Chapter Seventy Four.A Sham Insurrection.It was Count Roseveldt who caused the change of programme, of which an explanation is needed.Shortly before, the Count, forming one of the circle around Kossuth, had slipped quietly away from it—sent forth by Kossuth himself to reconnoitre the ground.His knowledge of London life—for he had long lived there—caused him to be thus chosen.The object was to discover how the spies were placed.The dark night favoured him; and knowing that the spies themselves loved darkness, he sauntered toward a spot where he supposed they might be found.He had not been long in it, when voices in conversation admonished him that men were near. He saw two of them.They were approaching the place where he stood.A garden gate, flanked by a pair of massive piers, formed a niche, dark as the portals of Pluto.Into this the Count retreated; drawing himself into the smallest dimensions of which his carcase was capable.A fog, almost palpable to the feel, assisted in screening him.The two men came along; and, as good luck would have it, stopped nearly in front of the gate.They were still talking, and continued to talk, loud enough for Roseveldt to hear them.He did not know who they were; but their conversation soon told him. They were the spies who occupied the house opposite Kossuth—the very individuals he had sallied forth in search of.The obscurity of the night hindered him from having a view of their faces. He could only make out two figures, indistinctly traceable through the filmy envelope of the fog.But it mattered not. He had never seen these spies, and was, therefore, unacquainted with their personal appearance. Enough to hear what they were saying.And he heard sufficient for his purpose—sufficient to keep him silent till they were gone; and then bring him back with an excited air into the circle from which he had late parted.He burst into the room with a speech that caused astonishment—almost consternation!“You must not go, Governor?” were the words that proceeded from his lips.“Why?” asked Kossuth, in surprise, the question echoed by all.“Mein Gott!” responded the Austrian. “I’ve learnt a strange tale since I left you.”“What tale?”“A tale about this rising in Milan. Is there on the earth a man so infamous as to believe it?”“Explain yourself, Count!”It was the appeal of all present.“Have patience, gentlemen! You’ll need it all, after hearing me.”“Go on!”“I found thereforbans, as we expected. Two of them were in the street, talking. I had concealed myself in the shadow of a gateway; opposite which the scoundrels shortly after came to a stand. They did not see me; but I saw them, and, what’s better, heard them. And what do you suppose I heard?Peste! you won’t one of you believe it!”“Tell us, and try!”“That the rising in Milan is a sham—a decoy to entrap the noble Governor here, and others of us into the toils of Austria. It has been got up for no other purpose—so said one of these spies to the other, giving the source whence he had his information.”“Who?”“His employer, Lord —.”Kossuth started. So did his companions; for the information, though strange to them, was not by any means incredible.“Yes?” continued Roseveldt; “there can be no doubt of what I tell you. The spy who communicated it to his fellow gave facts and dates, which he must have derived from a certain source; and for my own part I was already under the belief that the thing looked like it. I know the strength of those Bohemian regiments. Besides there are the Tyrolese sharpshooters—true body-guards of a tyrant. There could have been no chance for us, whatever Guiseppe Mazzini may think of it. It’s certainly intended for a trap; and we must not fall into it. You will not go, Governor?”Kossuth looked around the circle, and then more particularly at Maynard.“Do not consult me,” said the soldier-author. “I am still ready to take you.”“And you are quite sure you heard this?” asked the ex-Governor, once more turning to Roseveldt.“Sure, your Excellency. I’ve heard it plain as words could speak. They are yet buzzing in my ears, as if they would burn them?”“What do you say, gentlemen?” asked Kossuth, scrutinising the countenances of those around him. “Are we to believe in an infamy so atrocious?”Before reply could be made, a ring at the gate-bell interrupted their deliberations.The door opened, admitting a man who came directly into the room where the revolutionists were assembled.All knew him as Colonel Ihasz, the friend and adjutant of Kossuth.Without saying a word, he placed a slip of paper in the ex-Governor’s hands.All could see it was the transcript of a telegraphic message.It was in a cipher; of which Kossuth alone had the key.In sad tone, and with trembling voice, he translated it to a circle sad as himself:“The rising has proved only an ‘émeute.’ There has been treachery behind it. The Hungarian regiments were this morning disarmed. Scores of the poor fellows are being shot. Afazzini, myself, and others, are likely to share the same fate, unless some miraculous chance turns up in our favour. We are surrounded on all sides; and am scant escape. For deliverance must trust to the God of liberty.“Turr.”Kossuth staggered to a seat. He seemed as though he would have fallen on the floor!“I too invoke the God of Liberty!” he cried, once more starting to his feet, after having a little recovered himself. “Can He permit such men as these to be sacrificed on the altar of Despotism?—Mazzini, and still more, chivalrous Turr—the bravest, the best, the handsomest of my officers?”No man, who ever saw General Turr, would care to question the eulogy thus bestowed upon him. And his deeds done since speak its justification.The report of Roseveldt had but foreshadowed the terrible disaster, confirmed by the telegraphic despatch.The Count had spoken in good time. But for the delay occasioned by his discovery, Kossuth and Captain Maynard would have been on their way to Dover; too late to be warned—too late to be saved from passing their next night as guests of Louis Napoleon—in one of his prisons!
It was Count Roseveldt who caused the change of programme, of which an explanation is needed.
Shortly before, the Count, forming one of the circle around Kossuth, had slipped quietly away from it—sent forth by Kossuth himself to reconnoitre the ground.
His knowledge of London life—for he had long lived there—caused him to be thus chosen.
The object was to discover how the spies were placed.
The dark night favoured him; and knowing that the spies themselves loved darkness, he sauntered toward a spot where he supposed they might be found.
He had not been long in it, when voices in conversation admonished him that men were near. He saw two of them.
They were approaching the place where he stood.
A garden gate, flanked by a pair of massive piers, formed a niche, dark as the portals of Pluto.
Into this the Count retreated; drawing himself into the smallest dimensions of which his carcase was capable.
A fog, almost palpable to the feel, assisted in screening him.
The two men came along; and, as good luck would have it, stopped nearly in front of the gate.
They were still talking, and continued to talk, loud enough for Roseveldt to hear them.
He did not know who they were; but their conversation soon told him. They were the spies who occupied the house opposite Kossuth—the very individuals he had sallied forth in search of.
The obscurity of the night hindered him from having a view of their faces. He could only make out two figures, indistinctly traceable through the filmy envelope of the fog.
But it mattered not. He had never seen these spies, and was, therefore, unacquainted with their personal appearance. Enough to hear what they were saying.
And he heard sufficient for his purpose—sufficient to keep him silent till they were gone; and then bring him back with an excited air into the circle from which he had late parted.
He burst into the room with a speech that caused astonishment—almost consternation!
“You must not go, Governor?” were the words that proceeded from his lips.
“Why?” asked Kossuth, in surprise, the question echoed by all.
“Mein Gott!” responded the Austrian. “I’ve learnt a strange tale since I left you.”
“What tale?”
“A tale about this rising in Milan. Is there on the earth a man so infamous as to believe it?”
“Explain yourself, Count!”
It was the appeal of all present.
“Have patience, gentlemen! You’ll need it all, after hearing me.”
“Go on!”
“I found thereforbans, as we expected. Two of them were in the street, talking. I had concealed myself in the shadow of a gateway; opposite which the scoundrels shortly after came to a stand. They did not see me; but I saw them, and, what’s better, heard them. And what do you suppose I heard?Peste! you won’t one of you believe it!”
“Tell us, and try!”
“That the rising in Milan is a sham—a decoy to entrap the noble Governor here, and others of us into the toils of Austria. It has been got up for no other purpose—so said one of these spies to the other, giving the source whence he had his information.”
“Who?”
“His employer, Lord —.”
Kossuth started. So did his companions; for the information, though strange to them, was not by any means incredible.
“Yes?” continued Roseveldt; “there can be no doubt of what I tell you. The spy who communicated it to his fellow gave facts and dates, which he must have derived from a certain source; and for my own part I was already under the belief that the thing looked like it. I know the strength of those Bohemian regiments. Besides there are the Tyrolese sharpshooters—true body-guards of a tyrant. There could have been no chance for us, whatever Guiseppe Mazzini may think of it. It’s certainly intended for a trap; and we must not fall into it. You will not go, Governor?”
Kossuth looked around the circle, and then more particularly at Maynard.
“Do not consult me,” said the soldier-author. “I am still ready to take you.”
“And you are quite sure you heard this?” asked the ex-Governor, once more turning to Roseveldt.
“Sure, your Excellency. I’ve heard it plain as words could speak. They are yet buzzing in my ears, as if they would burn them?”
“What do you say, gentlemen?” asked Kossuth, scrutinising the countenances of those around him. “Are we to believe in an infamy so atrocious?”
Before reply could be made, a ring at the gate-bell interrupted their deliberations.
The door opened, admitting a man who came directly into the room where the revolutionists were assembled.
All knew him as Colonel Ihasz, the friend and adjutant of Kossuth.
Without saying a word, he placed a slip of paper in the ex-Governor’s hands.
All could see it was the transcript of a telegraphic message.
It was in a cipher; of which Kossuth alone had the key.
In sad tone, and with trembling voice, he translated it to a circle sad as himself:
“The rising has proved only an ‘émeute.’ There has been treachery behind it. The Hungarian regiments were this morning disarmed. Scores of the poor fellows are being shot. Afazzini, myself, and others, are likely to share the same fate, unless some miraculous chance turns up in our favour. We are surrounded on all sides; and am scant escape. For deliverance must trust to the God of liberty.
“Turr.”
Kossuth staggered to a seat. He seemed as though he would have fallen on the floor!
“I too invoke the God of Liberty!” he cried, once more starting to his feet, after having a little recovered himself. “Can He permit such men as these to be sacrificed on the altar of Despotism?—Mazzini, and still more, chivalrous Turr—the bravest, the best, the handsomest of my officers?”
No man, who ever saw General Turr, would care to question the eulogy thus bestowed upon him. And his deeds done since speak its justification.
The report of Roseveldt had but foreshadowed the terrible disaster, confirmed by the telegraphic despatch.
