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CLEMENT LORIMEE;
OB,
€^t 3C^nnk mitji tjiB 9rnn Cln.sys.
A ROMANCE.
BY
ANGUS B. KEACH.
u
ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK.
LONDON :
DAVID BOGUE, FLEET STREET.
MDCCCXLIX,
TO
SHIRLEY BROOKS,
THE AUTHOB S DEAREST FRIEND,
THE FOLLOWING ROMANCE
3Es InstribtK.
'Zj'jL.KJl^Jf^-'^
CONTENTS.
Page
The First Chapter of the Prologue — The Two
Lights 1
The Second Chapter of the Prologue — The Ship-
owner AND the Ship-Captain 8
The Third Chapter of the Prologue — The Last
Drop OF THE Last Phial 15
Chap. I. — Why Mademoiselle Chateauroux did
NOT DANCE AT THE QPERA '26
II. — The Spider IN THE Web 3.'-'
III. — The Jockey 44
IV. — The Snake and the Bird 40
V. — The Field against the Favourite 57
VL— The Derby fis
VII.— The Losers 75
VIII.— The Fly-by-night 81
IX — An Author in search of a Sibject 91
X. — A Night in THE Streets 97
XL — An Evening at the Opera 104
XII.— The Trap works 117
CONTENTS.
Page
Chap. XIII. — Squeezing the Dry Sponge 12 i
XIV. — The Landlady's Husband l:j-2
XV. — Forming A Continuation of Chapter II.
OF THE Prologue. — The Sequel to
THE Ship-Owner and the Ship-Captain 137
XVI. — Father AND Son 145
XVII.— The "Flail" Supper 156
XVIII. — How Miners MAY BE Undermined 164
XIX. — The Counterplot begins to work 171
XX. — " Check TO the King " 178
XXI. — The Final Scheme 186
XXII. — The By-Play of the Drama 193
XXIII. — Benosa weaves the Crowning Web 199
XXIV. — The Editorial Sanctum 212
XXV. — The Fly IN the Web 221
XXVL— Life-in-Death 230
XXVII. — The Night Voyage on the River 235
XXVIII. — "Thou shalt not bear False Witness
against thy Neighbour " 241
XXIX. — Quiet AND Country Air 247
XXX. — The Book with the Iron Clasps 256
XXXI. — "How say ye, Gentlemen — Guilty or
Not Guilty?" 266
XXXII. — The End of the Book with the Iron
Clasps 273
The Epilogue 277
LIST OF PLATES.
THE BOOK WITH THE lEOX CLASPS .
THE SHIP-OWNER AND THE SHIP-CAPTAIN .
MAKING THE FAVOURITE SAFE FOR THE DERBY
THE WRECK ON THE GOODWIN SANDS
THE OPERA-BOX .....
DEBTOR AND CREDITOR
MRS. dumpling's ESTABLISHMENT
BENOSA AT THE TOMB ....
MAKING CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
MISS ESKE CARRIED AWAY DURING HER TRANCE
THE ESCAPE .....
THE END OF THE BOOK WITH THE IRON CIASPS
Frontispiece.
page 15
. 67
. 91
. 113
. 1.30
. 149
. 187
. 22§
. 240
. 2fir>
. 276
CLEMENT LOEIMER;
OR,
THE BOOK WITH THE IRON CLASPS.
THE FIRST CHAPTER OF THE PROLOGUE.
THE TWO LIGHTS.
On the night between the 30th of April and the l^t of
iSIay, 1610, the moon shone brightly on the town of Antwerp.
It lighted up the wide panorama of fertile level land which
stretches I'ound that ancient city ; it gleamed upon the broad
Scheldt and the white sails which here and there glided
upon its waters ; it lit up the Gothic spires and chiselled
architraves of many churches ; and it brought into relief
against the clear sky the thousand high quaint gavels, with
their lofty peaks and rickety-looking projections of carved
stone and wood, and little Gothic turrets and pinnacles,
which are such striking features in all the old Flemish towns.
Our story leads us to the large open place in which the ca-
thedral of Antwerp stands. Few people were about, for the
deep tones of the bell, swinging far up in that most marvel-
lously beautiful of spires, had sounded eleven, and the scat-
tered lights, gleaming from high windows, were disappearing
one by one, so that when the chimes from the steeple pro-
claimed that the night had waned another quarter of an hour,
but two were left, and they shone from houses which faced
each other.
