Saying which, he moved a small picture and pressed an invisible button. One of the panels in the wainscoting shot upward without a sound, like the curtain of a theatre, revealing a narrow passage. Mowbray led the way, Reuben followinghim. After a few steps he found himself in a circular apartment furnished with extraordinary richness and taste. From the ceiling fell a rosy radiance, soft, tender, and faint, vaguely illumining the tapestries with which the walls were draped, upon which were represented rare subjects derived from Boccaccio. The feet sank into a rich carpet as into the sward of glades which no human step has ever pressed. The low rounded furniture seemed fashioned to render the fall of a body insensible and silent.
Ere Reuben had had time to cast his glance about the apartment the panel had fallen into place, leaving no more suggestion of a door than a wall of polished steel. Mowbray had vanished, and Marsham was alone. In an excess of rage he flung himself against the wall with all his might, he scratched it with his nails and beat upon it with his clinched fists.
Ten feet above his head a peephole opened, in which was framed the mocking face of Mowbray.
"You are giving yourself needless exertion," he remarked. "The panel will defy all your efforts. No one can hear you, and no one will release you before to-morrow morning. A night of seclusion in so charming a place is scarcely cruel chastisement enough for your insolence, more especially as this prison saves you from another. At this moment they are searching for Reuben Marsham high and low, but truly such a boudoir as this is preferable to a cell in Newgate. Therefore be resigned, and seek some means of passing the time. Ah, I forgot. You will find a venison pie and a bottle of Canary wine upon the table at your left.—And now, good night!"
And the peephole closed.
There was no timepiece in that strange boudoir to mark the flight of the hours. Naught disturbed the profound silence of the night save the cracking of the crystal sconces as one after another the candles expired. At last a feeble ray of the crescent dawn descended from the vaulted ceiling. In the numerous mirrors, which had reflected many a festal scene, Reuben caught a glimpse of his own haggard, watchful face.
The preceding events had occurred upon the night of the 2d and 3d of June. The next day, Saturday, the city was comparatively quiet.
A feeling of assurance pervaded all classes; once again it was believed that the riots were over. On Sunday morning several priests ventured to celebrate mass with closed doors before their little nervous congregations, who trembled at the slightest sound from outside and apprehensively watched the doors, thinking of the catacombs without possessing the courage of the early Christians. But on that same Sunday, in the afternoon, the disorders began again and increased until nightfall. On Monday matters were aggravated.
The blind fury of the rioters augmented with their number. It was now directed against the wealthy Catholics and such influential personages as had cast their vote in favor of tolerance. Savile House in Leicester Fields was assaulted and the proprietor, Sir George Savile, one of the most enlightened, amiable, and humane men of his time, nearly lost his reason and his life. The mob broke into the residence of Lord Mansfield, who escaped, half-naked, with his family, by the rear entrance. They then built an immense pile of his furniture in the street and set fire to it. Barnard's Inn and the Langdale distillery in Holborn yielded to the flames. Several entiredistricts fell a prey to the insurgent population. A dome of smoke hung over the city from Leicester Fields to London Bridge, which by night flared like a vault of flame.
However, no one seemed moved as yet. Curious idlers flocked to the scene. Between a game of "quadrille" and a sitting at the magnetizer's, the fair gamesters, with their idle, foppish escorts, arrived by the coachful upon the theatre of riot and conflagration. It frequently chanced that they were set upon and robbed, the men of their purses and snuff-boxes, the women of their watches and jewels. Sometimes the traces were cut and the horses sent flying off in terror, while the coach was tossed upon the blazing pile. Amidst all this the peaceful watchman passed with slow, methodical gait, appearing to see nothing, quite as if all were calmness about him, and swinging his sickly little lantern here and there in the blinding glare of the fires.
Whether through inertia or policy, magisterial authority moved neither hand nor foot. Col. Woodford having given his soldiers command to fire upon the mob, popular exasperation rose to such a degree that he was obliged to hide himself for several days. While the Guards were leading their prisoners to Newgate they were assailed with every description of missile. One of them being wounded in the face and maddened by the sight of blood, was about to fire upon the crowd, when his captain exclaimed, "In Heaven's name, do not fire!" Such management as this made the fortune of the insurrection.
If any one considered that King George's ministers were cowards who had lost their heads, he was seriously mistaken. These gentlemen,with truly British phlegm, listened to the cries of "Death!" raised against them much in the spirit that Fielding, playing besique behind the scenes of Drury Lane, lent one ear to the public hissing his plays. The recital of an eye-witness describes some strange pranks during the sittings of the Council. He affirms that there was more claret discussed than resolutions.
"Though I," said Lord North, indicating his colleague with pretended terror, "go about armed to the teeth, I am more afraid of Saint John's pistol than anything else!" Thereupon they ascended to the roof of the house. Thence they observed the conflagration, noted its phases and progress, and exchanged conjectures upon the direction of the wind and upon its probable effects.
"And now, gentlemen," concluded the minister, "let us return and finish our wine."