The Count had spoken in good time. But for the delay occasioned by his discovery, Kossuth and Captain Maynard would have been on their way to Dover; too late to be warned—too late to be saved from passing their next night as guests of Louis Napoleon—in one of his prisons!
Chapter Seventy Five.A Statesman in Private Life.Wrapped in a richly-embroidered dressing-gown, with tasselled cap set jauntily on his head—his feet in striped silk stockings and red morocco slippers—Swinton’s noble patron was seated in his library.He was alone: soothing his solitude with a cigar—one of the best brand, from thevuelta-de-abajo.A cloud upon his brow told that his spirit was troubled.But it was only a slight ruffle, such as might spring from some unpleasantness. It was regret for the escape of Louis Kossuth, from the toils that had been set for him, and set according to his lordship’s own suggestions.His lordship, along with other crown-commissioned conspirators, had expected much from theémeuteat Milan. With all their cunning had they contrived that sham insurrection, in the hopes of getting within their jailors’ grasp the great leaders of the “nationalities.”Their design was defeated by their own fears. It was a child whose teeth were too well grown to endure long nursing; and, before it could be brought to maturity, they were compelled to proclaim it a bastard.This was shown by their sudden disarming of the Hungarian regiments, and the arrest of such of the compromised as had too rashly made appearance upon the spot.There were shootings and hangings—a hecatomb. But the victims were among the less prominent men of revolutionary record; while the great chiefs succeeded in making good their escape.Mazzini, the “untakeable,” got clear in a manner almost miraculous; and so too the gallant Turr.Thanks to the electric wires, whose silent speech even kings cannot control, Kossuth was spared the humiliation of imprisonment.It was the thought of this that shadowed the spirit of Swinton’s patron, as he sate reflecting upon the failure of the diabolical scheme.His antipathy to the Magyar chief was twofold. He hated him diplomatically, as one whose doctrines were dangerous to the “divine right” of kings. But he had also a private spite against him; arising from a matter of a more personal kind. For words uttered by him of an offensive nature, as for acts done in connection with his employment of the spies, Kossuth had called him to account, demanding retraction. The demand was made in a private note, borne by a personage too powerful to be slighted. And it elicited a reluctant but still truckling apology.There were not many who knew of this episode in the life of the ex-dictator of Hungary, so humiliating to the nobleman in question. But it is remembered by this writer; and was by his lordship, with bitterness, till the day of his death.That morning he remembered it more bitterly than ever; for he had failed in his scheme of revenge, and Kossuth was still unharmed.There was the usual inspiration given to the newspapers, and the customary outpouring of abuse upon the head of the illustrious exile.He was vilified as a disturber, who dared not show himself on the scene of disturbance; but promoted it from his safe asylum in England. He was called a “revolutionary assassin!”For a time there was a cloud upon his name, but not for long. To defend him once more appeared Maynard with his trenchant pen. He knew, and could tell the truth.Hedidtell it, hurling back his taunt upon the anonymous slanderer, by styling him the “assassin of the desk.”In fine, Kossuth’s character came out, not only unscathed, but, in the eyes of all true men, stood clearer than ever.It was this that chafed the vindictive spirit of his lordship, as he sate smoking an “emperor.”The influence of the nicotian weed seemed gradually to tranquillise him, and the shadow disappeared from his brow.And he had solace from another source—from reflection on a triumph achieved; not in the fields of diplomacy or war, but the court of Cupid. He was thinking of the many facile conquests he had made—consoling himself with the thought, that old age has its compensation, in fame, money, and power.More particularly was his mind dwelling on his newest and latestamourette, with the wife of hisprotégé, Swinton. He had reason to think it a success; and attributing this to his own powers of fascination—in which he still fancifully believed—he continued to puff away at his cigar in a state of dreamy contentment.It was a rude disturber to his Sardanapalian train of thought, as a footman gliding into the room, placed a card in his hand that carried the name of “Swinton.”“Where is he?” was the question curtly put to the servant. “Drawin’-room, your ludship.”“You should not have shown him there, till you’d learnt whether it was convenient for me to receive him.”“Pardon, your ludship. He walked right in ’ithout bein’ asked—sayin’ he wished very partickler to speak with your ludship.”“Show him in here, then?” The flunkey made obeisance, and withdrew. “What can Swinton want now? I have no business with him to-day; nor any more, for that matter, if I could conveniently get rid of him. Walked straight in without being asked! And wishes particularly to speak with me! Rather cool that!”His lordship was not quite cool himself, while making the reflection. On the contrary, a sudden pallor had shown itself on his cheeks, with a whiteness around the lips, as when a man is under the influence of some secret apprehension.“I wonder if the fellow has any suspicion—”His lordship’s reflection was stayed by the entrance of the “fellow” himself.
Wrapped in a richly-embroidered dressing-gown, with tasselled cap set jauntily on his head—his feet in striped silk stockings and red morocco slippers—Swinton’s noble patron was seated in his library.
He was alone: soothing his solitude with a cigar—one of the best brand, from thevuelta-de-abajo.
A cloud upon his brow told that his spirit was troubled.
But it was only a slight ruffle, such as might spring from some unpleasantness. It was regret for the escape of Louis Kossuth, from the toils that had been set for him, and set according to his lordship’s own suggestions.
His lordship, along with other crown-commissioned conspirators, had expected much from theémeuteat Milan. With all their cunning had they contrived that sham insurrection, in the hopes of getting within their jailors’ grasp the great leaders of the “nationalities.”
Their design was defeated by their own fears. It was a child whose teeth were too well grown to endure long nursing; and, before it could be brought to maturity, they were compelled to proclaim it a bastard.
This was shown by their sudden disarming of the Hungarian regiments, and the arrest of such of the compromised as had too rashly made appearance upon the spot.
There were shootings and hangings—a hecatomb. But the victims were among the less prominent men of revolutionary record; while the great chiefs succeeded in making good their escape.
Mazzini, the “untakeable,” got clear in a manner almost miraculous; and so too the gallant Turr.
Thanks to the electric wires, whose silent speech even kings cannot control, Kossuth was spared the humiliation of imprisonment.
It was the thought of this that shadowed the spirit of Swinton’s patron, as he sate reflecting upon the failure of the diabolical scheme.
His antipathy to the Magyar chief was twofold. He hated him diplomatically, as one whose doctrines were dangerous to the “divine right” of kings. But he had also a private spite against him; arising from a matter of a more personal kind. For words uttered by him of an offensive nature, as for acts done in connection with his employment of the spies, Kossuth had called him to account, demanding retraction. The demand was made in a private note, borne by a personage too powerful to be slighted. And it elicited a reluctant but still truckling apology.
There were not many who knew of this episode in the life of the ex-dictator of Hungary, so humiliating to the nobleman in question. But it is remembered by this writer; and was by his lordship, with bitterness, till the day of his death.
That morning he remembered it more bitterly than ever; for he had failed in his scheme of revenge, and Kossuth was still unharmed.
There was the usual inspiration given to the newspapers, and the customary outpouring of abuse upon the head of the illustrious exile.
He was vilified as a disturber, who dared not show himself on the scene of disturbance; but promoted it from his safe asylum in England. He was called a “revolutionary assassin!”
For a time there was a cloud upon his name, but not for long. To defend him once more appeared Maynard with his trenchant pen. He knew, and could tell the truth.
Hedidtell it, hurling back his taunt upon the anonymous slanderer, by styling him the “assassin of the desk.”
In fine, Kossuth’s character came out, not only unscathed, but, in the eyes of all true men, stood clearer than ever.
It was this that chafed the vindictive spirit of his lordship, as he sate smoking an “emperor.”
The influence of the nicotian weed seemed gradually to tranquillise him, and the shadow disappeared from his brow.
And he had solace from another source—from reflection on a triumph achieved; not in the fields of diplomacy or war, but the court of Cupid. He was thinking of the many facile conquests he had made—consoling himself with the thought, that old age has its compensation, in fame, money, and power.
More particularly was his mind dwelling on his newest and latestamourette, with the wife of hisprotégé, Swinton. He had reason to think it a success; and attributing this to his own powers of fascination—in which he still fancifully believed—he continued to puff away at his cigar in a state of dreamy contentment.
It was a rude disturber to his Sardanapalian train of thought, as a footman gliding into the room, placed a card in his hand that carried the name of “Swinton.”
“Where is he?” was the question curtly put to the servant. “Drawin’-room, your ludship.”
“You should not have shown him there, till you’d learnt whether it was convenient for me to receive him.”
“Pardon, your ludship. He walked right in ’ithout bein’ asked—sayin’ he wished very partickler to speak with your ludship.”
“Show him in here, then?” The flunkey made obeisance, and withdrew. “What can Swinton want now? I have no business with him to-day; nor any more, for that matter, if I could conveniently get rid of him. Walked straight in without being asked! And wishes particularly to speak with me! Rather cool that!”
His lordship was not quite cool himself, while making the reflection. On the contrary, a sudden pallor had shown itself on his cheeks, with a whiteness around the lips, as when a man is under the influence of some secret apprehension.
“I wonder if the fellow has any suspicion—”
His lordship’s reflection was stayed by the entrance of the “fellow” himself.