Into the room in which burnt one of these lights the
course of our story conducts us. It was a small, low-browed
apartment, wainscoted with old and polished oak, and de-
corated with coarsely carved mullions and cornices. Migiity
B
•2'. •.♦•.•. CIJ5MENT LORIMER.
beams oftheVaiiie specFes of wood, but black and polished as
ebony, stretched across the ceiling, giving the Mhole place an
aspect of clumsy, antique sti'ength and ponderous solidity.
This apartment was partially lighted by a taper placed in a
massive silver candelabrum, which stood upon the broad
window-sill, and which threw an uncertain glare into the
gloomy shadows which it could not entirely dispel. Tha
principal feature of the sombre apartment was an antique
and massive bed, whereof the head rose in the fashion of a
canopy almost to the ceiling, terminating in pinnacles of
quaintly -carved wood, from whence depended masses of
heavy and gloomy-looking drapery. On the floor lay a large
open box, heavily clamped, and secured with iron bolts.
This box was lined with metal, and divided into three com-
partments. In one of them Mas arranged a drawer, full of
small crystal and silver phials, all of them carefully stoppered
and sealed with red wax. The centre compartment of the
box was empty ; but upon a small table, drawn close to the
bed, lay a book, which, from its size and shape, appeared
destined to fill it. This volume was a thick quarto, bound in
coarse, rough vellum, without lettering or gilding of any sort,
except on the back, whereon were jDrinted the two Italian
words " La Vendetta." In the third compartment of the
chest was arranged a large compact bundle of papers, tightly
tied and labelled in a neat Italian hand and in the Italian
language.
A chair or two, of ancient and ponderous construction,
flung at random about, completed the furniture of the apart-
ment. It was occupied by two individuals. One of them, an
old man, lay upon the bed, projoped up by a pile of cushions.
His companion, who was a youth, stood gazing upon him in
an attitude of the deepest reverence.
For awhile there was deep silence in the room, and the
old man appeared to doze upon his pillow. The youth took
the taper and flung the light full upon the face of the sleeper.
It Mas an old meagre face, dark and swarthy. A few long
grey hairs straggled from beneath a close skull-cap of black
velvet, and the chin was clothed with a scantj' and grizzled
beard. The old man's features were worn and Masted, but
the type of the Italian countenance Mas very visible in the
high aquiline nose, and strongly-marked and arched eye-
THE TWO LIGHTS. 3
brows. The skin of the forehead and cheeks was seamed
with innumerable small lines, such as may be seen in the old
portraits of Voltaire; and the whole physiognomy of the man
was instinct with an expression of the most exquisitely
delicate nervous organisation, and of that subtle, intellec-
tual, power which was stamped in the countenance of Ma-
chiavelli.
The old Italian was dressed in a loose robe of velvet, the
folds of which his long horny fingers clutched and twitched
at. Suddenly he pressed both his hands to his forehead and
withdrew them, wet with cold perspiration. Then his lips
moved, and his companion heard him muttering. He bent
his head and listened. The old man spoke in a jxifois of
Italian used by the inhabitants of the mountain districts in
Corsica,.
" The Mistral," he murmured, — " the keen wind of the
sunny south — the wind of home — I feel it on my cheek —
waving my hair — oh, how different from the dank gusts of
these northern fens ! Ah, it shakes the olive-grove and the
trcUised vines upon the trees, and tosses the bright Medi-
terranean waves, till they gleam and sparkle on the white
sea-sand. Oh! I am back — I am home — Paolo, Benedetto,
your hands — 'tis done — Ha ! yon see the red stain ! — yes !
vengeance is ours — it hath tracked its quarry through many
lands — and, at last, it hath swooped upon its prey! Look —
look — my arm is red to the elbow — 'tis the heart's blood of
the Teuton."
" He is raving," said the watcher ; " he will pass away,
and leave me but half instructed." Then, bending over the
old man, he said, in Genoese Italian, " My father ! "
" Who calls?" answered the dying man.
" Michael Benosa."
The Italian opened his eyes, they were fierce and black,
and burning with hot fever. He glared wildly about for a
moment, and then clasped his fingers and compressed his lips,
as though he were striving by a physical effort to recall his
scattered senses. Then the unnatural glare of the fever
passed away from his eyes, and he sat for a moment mo-
tionless and musing. At length he spoke, —
" If I grope and stumble, boy, it is because there hangs
over my spirit the darkness of the Valley of the Siiadow of
4 CLKMEXT LORIMER.
Death. Therein no man sees clearly how to walk." He
paused ; then resumed, " I know I have somewhat to say to
you — give me the clue."
