“Talk no more about it;—it shall be as you please, if you will drop the subject, and come to the point at once. Why do I see you here?”
“I hope I may be permitted to sit.”
“Oh! certainly,—I beg pardon,” said Burdock, handing Mrs. Blennerhagen a chair, and immediately returning to his position behind the writing-table.
“I am, at this moment, exceedingly indisposed, you will recollect,” said the lady; “and I ought to be in bed, with a physician by my side, rather than in Furnival's Inn, talking to an attorney.”
“You are perfectly right, madam; and I beg to suggest that you should avoid the fatigue of conversation as much as possible.”
“I thank you for your friendly hint, Mr. Burdock, and I will endeavour to profit by it. Now I'm going to surprise you. Wilmot—no matter how—contrived to overhear a great part of your conversation with Mr. Blennerhagen. It seems that a thousand pounds was the sum mentioned; but Wilmot thinks, and so do I, that, by good management, with a solemn declaration and her oath, half the money would settle the matter. Now, my dear Mr. Burdock, as you are a little obstinate and self-willed,—you know you are, for you've too much sense to be blind to your own little failings,—I thought I would come down at once, and, if you wavered, throw my eloquence and interest into the scale. I need not point out to you how much trouble it will save us both, if you can prevent this little affair from being made public. What say you?”
“Why, truly, madam, your matchless absurdity almost deprives me of utterance. You heap Pelion upon Ossa with such celerity, that, before I can recover from the surprise which one ridiculous action has produced, you stun me with a still more prodigious achievement.”
“And can you really hesitate?”
“Hesitate, woman! Not at all:—I'm resolute!—Blennerhagen shall never see the colour of my coin.”
“Why, Mr. Burdock! are you a man? Can you, for a moment, seriously think of suffering an injured lady's reputation to be placed in jeopardy for the sake of so paltry a sum?”
“Pray hold your tongue, or, vexed as I am, I shall positively laugh in your face. Do you think I am mad, or that I find my money in the streets? But that I can scarcely conceive Blennerhagen is fool enough to think I am such a gudgeon as to bite at his bait, I should certainly be led to suspect what I hinted this morning to be true.”
“That I am his confederate? and that we had laid our heads together to entrap you?—I would rather die than you should imagine that I was so vile a wretch! Oh! Mr. Burdock, I could not exist under such an imputation. To prove that I, do not merit your odious suspicions, and as you are so ungenerous as not to come forward with your own money on this occasion, I'll tell you what I'll do:—I'll pledge the pearl necklace, tiara, ear-rings, &c., which poor Mr. Winpennie gave me on my wedding-day, and never would let me part with even when he was distressed,—I'll pledge those, and the ruby suite I was last married in, with my two gold watches, and as many little trinkets as will make up the money, which I'll give you before I sleep, if you will promise to keep the secret, and make the matter up with Blennerhagen; so that there may be no piece of work about it.—Now what do you think of that?”
“Mrs. Blennerhagen,” said Burdock, advancing from the situation which he had hitherto occupied, and kindly taking the lady's hand, “you are a very weak, imprudent woman;—excuse me for saying so;—it is the fact: and if you are not more careful, you will, in all probability, get into a position, from which you will find it impossible to extricate yourself. The present case is bad enough, in all conscience; but I have some reason to hope, that it is to be got over without the sacrifice of your pearl necklace, or the ruby suite in which you were last married; at all events, let them remain in your own jewel-box for the present. We will not have recourse to either, unless, and until, all other earthly means fail. Let me, however, advise you as a friend, should you escape scot-free on this occasion, to be more careful in your conduct for the future. Now don't say another word, but go home and make yourself easy.”
“Oh! Mr. Burdock,” exclaimed the lady, “this is, indeed, most fatherly of you. Your words are balm to my agitated spirits; a sweet calm begins to pervade my bosom;—good Heavens! what's that?”
“What, madam?” eagerly inquired Burdock, casting a hurried glance around him.
“As I'm a living creature, I heard the creak of Blenner-hagen's boot!—He's coming! I'm sure he's coming!”
As the lady spoke, some one knocked at the outer door; and, immediately after, one of the clerks came in to announce, that the moment Mr. Burdock was disengaged, Mr. Blennerhagen would be glad to speak with him.
The attorney and his fair visitor gazed upon each other in a very expressive manner, at this information: the lady whispered, “I shall faint; I'm sure I shall!” Burdock, after a brief pause, told the clerk that he should be at liberty in one minute, and the young man retired.
“How exquisitely annoying!” exclaimed the attorney, as soon as the door was closed; “this is the consequence of your indiscretion, madam.”
“Don't abuse me, sir;—don't tread upon a worm!” replied the lady. “We should not lose time in talking, but set our wits to work at once. Oh! if Wilmot were here, now!—That stupid clerk! couldn't he as well have said you were out, or particularly occupied, and told Mr. Blennerhagen to call again?—Where shall I conceal myself? Have you no little room?”
“Not one, I am happy to say.”
“Nor even a cupboard?—of course you have a cupboard:—I can squeeze in anywhere, bless you!”
“There is not a hiding-place for a rat; the window is two stories from the ground, and excessively narrow into the bargain: so that circumstances luckily compel you to adopt the plain, straight-forward course, which is always the best. I strongly suspect your husband has followed you here: to conceal yourself would be useless,—nay, fatal. You must face him.”
“Oh! Mr. Burdock, you drive me frantic!”
“Nay, nay, madam;—pray be calm: don't tear your hair in that frightful manner!”
“Talk not of hair:—besides, they're only ringlets which I wear in charity to Wilmot; it takes her an hour to dress my own:—I scarce know what I'm doing or saying.—Stay! if I open the upper and lower right-hand doors of that press or bookcase, or whatever it is, won't they reach to the other wall?”
“Possibly they may.”
“Then I can hide myself in the corner.”
“Notwithstanding my caution, you are acting as unwisely as ever. I protest against all this, and give you notice that I will be no party to the concealment.”
“Do hold your tongue, and be guided by me:—you men have really no brains. There,” said the lady, placing herself behind the two doors, which, as the side of the piece of furniture to which they belonged stood within a short distance of the corner of the room, effectually concealed her from observation, “now, if you'll only get rid of him quickly, I'll warrant you I shall be safe.” Burdock immediately rang a little table bell, and his clerk ushered in the Mathematician.
“You are doubtless surprised to see me so soon, sir,” said Blennerhagen.
“Not at all; I shall never be surprised again.”
“A wise man should wonder at nothing, perhaps. Unexpected circumstances, which I will explain, have led me to visit you this afternoon. In the first place, I understand, from my servant, that a female has been sent to my house by your directions: her appearance and story, it seems, were equally extraordinary. May I be excused for having a natural curiosity to know who she was, and what she wanted? She was sent up, I hear, to Mrs. Blennerhagen: I have no wish that she should trouble my wife again.”
“Are you anxious to keep her business with you a secret from Mrs. Blennerhagen?”
“Possibly I may be; but I don't know until I discover what it is:—we have all been young. Why do you ask?”
“Simply because your wife is in this room.”
“I don't understand you.”