Chapter Seventy Six.A Modest Demand.The aspect of hisprotégé, as he stepped inside the room, was anything but reassuring to the sexagenarian deceiver.On the contrary, his pale cheeks became paler, his white lips whiter. There was something in the ex-guardsman’s eye and air that bespoke a man having a grievance!More than that, a man determined on its being righted. Nor could his lordship mistake that it was against himself. The bold, almost bullying, attitude of his visitor, so different from that hitherto held by him, showed that, whatever might be his suit, it was not to be pressed with humility.“What is it, my dear Swinton?” asked his scared patron, in a tone of pretended conciliation. “Is there anything I can do for you to-day? Have you any business?”“I have; and a very disagreeable business at that.” In the reply, “his lordship” did not fail to remark the discourteous omission of his title.“Indeed?” he exclaimed, without pretending to notice it. “Disagreeable business? With whom?”“With yourself, my lord.”“Ah! you surprise—I do not understand you, Mr Swinton.”“Your lordship will, when I mention a little circumstance that occurred last Friday afternoon. It was in a street south side of Leicester Square.” It was as much as his lordship could do to retain his seat. He might as well have risen; since the start he gave, on hearing the name, told that he knew all about the “little circumstance.”“Sir—Mr Swinton! I do not comprehend you!”“You do—perfectly?” was Swinton’s reply, once more disrespectfully omitting the title. “Youshouldknow,” he continued, “since you were in that same street, at the same time.”“I deny it.”“No use denying it. I chanced to be there myself, and saw you. And, although your lordship did keep your lordship’s face well turned away, there can be no difficulty in swearing to it—neither on my part nor that of the gentleman who chanced to be along with me; and who knows your lordship quite as well as I.”There was title enough in this speech, but coupled with too much sarcasm.“And what if I was in — Street at the time you say?” demanded the accused in a tone of mock defiance.“Not much in that. — Street’s as free to your lordship as to any other man. A little more free, I suspect. But then, your lordship was seen to come out of a certain house in that respectable locality, followed by a lady whom I have also good reason to know, and can certainly swear to. So can the friend who was with me.”“I cannot help ladies following me out of houses. The thing; I presume, was purely accidental.”“But not accidental her going in along with you—especially as your lordship had shown her the courtesy to hand her out of a cab, after riding some way through the streets with her! Come, my lord, it’s of no use your endeavouring to deny it. Subterfuge will not serve you. I’ve been witness to my own dishonour, as have several others besides. I seek reparation.”If all the thrones in Europe had been at that moment tumbling about his ears, the arch-conspirator of crowned heads would not have been more stunned by thedélabrement. Like his celebrated prototype, he cared not that after him came the deluge; but a deluge was now threatening himself—a deep, damning inundation, that might engulf not only a large portion of his fortune, but a large measure of his fame!He was all the more frightened, because both had already suffered from a shock somewhat similar.He knew himself guilty,and that it could be proved!He saw how idle would be the attempt to justify himself. He had no alternative but to submit to Swinton’s terms; and he only hoped that these, however onerous, might be obtained without exposure.The pause that had occurred in the conversation was positively agonising to him. It was like taking the vulture from his liver, when Swinton spoke again, in a tone that promisedcompromise.“My lord,” he said, “I feel that I am a dishonoured man. But I’m a poor man, and cannot afford to go to law with your lordship.”“Why should you, Mr Swinton?” asked the nobleman, hastily catching at the straw thus thrown out to him. “I assure you it is all a mistake. You have been deceived by appearances. I had my reasons for holding a private conversation with the lady you suspect; and I could not just at the moment think of anywhere else to go.”It was a poor pretence; and Swinton received it with a sneer. His lordship did not expect otherwise. He was but speaking to give his abusedprotégéa chance of swallowing the dishonour.“You’re the last man in the world,” he continued, “with whom I should wish to have a misunderstanding. I’d do anything to avoid it; and if there be any service I may render you, name it. Can you think of anything I may do?”“I can, my lord.”“What is it you would wish?”“A title. Your lordship can bestow it?” This time the nobleman started right out of his chair, and stood with eyes staring, and lips aghast. “You are mad, Mr Swinton!”“I am not mad, my lord! I mean what I say.”“Why, sir, to procure you a title would create a scandal that might cost me my reputation. The thing’s not to be thought of. Such honours are only bestowed upon—”“Upon those who do just such services as I. All stuff, my lord, to talk of distinguished services to the State. I suppose that’s what you were going to say. It may do very well for the ears of the unwashed; but it has no meaning in mine. If merit were the means of arriving at such distinction, we’d never have heard of such patents of nobility as Lord B—, and the Earl of C—, and Sir H. N—, and some threescore others I could quote. Why, my lord, it’s the very absence of merit that gave these gentlemen the right to be written about by Burke. And look at Burke himself, made ‘Sir Bernard’ for being but the chronicler of your heraldry. Pretty, pretty service to the State, that is! I’m sure I’ve as good right as he.”“I don’t deny that, Mr Swinton. But you know it’s not a question of right, but expediency.”“So be it, my lord. Mine is just such a case.”“I tell you I dare not do it.”“And I tell you, you dare! Your lordship may do almost anything. The British public believe you have both the power and the right, even to make the laws of the land. You’ve taught them to think so; and they know no better. Besides, you are at this moment so popular. They think you perfection!”“Notwithstanding that,” rejoined his lordship, without noticing the sneer, “I dare not do what you wish. What! get you a tide! I might as well talk about dethroning the queen, and proclaiming you king in her stead.”“Ha! ha! I don’t expect any honour quite so high as that I don’t want it, your lordship. Crowns, they say, make heads uneasy. I’m a man of moderate aspirations. I should be contented with a coronet.”“Madness, Mr Swinton!”“Well; if you can’t make me a lord like yourself, it’s within bounds for me to expect a baronetcy. I’ll even be content with simple knighthood. Surely your lordship can get me that?”“Impossible!” exclaimed the patron, in an agony of vexation. “Is there nothing else you can think of? A post—an office?”“I’m not fit for either. I don’t want them. Nothing less than the title, my lord.”“It’s only a title you want?” asked the nobleman, after a pause, and as if suddenly impressed with some idea that promised to serve him. “You say you’re not particular? Would that of a Count satisfy you?”“How could your lordship procure that? There are no Counts in England?”“But there are in France.”“I know it—a good many of them; more than have means to support the titles.”“Never mind the means. The title will secure them to a man of your talents. You may be one of the number. A French Count is still a Count. Surely that title would suit you?”Swinton seemed to reflect.“Perhaps it would. You think your lordship could obtain it for me?”“I am sure of it. He who has the power to bestow such distinctions is my intimate personal friend. I need not tell you it is France’s ruler.”“I know it, my lord.”“Well, Mr Swinton; say that a French countship will satisfy you, and you shall have it within a week. In less time, if you choose to go to Paris yourself.”“My lord, I shall be too glad to make the journey.”“Enough, then. Call upon me to-morrow. I shall have a letter prepared that will introduce you, not only to the Emperor of France, but into the ranks of France’s nobility. Come at ten o’clock.”It is scarce necessary to say that Swinton was punctual to the appointment; and on that same day, with a heart full of rejoicing, made the journey from Park Lane to Paris.Equally delighted was his patron at having secured condonation at such a cheap rate, for what might otherwise have proved not only a costly case but a ruinous scandal.In less than a week from this time, Swinton crossed the threshold of the South Bank Villa, with a patent of countship in his pocket.
The aspect of hisprotégé, as he stepped inside the room, was anything but reassuring to the sexagenarian deceiver.
On the contrary, his pale cheeks became paler, his white lips whiter. There was something in the ex-guardsman’s eye and air that bespoke a man having a grievance!
More than that, a man determined on its being righted. Nor could his lordship mistake that it was against himself. The bold, almost bullying, attitude of his visitor, so different from that hitherto held by him, showed that, whatever might be his suit, it was not to be pressed with humility.
“What is it, my dear Swinton?” asked his scared patron, in a tone of pretended conciliation. “Is there anything I can do for you to-day? Have you any business?”
“I have; and a very disagreeable business at that.” In the reply, “his lordship” did not fail to remark the discourteous omission of his title.
“Indeed?” he exclaimed, without pretending to notice it. “Disagreeable business? With whom?”
“With yourself, my lord.”
“Ah! you surprise—I do not understand you, Mr Swinton.”
“Your lordship will, when I mention a little circumstance that occurred last Friday afternoon. It was in a street south side of Leicester Square.” It was as much as his lordship could do to retain his seat. He might as well have risen; since the start he gave, on hearing the name, told that he knew all about the “little circumstance.”
“Sir—Mr Swinton! I do not comprehend you!”
“You do—perfectly?” was Swinton’s reply, once more disrespectfully omitting the title. “Youshouldknow,” he continued, “since you were in that same street, at the same time.”
“I deny it.”
“No use denying it. I chanced to be there myself, and saw you. And, although your lordship did keep your lordship’s face well turned away, there can be no difficulty in swearing to it—neither on my part nor that of the gentleman who chanced to be along with me; and who knows your lordship quite as well as I.”
There was title enough in this speech, but coupled with too much sarcasm.
“And what if I was in — Street at the time you say?” demanded the accused in a tone of mock defiance.
“Not much in that. — Street’s as free to your lordship as to any other man. A little more free, I suspect. But then, your lordship was seen to come out of a certain house in that respectable locality, followed by a lady whom I have also good reason to know, and can certainly swear to. So can the friend who was with me.”
“I cannot help ladies following me out of houses. The thing; I presume, was purely accidental.”
“But not accidental her going in along with you—especially as your lordship had shown her the courtesy to hand her out of a cab, after riding some way through the streets with her! Come, my lord, it’s of no use your endeavouring to deny it. Subterfuge will not serve you. I’ve been witness to my own dishonour, as have several others besides. I seek reparation.”
If all the thrones in Europe had been at that moment tumbling about his ears, the arch-conspirator of crowned heads would not have been more stunned by thedélabrement. Like his celebrated prototype, he cared not that after him came the deluge; but a deluge was now threatening himself—a deep, damning inundation, that might engulf not only a large portion of his fortune, but a large measure of his fame!
He was all the more frightened, because both had already suffered from a shock somewhat similar.
He knew himself guilty,and that it could be proved!
He saw how idle would be the attempt to justify himself. He had no alternative but to submit to Swinton’s terms; and he only hoped that these, however onerous, might be obtained without exposure.
The pause that had occurred in the conversation was positively agonising to him. It was like taking the vulture from his liver, when Swinton spoke again, in a tone that promisedcompromise.
“My lord,” he said, “I feel that I am a dishonoured man. But I’m a poor man, and cannot afford to go to law with your lordship.”
“Why should you, Mr Swinton?” asked the nobleman, hastily catching at the straw thus thrown out to him. “I assure you it is all a mistake. You have been deceived by appearances. I had my reasons for holding a private conversation with the lady you suspect; and I could not just at the moment think of anywhere else to go.”