This government, discredited on account of its external showing, cared not to assume the odium of an energetic repression. Curious as it may seem, it was upon the opposition that it sought to shift the responsibility. It was said that Lord North held an interview with Fox in the lobby of Drury Lane Theatre. A plenary reunion of the Privy Council was held under the presidence of the king, which only occurs at serious crises and in times of great peril to the monarchy. The judges were convoked in order to pass their opinions upon the course of procedure to be pursued and to give their advice upon the legal side of the question. It was Burke, the great Liberal orator, who proposed to proclaim the martial law.
In fact, the most alarming tidings were received hour by hour. The Fleet and Newgate prisons had been forced, and had vomited their prisonersupon the pavements of London. At Rag Fair and similar localities the orgy was at its height, the license of the mob unbridled. It was no longer a question of papism and tolerance: it was a social revolution, greatest of all misfortunes, which had begun; it was the subversion of law, the accession of crime. It was reported that a formidable army was forming for the assault of the Bank of England. Inasmuch as the bank was the vital centre, the very heart of the country, the ministers awoke from their lethargy. As if by enchantment several regiments entered London from all sides and encamped with their cannon in Hyde Park. A plan had been decided upon for the total annihilation of the revolt. Lord Amherst mounted his horse, and when by the ruddy light of the conflagration the aged courtier was seen advancing it was generally understood that that class of society, until now so disdainfully indulgent, had taken a hand, and would show itself pitiless in the defence of its property and life. Soon the firing resounded far and wide,—at Blackfriars, at Saint George's Fields, near the Mansion House; the victims lay about in heaps, while the Thames received many corpses and more than one living sacrifice.
On that terrible night, during which the horrors of civil war were added to those of incendiarism, while so many men animated by the spirit of vengeance and the hope of pillage rushed upon one another, a little band of kind-hearted folk, moved by so much suffering, patrolled the streets, bearing relief to the victims. It was Levet, the surgeon of the poor, who urged them on, and case in hand led that dangerous campaign in the interest of humanity.
As he trudged along Cheapside with his troop, who carried the litters and ladders, he recognized Francis Monday walking in the opposite direction, and called out to him,—
"Is that you, Frank?"
The young man quickly raised his head, perceiving his former savior, whom he frequently went to see and for whom he cherished a grateful friendship.
Perhaps it is time that the young artist's conduct at the Pantheon ball was explained.
As must have been already divined, he loved Esther Woodville—loved her with an exclusive, profound passion which was born on the same day that the girl made her appearance upon thestage of Drury Lane. Standing in a corner of theparterre, Frank had experienced those devouring sensations which have disturbed twenty-year-old hearts ever since the world began.
The passion which actresses inspire in young men of indigent circumstances and timid disposition is the most romantic and delightful of all, since it unites every impossibility and chimera.
The footlights seem an obstacle which it is impossible to surmount; possession appears an infeasible, madly absurd dream, the very thought of which produces vertigo. The unrecognized lover is not jealous of the comrades who elbow his idol and speak familiarly with her; he does not even consider the admirer or husband who awaits her behind the scenes. They find in her but a woman like unto all other women. The mistress of his heart is in his sight Juliet, Imogen, Ophelia, Desdemona. She imparts her youth and beauty to therôle, lends poetry and passion to it. From such amélangeis born a perfectly adorable creature who only exists for a few hours for the public, but continues to live for the lover long after the curtain has fallen and when the actress has washed off her paint and is supping with a hearty appetite.
In this fashion had Frank loved Miss Woodville until the day that he had met her face to face in Reynolds's studio. From that moment the young girl replaced the artist in his mind, and he fell to loving her in another guise. Their lengthy chat on the day that Sir Joshua was absent from the studio had for the time being awakened certain hopes in his heart. Why should he not love her? Why should she not grow to regard life with his eyes? Little by little, however, without theslightest event interposing to undeceive him, he realized how poorly calculated were his modest lot and unceasing struggle with poverty to tempt a girl reared amidst adulation and covetousness, amidst circumstances which could not fail to nurture her vanity and her taste for luxury. \Many times had she returned to Sir Joshua's, and each time she had addressed him some few rapid words, always with a touch of embarrassment,—annoyed, as he fancied, at the recollection of that hour of freedom and intimacy, desirous perhaps of effacing it from her memory. The thought smote him to the heart, and, though accustomed to the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, resignation came hard.
Proportionally as the great painter advanced in his work, Frank secretly copied the portrait of Esther. One morning, while busily engaged at his task, the source of mingled pleasure and pain, a light chuckling caused him to start suddenly and turn.
"You accursed gypsy!" he cried, turning pale with anger, "who permitted you to enter here? How dare you spy upon me?"
It was Rahab, who, together with her numerous vocations, joined that of model, and frequently posed for Sir Joshua. More than once, annoyed at the procrastination or laziness of his fair clients, the painter had set the head of some patrician dame or artist upon Rahab's beautiful body, a genuine living manikin whom he could pose and drape according to his fancy. Rahab had also consented to pose for Frank; and, although she professed disdain for Christians, her hard, ironical eyes sometimes softened as they rested upon the young man.
To-day she was not stirred by his anger, but with a shrug of her shoulders remarked:—
"Poor boy! She will never be yours."
"Why not? Tell me, since you pretend to read the future."
