain themselves than would any description of mine, I will give it:—
“Sir,—I am given to understand that you feel some interest in the fate of a Mr. James Woodruff. That man is now in my power, either to liberate or to detain for life, according as you may answer this favourably or unfavourably. You HAVE AN OBJECT TO CARRY OUT, SO have I. If you are prepared to serve me, I will put this Woodruff into your hands in return: if not, neither you nor his daughter may ever see him more. Meet mealoneat the north end of London Bridge, at five o'clock on the morning of the —th, and I will explain particulars. At that time it will be as secret there as in a desert, and you will feel more secure. You will know me to be the writer of this when you see a man make a cross with his finger in the air.”
This strange communication Colin had laid before Mr. Lupton; and the only probable conjecture they could form respecting it was, that it had been written by Doctor Rowel's brother, who,—having heard of the imprisonment of that gentleman,—had resorted to this expedient in the hope of compromising the matter by, as it were, exchanging prisoners, and perhaps stipulating for all farther proceedings against the Doctor being stayed. To be sure, there were objections to this interpretation, but, nevertheless, it seemed altogether the only plausible one they could hit upon.
However, as Mr. Lupton suspected that very possibly some treachery might be concealed under this uncommon garb, and that it was a plot on the part of the Doctor's friends to be revenged on Colin,—he himself determined to accompany him; but on their arrival near the place appointed to fall back, in order to avoid suspicion, though still keeping sufficiently near to distinguish a preconcerted signal which Colin was to give in case of need.
The bridge was now at hand. Over the parapet to the left, and considerably below them, long rows of lights, illuminating the walls and doorways of life-deserted warehouses, filled with merchandise from all parts of the world, pointed out the site of that thronged and noisy gully Thames Street. Before them, farther on, lost in mist, and yet lingering smoke, which gave to sky, buildings, and water, one common neutral colour, rose beyond the water one solitary tower, looming darker than all around it, but relieved still farther back by a flush of dull, mysterious light, which, though it showed nothing distinctly, yet emphatically marked the existence, to an undefined extent, of many an unseen mass of building like that by which they were immediately surrounded. And now they are on the bridge alone. It is not yet five. The sight is magnificent. Behold these two sides of a mighty city separated by a scarcely-seen gulf, on which streams of light, reflected from night-lamps afar off, ripple as though so many of the pillars of fire that lighted the Israelites of old were on the waves. Up the great stream, or down it,—the uprear-ing of men's hands,—house, church, and palace appear alike illimitable. All those mean and minor details, which confound the eye and distract the attention during daylight, are now swallowed up and resolved into one broad whole. The dense and unmeasured mass of building which meets the sight every way, seems resolved into a solid. Line on line and height on height extending away till lost utterly in the far obscurity of the void horizon. Without any great strain of the imagination this scene might be mistaken for a splendid dream of Tyre or Palmyra, or of Babylon on the Euphrates, great cities of old, whose giant memories loom in the mind as images that cannot be fully compassed from their very vastness. While under our feet flows the ghastly river, the dull, deceptive stream that has borne on its bosom the wealth of kingdoms; that has found in its bed a thousand last resting-places for human misery, when the link that bound unhappiness and life together became too galling to be any more endured; and that in its stormy wrath has swallowed happiness suddenly, when jollity forgot in its temporary delirium that boats are frail, and that but a slender plank, which a wave might founder, stood between itself and a deep grave.
As Colin cast a scrutinizing eye around, in the hope of meeting with his appointed and unknown correspondent, the city clocks far and near, some together, and some after each other, chimed five. Almost with the last stroke of the bell footsteps were heard rising upon the city side of the bridge. A bricklayer s labourer, with a short pipe in his mouth, passed by; and then a woman,—if woman she could be called,—torn, dirty, and deplorable to look upon, staggering forwards under the influence of the last night's excesses: but neither made a sign. Behind them followed an old man, roughly clad in the costume of the poorer classes of the residents of our country villages, saving that a long coat supplied the place of smock-frock, while his nether extremities were finished off with quarter boots, tightly laced up to the ankles with leathern thongs.
An unaccountable feeling, which displayed itself in his flushed features, shot through Colin's veins as the first momentary sight of this man came across him. Had he seen him before? It almost seemed so; but when? where? on what occasion?
The old man hesitated a moment or two as he gazed on Colin, and then cast a searching glance around, in order to ascertain whether he was alone. The figure of Mr. Lupton was dimly visible at some distance. Colin leaned idly against the wall with his eyes fixed intently on the old man, who now again approached him. In another moment the sign was made—the cross in the air—and our hero advanced and accosted him.
“I believe, sir, you wish to speak to me: you sent a letter addressed to me a short time ago.”
“Nay—nay, now!” replied the old man, “what occasion have you to tellmethat? If I wrote you a letter I know it without your explanation; and your appearance here is a sufficient assurance to me that you have duly received it. Do you know who I am?”
“I do not,” said Colin, “though it seems to me as though I had seen you before somewhere or other.”
“Humph! well—well!” exclaimed the old man, “then you are now talking to old Jerry Clink, your own grandfather.”
“Your name Clink!” ejaculated the young man, astonished, “and my grandfather!”
“Now, why ask me again? Hav'n't I just now answer'd 'em. And if you can't believe me the first time, I 'm sure you won't on a repetition.”
“But is it possible? I never knew I had a grandfather.”