It was a poor pretence; and Swinton received it with a sneer. His lordship did not expect otherwise. He was but speaking to give his abusedprotégéa chance of swallowing the dishonour.
“You’re the last man in the world,” he continued, “with whom I should wish to have a misunderstanding. I’d do anything to avoid it; and if there be any service I may render you, name it. Can you think of anything I may do?”
“I can, my lord.”
“What is it you would wish?”
“A title. Your lordship can bestow it?” This time the nobleman started right out of his chair, and stood with eyes staring, and lips aghast. “You are mad, Mr Swinton!”
“I am not mad, my lord! I mean what I say.”
“Why, sir, to procure you a title would create a scandal that might cost me my reputation. The thing’s not to be thought of. Such honours are only bestowed upon—”
“Upon those who do just such services as I. All stuff, my lord, to talk of distinguished services to the State. I suppose that’s what you were going to say. It may do very well for the ears of the unwashed; but it has no meaning in mine. If merit were the means of arriving at such distinction, we’d never have heard of such patents of nobility as Lord B—, and the Earl of C—, and Sir H. N—, and some threescore others I could quote. Why, my lord, it’s the very absence of merit that gave these gentlemen the right to be written about by Burke. And look at Burke himself, made ‘Sir Bernard’ for being but the chronicler of your heraldry. Pretty, pretty service to the State, that is! I’m sure I’ve as good right as he.”
“I don’t deny that, Mr Swinton. But you know it’s not a question of right, but expediency.”
“So be it, my lord. Mine is just such a case.”
“I tell you I dare not do it.”
“And I tell you, you dare! Your lordship may do almost anything. The British public believe you have both the power and the right, even to make the laws of the land. You’ve taught them to think so; and they know no better. Besides, you are at this moment so popular. They think you perfection!”
“Notwithstanding that,” rejoined his lordship, without noticing the sneer, “I dare not do what you wish. What! get you a tide! I might as well talk about dethroning the queen, and proclaiming you king in her stead.”
“Ha! ha! I don’t expect any honour quite so high as that I don’t want it, your lordship. Crowns, they say, make heads uneasy. I’m a man of moderate aspirations. I should be contented with a coronet.”
“Madness, Mr Swinton!”
“Well; if you can’t make me a lord like yourself, it’s within bounds for me to expect a baronetcy. I’ll even be content with simple knighthood. Surely your lordship can get me that?”
“Impossible!” exclaimed the patron, in an agony of vexation. “Is there nothing else you can think of? A post—an office?”
“I’m not fit for either. I don’t want them. Nothing less than the title, my lord.”
“It’s only a title you want?” asked the nobleman, after a pause, and as if suddenly impressed with some idea that promised to serve him. “You say you’re not particular? Would that of a Count satisfy you?”
“How could your lordship procure that? There are no Counts in England?”
“But there are in France.”
“I know it—a good many of them; more than have means to support the titles.”
“Never mind the means. The title will secure them to a man of your talents. You may be one of the number. A French Count is still a Count. Surely that title would suit you?”
Swinton seemed to reflect.
“Perhaps it would. You think your lordship could obtain it for me?”
“I am sure of it. He who has the power to bestow such distinctions is my intimate personal friend. I need not tell you it is France’s ruler.”
“I know it, my lord.”
“Well, Mr Swinton; say that a French countship will satisfy you, and you shall have it within a week. In less time, if you choose to go to Paris yourself.”
“My lord, I shall be too glad to make the journey.”
“Enough, then. Call upon me to-morrow. I shall have a letter prepared that will introduce you, not only to the Emperor of France, but into the ranks of France’s nobility. Come at ten o’clock.”
It is scarce necessary to say that Swinton was punctual to the appointment; and on that same day, with a heart full of rejoicing, made the journey from Park Lane to Paris.
Equally delighted was his patron at having secured condonation at such a cheap rate, for what might otherwise have proved not only a costly case but a ruinous scandal.
In less than a week from this time, Swinton crossed the threshold of the South Bank Villa, with a patent of countship in his pocket.
Chapter Seventy Seven.The Count De Valmy.If ever Mrs Girdwood had a surprise in her life, it was when Mr Swinton called at the Clarendon Hotel, and asked if she and her girls would accept an invitation to a reception at Lord —’s.The entertainment was at the residence in Park Lane. The storekeeper’s widow gave her consent, without consulting her girls; and the invitation came on a sheet of tinted paper, bearing the well-known crest.Mrs Girdwood went to the reception, the girls along with her; Julia carrying twenty thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds upon her head and shoulders.Otherwise they were as well-dressed as any British damsel who presented herself in his lordship’s drawing-rooms; and among these were the noblest in the land.So far as appearance went, the American ladies had no need to be ashamed of the gentleman who escorted them. Though to them but plain Mr Swinton, Mrs Girdwood was subjected to a fresh shock of surprise, when the noble host, coming up to the group, accosted him as “My dear Count,” and begged an introduction to his companions.It was gracefully given; and now for the first time in her life was Mrs Girdwood certain of being surrounded by true titled aristocracy.There could be no deception about the people of that party, who were of all ranks known to “Burke’s British Peerage.” Nor could there be any doubt now, that Mr Swintonwasa “somebody.”“A count he is, and no mistake!” was Mrs Girdwood’s muttered soliloquy. “He isn’t a lord; he never said he was one. But a count’s the same thing, or the next to it.“Besides, there are counts with great estates—far greater than some lords. Haven’t we heard so?”The question was in a side whisper to Julia, after all three had been introduced to their august entertainer.Just then Julia had no opportunity of making answer to it, for the noble host, whose guests they were, was so condescending as to chat with her; and continued chatting such a long time, that the Count appeared to be getting jealous of him! As if observing this, his lordship withdrew, to extend a like courtesy to the twenty other beautiful young damsels who graced the reception,—leaving the Girdwood group to their own and their Count’s guidance for the remainder of the evening.Receptions do not last more than a couple of hours, beginning at ten and breaking up about twelve, with light refreshments of the “kettle-drum” kind, that serve, very unsatisfactorily, for supper.In consequence, the Count de Valmy (for such was Mr Swinton’s title) invited the ladies to apetit souperof a more substantial kind, at one of the snug refectories to be found a little farther along Piccadilly. There, being joined by the other count—met by them at Mr Swinton’s dinner-table, and who on this occasion was unaccompanied by his countess—they passed a pleasant hour or two, as is usually the case at apetit souper.Even the gentle Cornelia enjoyed herself though not through the company of the two counts. She had met a gentleman at the reception—a man old enough to have been her father—but one of those noble natures with which the heart of a young confiding girl readily sympathises. They had chatted together. He had said some words to her, that made her forget the disparity of years, and wish for more of his conversation. She had given consent to his calling on her, and the thought of this hindered her from feeling forsaken, even when the Count de Valmy confined his attention to her cousin, and the married count made himself amiable to her aunt!The Champagne and Moselle were both of best quality; and Mrs Girdwood was induced to partake of both freely, as was also her daughter.The two counts were agreeable companions—but more especially he who had so long passed as Mr Swinton, and who was no longer careful about keeping up hisincognito.It ended in Mrs Girdwood’s heart warming towards him with the affection of a mother; while Julia’s became almost softened to that other affection which promised to bestow upon her the title of “Countess.”“What could be better, or prettier?” thought she, repeating the words of her willing mother. A stylish countess, with a handsome count for husband—dresses and diamonds, carriages and cash, to make the title illustrious!Of the last the count himself appeared to have plenty; but whether or no, her mother had given promise that it should not be wanting.And what a grand life it would be to give receptions herself—not only in great London, but in the Fifth Avenue, New York!And then she could go back to Newport in the height of the fashionable season; and how she could spite the J—’s, and the L—’s, and the B—’s; make them envious to the tips of their fingers, by flaunting herself before their faces as the “Countess de Valmy!”What if she did not love her count to distraction! She would not be the first—not by millions—who had stifled the cherished yearnings of a heart, and strained its tenderest chords, to submit to a marriagede convenance!In this mood Swinton found her, when, underhis true and real name, he once more made his proposal.And she answered it by consenting to become the Countess de Valmy.
If ever Mrs Girdwood had a surprise in her life, it was when Mr Swinton called at the Clarendon Hotel, and asked if she and her girls would accept an invitation to a reception at Lord —’s.
The entertainment was at the residence in Park Lane. The storekeeper’s widow gave her consent, without consulting her girls; and the invitation came on a sheet of tinted paper, bearing the well-known crest.
Mrs Girdwood went to the reception, the girls along with her; Julia carrying twenty thousand dollars’ worth of diamonds upon her head and shoulders.
Otherwise they were as well-dressed as any British damsel who presented herself in his lordship’s drawing-rooms; and among these were the noblest in the land.
So far as appearance went, the American ladies had no need to be ashamed of the gentleman who escorted them. Though to them but plain Mr Swinton, Mrs Girdwood was subjected to a fresh shock of surprise, when the noble host, coming up to the group, accosted him as “My dear Count,” and begged an introduction to his companions.
It was gracefully given; and now for the first time in her life was Mrs Girdwood certain of being surrounded by true titled aristocracy.
There could be no deception about the people of that party, who were of all ranks known to “Burke’s British Peerage.” Nor could there be any doubt now, that Mr Swintonwasa “somebody.”
“A count he is, and no mistake!” was Mrs Girdwood’s muttered soliloquy. “He isn’t a lord; he never said he was one. But a count’s the same thing, or the next to it.
“Besides, there are counts with great estates—far greater than some lords. Haven’t we heard so?”
The question was in a side whisper to Julia, after all three had been introduced to their august entertainer.
Just then Julia had no opportunity of making answer to it, for the noble host, whose guests they were, was so condescending as to chat with her; and continued chatting such a long time, that the Count appeared to be getting jealous of him! As if observing this, his lordship withdrew, to extend a like courtesy to the twenty other beautiful young damsels who graced the reception,—leaving the Girdwood group to their own and their Count’s guidance for the remainder of the evening.