" The family of the Vandersteiris," said tlie son.
"Ah! La vendetta! la vendetta!" exclaimed the Cor-
sican, his hands clenching and his eyes gleaming. " Yes, I
have yet to give you charges touching that great task —
charges which, if they be not in your lifetime fulfilled to the
uttermost, you will, in your turn, bequeath to your son,
even as 1 now bequeath them to you."
"I listen, father," said Michael Benosa.
" Stand close to me and hold the lamp to your face, that
I may truly see whether you be my son or no."
Michael complied, and his father gazed long upon him.
He was a slight, but well-made youth, dressed in a sober
doublet and cloak. His face bore the same stamp of Italian
lineage as did that of his father. Its expression was severe
and grave, the eyes lustrous and black, and the skin of the
temples already began to exhibit those fine lines, or wrinkles,
which appeared to be a distinguishing family feature.
" Yes," said the old man, " Monna Doro was honest ;
there is none of the northern swamp-blood in your veins."
"I am," answered the young man, proudly, — " I am of
the race which three times ruled the world, — by Arms, by
Arts, and by Faith."
" And, therefore, a sure avenger of blood. Look into the
night."
Michael appeared to understand what he was to look at,
for he stepped to tlie lattice, and glanced in the direction of
the second light, which, as we have said, shone from a window
opposite to the Italian's house.
" It still burns," he said.
Just at this moment the clock of the cathedral tolled
twelve.
" His life has entered on its last hour," murmured the
Corsican.
" Some one trims the lamp, — it flickers," said Michael
Benosa, looking earnestly through the window.
" They trim it for the last time," said the father; " Erpa
is a sure nurse, and she has sure drugs ; when she extin-
guishes that lamp, Stephen Vanderstein will bo dead ; and
THE TWO LIGHTS. 5
she will extinguish it within the hour. Tlien comes iny
turn. When you extinguish the lamp upon that taWe, I shall
be dead; and you will extinguish it within the hour."
There was a short pause.
" Michael ! " exclaimed the old man, " did not the clerk
say that tlie grave triumphed over vengeance?"
" He did, my father."
'' Then he lied ; I shall rot, but my vengeance shall ride
onward to its uttermost goal. Fetch me the book upon the
table."
Michael obeyed.
" The Supreme Vendetta has been declared betwixt the
families of Raphael Benosa and Stephen Vanderstein. The
Fleming knows nought of it — of our customs. No matter;
the black wings of Azrael are above his house, and they may
not close while thei'e is life beneath the roof-tree, or fire
ui)on the hearth. Michael, the Fleming wrought our family
unutterable wrong ; what that wrong was, being done in
secret, may not, by the laws of the Vendetta, be disclosed
until that Vendetta be accomplished. The cause of the feud
I have written in this book. If you witness the extermina-
tion of the Vanderstein family, you will read it; if not, you
must pass tlie volume unread to your successor, for only to
him who consummates the vengeance must the cause of that
vengeance be known."
The youth boMed low and reverently.
The old man resumed : " We are not now in our own
land, where men think little of the gleam of the poniard or
the stroke of the stiletto. These boors of Flanders are slow
of hand and chary of blood, except that which the law spills.
Let the Vendetta, then, be wrought stealthily and in secret.
If the heart be bitter, let the face be smooth. Italian wile to
match Flemish bluntness. Cast the net and spread the snare,
and watch waril}-, as the fowler, until the bird flutters in the
toils. Use cold steel but as a last means. The art of the
chemist is more deadly than that of the armourer who forges
the blades of Ferrara or gives their temper to the rapiers of
Toledo. Drugs, like disease, kill, and no blow struck.
See those phials" — pointing to the chest — "they were
filled by one to whom was handed down the deadly lore of
Pope Alexander VI. and his terrible daughter, — ay, b}' one
6 CLEMENT LORIMER.
■vvlio practised as well as studied his ai't ; and amongst these
papers are instructions for the wielder of the drugs, written
in the chemist's hand, and signed with his name — Rene, of
Florence. But, hark ! words, written or spoken — ay,
thoughts — can kill as well as poison or steel ; and poison or
steel kills but the body. Let our vengeance be more terrible.