“Ay, ay, I see how it is,” replied Jerry; “I'm a poor man, and you are apeing the gentleman. But I risked my life once to be revenged for you, only some busy meddler came across and baulked me. I'll do it yet though; and I want you to help me. The cause is yours as well as mine; for the injury is of a mother to you, though of a daughter to me: and the man who will not defend his mother's honour, or revenge her disgrace, ought to be cast into the bottomless pit for everlasting!”
Colin stood astonished at this speech. He scarcely knew what he said, but faltered out, “Who, sir, has dared to say anything to my mother's dishonour, or to bring her into any disgrace?”
The old man tapped him with serious significance on the shoulder as he replied, “Your father, my boy,—your father!”
“How!” exclaimed the young man in a tone of deep excitement: “who is he? for I never knew who was my father.”
“You!” replied Jerry bitterly, “ought never to have been born!”
“What can you mean, man, by all this?” demanded Colin.
“I tell you,” answered the old man, “your father is a villain, and you—you are—but never mind. Since youareborn, andarealive, show that you are worthy to live by properly resenting your mother's everlasting injuries.Myvengeance has been untiring, but it has not succeeded yet. Together we can do anything. True, the man must be called, as he is, your father. What then? The punishment of such fathers cannot come from better hands than their own sons. As they sow the wind, let them reap the whirlwind.”
“What is it?” demanded Colin, interrupting him, “that you would propose to me?”
“See you,” said the old man, drawing closer, “you are in love with a girl, named Fanny Woodruff. Nay, nay, do not interrupt me, I know better than you do. I tell you you love her, and can never marry any one else. Her father is confined as a madman. He is now in my power. I am his keeper. You want to liberate him, and rightly too.Hehas told me all about it, and I believe him. Now, let me see the spirit of a true man in you; take up your mothers cause, and never forgive till you are revenged, and he shall by me be set at liberty. Join hand and heart with me against the villain called your father.”
“Who is he?” again demanded Colin.
“Lupton of Kiddal,” answered Jerry.
“Mr. Lupton my father!”
“The same. I shot at him once.”
“You?”
“I, with this same right hand.”
“And I,” added Colin, “prevented it, and saved you from the gallows.”
The old man stood mute—confounded. His whole countenance changed with deadly fury, and in the next moment he rushed upon Colin with apparently the desperate intention of forcing him over the balustrades of the bridge.
A moment sufficed for his signal call, which brought Mr. Lupton instantly to the spot. The mutual recognition between Jerry and himself was but the process of a moment; and, while the latter strove all in his power to secure the former without violence, Jerry as desperately and madly aimed to bury in his bosom a long knife, which it was now discovered he held opened in his hand. The combined exertions of Mr. Lupton and Colin were, however, too much for him, and would eventually have achieved his capture, had not Jerry, with a degree of reckless desperation and agility, which struck both his assailants with momentary horror and astonishment, leaped the wall of the bridge on finding himself at the point of being taken, and casting his knife and coat from him, in an instant plunged headlong from about the centre of one of the arches into the Thames.
It was a wild leap, an insane flight into the arms of death. There was no splash in the water, but a dull, leaden sound came up, as when a heavy weight is plunged into a deep gulf. It was as if the water made no aperture, and threw up no spray; but gulfed him sullenly, as though such prey was not worth rejoicing over.
Father and son seemed petrified into mere statues; not more from what they had seen than—in the case of the latter, at least—he had heard from the lips of the suicide. For that a suicide he was who could doubt? Who might take that giddy leap, and live?
During a brief space they dared not even cast their eyes down the fearful height; the deed had paralysed them. But, as Colin's eyes were fixed intensely on the waves, a something living seemed to struggle through and across a ripple of light. Could it indeed be the old man? He dared not hope, and could say nothing.
Boats were subsequently got out, the river was traversed, and both banks were searched, in hopes of finding him; but all the efforts of the boatmen proved ineffectual.
The cause of Mr. Lupton's kindness was a secret to Colin no longer. But in how different a relative position did he seem to stand to that gentleman now to what he had done formerly; so recently, even, as one brief hour ago! Within that space what painful truths had passionately been cleared up to him; what difficulties and embarrassments thrown on almost every hand around his future conduct towards nearly every person with whom he was connected, and in whose fate his heart was most deeply interested! But the case of his old grandfather, so resolutely bent on spilling the blood of his own father, out of a stern principle of mistaken justice, seemed to him the worst. He foresaw that, unless ithadso happened that Jerry was drowned,—an event which he scarcely knew whether to feel satisfied under, or to regret,—all his address would be required in the time to come to settle the hostility between that man and his father, without the bitter and ignominious consequence resulting, which would doom him to behold his mother's parent expiate upon a public scaffold his double crime of having twice deliberately attempted the assassination of Mr. Lupton. So deeply was he overwhelmed with the fearful transactions of the morning, that he begged the Squire to allow him a day or two's quiet and reflection before he undertook the duty of explaining to him what had passed between the old man and himself. But it was on one condition only that Mr. Lupton consented to acquiesce in this request. That condition was—to be then and there told who his assailant could possibly be. Colin hesitated awhile, but at length burst into tears as he uttered the words—“My mother's father!” The Squire turned pale as ashes when those words reached his ear, while a very sensible tremor shook his whole frame. He grasped Colin's hand, but said nothing. Those words called up something in each mind, which now made both dumb. They shook hands repeatedly, and parted.