Receptions do not last more than a couple of hours, beginning at ten and breaking up about twelve, with light refreshments of the “kettle-drum” kind, that serve, very unsatisfactorily, for supper.
In consequence, the Count de Valmy (for such was Mr Swinton’s title) invited the ladies to apetit souperof a more substantial kind, at one of the snug refectories to be found a little farther along Piccadilly. There, being joined by the other count—met by them at Mr Swinton’s dinner-table, and who on this occasion was unaccompanied by his countess—they passed a pleasant hour or two, as is usually the case at apetit souper.
Even the gentle Cornelia enjoyed herself though not through the company of the two counts. She had met a gentleman at the reception—a man old enough to have been her father—but one of those noble natures with which the heart of a young confiding girl readily sympathises. They had chatted together. He had said some words to her, that made her forget the disparity of years, and wish for more of his conversation. She had given consent to his calling on her, and the thought of this hindered her from feeling forsaken, even when the Count de Valmy confined his attention to her cousin, and the married count made himself amiable to her aunt!
The Champagne and Moselle were both of best quality; and Mrs Girdwood was induced to partake of both freely, as was also her daughter.
The two counts were agreeable companions—but more especially he who had so long passed as Mr Swinton, and who was no longer careful about keeping up hisincognito.
It ended in Mrs Girdwood’s heart warming towards him with the affection of a mother; while Julia’s became almost softened to that other affection which promised to bestow upon her the title of “Countess.”
“What could be better, or prettier?” thought she, repeating the words of her willing mother. A stylish countess, with a handsome count for husband—dresses and diamonds, carriages and cash, to make the title illustrious!
Of the last the count himself appeared to have plenty; but whether or no, her mother had given promise that it should not be wanting.
And what a grand life it would be to give receptions herself—not only in great London, but in the Fifth Avenue, New York!
And then she could go back to Newport in the height of the fashionable season; and how she could spite the J—’s, and the L—’s, and the B—’s; make them envious to the tips of their fingers, by flaunting herself before their faces as the “Countess de Valmy!”
What if she did not love her count to distraction! She would not be the first—not by millions—who had stifled the cherished yearnings of a heart, and strained its tenderest chords, to submit to a marriagede convenance!
In this mood Swinton found her, when, underhis true and real name, he once more made his proposal.
And she answered it by consenting to become the Countess de Valmy.
Chapter Seventy Eight.Contemplating a Canal.Swinton’s triumph seemed complete.He already had a title, which no one could take from him—not even he who had bestowed it.He possessed both the patent and parchments of nobility; and he intended taking care of them. But he still wanted fortune; and this seemed now before him. Julia Girdwood had consented to become his wife, with a dower of 50,000 pounds, and the expectation of as many thousands more!It had been a rare run of luck, or rather a chapter of cunning—subtle as fiendish.But it was not yet complete. The marriage remained to be solemnised. And when solemnised, what then?The sequel was still in doubt, and full of darkness. It was darkened by dangers, and fraught with fears.If Fan should prove untrue? True to herself but untrue to him? Supposing her to become stirred with an instinct of opposition to this last great dishonour, and forbid the banns? She might act so at the eleventh hour; and then to him, disappointment, disgrace, ruin!But he had no great fear of this. He felt pretty sure she would continue a consenting party, and permit his nefarious scheme to be consummated. But then? And what then?She would hold over him a power he had reason to dread—a very sword of Damocles!He would have to share with her the ill-gotten booty—he knew her well enough for this—submit to her will in everything, for he knew also that she had a will—now that she was re-established on the ride of Rotten Row as one of its prettiest horse-breakers.There was something, beside the thought of Fan’s reclaiming him, that vexed him far more than the fear of any mulct. He would be willing to bleed black-mail to any amount convenient—even to the half of Julia Girdwood’s fortune, to insure his past wife keeping quiet for ever.Strange to say, he had grown to care little for the money; though it may not appear strange when the cause is declared.It will only seem so, considering the character of the man. Wicked as Swinton was, he had fallen madly in love with Julia Girdwood—madly and desperately.And now on the eve of possessing her, to hold that possession as by a thread, that might be cut at any moment by caprice.And that caprice the will of an injured wife! No wonder the wretch saw in his future a thorny entanglement—a path, if bestrewed with flowers, beset also by death’s-heads and skeletons!Fan had helped him in his scheme for acquiring an almost fabulous fortune; at a touch she could destroy it.“By heaven!she shall not!” was the reflection that came forth from his lips as he stood smoking a cigar, and speculating on the feared future. Assisted in conception by that same cigar, and before it was smoked to a stump, he had contrived a plan to secure him against his wife’s future interference in whatever way it might be exerted.His scheme of bigamy was scarce guilt, compared with that now begotten in his brain.He was standing upon the edge of the canal, whose steep bank formed the back inclosure of his garden. The tow-path was on the other side, so that the aqueous chasm yawned almost directly under his feet.The sight of it was suggestive. He knew it was deep. He saw it was turbid, and not likely to tell tales.There was a moon coursing through the sky. Her beams, here and there, fell in bright blotches upon the water. They came slanting through the shrubbery, showing that it was a young moon, and would soon go down.It was already dark where he stood in the shadow of a huge laurustinus; but there was light enough to show that with a fiend’s face he was contemplating the canal.“It would do!” he muttered to himself; “but nothere. Thethingmight be fished up again. Even if it could be made to appear suicide, there’d be the chance of an identification and connection with me. More than chance—a dead, damnable certainty.“That would be damnable! I should have to appear at a coroner’s quest to explain.“Bah! what use in speculating? Explanation, under the circumstances, would be simply condemnation.“Impossible! The thing can’t be donehere!“But itcanbe done,” he continued; “and in this canal, too. Ithasbeen done, no doubt, many a time. Yes, silent sluggard! if you could but speak, you might tell of many a plunge made into your sluggish waves, alike by the living and the dead!“You will suit for my purpose; but not here. I know the place, the very place—by the Park Road bridge.“And the time, too—late at night. Some dark night, when the spruce tradesmen of Wellington Road have gone home to the bosom of their families.“Why not this very night?” he asked himself, stepping nervously out from the laurustinus, and glaring at the moon, whose thin crescent flickered feebly through cumulus clouds. “Yonder farthing dip will be burnt out within the hour, and if that sky don’t deceive me, we’ll have a night dark as doom. A fog, too, by heavens!” he added, raising himself on tiptoe, and making survey of the horizon to the east. “Yes! there’s no mistake about that dun cloud coming up from the Isle of Dogs, with the colour of the Thames mud upon it.“Why not to-night?” he again asked himself, as if by the question to strengthen him in his terrible resolve. “The thing can’t wait. A day may spoil everything. If it is to be done, the sooner the better.It must be done!“Yes, yes; there’s fog coming over that sky, if I know aught of London weather. It will be on before midnight God grant it may stay till the morning!”The prayer passing from his lips, in connection with the horrid scheme in his thoughts, gave an expression to his countenance truly diabolical.Even his wife, used to see the “ugly” in his face, could not help noticing it, as he went back into the house—where she had been waiting for him to go out for a walk.It was a walk to the Haymarket, to enjoy the luxuries of a set supper in the Café d’Europe, where the “other count,” with the Honourable Geraldine, and one or two friends of similar social standing, had made appointment to meet them.It was not the last promenade Swinton intended to take with his beloved Fan. Before reaching the Haymarket, he had planned another for that same night,if it should prove to be a dark one.
Swinton’s triumph seemed complete.
He already had a title, which no one could take from him—not even he who had bestowed it.
He possessed both the patent and parchments of nobility; and he intended taking care of them. But he still wanted fortune; and this seemed now before him. Julia Girdwood had consented to become his wife, with a dower of 50,000 pounds, and the expectation of as many thousands more!
It had been a rare run of luck, or rather a chapter of cunning—subtle as fiendish.
But it was not yet complete. The marriage remained to be solemnised. And when solemnised, what then?
The sequel was still in doubt, and full of darkness. It was darkened by dangers, and fraught with fears.
If Fan should prove untrue? True to herself but untrue to him? Supposing her to become stirred with an instinct of opposition to this last great dishonour, and forbid the banns? She might act so at the eleventh hour; and then to him, disappointment, disgrace, ruin!
But he had no great fear of this. He felt pretty sure she would continue a consenting party, and permit his nefarious scheme to be consummated. But then? And what then?
She would hold over him a power he had reason to dread—a very sword of Damocles!
He would have to share with her the ill-gotten booty—he knew her well enough for this—submit to her will in everything, for he knew also that she had a will—now that she was re-established on the ride of Rotten Row as one of its prettiest horse-breakers.
There was something, beside the thought of Fan’s reclaiming him, that vexed him far more than the fear of any mulct. He would be willing to bleed black-mail to any amount convenient—even to the half of Julia Girdwood’s fortune, to insure his past wife keeping quiet for ever.
Strange to say, he had grown to care little for the money; though it may not appear strange when the cause is declared.
It will only seem so, considering the character of the man. Wicked as Swinton was, he had fallen madly in love with Julia Girdwood—madly and desperately.
And now on the eve of possessing her, to hold that possession as by a thread, that might be cut at any moment by caprice.
And that caprice the will of an injured wife! No wonder the wretch saw in his future a thorny entanglement—a path, if bestrewed with flowers, beset also by death’s-heads and skeletons!
Fan had helped him in his scheme for acquiring an almost fabulous fortune; at a touch she could destroy it.
“By heaven!she shall not!” was the reflection that came forth from his lips as he stood smoking a cigar, and speculating on the feared future. Assisted in conception by that same cigar, and before it was smoked to a stump, he had contrived a plan to secure him against his wife’s future interference in whatever way it might be exerted.
His scheme of bigamy was scarce guilt, compared with that now begotten in his brain.
He was standing upon the edge of the canal, whose steep bank formed the back inclosure of his garden. The tow-path was on the other side, so that the aqueous chasm yawned almost directly under his feet.