“Mrs. Blennerhagen is now within hearing: she stands behind the doors of that old book-case.”
“Excuse me, sir;—you have dined, no doubt;—but I am serious.”
“And so am I,” replied Burdock. “If you disbelieve what I say, go and see.”
“Oh! you vile creatures!” exclaimed Mrs. Blennerhagen, rushing from the place of her concealment:—“you pair of wretches! A plot! a plot! There's a vile plot laid between you to delude—to vilify—to destroy me. I see through it all. And you,—you old, abandoned man,” added the lady, addressing Burdock, “to lend yourself to such a scheme!—I'm ashamed of you!—You've played your parts well; but I will be a match for you. Oh! Heavens! is this the way to treat a wife? Mr. Blennerhagen, you may well look confounded.”
“Confounded!” exclaimed Blennerhagen; “I'm thunderstruck!”
“Ay! no doubt you are. What I am to be got rid of, I suppose, by this vamped-up affair between you and your satellite,—as he dares to call poor Wilmot,—to make room for your creature in sapphire and yellow. If I die in the attempt, I will see the bottom of it all, and expose you both!” Mrs. Blennerhagen now bustled out of the office.
“This woman is foolish,” said Blennerhagen.
“I think so, decidedly,” quoth the attorney.
“What brought her here, pray?”
“Why, as I was a little obstinate and self-willed, she came to throw her interest and eloquence into the scale, (I use her own words,) and induce me to prevent our little affair from being made public. Her woman, who overheard the conversation which I had with you this morning, seems to think that, although you ask a thousand pounds, with a little management, a solemn declaration of innocence, and her own oath, half the money would settle the matter. Ha, ha!”
Blennerhagen bit his lip. After a short pause, he inquired if the attorney had yet made up his mind to state, on what occasion, and for what purpose, he had visited Mrs. Blennerhagen in her dressing-room.
“I have not spoken to Hassell on the subject,” replied Burdock; “but I feel no repugnance, under present circumstances, to say that she sent for me because she was jealous of the woman in brimstone and blue. I have her note, if you wish to look at it. When she heard you coming, I was pushed,nolens volens, into the cupboard, by your wife and her maid. That, briefly, is the whole of the matter. By-the-by, I should add, that I acquainted Mrs. Blennerhagen with the lady's business, and I am now willing to do you the same service.”
“You are very obliging:—to ascertain that, is partly my object in calling on you.”
Burdock now went through the particulars of the poor woman's case with great minuteness. Blennerhagen listened very attentively, and, at the conclusion of the recital, observed, “This is all new to me.”
“Of course it is,” replied the attorney; “because, legally speaking, you have nothing to do with it. It concerns the executors, in the first instance; and not you, who, by your marriage, merely represent the legatee: their straight-forward course is to send the woman about her business, because she is afeme covert, and cannot give a release,—the title being in her blackguard husband. The executors are bound to act strictly; but if you, who are the party beneficially interested, out of motives of feeling think fit to run the risk of consenting to her paltry claim being paid off, out of your enormous legacy, why, of course, they would willingly do it. To give her a chance, I took leave to refer her to you, in order that you might hear the story from her own lips.”
“I shall be happy to be guided by you,” said Blennerhagen; “but I see nothing, for my own part, in this case that should induce us to go out of the usual course. Were we to put our hands into our pockets to relieve every deserving object that occurs to our notice, we should soon become paupers ourselves. Those who are rich have often as powerful calls on their charity for hundreds—nay, thousands—as pence; but they are compelled to exert their philosophy, and conquer their inclinations to relieve; in fact, for their own sakes, to marshal reason against mere feeling. You ground your appeal on the score of charity; but I could name much greater objects of charity than this woman. She must abide by the consequences of her own folly. She has been stripped of her property, and deserted by her husband, you say: well,—that's hard, I confess; but you know such cases are continually occurring. It would require the exchequer of a Croesus to remunerate,—for that is the proper word,—to remunerate all the women who have been plundered by those whom they have chosen to make legal proprietors,—observe me,—legal proprietors of their property. Besides, we have only this person's own word in support of her strange statement: how do we know but what she was quite as improvident as her husband? And who is to say that, instead of his deserting his wife, the lady herself might not have driven him from his home? It is in the power of some of the sex to do such things.”
“That may be true enough,” said Burdock; “but I am warranted in saying the contrary is the fact, in the present case, by the letter of a most respectable correspondent, which the woman brought with her. That the husband was a most consummate villain, I have ample evidence. My informant states,—but I will read that portion of his epistle,” continued Burdock, taking a letter from his desk: “speaking of the husband, he says, during his short stay in our neighbourhood, previously to the marriage, he contrived, by obtaining goods on credit from several tradesmen, to support a respectable appearance; and my unfortunate client, believing him to be a man of some property,—although nobody knew who he was, or where he came from,—encouraged his addresses,' And then, a little below, it is stated, that 'on account of a sudden indisposition with which she was attacked, the wedding was postponed. The delay thus produced had nearly proved fatal to the hopes of our adventurer: bills, which he had given to some of his creditors, became due, and were dishonoured. Proceedings being hinted at, he called the tradespeople together, and very coolly requested them to give him time. The creditors said they did not feel inclined to do so, because'—favour me with your attention, Mr. Blennerhagen—'because they had strong suspicions that the bills were forgeries; and that, if such were the case,—and they had but little doubt of the fact,—it was in their power to hang him. This intimation, which would have staggered any man but him to whom it was addressed, did not produce any visible effect on his feelings. He very calmly told them, in reply, that even if the bills were forgeries,—which, of course, he could not admit,—he should feel under no apprehension; for, said he, I know that you are all too needy to sacrifice your own interests for the sake of public justice: you cannot afford to lose your money; and lose it, you certainly would, as you all very well know, if you prosecuted me to conviction. Were I a wretch, without present means or future expectations, I should expect no mercy; but as you are aware that I am on the eve of marriage with a woman of some property, you will act upon that excellent maxim—charity begins at home, and keep the alleged forgeries in your pockets, in hopes that I shall take them up as soon as I am married. You owe a duty to the public, but you owe a greater to yourselves and to your families; and you'd much rather take ten shillings in the pound, than see me, even if I were guilty, dangling at your expense in any devil's larder in the country.'”
“Well, sir, the creditors waited.”
“They did; but the deuce a bit did he pay them: he got what money he could together, as soon as he was married, and left them, as well as his wife, in the lurch. They have now sent me up the bills, as there's no hope of his paying them, and begged me to get hold of him if I can: they say he has been seen in London without his whiskers; and that, in a few days, they hope to afford me some clue to his present haunts. They refer me to his wife for a description of his person, which I mean to get of her at our next interview, if I can persuade the woman to be calm enough to give it me.”
“What is her name?”
“Tonks.”
“Then I am right in my suspicions.”
“To what do you allude?”
“Mr. Burdock,” said Blennerhagen, “I will not scruple to confess that I know the man. Tainted as his character now is, he has been worthy of esteem. Once in his life, sir, he did me so essential a service,—greatly to his own detriment,—that I have ever since groaned under the obligation, and never, until this moment, did I entertain a hope of being able to relieve myself from its weight.”