"Because she loves Lord Mowbray."
And, turning upon her heel, she danced away, humming some gypsy ditty.
That name filled the boy's soul with discouragement. Lord Mowbray! A cold-hearted libertine, the most corrupt, 'twas said, of all the Prince of Wales's newcoterie. And it was towards him that Esther's heart had been attracted! And the passing sympathy which he had inspired in her was due, perhaps, to his resemblance to that man! His grief was profound; he had experienced nothing akin to it since the day in his babyhood when he had lost his precious goldpiece.
Revolving these facts in his mind, he had gone to the Pantheon. Why should he go to a masquerade? By what sentiment was he actuated? Some vague desire to console his aching heart by a vulgar adventure? The hope of meeting Esther there? No: rather that instinct which sometimes impels the downcast to air their woes in the midst of a crowd. And while he stood absently watching that wild scene, that dance of fools, a hand was laid upon his shoulder.
Rahab again! What would she with him, this compatriot of the Sphinx, with her fathomless black eyes and enigmatical smile?
"The one you love is here!" she breathed.
"What! Esther?"
"Brown domino with blue ribbons. Seek and you shall find. Is not that what you say?"
"Yes; but explain."
"The moments are precious. In a few minutes Esther will be lost, lost forever. Hasten, if you wish to save her. In saying this I betray some one whom I ought to serve, but I am a woman and I pity you."
He would have questioned her further, but she slipped away and vanished among the groups of maskers.
As deeply moved and agitated as he had just been indifferent and discouraged, Frank traversed the ballroom, searching in every direction for the domino which had been described to him. All at once he uttered a stifled cry; he had discovered the object of his quest. He hastened forward and was at her side in a moment. She was alone, but her eyes, seen through the openings in her velvet mask, seemed to be anxiously watching.
"Esther," he said to her, "a danger menaces you. What it may be I know not, having only received a hint of it: but permit me to follow your footsteps that I may watch over and save you; for save you I must in spite of yourself."
He had seized the young woman's hand and was pressing it between his own, without for a moment doubting that the true Esther stood before him.
The unknown answered never a word, but yielded her hand to his clasp as though she derived some pleasure from the contact with this feverish love. A man approached them and for an instant raised his mask. Frank recognized him; it was Lebeau, Lord Mowbray's intimate companion. The young man turned upon him with a menacing air, determined to prevent his companion from following him.
"Is your ladyship ready?" inquired Lebeau.
"Quite ready. Good night, Mr. Monday."
The voice of Lady Vereker! Frank remained riveted to the spot in amazement. So, then, the gypsy had tricked him. He left the Pantheon and gained his lonely garret room, vainly seeking some solution of the adventure.
Next day Mr. Fisher did not appear, as was his custom, in order to serve Sir Joshua. However, the riot had ceased, and to all outward appearance London had regained her wonted tranquillity. Soon it would be known that Mr. Fisher had passed the night searching for Miss Woodville, who, according to report, had been carried off by Lord Mowbray. The accident was of too common occurrence to arouse spirited comment, especially at so serious a time. The invasion of Parliament, or what almost amounted to an invasion, was an affair of far greater importance than the abduction of aningénue. On this account Ralph, who gayly recounted the news to the young artist, was stupefied to see him seize his hat and rush forth into the street.
Frank hastened directly to Fisher's house, who had at once shut himself up in prudent reserve; but, pressed by questions and touched by the young man's emotion, he ended by narrating the night's events and proposing that he should call upon Mrs. Marsham. The good woman had wept incessantly and was in a fine frenzy of despair, having fallen from a state of the most serene confidence into the extreme of despondency. Her niece abducted; her son lost to sight but sought by justice for the events of the preceding day, of which she was beginning to comprehend the importance; her house occupied by soldiers; and even Maud gone, no one knew whither nor withwhom! Such a conglomeration of misfortunes was indeed enough to disturb the steadiest brain and unseat the best established optimism. It was amidst such disorder that Frank found her, ignorant how to solve the problem, and fearing, if she claimed the aid of the authorities to find her niece, that by the step she should deliver over her son to his hunters.
There was no help to be expected from this poor, half-crazed woman; Fisher had his clients to attend to; while O'Flannigan, believing himself menaced as a Catholic, remained under cover in his lodgings. Thrown upon his own resources, Frank registered a mental oath that he would find Esther, and during those days of terror and battle, indifferent to the prevailing trouble, insensible to his own danger, he came and went, passing from the turbulent quarters to the more peaceful districts, searching the lost clew with impassioned despair.
From the first day he knew beyond peradventure that Mowbray's "Folly" was deserted. Thanks to the persuasion that resides in a goldpiece, the footman who was left in charge of the place found no difficulty in permitting the young man to enter. He showed him all the secrets of the house, the subterranean passages, even the boudoir where Reuben had passed the night.
"At daybreak," said he to Frank, "the stranger and the young lady were placed in a berlin, and no one knows whither they went."