Compass to smite the spirit as well as the flesh. Strive that
as each Vanderstein leaves the world, he may leave it with a
heart broken by woe or a soul hardened in guilt. To me it
has been granted but to begin the task. I have struck down
Stephen Vanderstein. He leaves three sons and three daugh-
ters. Be close on their track. If any of them survive you,
your descendants must follow up the work ; and so must it be
from father to son, until this, the most terrible Vendetta ever
planned by Corsican brain, be accomplished. You see this
book. In its pages you — and after you, your children — must
enter, each what he has done ; what members of the Vander-
stein family he has cut off, until the last of the detested race
be purged from the earth. All this you understand, and all
this you will do ?"
" All this," said Michael Benosa, kneeling, — " all this I
understand, and all this will I do."
The old Italian placed both his hands on his son's head,
and his lips moved silently. Then suddenly adopting a more
familiar and conversational tone than he had used in instructing
Michael in his terrible mission, the Italian said, —
" Give me pen and ink."
The youth dipped a pen into ink, and placed it in his
father's hand. The old man opened the iron-clasped book at
the first vacant page, and held the pen ready to write.
" Watch the lamp, Michael. Erpa will soon give the
signal."
The chimes in the steeple rang half-past twelve. For
about five minutes there was silence ; then Michael ex-
claimed, —
" It is over — the liglit is out ! "
Without manifesting any emotion, the Italian wrote in the
book the following words : —
" The first of May, in the year one thousand six hundred
and ten, in the first hour of the day, expired Stephen Van-
derstein, the first victim of the vendetta. He died in the
THE TWO LIGHTS. 7
vigour of manhood, and the hour of his death was fixed at a
crisis in his fortunes when his loss will most probably impo-
verish the family. He was killed through the agency of
Raphael Benosa, the first executant of the vendetta."
The old man then shut up the book, clasped it, and iu
obedience to his instructions Michael deposited it in the
iron-bound chest, which he secured by shooting the bolts of
a series of ponderous locks ; and then placing the key in his
bosom, stood gazing on his father.
The old Italian had resumed his recumbent posture ; con-
vulsive twitches passed over his face, and his breath came in
gasps.
" Michael — forget not — and — when I — am dead — ex-
tinguish the lamp — and watch beside me — in — the —
darkness "
The young Italian bowed, and felt with his hand his
father's extremities. They were already cold. Then the fea-
tures of the old man became pinched and blue, and the rattle
sounded in his chest.
As the son gazed upon the dying father, the chimes pro-
claimed a quarter to one.
" He said it should be within the hour," the youth mur-
mured. Then Michael looked, viith dry, hot eyes, upon the
dying. " I cannot weep," he said ; " my destiny and my
mission are too great for weakness of body or soul. I must
be something more or less than human."
At this moment, a change passed over the old man's face
which caused Michael to take up the extinguisher of the
lamp ; and just ere the clock tolled one, the Flemish sentinel
before the Stadthouse, Avho had been idly gazing upon the
light in the house of Raphael Benosa, the Italian money-
changer, saw it go out.
" The withered old atomy is gone to sleep," he muttered.
So he had — for ever.
8 CLEMENT LORI.MER.
THE SECOND CHAPTER OF THE PROLOGUE.
THE SHIP-OWNER AND THE SHIP-CAPTAIN.
A CENTURY has elapsed since the death of Raphael
Benosa. A century to a month, for the breeze which sweeps
across the meadows which line the Rhine below Rotter-
dam, and makes the weathercocks and vanes upon the trim
farm-houses point to the south-east, and rustles along the
lines of priggish pollards, and heaves round the sails of lag-
ging windmills, and toys and wantons with, and swells into
rustling waves, the white canvass of the loosened foretopsail
of the substantial American trader the St. Nicholas, — this
breeze, we say, is the pleasant breath of the earl}' iNIaj^
Furthermore, the St. Nicholas is riding with her anchor
apeak a couple of miles below the Boomjees. The wind
favours her; she is but waiting that Captain Schlossejib maj'
receive on board one lady passenger, and also take the last
instructions of his owners ; after which events the gallant
captain anticipates, that, with such a breeze, three hours or so
will see the St. Nicholas beyond the Brill, and speeding
merrily over the tilting seas of the German Ocean.