“This is very odd,” said the attorney; “but I am resolved not to be amazed. And, pray, on what do your hopes to help him rest?”
“On my interest with you.”
“That is not worth a button; and, if it were, I don't see how you could benefit the man. Professional pursuits have not altogether destroyed my feelings; but I don't think that I should repent having been instrumental in bringing such a villain as this to justice.”
“Do not let us be too hasty in consigning a man to infamy,” replied Blennerhagen. “Circumstances are often powerful palliatives of guilt; and circumstances, you know, are not always—are they ever?—under our own control. Offences, which, abstractedly considered, appear heinous, would lose much of their odium, were we in possession of the whole chain of consequences, from the first inducement to commit crime, to its final consummation; and it would be but common charity to hope that such may have been the case in the present instance. I stand excused, at least, I trust, for endeavouring to evince my gratitude to this man.”
“How can you possibly do so?”
“By procuring the destruction of those bills.”
“What did you say?”
“Destroy those acceptances in my presence, and do me a trifling favour which I shall presently mention,—understanding, of course, that you will solemnly assure me I have not been injured,—and the events of this morning shall be buried in oblivion.”
“Why, I really thought you had more sense than to make so absurd a proposal,” said the attorney: “how am I to account to my clients for the loss of their papers?”
“Oh! every one knows that man is fallible, and may mislay things: clerks, too,—who have access to an attorney's private room,—are poor, and open to temptation: laundresses frequently sweep valuable documents off the floor and burn them: even iron chests are not impregnable; and robberies take place in spite of every precaution.”
“I certainly never met with your equal, Blennerhagen: and I'll tell you a piece of my mind presently;—something has just struck me.”
“I'll hear you with pleasure; but let us dispose of this little matter at once:—hand me over the bills, pay the woman what she wants, and send her back into the country to-morrow morning. Tonks has many excuses for his conduct, with which, however, it is needless to trouble you. He has acted improperly,—I will even say, criminally,—but I cannot let this opportunity escape of balancing our obligations. I shall feel much more easy after it. I must, therefore, press you to oblige me.”
“You stated, just now, that you had some other little favour to ask.”
“Had we not better settle this affair first? My plan is always to clear away as I proceed.”
“I, on the contrary, when any arrangement is contemplated between parties, like to bring every point into hotch-pot, as a preliminary step.”
“Say no more, Mr. Burdock;—I will yield with pleasure. It is rather a disagreeable subject on which I am compelled to touch; but I will go into it at once. Wyburn's wife has been with you to-day;—she stated something to my disadvantage.”
“What induces you to suppose so?”
“To be candid,—your threats this morning aroused my suspicions. I have since seen Mrs. Wyburn, and extracted the facts from her.”
“What facts?”
“Imprimis,—that she has visited you to-day.”
“Granted.”
“Item,—that she has thrown out hints which, if founded in truth, would not, perhaps, tend materially to the enhancement of my reputation.”
“I shall say nothing on that subject.”
“Can you deny it?—If I am wrong, why not deny it?—Will you deny it?”
“No, I won't.”
“Then it is as I imagined.—Now, sir, as you are kindly disposed towards my friend, I wish to warn you, seriously, against that young woman. She labours under gross delusions: an idea has entered her head, that I am her husband's enemy, and an admirer of her person. Nothing can be more preposterous. She has reproached me, bitterly, for every step that I have taken to benefit George Wyburn, under the impression that my proceedings would be prejudicial to him. I acquit her of malice; but she certainly is very deficient in common sense. Perhaps, however, I am uncharitable in saying this; for women, in her sphere of life, are totally incapable of forming a just opinion on the actions of man in mere matters of business. They are like those spectators of a chess-match, who, having obtained only a slight glimmering of the mysteries of the game, consider those moves of a piece which are, in fact, master-strokes of skill, as tending to bring the king into check-mate.”
“You are a chess-player, I presume, Mr. Blennerhagen,” said Burdock.
“I am, sir; chess is my favourite game. But to proceed with my statement:—George Wyburn himself is by no means a man of business. Proud, and ridiculously affecting independence, although he scarcely possesses a shilling, he would disdain the slightest favour I could offer him: he will not willingly be under an obligation to any man. That assistance, which in extremity he might accept from a stranger, he would scorn if proffered by a friend: I am, therefore, under the necessity of acting in the most circuitous manner, to benefit him. If I do good, in my office as his friend, I must do so by stealth. Mrs. Wyburn has not mind enough to perceive this: a combination of manouvres is to her mysterious, and consequently fearful; for she cannot imagine how anything can be fair that is not manifest to her limited capacity. Now, sir, I have already made considerable progress in relieving my friend from his difficulties, and I do not wish to be thwarted, either by this woman's weakness, her whims, or her delusions. I can convince you, at once, of the honesty of my intentions; and I call on you, as at least a well-wisher to George Wyburn, not to countenance his wife's follies, but to put on the wisdom of the adder, and be deaf to her tales;—in fact, not to bring yourself into trouble, by becoming the confidant of another man's wife, and her abettor, without his knowledge, in counteracting such measures as his best friend may think fit to adopt for his ultimate, if not immediate, benefit. I am urged to make this communication; I do it unwillingly, but I think you will feel that I am right.”
“And this is your request, Mr. Blennerhagen?”
“It is.”
“Have you any thing else to ask?”
“Absolutely nothing:—I require nothing but your promise on this point.”
“And the bills—”
“Oh!—of course, the bills:—your promise and the bills.”
“You have omitted to prove to me the honesty of your intentions towards Mr. Wyburn.”
“I will do so in a few words.—Although piqued at George for not immediately acquainting me with the circumstance of his being arrested, the moment I quitted you this morning, I flew to his creditors, and procured his instant release, by becoming security for payment of the bonds on which he had been arrested. You, doubtless, have ascertained that he is discharged: if not, you may do so at once, by sending one of your clerks to the lock-up house. This, you must allow, is a tolerably good proof of my intentions towards him. You will understand, that I do not wish him to know how far I have gone, as it would be needless, at pre-tent, to hurt his pride. We should reverence a friend's feelings, although, to our minds, they may appear failings. You are now convinced, I hope.”
“I am!” exclaimed Burdock, with unusual energy; “I am convinced that you are an atrocious scoundrel!—Don't frown, or pretend to be in a passion, or I'll shew you no mercy. You're check-mated, Blennerhagen.”
“Mr. Burdock! what's the matter?—What has possessed you?”
“A spirit to put out and amove such a monster as you are from honest society. To dumb-founder you, if it be possible, without more ado, know that I am fully acquainted with the contents of the note you wrote in my presence this morning:—'Gillard—I must change my plans—let Wyburn be instantly released—contrive that he shall suspect he owes his liberty to my having become security for his debts—Blennerhagen.' I have the words, your hear, by heart; and what's better, for my purpose, I have them in your own hand-writing, in my iron chest. I tore off the impression which you made with the note on your blotting-paper. Now, sir, what say you?”
“Nothing,” replied the Mathematician, with his ordinary composure of manner; “nothing, but that I shall be under the necessity of entering into a longer explanation than I could wish at this moment, in order to clear up the circumstance.”