The sight of it was suggestive. He knew it was deep. He saw it was turbid, and not likely to tell tales.
There was a moon coursing through the sky. Her beams, here and there, fell in bright blotches upon the water. They came slanting through the shrubbery, showing that it was a young moon, and would soon go down.
It was already dark where he stood in the shadow of a huge laurustinus; but there was light enough to show that with a fiend’s face he was contemplating the canal.
“It would do!” he muttered to himself; “but nothere. Thethingmight be fished up again. Even if it could be made to appear suicide, there’d be the chance of an identification and connection with me. More than chance—a dead, damnable certainty.
“That would be damnable! I should have to appear at a coroner’s quest to explain.
“Bah! what use in speculating? Explanation, under the circumstances, would be simply condemnation.
“Impossible! The thing can’t be donehere!
“But itcanbe done,” he continued; “and in this canal, too. Ithasbeen done, no doubt, many a time. Yes, silent sluggard! if you could but speak, you might tell of many a plunge made into your sluggish waves, alike by the living and the dead!
“You will suit for my purpose; but not here. I know the place, the very place—by the Park Road bridge.
“And the time, too—late at night. Some dark night, when the spruce tradesmen of Wellington Road have gone home to the bosom of their families.
“Why not this very night?” he asked himself, stepping nervously out from the laurustinus, and glaring at the moon, whose thin crescent flickered feebly through cumulus clouds. “Yonder farthing dip will be burnt out within the hour, and if that sky don’t deceive me, we’ll have a night dark as doom. A fog, too, by heavens!” he added, raising himself on tiptoe, and making survey of the horizon to the east. “Yes! there’s no mistake about that dun cloud coming up from the Isle of Dogs, with the colour of the Thames mud upon it.
“Why not to-night?” he again asked himself, as if by the question to strengthen him in his terrible resolve. “The thing can’t wait. A day may spoil everything. If it is to be done, the sooner the better.It must be done!
“Yes, yes; there’s fog coming over that sky, if I know aught of London weather. It will be on before midnight God grant it may stay till the morning!”
The prayer passing from his lips, in connection with the horrid scheme in his thoughts, gave an expression to his countenance truly diabolical.
Even his wife, used to see the “ugly” in his face, could not help noticing it, as he went back into the house—where she had been waiting for him to go out for a walk.
It was a walk to the Haymarket, to enjoy the luxuries of a set supper in the Café d’Europe, where the “other count,” with the Honourable Geraldine, and one or two friends of similar social standing, had made appointment to meet them.
It was not the last promenade Swinton intended to take with his beloved Fan. Before reaching the Haymarket, he had planned another for that same night,if it should prove to be a dark one.
Chapter Seventy Nine.A Petit Souper.The supper was provided by “Kate the coper,” who had lately been “in luck”; having netted handsomely on one of her steeds, sold to a young “spoon” she had recently picked up, and who was one of the party.The “coped” individual was no other than our old friend Frank Scudamore, who, by the absence of his cousin abroad, and her benign influence over him, had of late taken to courses of dissipation.The supper given by Kate was a sort of return to her friend Fan for the dinner at the McTavish villa; and in sumptuousness was a spread no way inferior.In point of time it might have been termed a dinner; for it commenced at the early hour of eight.This was to give opportunity for a quiet rubber of whist to be played afterward, and in which “Spooney,” as she called young Scudamore—though not to his face—was expected to be one of the corners.There was wine of every variety—each of the choicest to be found in the cellars of the café. Then came the cards, and continued till Scudamore declared himself cleared out; and then there was carousal.The mirth was kept up till the guests had got into that condition jocularly called “How come you so?”It applied alike to male and female. Fan, the Honourable Geraldine, and two other frail daughters of Eve, having indulged in the grape juice as freely as their gentlemen fellow-revellers.At breaking up, but one of the party seemed firm upon his feet. This was the Count de Valmy.It was not his habit to be hard-headed; but on this occasion he had preserved himself, and for a purpose.Busy with their own imbibing, nobody noticed him secretly spilling his liquor into the spittoon, while pretending to “drink fair.”If they had, they might have wondered, but could not have guessed why. The fiend himself could not have imagined his foul design in thus dodging the drink.His gay friends, during the early part of the entertainment, had observed his abstraction. The Honourable Geraldine had rallied him upon it. But in due time all had become so mellow, and merry, that no one believed any other could be troubled with depression of spirits.An outside spectator closely scrutinising the countenance of Mr Swinton might have seen indications of such, as also on his part an effort to conceal it His eyes seemed at times to turn inward, as if his thoughts were there, or anywhere except with his roystering companions.He had even shown neglectful of his cards; although the pigeon to be plucked was his adversary in the game.Some powerful or painful reflection must have been causing his absent-mindedness; and it seemed a relief to him when, satiated with carousal, theconvivesgave tacit consent to a generaldébandade.There had been eight of the supper party, and four cabs, called to the entrance door of the café, received them in assorted couples.It was as much as most of them could do to get inside; but aided by a brace of Haymarket policemen, with a like number of waiters out of the hotel, they were at length safely stowed, and the cabs drove off.Each driver obeyed the direction given him, Scudamore escorting home the Honourable Geraldine, or rather the reverse; while Swinton, in charge of his tipsy wife, gave his cabman the order—“Up the Park Road to Saint John’s Wood.”It was spoken, not loudly, but in a low muttered voice, which led the man to think they could not be a married couple.No matter, so long as he had his fare, along with a little perquisite, which the gentleman gave him.Swinton’s weather prophecy had proved true to a shade. The night was dark as pitch, only of a dun colour on account of the fog.And this was so thick that late fashionables, riding home in their grand carriages, were preceded each carriage by a pair of linkmen.Along Piccadilly and all through Mayfair, torches were glaring through the thick vapour; the tongues of their bearers filling the streets with jargon.Farther on across Oxford Street there were fewer of them; and beyond Portman Square they ceased to be seen altogether—so that the cab, a four-wheeler, containing the Count de Valmy and his countess, crept slowly along Baker Street, its lamps illuminating a circle of scarce six feet around it.“It will do,” said Swinton to himself, craning his neck out of the window, and scrutinising the night.He had made this reflection before, as, first of his party, he came out on the steps of the Café d’Europe.He did not speak it aloud, though, for that matter, his wife would not have heard him. Not even had he shouted it in her ear. She was asleep in a corner of the cab.Before this she had been a “little noisy,” singing snatches of a song, and trying to repeat the words of an ambiguousjeu d’espritshe had heard that evening for the first time.She was now altogether unconscious of where she was, or in what company—as proved by her occasionally waking up, calling out “Spooney!”—addressing her husband as theothercount, and sometimes as “Kate the coper!”Her own count appeared to be unusually careful of her. He took much pains to keep her quiet; but more in making her comfortable. She had on a long cloth cloak of ample dimensions—a sort of night wrapper. This he adjusted over her shoulders, buttoning it close around her throat that her chest should not be exposed to the fog.By the time the cab had crawled through Upper Baker Street, and entered the Park Road, Fan had not only become quiet, but was at length sound asleep; her tiny snore alone telling that she lived.On moved the vehicle through the dun darkness, magnified by the mist to twice its ordinary size, and going slow and silent as a hearse.“Where?” asked the driver, slewing his body around, and speaking in through the side window.“South Bank! You needn’t go inside the street. Set us down at the end of it, in the Park Road.”“All right,” rejoined the Jarvey, though not thinking so. He thought it rather strange, that a gent with a lady in such queer condition should desire to be discharged in that street at such an hour, and especially on such a night!Still it admitted of an explanation, which his experience enabled him to supply. The lady had stayed out a little too late. The gent wished her to get housed without making a noise; and it would not do for cab wheels to be heard drawing up by “the door.”What mattered it to him, cabby, so long as the fare should be forthcoming, and the thing made “square”? He liked it all the better, as promising a perquisite.In this he was not disappointed. At the corner designated, the gentleman got out, lifting his close muffled partner in his arms, and holding her upright upon the pavement.With his spare hand he gave the driver a crown piece, which was more than double his fare.After such largess, not wishing to appear impertinent, cabby climbed back to his box; readjusted the manifold drab cape around his shoulders; tightened his reins; touched the screw with his whip; and started back towards the Haymarket, in hopes of picking up another intoxicated fare.“Hold on to my arm, Fan!” said Swinton to his helpless better half as soon as the cabman was out of hearing. “Lean upon me. I’ll keep you up. So! Now, come along!”Fan made no reply. The alcohol overpowered her—now more than ever. She was too tipsy to talk, even to walk; and her husband had to support her whole weight, almost to drag her along. She was quite unconscious whither. But Swinton knew.It was not along South Bank; they had passed the entrance of that quiet thoroughfare, and were proceeding up the Park Road!And why? He also knew why.Under the Park Road passes the Regent’s Canal, spanned by the bridge already spoken of. You would only know you were crossing the canal by observing a break in the shrubbery. This opens westward. On the east side of the road is the park wall rising high overhead, and shadowed by tall trees.Looking towards Paddington, you see an open list, caused by the canal and its tow-path. The water yawns far below your feet, on both sides draped with evergreens; and foot-passengers along the Park Road are protected from straying over by a parapet scarce breast-high.Upon this bridge Swinton had arrived. He had stopped and stood close up to the parapet, as if for a rest, his wife still clinging to his arm.Hewasresting; but not with the intention to proceed farther. He was recovering strength for an effort so hellish, that, had there been light around them, he and his companion would have appeared as atableau vivant—the spectacle of a murderer about to despatch his victim! And it would have been a tableau true to the life; for such in reality was his design!There was no light to shine upon its execution; no eye to see him suddenly let go his wife’s arm, draw the wrapper round her neck, so that the clasp came behind; and then, turning it inside out, fling the skirt over her head!There could be no ear to hear that smothered cry, as, abruptly lifted in his arms, she was pitched over the parapet of the bridge! Swinton did not even himself stay to hear the plunge. He only heard it; indistinctly blending with the sound of his own footsteps, as with terrified tread he retreated along the Park Road!