Frank was satisfied by Fisher's recital that "the young lady" could have been none other than Lady Vereker. It was she who had mystified Mowbray as she had for a moment deceived him. She, then, was the one to give him the key to the enigma. He hastened to her residence, but wasnot received. Her ladyship was not in town! He recalled the gypsy's words, who, undoubtedly having been paid by the young nobleman, had played a part in the comedy. In order to find her he visited every spot where the gypsies were accustomed to camp,—Blackheath, Hampstead, the fields adjoining the Edgeware Road and Notting Hill. All in vain! Probably the members of the tribe had rushed into the thick of the riot which occupied the heart of the city.
At last he understood that the gypsy had been but an instrument. As for Lady Vereker, would she be likely to wish to save Esther or recapture her lost lover for her own sake? Would she not play her own game? Would she obey the will of the one who had directed the whole intrigue? It was then that his thoughts reverted to Lebeau. That mysterious person who was said to be the purveyor of Lord Mowbray's diversions had always inspired him with a vague repulsion. Two or three times he had met him, and each time he had felt annoyance at the piercing glance which the man had fixed upon him. Still it was he who had approached Lady Vereker at the Pantheon and had asked,—
"Are you ready?"
Frank began to suspect some shady machination to which Lebeau held the thread.
While Lord Mowbray, accompanied by his faithful Hackman, was seen everywhere, following with the interest of a dilettante the progress of the riot, Lebeau was invisible. Where was he concealed, and why should he conceal himself? Was Esther his prisoner, the victim of this scoundrel in some undiscovered lair? Frank's blood curdled with horror and rage at the thought.
It had been reported that at the moment Lord Mowbray's coach had carried off a masked woman, another young woman similarly attired, and escorted by a gentleman whose features were not distinguishable, had entered a sedan-chair which stood in waiting for her at one of the side entrances. This chair had been borne off rapidly in the direction of the city. Frank had questioned every chairman he chanced to meet; no one could or would give him the slightest satisfaction. After three days of fruitless search in every sense, he was at last forced to avow his impotence, when he was accosted by Levet, the surgeon.
"Come with us," said the big-hearted man; "there are Christians to be succored, lives to be saved, for to-night the devils are loose, and I know not which are more to be feared, the incendiaries or the soldiers. Since so many are doing their worst, let us try to accomplish some little good."
Without a word Frank followed him. He needed action to lessen his fever, to make him forget his mortal anxiety. The office which he was about to fill at Levet's side was rife with peril, but whenever did a desperate man count the cost of his action?
That same night, in a poorly furnished chamber, Esther sat, with bowed head, and hands clasped in her lap. By her side crouched an aged woman who mumbled incessantly, mingling wails, maledictions, and incomprehensible reminiscences of her childhood with fragments of prayers and scraps of biblical texts. She spoke to herself, never addressing the girl, who on her part paid her no heed. Esther's attention was riveted upon the sounds which reached her from the streets. With every minute the firing of aplatoon, the crash of a wall undermined by the flames, or a savage clamor which rent the air, reached her ears and made her tremble.
The chamber was situated upon the second floor of a low house at the end of an alley, apparently deserted by its inhabitants; for there was no movement of life and no human being in sight. But at sixty paces away, though invisible, the great artery of Holborn, filled to overflowing with the howling, maddened crowd, sent a rumor of its infernal tumult to the two women. No candle burned in the room, but the neighboring glare from the conflagration of Langdale House illumined every object as distinctly as though it were noonday. Thus the hours dragged themselves away in gloomy monotony, notwithstanding the proximity of the confusion and the fury of human passions in a state of paroxysm. Suddenly Esther sprang to her feet.
"Maud," she exclaimed, "the flames are gaining upon us!"
It was true. From the side of the little court upon which the chamber looked, the panes of a grated window had burst into fragments, while a tongue of flame had suddenly darted forth, licking the blackened walls and casting its lightning athwart the pervading flare.
"Maud! Maud! Soon it will be no longer safe for us to remain here!"
"God be praised!" answered the old woman, having raised a vague glance upon the scene. "He gives the victory unto his saints; it is he who has cast both horse and rider into the sea!"
"She is madder than ever," thought Esther; "this night has quite unseated her reason.—And Mons. Lebeau does not return!"
What was to be done? What resolution ought to be taken?
The circumstances which had led her into this perilous situation passed swiftly through her mind. When she had placed her hand in that of the unknown who had pronounced the preconcerted signal,—"The moon has risen!"—she immediately experienced a sense of regret at her fault; but this regret had not been sufficiently potent to arrest in time the accomplishment of her resolution. She permitted herself to be conducted to the door where the sedan-chair awaited her.
"No!" she then exclaimed, "this is enough! I will go no farther!"
"This is no time for discussion," replied an imperious voice which was not Lord Mowbray's; "get into the chair, quick!"
The thought of Frank, whom she was now certain she loved since jealousy had cast its unerring ray into the depths of her heart—this thought tortured her.
"I am lost!" she cried, "lost!"
"On the contrary, you are saved!"
And with the words ringing in her ears the chair started. The men almost ran with it, the result of the masked personage having said something to them about "paying double."
In less than a quarter of an hour the chair stopped in an alley-way off Holborn, and the gentleman, conducting the fugitive into one of the houses, dismissed the bearers.