“I will hear no more of your plausible explanations:—I have heard enough already. It is time for me to speak.”
“With all my heart.”
“Where is the letter which George Wyburn wrote to you,—that letter in which he stated he was about to destroy himself?—Be brief in your reply—where is it?”
“Burned.”
“'Tis false! I must be explicit: you shewed it to Mrs. Wyburn very lately;—say within these two days.”
“I beg to suggest, that before you gave me the lie, (I postpone the insult for a moment,) you should have reflected that even in two days there is time enough to burn ten thousand letters, and that I have not been deprived of volition during that period.”
“Admitted. But I know more than you imagine; and I will not be trifled with. You deem it to be so valuable a document, that you commonly have it about your person. Allow me merely to run my eye through your pocket-book.”
“You carry this with too high a hand, Mr. Burdock,” said Blennerhagen; “you ask too much, sir; and in a manner, that one who possessed less calmness than myself, would not tolerate. I am not to be intimidated. It would be as well, perhaps, if we postponed this discussion, until you are in a cooler mood.”
“Not yet, sir; not yet, if you please. I have something more serious to say.”
“You are not going to unmask a battery on me, I hope,” said Blennerhagen, with apparent gaiety.
“It may be that I am. Hear me:—I hope I shall be forgiven if I am wrong: should I, however, be in error, a few hours will set me right. I strongly suspect—I will not call you Blennerhagen, for I have little doubt but that—”
“Hold!” exclaimed Blennerhagen, placing his hand on Burdock's lips;—“hold! I beseech, I entreat you. Before you utter another word, I demand, I implore the favour of being allowed to commune for a few moments with myself.”
Burdock intimated his acquiescence by a nod to this request. Blennerhagen rose from his seat, and paced rapidly up and down the room. A multitude of thoughts seemed to be hurrying through his mind; and large drops of perspiration trickled unheeded from his brow. After a few moments had elapsed, he began to recover his composure, and resumed his chair.
“Mr. Burdock,” said he, “I am grateful for this indulgence. It is, I believe, an established principle, with professional men, that the confidential communications of a client should be held most sacred.”
“So far as regards myself, and many whom I know, that is certainly the case,” replied Burdock.
“Allow me to ask—for whom do you consider yourself concerned under the late Joshua Kesterton's will?”
“First, for the executors; next, for your wife and yourself; and, lastly, for Mrs. Wyburn and her husband.”
“I have the honour to be your client up to this moment, I believe.”
“Of course.”
“Then, sir, I beg to acquaint, you, in that character, that I am Tonks.”
“You don't surprise me at all,” said Burdock; “I thought as much, and was just going to tell you so.”
“I hope I shall do myself no injury by confessing that I perceived you were; and availed myself of the opportunity of stating the fact, in order to obtain the benefit of your silence, and allow me to add,—your advice.”
“Nay, nay,” replied Burdock, “I really must decline advising you.”
“Well, be it so,” said Blennerhagen; “I have sense enough to see that my only safety is in immediate flight. I have been careless in some minute points of my calculations, and my air-built castle topples about my ears; but I must not be overwhelmed by its ruins.”
“Understand that I cannot assist you,” said Burdock; “understand that most positively. Here's a clear felony;—at least, I'm afraid it would turn out so. And you see, (it has just occurred to me,) although you're my client under Kesterton's will, yet, as the bills have actually been transmitted to me—”
“I have heard you say, Mr. Burdock,” interrupted Blennerhagen, “that while you were concerned for a man, you would never act against him.”
“I admit it; but, you see, in a case of felony—”
“Allow me to go on:—without my confidential communication, you would, at this moment, have nothing but conjecture to warrant you in calling me Tonks.”
“I don't deny it.”
“I am under your roof, too.”
“Granted.”
“Lastly,—villain as you deem me, I am unfortunate as well as guilty. My actions have been culpable, I confess. Money, money, has been my object: I have been compelled to catch little fish, to bait my hooks for great ones. The woman who calls herself Tonks (which is not my real name) has been, unfortunately for herself, one of my victims. I wanted money, and I scrupled not at any scheme that appeared safe, to get it:—the end sanctified the means. I have a father, Mr. Burdock,—a greyheaded man, who has pined in prison during three miserable years: I am the wretched cause of his sufferings. He was convicted, in large penalties, for offences against the revenue committed by me,—by me alone, Mr. Burdock. I attempted to bring the onus of the offence on myself, and to relieve him from the accusation; but justice, in this case, was blind, indeed. My father is in his cell, sir; but, although balked in my designs at present, yet still, while I have existence, in other scenes, in other lands, rather,—for I'm no longer safe here,—I will wrestle with fortune, at all hazards, until I procure a sufficient sum to effect his release.”
“Suppose, for a change, as you have hitherto been unsuccessful, you were to adopt some honest course,—I mean, if you escape.”
“Perhaps I may:—guilt, however, is but comparative, and—”
“Well, enough of this. What have you to say to your attempt on the virtue of Mrs. Wyburn?”
“I was under the influence of a passion which I could not control.”
“You'll be hung as sure as you're born, if you suffer yourself to be governed by such sophistry as you preach.”
“I hope not,” replied the Mathematician, “for it would break that old man's heart, who has no joy to support him in his captivity but his joy as a father in me. If I had freed him, he must not have known how I obtained the means to do so.”
“Another reason for your being honest,” observed Burdock; “make a beginning, and you'll find the path pleasant afterwards:—only make a beginning.”
“I will, immediately,” replied Blennerhagen, taking several papers from his pocket-book, and laying them open on the attorney's table: “there is George Wyburn's letter,” added he; “and there are the bonds on which he has been arrested.—Hush! Was not that a knock at the door of your chambers?”
Voices were now heard in the outer office; and, in a short time, Burdock's clerk came into the room to announce the arrival of Mrs. Blennerhagen and Mrs. Tonks.
“My second wife, doubtless, obtained her predecessor's address this morning,” said Blennerhagen, “and has been to fetch her. Come in and shut the door, young man,” continued he, addressing the clerk:—“I think I heard you close your shutters just now: how many candles have you on your desk?”
“Only one, sir,” replied the clerk, “at this moment.”
“Oblige me by snuffing it out, apparently by accident, when you return to your seat, and utter some exclamation when you have done it:—do not delay.”
The clerk paused for a moment; but, as Burdock made no remark, the young man interpreted his silence as a tacit acquiescence to Blennerhagen's request, and withdrew. In a few seconds he gave the signal: Blennerhagen immediately strode out, rushed across the outer office, and effected his escape.
As soon as the clerk had procured a light, Burdock informed the ladies, in a few words, of Blennerhagen's villanies; and then left them, weeping in each other's arms, to go in quest of Wyburn and his wife.