" Here's the boat at last. Captain Schlossejib," said Jin
Karl, the first mate of the St. Nicholas, a good-humoured,
open-faced, Dutch-built Dutchman, with flaxen hair and
light eyes.
"Ay, ay, I see," replied the captain, stopping his im-
patient walk along the quarter-deck. " Get the accommo-
dation-ladder rigged out, and see to the side-ropes. The
owner is bringing our lady-passenger on board himself. Well,
he's a polite man, Meinheer Benosa."
" And a liberal," said the mate. " Not a shipowwner
from the Seine to the Elbe is more beloved of officers and
men. He's a prince to sail under. The best pay — the best
provisions — the best treatment. Long life and prosperity to
the house of Benosa ! "
" Of which here comes the head," observed Captain
Schlossejib, as a fast-pulling boat, impelled by the labours
THE SHIP-OWNER AND THE SHIP-CAI'TAIN. 9
of six sturdy rowers, shot alongside of the St. Nicholas. In
the stern-sheets of this boat Mere two ladies, both closelj"-
hooded and veiled, and a portly man, dressed like a sub-
stantial citizen of Holland. The latter, with very elaborate
politeness, assisted the females to mount to the deck of the
St. Nicholas, and, following tiiem himself, and taking the
hand of one of them (the younger), said, —
" This lady. Captain Schlossejib, is your passenger to
New York. You Mill be particular in paying to Mademoi-
selle Var.derstein the utmost attention so long as she remains
on board the ship St. Nicholas, commanded by you."
The captain, hat in hand, bowed low to his owner, and
nearly as low to the two ladies, who returned the greeting,
and then, attended by Jin Karl, proceeded to the cabin,
which had been fitted up Avith a due regard to the require-
ments of her M'ho for some weeks v as to be its inhabitant.
The door of the state-room bolted behind them, the tMO
women I'ushed, as with one accord, into each other's ai'ms.
" Sister, sister," exclaimed the elder of the two, " we
shall never meet again I " and, tearing aside the head-dress
of her companion, she smothered her with kisses.
'•Hush, my silly Treuchden!" the other said, repaying
her sister's embrace fondly, but with calmness ; " hush ! the
Atlcintic is broad, but it is not a Styx, that we should not
return across it, nor a Lethe, that its waters should Mash
aMay the remembrance of each other."
" No, no, Louise, M'e shall never forget each other, but I
shall never hold you in my arms again I — my heart tells me
so. I have hoped against hope; but since our brothei''s
death — his death upon the eve of his marriage, upon the
A'ery night of that joyous supper at the Lust-Haus of the good
Benosa — I have believed that there is a black doom hanging
above our family."
" IMisfortunes are the lot of all, Treuchden, and they
come in troops. What have m'c done that they should be
specially billeted upon the Vandersteins ? "
" Do not laugh, Louise I Remember our family history :
not a Vanderstein has prospered since the death of our ances-
tor Stephen, M'ho died so suddenly in AntMcrp a century
ago."
" Then let us hope," said Louise, " that the curse will
10 CLEMENT LORIMER.
lose its strength by lapse of time. If it survive the hundred
years, I shall pronounce it a malediction of the most robust
constitution and the most hopeless longevity."
" Has one of our family," said Treuchden, still pursuing
the argument, " died in the ordinary course of nature and
at a ripe old age ? Has not misery in its every shape been
heaped upon us ? Have we not -wrestled with poverty, and
calumny, and contempt? Have we not either died young —
died in the bloom and the blush of our hopes — or dragged
on a dreary life until we met some fearful or some mysterious
end? Tell me not, Louise, Ave are a fated race; — we are
doomed to unhappiness ourselves, and we drag into the gulf
all who are connected with us,"
" But, at least," answered the younger sister, catching
some portion of the serious mood of her relative, — '• at least
these misfortunes have only happened when we lived all toge-
ther in Flanders. Now, when we are to be separated —
now, when the only three survivors of our race — you,
my dear sister, Margaritta, and myself — will shortly be
known but by our husbands' names, and live with them
apart — you in London, INIargaritta in Paris, and I in
America — surely, if there has been a fatality upon our
vinited house, it will not pursue the scattered remnants of a
broken race."
Treuchden shook her head sorrowfully, but, after a mo-
ment's pause, added, —
" I will bear up, my dear sister ; I will hope for the
best ; I will trust that happier daj's may see us re-united.