When at last they were alone in the chamber upon the second floor and the man had succeeded in lighting a candle upon the mantelpiece, Esther easily recognized him.
"Mons. Lebeau!" she gasped in surprise.
"Yes," he replied, "and you are out of all danger here, absolute mistress of your destiny, since all that I wish is to offer you some respectful advice."
"But how could you have known? How could you take the place of another?"
"That is my secret—at least for the present. It is enough that I have succeeded. One word which has escaped you has led me to believe that you will not blame me for my intervention. I await the assurance with anxiety. Have I been in the wrong to act as I have?"
"No," she answered after a moment's hesitation, "and I thank you. I do not love Lord Mowbray, and my folly was as inexcusable as it has been without consolation."
An expression of joy illumined Lebeau's withered features.
"Good!" he said. "But what motive has led you astray for the moment?"
"Vanity. Lord Mowbray assured me that he wished to make me his wife."
"His wife! He never dreamed of doing such a thing! Moreover, such a marriage would have been impossible. But let us speak no more about it."
"Are you not going to take me back to my aunt, whom I left in such a ridiculous predicament, and who must be dying with anxiety about me?"
"The predicament of which you speak must have soon terminated; and as for her anxiety, it is my duty not to disturb it for the present. Lord Mowbray has sworn that, by consent or force, he would abduct you this night, and I am not sure that you would be safe in the house in Tothill Fields, where there is no one to defend you, not even your cousin Reuben. These are my humble lodgings, although none of my acquaintances know of its existence nor the way thither. Rest here for a few hours. To-morrow, by daylight, we will consider the situation. Be very sure that Mrs. Marsham will raise no objection, will address you no shadow of reproach. Your fault will not transpire, since I will tell her that it was I who brought you here to save you from the peril which menaced your honor."
"She knows you, then?"
"Very well indeed."
"For some time?"
"For a very long time."
After a brief pause he added,—
"It was I who brought you, a little child, to her house before you were confided to the care of the Quakeresses at Bristol."
"Is it possible!"
And, impetuously seizing Lebeau's hand, she added:—
"Then you knew my parents? O, I beseech you, sir, tell me something of my mother! Whowas she? Do I resemble her? Where did she die, and how?"
The queries crowded to her lips in an imperative tumult.
Lebeau's features relaxed in a melancholy smile.
"Patience!" he replied. "Later I will tell you all. Only know that your mother was exceedingly beautiful, and that you are her living image. She too was carried away by excess of emotion and by the thirst of adventure. There was no one at hand to give her timely warning, and she paid dearly for her imprudence."
Esther bowed her head, while a tear glided slowly from her lashes to her cheek.
"It was then that your father met her and took pity upon her. She was in sore need of pity and protection. Her child was born. You are that child."
"Alas!" murmured Esther. "But my father—is he still living?"
"Yes."
"Why does he not come? Why does he not show himself? I should be so happy to embrace him!"
At this moment an extraordinary change took place in Lebeau. His features, scarred by the battle with life, his dulled eyes, his entire vulgar face were ennobled with a solemn tenderness. Irresistibly his arms seemed to open to clasp the girl to his breast. Then they fell at his sides, and his face resumed its expression of discouragement and fatigue.
"Your father would indeed be happy," he said, "and very proud to call you his daughter; but circumstances prevent. I do not justify his conduct; far from it. He has committedwrongs, grievous wrongs,—and even more than that!"
Esther recoiled from him violently.
"You are my father's friend, and you calumniate him!"
Lebeau's only response was a shrug of his shoulders and a sigh. He turned to the window, and from a convulsive movement of his back Esther divined that he was weeping. In a moment she was at his side.
"Pardon me!" she cried, "pardon! You are perhaps the only human being whose interest in me is not tainted with calculation. You have saved me from death, you have saved me from shame, and by way of recompense I accuse and wound you! O, pardon me, my friend!"
Delightful words to Lebeau's ear!
"Thank you, my child," he said; "thank you, and good by. It is already daybreak, and all is calm. Sleep in peace. In a few hours I will return."
And Mons. Lebeau hastened away. Left alone, Esther dared not undress in a house which filled her with forebodings. She threw herself upon the bed just as she was, clasping in her hand a tiny poignard which had been Garrick's gift. Tradition had it that the weapon had once belonged to Sir William Davenant, who pretended to have received it from Ben Jonson. The latter, while a soldier in Flanders, had purchased it of a Jew who came from Italy. It was a marvellous bit of Florentine work, and must have been manufactured towards the close of the fifteenth century. What had been its history? In what dramas had it taken part? What ferocious jealousies, what mortal desires, had it served? Hadit ever been dyed in human blood? In whose snowy breast, in whose throbbing heart, had it been plunged? Considering these fancies, but especially her own destiny, her imagination in a whirl, our little heroine fell asleep.
When she awoke she perceived Lebeau, who stood watching her as she slept, and she heard the clocks chiming high noon.
"Well?" she demanded.