Within a week, the claims on Joshua Kesterton's estate were finally determined; and the amount proved to be so much less than either Hassell or Burdock had anticipated, as to leave a considerable sum after deducting the legacy. Mrs. Blennerhagen,—or, to speak more correctly, the widow Winpennie,—not only paid poor Mrs. Tonks her full claim, but very generously augmented Wyburn's residue, by allowing a handsome deduction in his favour out of her ten thousand pounds. Neither of his wives ever heard of the Mathematician again; and, to quote a facetious entry in the old attorney's private memorandum-book,—George Wyburn was convinced of the folly of his conduct,
He thought no more of reading Plato,And acting like that goose, old Cato.
357s
Some years ago, the turnpike road, from the city of Bristol to the little hamlet of Jacobsford, was cleft in twain, if we may use the expression, for the length of rather more than a furlong, at a little distance from the outskirts of the village, by the lofty garden walls of an old parsonage house, which terminated nearly in a point, at the northern end, in the centre of the highway. The road was thus divided into two branches: these, after skirting the walls on the east and west, united again at the south end, leaving the parsonage grounds isolated from other property. The boundary walls were of an unusual height and thickness; they were surmounted by strong oaken palisading, the top of which presented an impassable barrier of long and projecting iron spikes. The brick-work, although evidently old, was in excellent condition: not a single leaf of ivy could be found upon its surface, nor was there a fissure or projection perceptible which would afford a footing or hold to the most expert bird's-nesting boy, or youthful robber of orchards, in the neighbourhood. The entrance gate was low, narrow, immensely thick, and barred and banded with iron on the inner side. The tops of several yew and elm trees might be seen above the palisading, but none grew within several feet of the wall: among their summits, rose several brick chimneys, of octagonal shape; and, occasionally, when the branches were blown to and fro by an autumnal wind, a ruddy reflection of the rising or setting sun was just perceptible, gleaming from the highest windows of the house, through the sear and scanty foliage in which it was embosomed. According to tradition, Prince Rupert passed a night or two there, in the time of the civil war; shortly after his departure, it withstood a siege of some days, by a detachment unprovided with artillery; and surrendered only on account of its garrison being destitute of food. Within the memory of a few of the oldest villagers, it was said to have been occupied by a society of nuns: of the truth of this statement, however, it appears that the respectable sisterhood of Shepton Mallet entertain very grave, and, apparently, well-founded doubts.
For many years previously to and at the period when the events about to be recorded took place, a very excellent clergyman, of high scholastic attainments, resided in the parsonage house. Doctor Plympton was connected, by marriage, with several opulent families in Jamaica; and he usually had two or three West-Indian pupils, whose education was entirely confided to him by their friends. Occasionally, also, he directed the studies of one or two young gentlemen, whose relatives lived in the neighbourhood; but the number of his scholars seldom exceeded four, and he devoted nearly the whole of his time to their advancement in classical learning.
Doctor Plympton had long been a widower: his only child, Isabel, had scarcely attained her sixteenth year, when she became an object of most ardent attachment to a young gentleman of very violent passions, and the most daring nature, who had spent nine years of his life under the Doctor's roof, and had scarcely quitted it a year, when, coming of age, he entered into possession of a good estate, within half an hour's ride of the parsonage.
Charles Perry,—for that was the name of Isabel's lover,—had profited but little by the Doctor's instructions: wild and ungovernable from his boyhood, Charles, even from the time he entered his teens, was an object of positive terror to his father, who was a man of a remarkably mild and retiring disposition. As the youth advanced towards manhood, he grew still more boisterous; and the elder Mr. Perry, incapable of enduring the society of his son, yet unwilling to trust him far from home, contrived, by threatening to disinherit him in case of disobedience, to keep him under Doctor Plympton's care until he was nearly twenty years of age. At that time his father died, and Charles insisted upon burning his books and quitting his tutor's residence. On the strength of his expectations, and the known honesty of his heart, he immediately procured a supply of cash, and indulged his natural inclination for horses and dogs, to such an extent, that some of his fox-hunting neighbours lamented that a lad of his spirit had not ten or twenty thousand, instead of fifteen hundred a year.
Young Perry had never been a favorite with Doctor Plympton; but his conduct, after the decease of his father, was so directly opposed to the worthy Doctor's ideas of propriety, that he was heard to say, on one occasion, when Isabel was relating some bold equestrian achievement which had been recently performed by her lover, that he hoped to be forgiven, and shortly to eradicate the evil weed from his heart, but if at that moment, or ever in the course of his long life, he entertained an antipathy towards any human being, Charles Perry was the man. It would be impossible to describe the worthy Doctor's indignation and alarm, on hearing, a few days afterwards, that Charles had declared, in the presence of his own grooms—in whose society he spent a great portion of his time—that he meant to have Isabel Plympton, by hook or by crook, before Candlemas-day, let who would say nay.
That his child, his little girl,—as he still called the handsome and womanly-looking Isabel—should be an object of love, Doctor Plympton could scarcely believe. The idea of her marrying, even at a mature age, and quitting his arms for those of a husband, had never entered his brain; but the thought of such person as Charles Perry despoiling him of his darling, quite destroyed his usual equanimity of temper. He wept over Isabel, and very innocently poured the whole tide of his troubles on the subject into her ear; but he felt rather surprised to perceive no symptoms of alarm on his daughter's countenance, while he indignantly repeated young Perry's threats to carry her off. In the course of a week, the Doctor heard, to his utter amazement, from a good-natured friend, that Isabel had long been aware of Charles Ferry's attachment, and was just as willing to be run away with, as Charles could possibly be to run away with her. Several expressions which fell from Isabel, during a conversation which he subsequently had with her on the subject, induced Doctor Plympton to believe, that his good-natured friend's information was perfectly correct; and he, forthwith, concerted measures to frustrate young Perry's designs.
Isabel's walks were confined within the high and almost impassable boundary-walls of the parsonage grounds; her father constantly carried the huge key of the entrance door in his pocket, and willingly submitted to the drudgery of personally answering every one who rang the bell. He altogether declined receiving his usual visitors, and became, at once, so attentive a gaoler over his lovely young prisoner, that nothing could induce him even to cross the road. He bribed Patty Wallis with a new Bible, Hervey's Meditations among the Tombs, and Young's Night Thoughts, to be a spy upon the actions of her young mistress; and paid a lame thatcher two shillings a week to inspect the outside of the wall every night, while he did the like within, In order to detect any attempt that might be made at a breach.
But Doctor Plympton derived much more efficient assistance in his difficult task, from a quarter to which he had never dreamed of looking for aid, than either his outward ally, the thatcher, or his domestic spy, the waiting-maid, could possibly afford him. Doctor Plympton had two West-Indian pupils in his house; both of whom were deeply smitten with the charms of Isabel, and equally resolved on exercising the most persevering vigilance to prevent the blooming young coquette,—who contrived to make each of them suspect that he held a place in her affections,—from escaping to, or being carried off by, their enterprising rival, Charles Perry. These young gentlemen, one of whom was now nineteen years of age, and the other about six months younger, had been Isabel's play-fellows in her childhood; and Doctor Plympton, who seemed to be totally unconscious of their gradual approach towards man's estate, had as little apprehension of their falling in love with Isabel, at this period, as when they played blindman's buff and hunt the slipper together, eight or nine years before.