The supper was provided by “Kate the coper,” who had lately been “in luck”; having netted handsomely on one of her steeds, sold to a young “spoon” she had recently picked up, and who was one of the party.
The “coped” individual was no other than our old friend Frank Scudamore, who, by the absence of his cousin abroad, and her benign influence over him, had of late taken to courses of dissipation.
The supper given by Kate was a sort of return to her friend Fan for the dinner at the McTavish villa; and in sumptuousness was a spread no way inferior.
In point of time it might have been termed a dinner; for it commenced at the early hour of eight.
This was to give opportunity for a quiet rubber of whist to be played afterward, and in which “Spooney,” as she called young Scudamore—though not to his face—was expected to be one of the corners.
There was wine of every variety—each of the choicest to be found in the cellars of the café. Then came the cards, and continued till Scudamore declared himself cleared out; and then there was carousal.
The mirth was kept up till the guests had got into that condition jocularly called “How come you so?”
It applied alike to male and female. Fan, the Honourable Geraldine, and two other frail daughters of Eve, having indulged in the grape juice as freely as their gentlemen fellow-revellers.
At breaking up, but one of the party seemed firm upon his feet. This was the Count de Valmy.
It was not his habit to be hard-headed; but on this occasion he had preserved himself, and for a purpose.
Busy with their own imbibing, nobody noticed him secretly spilling his liquor into the spittoon, while pretending to “drink fair.”
If they had, they might have wondered, but could not have guessed why. The fiend himself could not have imagined his foul design in thus dodging the drink.
His gay friends, during the early part of the entertainment, had observed his abstraction. The Honourable Geraldine had rallied him upon it. But in due time all had become so mellow, and merry, that no one believed any other could be troubled with depression of spirits.
An outside spectator closely scrutinising the countenance of Mr Swinton might have seen indications of such, as also on his part an effort to conceal it His eyes seemed at times to turn inward, as if his thoughts were there, or anywhere except with his roystering companions.
He had even shown neglectful of his cards; although the pigeon to be plucked was his adversary in the game.
Some powerful or painful reflection must have been causing his absent-mindedness; and it seemed a relief to him when, satiated with carousal, theconvivesgave tacit consent to a generaldébandade.
There had been eight of the supper party, and four cabs, called to the entrance door of the café, received them in assorted couples.
It was as much as most of them could do to get inside; but aided by a brace of Haymarket policemen, with a like number of waiters out of the hotel, they were at length safely stowed, and the cabs drove off.
Each driver obeyed the direction given him, Scudamore escorting home the Honourable Geraldine, or rather the reverse; while Swinton, in charge of his tipsy wife, gave his cabman the order—
“Up the Park Road to Saint John’s Wood.”
It was spoken, not loudly, but in a low muttered voice, which led the man to think they could not be a married couple.
No matter, so long as he had his fare, along with a little perquisite, which the gentleman gave him.
Swinton’s weather prophecy had proved true to a shade. The night was dark as pitch, only of a dun colour on account of the fog.
And this was so thick that late fashionables, riding home in their grand carriages, were preceded each carriage by a pair of linkmen.
Along Piccadilly and all through Mayfair, torches were glaring through the thick vapour; the tongues of their bearers filling the streets with jargon.
Farther on across Oxford Street there were fewer of them; and beyond Portman Square they ceased to be seen altogether—so that the cab, a four-wheeler, containing the Count de Valmy and his countess, crept slowly along Baker Street, its lamps illuminating a circle of scarce six feet around it.
“It will do,” said Swinton to himself, craning his neck out of the window, and scrutinising the night.
He had made this reflection before, as, first of his party, he came out on the steps of the Café d’Europe.
He did not speak it aloud, though, for that matter, his wife would not have heard him. Not even had he shouted it in her ear. She was asleep in a corner of the cab.
Before this she had been a “little noisy,” singing snatches of a song, and trying to repeat the words of an ambiguousjeu d’espritshe had heard that evening for the first time.
She was now altogether unconscious of where she was, or in what company—as proved by her occasionally waking up, calling out “Spooney!”—addressing her husband as theothercount, and sometimes as “Kate the coper!”
Her own count appeared to be unusually careful of her. He took much pains to keep her quiet; but more in making her comfortable. She had on a long cloth cloak of ample dimensions—a sort of night wrapper. This he adjusted over her shoulders, buttoning it close around her throat that her chest should not be exposed to the fog.
By the time the cab had crawled through Upper Baker Street, and entered the Park Road, Fan had not only become quiet, but was at length sound asleep; her tiny snore alone telling that she lived.
On moved the vehicle through the dun darkness, magnified by the mist to twice its ordinary size, and going slow and silent as a hearse.
“Where?” asked the driver, slewing his body around, and speaking in through the side window.
“South Bank! You needn’t go inside the street. Set us down at the end of it, in the Park Road.”
“All right,” rejoined the Jarvey, though not thinking so. He thought it rather strange, that a gent with a lady in such queer condition should desire to be discharged in that street at such an hour, and especially on such a night!
Still it admitted of an explanation, which his experience enabled him to supply. The lady had stayed out a little too late. The gent wished her to get housed without making a noise; and it would not do for cab wheels to be heard drawing up by “the door.”
What mattered it to him, cabby, so long as the fare should be forthcoming, and the thing made “square”? He liked it all the better, as promising a perquisite.
In this he was not disappointed. At the corner designated, the gentleman got out, lifting his close muffled partner in his arms, and holding her upright upon the pavement.
With his spare hand he gave the driver a crown piece, which was more than double his fare.
After such largess, not wishing to appear impertinent, cabby climbed back to his box; readjusted the manifold drab cape around his shoulders; tightened his reins; touched the screw with his whip; and started back towards the Haymarket, in hopes of picking up another intoxicated fare.
“Hold on to my arm, Fan!” said Swinton to his helpless better half as soon as the cabman was out of hearing. “Lean upon me. I’ll keep you up. So! Now, come along!”
Fan made no reply. The alcohol overpowered her—now more than ever. She was too tipsy to talk, even to walk; and her husband had to support her whole weight, almost to drag her along. She was quite unconscious whither. But Swinton knew.
It was not along South Bank; they had passed the entrance of that quiet thoroughfare, and were proceeding up the Park Road!
And why? He also knew why.
Under the Park Road passes the Regent’s Canal, spanned by the bridge already spoken of. You would only know you were crossing the canal by observing a break in the shrubbery. This opens westward. On the east side of the road is the park wall rising high overhead, and shadowed by tall trees.
Looking towards Paddington, you see an open list, caused by the canal and its tow-path. The water yawns far below your feet, on both sides draped with evergreens; and foot-passengers along the Park Road are protected from straying over by a parapet scarce breast-high.
Upon this bridge Swinton had arrived. He had stopped and stood close up to the parapet, as if for a rest, his wife still clinging to his arm.
Hewasresting; but not with the intention to proceed farther. He was recovering strength for an effort so hellish, that, had there been light around them, he and his companion would have appeared as atableau vivant—the spectacle of a murderer about to despatch his victim! And it would have been a tableau true to the life; for such in reality was his design!
There was no light to shine upon its execution; no eye to see him suddenly let go his wife’s arm, draw the wrapper round her neck, so that the clasp came behind; and then, turning it inside out, fling the skirt over her head!
There could be no ear to hear that smothered cry, as, abruptly lifted in his arms, she was pitched over the parapet of the bridge! Swinton did not even himself stay to hear the plunge. He only heard it; indistinctly blending with the sound of his own footsteps, as with terrified tread he retreated along the Park Road!