"I came from Tothill Fields," he answered; "the house is full of soldiers come thither to arrest your cousin Reuben, and they are to remain there, lying in ambush to surprise him upon his return. Your aunt has not come home, and up to the present time I have been unable to discover her place of refuge. Old Maud was alone at the mercy of the soldiers, whom, in her turn, she provoked and insulted. I have brought her here. She will attend to your wants and will be a companion for you so long as you are obliged to lie in concealment here, which from present appearances may be for some time; for the city is still in an agitated state, and this very disorder singularly favors your admirer's plans, since he has not lost the hope of taking his revenge."
Soon after Lebeau departed, promising to return on the morrow with the latest tidings; but Sunday passed and he did not appear. On Monday a child brought an unsigned note from him, which ran:—
"I cannot come to see you. I am suspected, and every step I take is shadowed. Have patience until to-morrow."
The rioting had begun again, and the two women in their sanctuary listened to the sound ofit as it grew each minute more distinct. Esther slept but little that night.
Next day affairs assumed an even more threatening aspect. The Langdale distillery was in flames close by, although the situation of the house prevented the girl from following the progress of the catastrophe. Towards evening, when the tumult increased and the firing became general, her agitation was extreme. The sight of the flames which enwrapped the neighboring buildings and threatened her refuge put the finishing touch upon her anxiety.
"Shall I remain here," she thought, "shut up with this crazy old creature, who does nothing but sing psalms? Shall I suffer myself to be burned alive in this strange trap? Mons. Lebeau has forgotten me or else he cannot come to me. Who knows if he is even alive?"
She approached the window and looked at the tower of St. Giles, upon which the clock marked the first hour of a new day. So brilliant was the flare from the conflagration that Esther could distinguish the delicate V-shaped shadow which the hands made upon the dial, the slightest detail in the sculpture about the dial, and even the joining of the masonry.
She resolved to depart. But where should she go? She knew not; but first of all it was necessary to escape from the circle of fire which was fast hemming her in. She put on her mantle and cast a silken handkerchief over her hair, knotting it under her chin. Then she called Maud, who had passed into an adjoining chamber.
But here she found herself in the presence of an unlooked-for difficulty. The old woman had fallen fast asleep and only responded to her words, herentreaties and cries by vague mutterings without awakening in the slightest degree. Esther shook her in desperation and tugged at her garments, but her girlish strength, depleted by the sense of her peril, was powerless to arouse the inert mass.
Perhaps she might secure assistance from outside! She opened the outer door, and, standing upon the threshold, cried, "Help!"
All in vain; her voice was lost, incapable of piercing the tumult. She was scarcely able to hear it herself. No one appeared. The neighboring houses, deserted as they were, were slowly yielding to the flames, and no one appeared to think of disputing the ravage. The almost intolerable heat fairly scorched the girl's eyelids.
Then she rushed towards Holborn, crossed like a flash the vaulted arcade, the only exit which opened from that side, and ran into the highway.
There she paused, terrified by the spectacle which met her gaze.
The Langdale establishment, changed into a furnace, belched forth torrents of fire at every aperture. The roof had fallen, and the flames ascended free of all impediment in one great sheet, which, being lashed by the wind at a certain height, curved into an arch and threatened to deluge the city with a devouring rain. Before the vast blazing pile a hideous, anomalous mob clad in indescribable rags and tatters, danced with furious, drunken joy. Several hours earlier the great hogsheads which had been dragged out of the distillery had been knocked in the head without ceremony, and every one had drunk his fill. Then the precious liquids had escaped, forming foaming pools and rippling rivulets, in which rare old port mingled with malmsey, and gin with sherry. Along the line of these pools and rivulets a crowd of human beings of both sexes and all ages, some with their infants in their arms, crouched upon their hands and knees, stretching their lips to sip the wine and mud. These were very soon rendered incapable of regaining their feet and insensible to the brutal passage of fresh bands, who trampled them under foot, and thus increased the quivering heap. At last the sparks falling from the lurid heavens ignited this sea of alcohol, which surged in bluish, spectral waves, enveloping the wretches, drowning while it set them on fire. The wallowing bodies writhedlike mutilated serpents, the spasmodic convulsions, vain, desperate efforts, and hoarse cries having in them no semblance to humanity. Thus the most horrible of deaths fell upon them in the midst of their intoxication, without so much as sobering them in the moment of dissolution. Meanwhile the rest, amidst all this horror, continued their demoniacal dance.
One of these fiends espied Esther. Staggering with open mouth and outstretched arms, hideous in his bestial carouse, he made two or three steps towards her. She fled back to the house, which she reached in a few moments. Upon the threshold stood Lebeau.
"At last!" she gasped. "I thought I was going mad!"
"Be calm," he replied. "I have found Mrs. Marsham, and I am going to take you to her. I know a way, but there is not a moment to be lost. In less than an hour this house will be reduced to ashes with the rest."
"But Maud!—she has lost her senses and refuses to follow me."
Without a word Lebeau hurried into the chamber, where he found the old woman. During the moment of silence that ensued Esther heard a sound upon the lower floor of the house.
"Some one has opened the door!" she cried; "some one is entering below!"
She thought with terror of the wretch who had followed her, and whom she had seen stumble over some obstacle and fall heavily to the ground, whence he was unable to rise.