Godfrey Fairfax, the elder of the two pupils,—a vain, forward, impetuous young man,—flattered himself that Isabel was pleased with his attentions: he felt satisfied, nevertheless, that the young coquette was of an unusually capricious disposition. He was by no means sure that Perry had not a decided preference over him in her heart; and if his rival did not already enjoy so enviable a superiority, he feared that the consequence of her present state of restraint would be a paroxysm of attachment to the individual of whom she was even forbidden to think. Isabel doated on a frolic; she thought nothing could be so delightful as a romantic elopement; and far from being unhappy at the vigilance with which she was guarded, she lived in a state of positive bliss. Her situation was that of a heroine; and all her father's precautions, to prevent her from passing the garden-walls, were, to her, sources of unspeakable satisfaction. Godfrey was perfectly acquainted with her feelings, and strongly tainted with the same leaven himself. He knew how much he would dare, were he in Charles Perry's place; and he had good reasons for believing, that any successful exploit to obtain possession of her person, would be rewarded with the willing gift of young Isabel's hand. Charles Perry's reckless character rendered him exceedingly formidable as a rival, in the affections of such a girl as Isabel Plympton: but what created more doubts and fears in Godfrey's breast than any other circumstance, was the fact of a large Newfoundland dog, the property of Charles Perry, obtaining frequent ingress—nobody could conceive by what means—to Doctor Plympton's pleasure-grounds. Godfrey suspected that a correspondence was carried on between Perry and Isabel by means of the dog; and he shot at him several times, but without success.
Of his quiet, demure, and unassuming school-fellow, George Wharton, Godfrey did not entertain the least degree of fear: he attributed Isabel's familiarity with him to their having been brought up together; for that Wharton could really love so giddy a girl as Isabel, he would not permit himself to believe. But the truth is, that George passionately doated on Isabel; and she, much to her satisfaction, had made herself acquainted with the state of his feelings towards her. She had even encouraged him, by a blushing avowal that she esteemed him more than any other human being, except her father; and, in all probability, at that moment, she uttered the genuine language of her heart: but, it is very certain, in less than five minutes afterwards, Godfrey Fairfax was on his knees before her, and kissing her exquisite hand, with an enthusiasm of manner, which she did not appear at all disposed to check. Perhaps she scarcely knew whom she loved best; and trusted to accident for determining on which of the three young men her choice should fall.
While matters remained in this state at the parsonage, the day of Godfrey's departure from the house of his venerable tutor was fast approaching:—the vessel, by which he was to return to his native island, Demerara, had already completed her cargo, and nearly concluded the final preparations for her voyage.—Godfrey saw that no time was to be lost, if he wished to make Isabel Plympton his own: he was almost constantly with her, and pleaded his cause with such fervour, that, by degrees, Isabel began to forget Charles Perry, to avoid George Wharton, and to feel unhappy if Godfrey Fairfax were absent but for a few moments from her side. Godfrey knew that it would be useless to implore Doctor Plympton for his consent to their union: it would have struck the old gentleman with horror, had a pupil of his,—a youth of Godfrey's immense expectations,—offered to marry Isabel. He would have spumed the proposal as a direct attack upon his honour; and have lost his life rather than suffered such a marriage to take place. It would have amounted, in his opinion, to a breach of his duty towards his employers, to have suffered one of his pupils to fall in love with Isabel. But, even if there were any hopes that Doctor Plympton would give his consent to the match, provided Godfrey obtained that of his father, the young man could not delay his felicity; nor would he run the hazard of Isabel's changing her mind, or being won by Perry, or even young Wharton, while he was sailing to Demerara and back again. Isabel, too, he was sure, would never agree to a mere common-place match with him, when another lover was striving; night and day, to run away with her; and Godfrey, under all the circumstances, deemed it most prudent to carry her off, if possible, without asking any body's permission but her own.
He had made no arrangements for a legal union with Isabel; his sole object was to get her out of her father's custody, and under his own protection. He felt assured that his love was too sincere to permit him to act dishonourably towards her; and a vague idea floated across his mind of carrying her on board the vessel by which he was to leave England, and marrying her at the capstan, according to the forms and usages observed at sea. The principal difficulty consisted in removing her beyond the walls of her father's pleasure-grounds. Doctor Plympton's vigilance was still unabated; George Wharton, although he had scarcely spoken to Isabel for several days past, rarely lost sight of her for a longer period than half an hour; Patty Wallis slept in her room, the windows of which were immensely high; and the key of the door was regularly deposited under the Doctor's pillow. With a heavy heart Godfrey began to pack up his clothes and books, for the day of his departure was at hand,—when the idea of conveying Isabel out of the house in his large trunk, suddenly flashed upon him. He flew to the young lady and communicated to her what he called the happy discovery; and she, without a moment's hesitation, gaily agreed to his proposition,—appearing quite delighted with the idea of escaping in so mysterious and legitimately romantic a manner.
Godfrey passed the remainder of the day in concealing his clothes and books, boring air-holes in the chest, and lining it with the softest materials he could procure. On the morning appointed for his departure, Isabel stole unperceived up to the store-room, where Godfrey was anxiously waiting to receive her, and stepped blithely into the trunk. Within an hour after, it was half a mile on the road towards Bristol, in the fly-wagon, which Godfrey had previously ordered to call at the parsonage for his heavy baggage, a short time before his own intended departure. At length the chaise, in which he was to leave the village for ever, drew up to the garden gate. Godfrey took a hurried leave of his old master and fellow student, leaped into the vehicle, and told the post-boy not to spare his spurs if he expected to be well paid.
In less than an hour, the young gentleman alighted at the wagon-office. Assuming as cool and unconcerned an air as he possibly could, he observed, in a careless tone, to a clerk in the office,—“I am looking for a trunk of mine, but I do not see it: I suppose we must have passed your wagon on the road.”
“All our wagons are in, sir,” replied the clerk: “we don't expect another arrival till to-morrow morning.”
“Oh! very good: then my chest must be here. I hope you have taken particular precautions in unloading it: I wrote 'with care—this side upwards,' on it, in very large letters.”
“Who was it addressed to, sir?”
“Why, to me, certainly;—Godfrey Fairfax, Esquire, Demrara—”
“To be left at the office till called for?”
“Exactly;—where is it? I've not much time to lose.”
“Why, sir, it has been gone away from here—”
“Gone away!”
“Yes, sir; about,—let me see,” continued the clerk, lazily turning to look at the office clock; “why, about, as near as may be, nine or ten,—ay, say ten,—about ten minutes ago, sir.”
“Ten minutes ago, sir! What do you mean?—Are you mad? I'll play the devil with you! Where's my chest?”
“I told you before, it was gone, sir.”
“Gone, sir! How could it go, sir? Didn't I direct it to be left here till called for?”
“Very well, sir; and so it was left here till called for: it stood in the office for five minutes or more, and then—”
“And then—what then?”
“Why, then, a little black porter called for it, and took it away with him on a truck.”
“Who was he?—Where has he taken it?—I'll be the ruin of you. The contents of that trunk are invaluable.”
“I suppose you didn't insure it: we don't answer for any thing above the value of five pounds unless it's insured;—vide the notice on our tickets.”