Chapter Eighty.On the Tow-Rope.With difficulty cordelling his barge around the Regent’s Park, Bill Bootle, the canal boatman, was making slow speed. This because the fog had thickened unexpectedly; and it was no easy matter to guide his old horse along the tow-path.He would not have attempted it; but that he was next morning due in the Paddington Basin; where, at an early hour, the owner of the boat would be expecting him.Bill was only skipper of the craft; the crew consisting of his wife, and a brace of young Bootles, one of them still at the breast. Mrs B, wearing her husband’s dreadnought to protect her from the raw air of the night, stood by the tiller, while Bootle himself had charge of the tow-horse.He had passed through the Park Road Bridge, and was groping his way beyond, when a drift of the fog thicker than common came curling along the canal, compelling him to make stop.The boat was still under the bridge; and Mrs Bootle, feeling that the motion was suspended, had ceased working the spokes. Just at this moment, both she and her husband heard a shuffling sound upon the bridge above them; which was quick followed by a “swish,” as of some bulky object descending through the air!There was also a voice; but so smothered as to be almost inaudible!Before either had time to think of it, a mass came splashing down upon the water, between the boat and the horse!It had struck the tow-rope; and with such force, that the old machiner, tired after a long spell of pulling, was almost dragged backwards into the canal.And frighted by the sudden jerk, it was as much as Bootle could do to prevent him rushing forward, and going in head foremost.The difficulty in tranquillising the horse lay in the fact that the tow-rope was still kept taut by some one who appeared to be struggling upon it, and whose smothered cries could be heard coming up from the disturbed surface of the water!The voice was not so choked, but that Bootle could tell it to be that of a woman!The boatman’s chivalrous instincts were at once aroused; and, dropping the rein, he ran back a bit, and then sprang with a plunge into the canal.It was so dark he could see nothing; but the half-stifled cries served to guide him; and swimming towards the tow-rope, he discovered the object of his search!It was a woman struggling in the water, and still upon its surface.She was prevented from sinking by her cloak, which had swished over on one side of the tow-rope as her body fell upon the other.Moreover she had caught the rope in her hands, and was holding on to it with the tenacious grasp of one who dreads drowning.The boatman could not see her face, which appeared to be buried within the folds of a cloak!He did not stay to look for a face. Enough for him that there was a body in danger of being drowned; and throwing one arm around it, with the other he commenced “swarming” along the tow-rope in the direction of the barge!Mrs B, who had long since forsaken the tiller, and was now “for’ard,” helped him and his burden aboard; which, examined by the light of the canal-boat lantern, proved to be a very beautiful lady, dressed in rich silk, with a gold watch in her waistbelt, and a diamond ring sparkling upon her fingers!Mrs Bootle observed that beside this last, there was another ring of plain appearance, but in her eyes of equal significance. It was the hoop emblematic of Hymen.These things were only discovered after the saturated cloak had been removed from the shoulders of the half-drowned woman; and who, but for it and the tow-rope, would have been drowned altogether.“What is this?” asked the lady, gasping for breath, and looking wildly around. “What is it, Dick? Where are you? Where am I? O God! It is water! I’m wet all over. It has nearly suffocated me! Who are you, sir? And you, woman; if you are a woman? Why did you throw me in? Is it the river, or the Serpentine, or where?”“’Taint no river, mistress,” said Mrs Bootle, a little nettled by the doubt thrown upon her womanhood, “nor the Sarpentine neyther. It’s the Regent Canal. But who ha’ pitched you into it, ye ought best to know that yourself.”“The Regent’s Canal?”“Yes, missus,” said Bootle, taking the title from his wife; “it’s there you’ve had your duckin’—just by the Park Road here. You come switching over the bridge. Can’t you tell who chucked you over? Or did ye do it yerself?”The eyes of the rescued woman assumed a wandering expression, as if her thoughts were straying back to some past scene.Then all at once a change came over her countenance, like one awaking from a horrid dream, and not altogether comprehending the reality!For a moment she remained as if considering; and then all became clear to her.“You have saved me from drowning,” she said, leaning forward, and grasping the boatman by the wrist.“Well, yes; I reckon you’d a-goed to the bottom, but for me, an’ the old tow-rope.”“By the Park Road bridge, you say?”“It be right over ye—the boat’s still under it.” Another second or two spent in reflection, and the lady again said:“Can I trust you to keep this a secret?” Bootle looked at his wife, and Mrs B back at her husband, both inquiringly.“I have reasons for asking this favour,” continued the lady, in a trembling tone, which was due not altogether to the ducking. “It’s no use telling you what they are—not now. In time I may make them known to you. Say you will keep it a secret?”Again Bootle looked interrogatively at his wife; and again Mrs B gave back the glance.But this time an answer was secured in the affirmative, through an act done by the rescued lady.Drawing the diamond ring off her finger, and taking the gold watch from behind her waistbelt, she handed the first to the boatman’s wife, and the second to the boatman himself—telling both to keep them as tokens of gratitude for the saving of her life!The gifts appeared sufficiently valuable, not only to cover the service done, but that requested. With such glittering bribes in hand, it would have been a strange boatman, and still stranger boatman’s wife, who would have refused to keep a secret, which could scarce compromise them.“One last request,” said the lady. “Let me stay aboard your boat till you can land me in Lisson Grove. You are going that way?”“We are, missus.”“You will then call a cab for me from the stand. There’s one in the Grove Road, close up.”“I’ll do that for your ladyship in welcome.”“Enough, sir. I hope some day to have an opportunity of showing you I can be grateful.”Bootle, still balancing the watch in his hand, thought she had shown this already.Some of the service still remained to be done, and should be done quickly. Leaving the lady with his wife, Bootle sprang back upon the tow-path, and once more taking his old horse by the head, trained on towards the Grove Road.Nearing its bridge, which terminates the long subterraneous passage to Edgware Road, he again brought his barge to a stop, and went in search of a cab.He soon came back with a four-wheeler; conducted the dripping lady into it; said good-night to her; and then returned to his craft.But not till she he had rescued had taken note of his name, the number of his boat, and every particular that might be necessary to the finding him again!She did not tell him whither she was herself bound.She only communicated this to the cabman; who was directed to drive her to a hotel, not far from the Haymarket.She was now sober enough to know, not only where she was, but whither she was going!
With difficulty cordelling his barge around the Regent’s Park, Bill Bootle, the canal boatman, was making slow speed. This because the fog had thickened unexpectedly; and it was no easy matter to guide his old horse along the tow-path.
He would not have attempted it; but that he was next morning due in the Paddington Basin; where, at an early hour, the owner of the boat would be expecting him.
Bill was only skipper of the craft; the crew consisting of his wife, and a brace of young Bootles, one of them still at the breast. Mrs B, wearing her husband’s dreadnought to protect her from the raw air of the night, stood by the tiller, while Bootle himself had charge of the tow-horse.
He had passed through the Park Road Bridge, and was groping his way beyond, when a drift of the fog thicker than common came curling along the canal, compelling him to make stop.
The boat was still under the bridge; and Mrs Bootle, feeling that the motion was suspended, had ceased working the spokes. Just at this moment, both she and her husband heard a shuffling sound upon the bridge above them; which was quick followed by a “swish,” as of some bulky object descending through the air!
There was also a voice; but so smothered as to be almost inaudible!
Before either had time to think of it, a mass came splashing down upon the water, between the boat and the horse!
It had struck the tow-rope; and with such force, that the old machiner, tired after a long spell of pulling, was almost dragged backwards into the canal.
And frighted by the sudden jerk, it was as much as Bootle could do to prevent him rushing forward, and going in head foremost.
The difficulty in tranquillising the horse lay in the fact that the tow-rope was still kept taut by some one who appeared to be struggling upon it, and whose smothered cries could be heard coming up from the disturbed surface of the water!
The voice was not so choked, but that Bootle could tell it to be that of a woman!
The boatman’s chivalrous instincts were at once aroused; and, dropping the rein, he ran back a bit, and then sprang with a plunge into the canal.
It was so dark he could see nothing; but the half-stifled cries served to guide him; and swimming towards the tow-rope, he discovered the object of his search!
It was a woman struggling in the water, and still upon its surface.
She was prevented from sinking by her cloak, which had swished over on one side of the tow-rope as her body fell upon the other.
Moreover she had caught the rope in her hands, and was holding on to it with the tenacious grasp of one who dreads drowning.
The boatman could not see her face, which appeared to be buried within the folds of a cloak!
He did not stay to look for a face. Enough for him that there was a body in danger of being drowned; and throwing one arm around it, with the other he commenced “swarming” along the tow-rope in the direction of the barge!
Mrs B, who had long since forsaken the tiller, and was now “for’ard,” helped him and his burden aboard; which, examined by the light of the canal-boat lantern, proved to be a very beautiful lady, dressed in rich silk, with a gold watch in her waistbelt, and a diamond ring sparkling upon her fingers!
Mrs Bootle observed that beside this last, there was another ring of plain appearance, but in her eyes of equal significance. It was the hoop emblematic of Hymen.
These things were only discovered after the saturated cloak had been removed from the shoulders of the half-drowned woman; and who, but for it and the tow-rope, would have been drowned altogether.
“What is this?” asked the lady, gasping for breath, and looking wildly around. “What is it, Dick? Where are you? Where am I? O God! It is water! I’m wet all over. It has nearly suffocated me! Who are you, sir? And you, woman; if you are a woman? Why did you throw me in? Is it the river, or the Serpentine, or where?”
“’Taint no river, mistress,” said Mrs Bootle, a little nettled by the doubt thrown upon her womanhood, “nor the Sarpentine neyther. It’s the Regent Canal. But who ha’ pitched you into it, ye ought best to know that yourself.”
“The Regent’s Canal?”
“Yes, missus,” said Bootle, taking the title from his wife; “it’s there you’ve had your duckin’—just by the Park Road here. You come switching over the bridge. Can’t you tell who chucked you over? Or did ye do it yerself?”
The eyes of the rescued woman assumed a wandering expression, as if her thoughts were straying back to some past scene.
Then all at once a change came over her countenance, like one awaking from a horrid dream, and not altogether comprehending the reality!
For a moment she remained as if considering; and then all became clear to her.
“You have saved me from drowning,” she said, leaning forward, and grasping the boatman by the wrist.
“Well, yes; I reckon you’d a-goed to the bottom, but for me, an’ the old tow-rope.”
“By the Park Road bridge, you say?”
“It be right over ye—the boat’s still under it.” Another second or two spent in reflection, and the lady again said:
“Can I trust you to keep this a secret?” Bootle looked at his wife, and Mrs B back at her husband, both inquiringly.
“I have reasons for asking this favour,” continued the lady, in a trembling tone, which was due not altogether to the ducking. “It’s no use telling you what they are—not now. In time I may make them known to you. Say you will keep it a secret?”
Again Bootle looked interrogatively at his wife; and again Mrs B gave back the glance.
But this time an answer was secured in the affirmative, through an act done by the rescued lady.
Drawing the diamond ring off her finger, and taking the gold watch from behind her waistbelt, she handed the first to the boatman’s wife, and the second to the boatman himself—telling both to keep them as tokens of gratitude for the saving of her life!
The gifts appeared sufficiently valuable, not only to cover the service done, but that requested. With such glittering bribes in hand, it would have been a strange boatman, and still stranger boatman’s wife, who would have refused to keep a secret, which could scarce compromise them.
“One last request,” said the lady. “Let me stay aboard your boat till you can land me in Lisson Grove. You are going that way?”
“We are, missus.”
“You will then call a cab for me from the stand. There’s one in the Grove Road, close up.”
“I’ll do that for your ladyship in welcome.”
“Enough, sir. I hope some day to have an opportunity of showing you I can be grateful.”
Bootle, still balancing the watch in his hand, thought she had shown this already.
Some of the service still remained to be done, and should be done quickly. Leaving the lady with his wife, Bootle sprang back upon the tow-path, and once more taking his old horse by the head, trained on towards the Grove Road.
Nearing its bridge, which terminates the long subterraneous passage to Edgware Road, he again brought his barge to a stop, and went in search of a cab.
He soon came back with a four-wheeler; conducted the dripping lady into it; said good-night to her; and then returned to his craft.
But not till she he had rescued had taken note of his name, the number of his boat, and every particular that might be necessary to the finding him again!
She did not tell him whither she was herself bound.
She only communicated this to the cabman; who was directed to drive her to a hotel, not far from the Haymarket.
She was now sober enough to know, not only where she was, but whither she was going!