Lebeau reappeared in answer to her warning of danger. Too late! Some one was mounting the stairs, advancing with rapid step, and when atlast the flare of the conflagration fell upon his features through the open doorway Esther and Lebeau recognized Lord Mowbray.
The first thought that presented itself to the girl's mind was that she had been betrayed.
"Oh!" she cried, bending upon Lebeau a glance of despair and hatred, "you have ruined me!"
This fresh shock proved too much for her endurance. Exhausted with emotion, she fell, striking her head upon the foot of the bed, and lay there motionless upon the floor. Lebeau sprang to her, raised her in his arms, and placed her gently upon the bed; then he bent above her pallid face.
"Swooned!" he murmured, as if speaking to himself.
With folded arms Lord Mowbray watched him, following every movement with an ironical smile.
"Master Lebeau!" he said, breaking the silence.
"My lord?" answered Lebeau, turning and facing him, pale but resolute.
"Do you still deny that you have played me false?"
"More than ever do I affirm that I have served your lordship faithfully."
"By thwarting my plans and robbing me of this girl?"
"By robbing you of this girl, yes. It was my duty."
"Your duty? That is the first time I have ever heard the word upon your lips."
"That was my fault. After all, my lord, perhaps there is a God."
"You should have sooner told me so. If youare converted, go join the hypocrites of your ilk, and leave me. This deserted place, this night of conflagration and slaughter, this unconscious girl,—all suits me well. I have a fancy for adventure which has no vulgar tang about it."
Standing between the bed where Esther lay and young Mowbray, Lebeau did not move.
"Excuse me, my lord," he said steadily, "it is you who are to leave. You will not lay a finger upon this child."
"Why not?"
"Because I forbid you."
"And pray why do you forbid me?"
"Because she is my daughter and your sister!"
For an instant Mowbray stood transfixed with amazement; then he burst into a laugh.
"By my soul!" he exclaimed, "my father was right: you are the most amusing rascal in the world! Long live Lebeau! No human being but you could have conceived such an idea. The day that my father awoke in the bottom of that monster pie, the surprise was good, but it cannot hold a candle to this one! After this night's affair no one can ever say that you are degenerating; for your imagination, my dear man, was never so brilliant. Ask me a hundred pounds, or twice that amount; I will refuse you nothing. But go away now and let the farce end. I have enough of it."
"I shall not go, and this is no farce. I repeat, Esther Woodville is your sister."
The young man smiled disdainfully.
"Would you have me believe that Lady Mowbray—"
"Lady Mowbray was a saint! May she hear and pardon me!"
"Amen!"
"Mock if you will, for you will not mock long. Lady Mowbray had nothing whatever to do with this affair; moreover, Lady Mowbray was a stranger to your birth, sir!"
This time the young nobleman recoiled in rage.
"Listen to me," said Lebeau authoritatively.
Esther was beginning to recover a vague consciousness. Athwart the shadows of her swoon thought began to reassert itself, though doubtful, timid, misty. Stretched upon the bed, incapable of movement, her eyes closed, she heard voices without comprehending what they said, without distinguishing the sense of what was spoken.
"Twenty-three years ago," continued Lebeau, "two women wereenceintesat the same time, the wife and the mistress of Lord Mowbray, one at his residence in St. James's, the other in a chamber of his 'Folly' at Chelsea. The latter was the daughter of a London shop-keeper, whom Lord Mowbray had abducted from her family, and had concealed as his prisoner. It was Fate's decree that his lordship should be made a father twice in one and the same night. He called my attention to your vigor and vitality when you came into the world. 'Look, Lebeau,' he said to me, 'it is a genuine love-child. See how strong he is, while the other—' Then a thought occurred to him: why not substitute the illegitimate for the legitimate child? He hated his wife as he hated all things good and pure. The thought of rearing the child of a rival charmed him, and he considered me worthy to execute the change. It was I who bribed the young nobleman's nurse and placed you in his cradle. When your mother'shealth was re-established Lord Mowbray washed his hands of her and the child whom she believed hers. It was enough for him that the child should be dispossessed of his fortune and title; he desired that he should be wretched, deprived of everything. He knew that the family of his mistress, inflexible as they were in principles, would close their doors upon the fallen girl and her child. At rest upon this point, he forbade me to give the sufferers aid, and I disobeyed him."
"That was the beginning of virtue!"
"No, sir. I found her beautiful and provided for her. In my turn she made me a father, but I treated her as though I were a grand gentleman. I sank to the infamous level of Lord Mowbray. I exposed her to all the hazards and misery of a wandering life. She became an actress and travelled from country town to country town, with a troop of mediocre actors, dragging Lady Mowbray's son along with her, the child whose position and name you had usurped. She died—almost starving!"
Lebeau pronounced these final words in a harsh tone of profound woe, upon which slowly accumulated remorse had set the tinge of indescribable bitterness.
"My daughter," he continued after a pause, "I saved from this cruel existence, provided for her education, and placed her in the home of honest folk."
"And the other,—the vagabond, my pretended brother?"
Beneath Mowbray's apparent irony Lebeau detected his anxiety.