“Don't talk to me of your tickets, but answer me, scoundrel!”
“Scoundrel!”
“Where has the villain conveyed it?”
“Can't say.”
“Who was he?”
“Don't know.”
“Distraction! How could you be such a fool as to let him have it?”
“Why not?—How was I to know?—You'd think it odd if you was to send a porter for your chest—”
“Certainly; but—”
“Very well, then: how could I tell but what the little black fellow was sent by you?—He asked for it quite correctly, according to the address; and that's what we go by, of course, in these cases. And even now, how can I tell but what he was sent by the right owner, and that you're come under false pretences.”
“What, rascal!”
“You'll excuse me:—but you don't authenticate yourself, you know; and I've a right to think as I please. If we were to hold a tight hand on every gentleman's luggage, until he proved his birth, parentage, and education, why, fifty clerks couldn't get through the work. I'll put a case:—suppose, now, youarethe gentleman you represent yourself to be,—and, mind me, I don't say you are not,—how should you like, when you came here for your chest, for me to ask you for your certificate of baptism?”
“You drive me mad! Can you give me no clue?”
“None in the world;—you ought to have written to us.”
“Write to you?—why should I write?”
“Why, to warn us against giving up the goods to anybody except under an order, with the same signature as that in your letter: then even if a forgery were committed, by a comparison of hands—don't you see?—”
“My good fellow!” interrupted the disconsolate and bewildered Godfrey, “you know not what you've done. This is a horrid act: it will be the death of me; and perhaps you may live to repent ever having seen this unlucky day. There was a lady in the chest.”
The clerk turned his large dull eyes upon Godfrey, and after a long and deliberate stare of wonder, exclaimed, “Dead or alive?”
“Alive; alive, I hope that is,—alive, I mean, of course.—Do you take me for a body-snatcher? If you have a spark of pity in your bosom, you will put me in the way of tracing the villain who has inflicted these agonies upon me. What can I do?”
“Why, if there's a lady in the case—”
“There is, I declare;—I solemnly protest there is.”
“Young or old?” “Young—young, to be sure.”
“Why, then,—I think you ought to lose no time.”
“Pshaw! I know that well enough.”
“If I were you, I should be off directly.”
“Off!—S'death, man! you enrage me. What do you mean by be off?'”
“Why, off after him, to be sure.”
“Which way did he go?”
“Ah! there I'm at fault.”
Godfrey could bear no more:—he rushed out of the office, hallooed “Porter!” five or six times, and, in a few seconds, half-a-dozen knights of the knot were advancing, from different corners of the inn yard, towards him. “My good fellows,” said he, “did any of you see a little black fellow taking a large trunk or chest from the office, on a truck, this morning?”
Two of them had seen the little black man, but they did not recollect in what direction he went after quitting the yard.
“How dreadfully provoking!” exclaimed Godfrey: “My only course is to ransack every street—every corner, in quest of him. I'll give ten guineas to any one who will discover the wretch. Away with you at once;—bring all the black porters you know or meet with, to the office; and, perhaps, the clerk may identify the rascal among them. I've been robbed!—do you hear?—robbed—”
“And there's a lady in the case,” said the clerk, from the threshold of the office-door, where he stood, carefully nibbing a pen; “a mistake has occurred, it seems; and though it's no fault of ours, we should be glad to see the matter set to rights: therefore, my lads, look sharp, and the gentleman, I've no doubt, will come down handsomely. I think I've seen the little black rascal before, and I'm pretty certain I should know him again: if I shouldn't, Ikey Pope would, I reckon; for he helped him to put the chest on the truck.”
“And where is Ikey, as you call him?” eagerly inquired Godfrey.
“He's asleep again, I suppose, among the luggage.—Ikey!—You see, he's got to sit up for the wagons at night, and never has his regular rest. He's like a dog—Ikey!—like a dog that turns round three times, and so makes his bed anywhere.—Ikey!” A short, muscular, dirty-looking fellow now raised his head from among the packages which lay in the yard, and without opening his eyes, signified that he was awake, by growling forth “Well, what now?”
“Ikey,” said the clerk, “didn't you help a porter to load a truck with a large chest, some little time ago?”
“Yes.”
“Should you know him again?”
“No!” replied Ikey, and his head disappeared behind a large package as he spoke.
“Well, there's no time to lose, comrades,” said one of the porters: “will the gentleman pay us for our time if we don't succeed?”
“Oh! of course,” replied the clerk; “away with you!”
The porters immediately departed in different directions; and Godfrey, after pacing the yard for a few minutes, in great anguish of mind, sallied forth himself in quest of the little black porter. After running through some of the adjacent streets, and despatching another half-dozen porters, whom he found standing round the door of an inn, to seek for the fellow who had so mysteriously borne away “his casket with its precious pearl,” he hastened back to the wagon-office, hoping that some of his emissaries might have brought in the little black porter during his absence. None of them, however, had yet returned. Godfrey, half frantic, ran off again: and after half an hour's absence, he retraced his steps towards the wagon-office.
“Well, sir,” said the clerk, in his usual slow and solemn tone, as Godfrey entered, “I have had three or four of them back; and they've brought and sent in half-a-score of black porters, occasional waiters, valets out of place, journeymen chairmen,et cetera, and so forth; but, unfortunately—”
“The little delinquent was not among them, I suppose.”
“No, nor any one like him: but I'll tell you what I did—”
“Speak quicker:—consider my impatience. Did you employ them all to hunt out the villain?”
“Why, it was a bold step, perhaps; but—”
“Did you, or did you not?”
“I did.”
“A thousand thanks!—I'll be off again.”
“But, I say, sir;—you'll excuse me;—now, if I were you, I'll just tell you what I'd do.”
“Well, my dear friend, what?—quick—what?”
“Why, I'd roust out Ikey Pope. He's the man to beat up your game.”
“What! the fellow who answers without unclosing his eyelids?”
“Why, to say the truth, he don't much like daylight. Nobody sees the colour of his eye, I reckon, above once a week; but, for all that, there's few can match him. He's more like a dog than a Christian. He'll find what every body else has lost; but upon what principle he works, I can't say: I think he does it all by instinct.”
“Let us send him out at once, then.”
“Not so fast, sir:—Ikey's next kin to a brute, and must be treated accordingly. We must manage him.”
“Well, you know him, and—”
“Yes, and he knows me: I have condescended to play so many tricks with him, that he won't trust me: but he'll believe you.”
“And how shall I enlist him in my service? I stand on thorns:—for Heaven's sake be speedy.”
“Why, if you only tell him he has a good leg for a boot, and promise him an old pair of Hessians, he's your humble servant to command; for, ugly as he is, he's so proud of his leg, that—”
“Call him;—call him, at once.”
The clerk now roused Ikey, and, with considerable difficulty, induced him to leave his hard and comfortless dormitory.
“The gentleman has a job for you,” said the clerk, as Ikey staggered towards young Fairfax.
“I don't want no jobs,” muttered Ikey. “Saturday night comes often enough for me. Seven-and-twenty wagons a-week, out and in, in the way of work, and half-a-guinea a-week, in the way of wages, is as much as I can manage.”
“Ikey is very temperate, sir,” said the clerk; “very temperate, I must allow;—he eats little and drinks less: he keeps up his flesh by sleeping, and sucking his thumbs.”
“Ah! you will have your joke,” said Ikey, turning towards the heap of luggage again.
“And won't you earn a shilling or two, Ikey?” said the clerk.
“No; I'm an independent man: I have as much work as I can do, and as much wages as I want. I wish you wouldn't wake me, when there's no wagon:—how should you like it?”
“Well, but, friend Pope,” said Godfrey, “as you will not take money, perhaps you'll be generous enough to do a gentleman a favour. I shall be happy to make you some acceptable little present—keepsake, I mean—in return. I've an old pair of Hessians,—and, as I think our legs are about of a size—”
“Of a size!” said Ikey, facing about towards young Fairfax, and, for the first time, unclosing his heavy lids; “of a size!” repeated he, a second time, casting a critical glance on Godfrey's leg; “I can hardly think that.”
Ikey dropped on one knee, and, without uttering a word, proceeded to measure Godfrey's calves with his huge, hard hands. He then rose, and rather dogmatically observed, “The gentleman has got a goodish sort of a leg; but,” continued he, “his calves don't travel in flush enough with one another exactly: he couldn't hold a sixpence between his ancles, the middle of his legs, and his knees, as a person I'm acquainted with can, when he likes to turn his toes out:—but I think your boots might fit me, sir.”
“I'm sure they will,” cried the impatient Godfrey; “and you shall have them.”
“Your hand, then;—it's a bargain,” quoth Ikey, thrusting out his fist, and striking a heavy blow in the centre of Godfrey's palm. “Now, what's the job?”
Godfrey rapidly stated his case, and, with all the eloquence he possessed, endeavoured to stimulate the drowsy fellow, on whom his chief hopes now depended, to a state of activity. Ikey listened to him, with closed eyes, and did not seem to comprehend a tythe of what he heard. When Godfrey had concluded, he merely observed, “I'll have a shy!” and staggered out of the yard, more like a drunkard reeling home from a debauch, than a man despatched to find out an unknown individual in the heart of a busy and populous city.
“The William and Mary, by which I was to sail, lies at King-road,” said Godfrey to the clerk, as Ikey Pope departed; “the wind, I perceive, is fair, and sail she will, this evening, without a doubt. Unfortunate fellow that I am!—every moment is an age to me.”
“Perhaps you'd like to sit down in the office,” said the clerk; “I can offer you a seat and yesterday's paper.”
“Thank you, thank you!” replied Godfrey; “but I fear pursuit, too:—I cannot rest here.”
The young man again walked into the streets: he inquired of almost every person he met, for the little black porter; but no one could give him any information. At last, a crowd began to gather around him, and he was, with very little ceremony, unanimously voted a lunatic. Two or three fellows had even approached to lay hands on him, when his eye suddenly encountered that of Ikey Pope: breaking through the crowd at once, he hurried back, with Ikey, to the wagon-office.
“I've won the boots,” said Ikey, as they entered the yard.
“Which way?—how?—Have you seen him?—Where is he?” eagerly inquired Godfrey.
“I can't make out where he is,” replied Ikey; “but I happened to drop into the house where he smokes his pipe, and there I heard the whole yam. He brought the chest there.”
“Where?—where?”
“Why, to the Dog and Dolphin.”
“Til fly—”
“Oh! it's of no use: the landlord says it was carried away again, by a pair of Pill-sharks; who, from what I can get out of him and his people, had orders to take it down the river, and put it aboard the William and Mary, what's now lying in Ringroad, bound for Demerary.”
“Oh! then, I dare say it's all a mistake, and no roguery's intended,” said the clerk, who had heard Ikey's statement: “the person found he was wrong, and, to make amends, has duly forwarded the trunk, pursuant to the direction on its cover.”
“A chaise and four to Lamplighter's Hall, instantly!” shouted Godfrey.
“First and second turn, pull out your tits,” cried the ostler: “put to, while I fill up a ticket.”
“Are you going, sir?” said Ikey, to young Fairfax.
“On the wings of love,” replied Godfrey.
“But the boots!”
“Ah! true. There,—there's a five pound note,—buy the best pair of Hessians you can get.”
“What about the change?”
“Keep it or, oddso! yes,—distribute it among the porters; and be sure, Ikey, if ever I return to England, I'll make your fortune: I'd do it now, but I really haven't time.”
In a few minutes, Godfrey was seated in a chaise, behind four excellent horses, and dashing along, at full speed, toward's Lamplighter's Hall. On his arrival at that place, he found, to his utter dismay, that the William and Mary had already set sail. After some little delay—during which he ascertained that his trunk had positively been carried on board—Godfrey procured a pilot-boat; the master of which undertook to do all that lay in the power of man to overtake the vessel. After two hours of intense anxiety, the pilot informed Godfrey, that, if the wind did not get up before sunset, he felt pretty sure of success. Far beyond the Holms, and just as the breeze was growing brisk, Godfrey, to his unspeakable joy, reached the deck of the William and Mary. The pilot immediately dropped astern; and, as soon as Godfrey could find utterance, he inquired for his trunk. It had already been so securely stowed away in the hold, that, as Godfrey was informed, it could not be hoisted on deck in less than half an hour. The impatient youth entreated that not a moment might be lost; and, in a short time, five or six of the crew, with apparent alacrity, but real reluctance, set about what they considered the useless task of getting the trunk out of the snug berth in which they had placed it.
It is now necessary for us to take up another thread of our story; for which purpose, we must return to that point of time when the wagon, which contained Godfrey's precious chest, slowly disappeared behind the brow of a hill, at the foot of which stood the worthy Doctor's residence. Patty Wallis, Isabel's maid and bosom friend, had, for some time past, been bought over to the interest of Charles Perry, to whom she communicated every transaction of importance that occurred in the house. On that eventful morning, she had acquainted Perry with Godfrey's plan,—the particulars of which her young mistress had confided to her, under a solemn pledge of secresy,—and Perry, from behind the hedge of an orchard, nearly opposite the Doctor's house, beheld young Fairfax consign his trunk to the care of the wagoners. Godfrey entered the house, as the heavy vehicle turned the summit of the hill; and Charles Perry immediately retreated from his place of concealment, to join his trusty groom, Doncaster Dick, who was waiting for him, with a pair of saddle horses, in a neighbouring lane.
“You've marked the game, I'll lay guineas to pounds!” exclaimed Dick, as Charles approached. “I'm sure I'm right;—I can see it by your eyes. Guineas to pounds, did I say?—I'd go six to four, up to any figure, on it.”
“I wish you'd a thousand or two on the event, Dick,” replied Charles Perry, exultingly; “you'd have a safe book at any odds.”
“Well! I always thought how it would be: if there was fifty entered for the young lady, you'd be my first favourite; because for why?—as I've said scores of times,—if you couldn't beat'em out and out, you'd jockey them to the wrong side of the post.”
“I hope you've not been fool enough to let any one know of Godfrey's scheme, or of my being acquainted with it:—'brush' is the word, if you have.”