"His life has been hard, frightfully hard, sir; until the age of ten years so cruel was it that therecital of his sufferings would touch any other heart than yours. From one adventure to another he at last fell into the hands of the Thames pirates, who made a little thief of him, and reared him for a life of shame and crime."
"Very much as you reared me."
"It is true. I merit the reproach and accept it; but while your evil instincts grew apace, the germ of good developed in your brother. He fled from those who had marked him for wrong-doing, and was received by upright persons.—Ah, you would like to know if he still lives? Do you think me fool enough to deliver him over to your jealousy and suspicions? No. You now know enough of this business to understand that you ought not to remain here an instant longer."
"I have listened to you even unto the end with a patience that astonishes me. It would appear from this recital that I am under nameless obligation to you, yourprotégé, your creature. As the king reigns by the grace of God, I am a nobleman by permission of Mons. Lebeau, and if I cease to merit his good opinion, I lose everything! Well," he added, suddenly changing his tone, "I do not care to know how much truth there is in your story, but I do know that this situation is no longer tenable. No such man as I am ought to be at the mercy of a Lebeau, hanging upon his discretion. The surest means of my assuring myself of your silence is to kill you! And kill you I will!"
Saying these words, he whipped out his sword and darted upon his former tutor.
Esther uttered a feeble cry, but the cry was lost in a frightful crash. A neighboring wall, undermined by the fire, reeled and fell, striking uponthe roof of the house. A rafter in falling struck the window and shattered it. A dense, stifling smoke, starred with a myriad sparks, filled the chamber.
Meanwhile Lebeau, who had never for an instant lost sight of Mowbray's movements, had darted backward a pace or two, thus placing a table between himself and his adversary, at the same time drawing his sword in his turn. Now they were equally matched. It was he who had first placed a fencing-foil in the young man's hand, he who had taught him with infinite patience all the secrets of the French and Italian schools of fencing. In those very schools had they studied the noble art in company, not disdaining the lessons of resident masters. They had fenced together every day for ten years, but had never succeeded in scratching each other, so easy was it for either to parry the thrusts of the other and to divine his intentions. However, it was necessary that one of these two men, who had lived so long together as master and disciple, almost as father and son, should take the other's life; and each bore written upon his very eyes the fierce desire, the implacable longing, to kill.
It was not a duel, but a combat. Shifting their footing, retreating precipitately or lunging unexpectedly, profiting by every obstacle, bending forward until they almost squatted upon the ground, or bounding into the air, every few moments they would desist, watching each other, panting, bathed in perspiration, their features rigid as if petrified with the same mortal intent. The furniture lay about them upset and broken, and all the while the smoke continued to thicken. It grew suffocating and darkened the chamber, recently so bright, while at the same time it alteredthe character of the combat, which threatened to become a blind struggle in the dark. Not a word was exchanged; nothing was audible but the stifled oaths, the short, harsh breathing that rattled in the throat, the hissing of the crossed swords, that metallic sound which freezes the marrow in the bones like a death-knell. In the adjoining chamber old Maud chanted:—
"Saul hath slain a thousand, but David hath slain ten thousand! Glory be to the God of hosts!Deus Sabaoth! Alleluia!"
Outside the house the tumult of the horrible fête had waned and expired in a vague, distant wail, intermingled with the dying shrieks of the participants.
Slowly Esther raised herself upon her elbow; with eyes dilated with horror she watched the two men as they pursued and evaded each other, leaping like stags in the ruddy smoke which was neither day nor night. She fancied herself the dupe of some hideous nightmare.
Neither of the combatants seemed aware of her presence, since both held their sight riveted upon the tips of their swords as if their very souls had passed into the glittering points. But Lebeau was weakening, and he knew it. His grasp trembled and his sight grew dim from minute to minute. A cold sweat pearled upon his brow, which he attempted to wipe away with a swift gesture of his left arm; but the beads grew more abundant, dripped from his eyebrows to his eyelids, and obscured his vision. His weary feet struck the furniture; already had he stumbled once; a sort of vertigo caused surrounding objects to whirl about him. It was death!... Then in sheer desperation he thrust out blindly.
Esther saw the two men run each other through, fall almost one on top of the other, roll heavily over upon the floor, and lie motionless. Again she lost consciousness, and for a time no sound disturbed the silence of the chamber save the chanting of the mad woman.
However, Lebeau raised himself, and strove to collect his ideas and strength. He was losing great quantities of blood, but the welfare of Esther was the only clear thought which remained amidst the baleful giddiness which had invaded his brain. Save Esther! But how? Bear her away in his arms? He could not do it. Had he even the strength left to crawl to the stairs, drag himself down and through the alley in search of help? Yes, there was no alternative. But in the mean time would not the fire reach her in its swift course? Would not the smoke asphyxiate the poor child? Stimulated by this alarming thought, the unhappy man began to drag himself by his bruised and bleeding hands. Every now and then he was forced to pause, exhausted, fainting, believing that the end had come. "Esther!"—that name alone revived him. His daughter! his child! No, he would not leave her to die like that. As for himself, what mattered it? Butshe, so young, so beautiful,—she, for whom life was so full of promise! Thus he advanced step by step, lowering himself from stair to stair amidst the most atrocious agony.