At any rate, I will strive not to darken j'our departure
from Europe by what may be, after all, but idle fancies and
superstitious forebodings, although springing from (Heaven
knows) a series of unheard-of calamities."
And the two sisters, after another close embrace, busied
themselves in making their little arrangements in tlie cabin.
Meantime the owner of the St. Nicholas, Meinheer Be-
nosa, attended by the captain and Jin Karl, made a tour of
inspection round the ship. The prosperous and kind-looking
merchant had a good-natured word for every body on
board.
" Ha, old Schuytz ! befoi'e the mast still ? We must see
whether we cannot give you a push up the stairs of the
THE SHIP-OWNER AND THE SHIP-CAPTAIN. Jl
quarterdeck after this voyage. Well, Hans, as stout as
ever ! It is an everlasting marvel to me how you can go
aloft in so many pairs of breeches ! Hey-day, Peterkin !
leaving your young wife to go across the blue water? — but
sailors have wives in every port. — Nay, never interrupt, man I
I tell no tales. Captain Schlossejib, I hope — duty being
duly done — that you do not stint the poor fellows in the
articles of tobacco or schnapps. I would not have a seaman
who treads a plank over which ilies the private signal of the
House of Benosa who could complain of clear pipes or empty
goblets."
The captain bowed, and the score or so of seamen around
raised a hoarse cheer, —
" Long live the Benosas, the noblest merchants of the
Netherlands ! "
The shipowner raised his cocked beaver hat, acknow-
ledged the greeting, and then, taking the captain by the arm,
led him to the private cabin of the latter, and carefully
secured the door.
" I have something to say to you. Captain Schlossejib,"
said Benosa.
The sea-captain bowed and listened.
" You have sailed south of the line, captain," began the
merchant, in a low, even tone, and fixing his black, keen
eyes intently upon the browned and battered visage before
him, — " j'ou have sailed under many flags?"
" Yes," replied the captain, in the same confidential tone
of voice — " yes, English, Spanish, Dutch, French, and "
And here the speaker hesitated.
"Go on, man ! " replied the merchant; — "and another
which the men of no nation own, but the men of all nations
fear."
The ancient pirate fixed a puzzled look upon the mer-
chant.
" Well, well," continued Benosa, "young blood will be
hot, and youth will have its swing."
" Aleinheer Benosa," said the captain, "I wish I knew
in what intent and with what purpose you speak."
" But the laws of nations," resumed Benosa, as if talking
to himself, "make but little allowance for such frolics. Dear,
dear, the proceeding is summarj' ! Reeve the rope, load the
12 CLEMENT LORIMER.
gun, and up goes a choking man to the end of the fore-arm
in a wreath of white smoke."
Schlossejib made no immediate reply, but his breath came
in thick gasps, and the large beads of perspiration stood upon
his forehead.
" Meinheer," he said, speaking with difficulty, and in a
hoarse, broken voice, " I have served you well I "
"I am aware of it," replied the other; "but you don't
know me well. You see, however, the ignorance is not
mutual."
Again the captain cast a long, inquisitive glance at his
owner; but in the calm and handsome features before him,
in the depth of the lustrous black eyes, and the quiet smile
which curved the lips of Benosa, and which might mean
much or nothing, he found little to guide him.
" Is the St. Nicholas a good ship?" abruptly inquired the
merchant.
" As stout as ever swam ! " was the reply.
" Fit to go a cruise to the Spanish main, or round the
Horn, to look out for a galleon deep with the ingots of the
Spaniard ? "
"Why," exclaimed Captain Schlossejib, in inexpressible
astonishment, — "why, yoxi don't wish to go a-roving?"
" Not I ! " replied the merchant ; " but perhaps you do ? "i
" Meinheer Benosa," said the captain, " speak to a plain
seaman in plain words, and he will give you a plain answer."
" A man is sometimes lost overboard on a long voyage ;
is he not? '
" Surely," replied the captain ; " life is uncertain upon
the land, but more uncertain upon the sea."
" And if men drop overboard, women are liable to the
same fate?"
The sea-captain drew a long breath, and his coarse face
assumed an aspect of intelligence.
" What would you do in the event of a loss — some such
unhappy loss — on board the St. Nicholas ?"
" I would," replied Schlossejib, — " I would make an
entry of it in the log-book — that is all I could do."
"Ah! in this style: — 'June 1st. Lat. so and so.
Long, so and so. Steering W.S.W., under all plain sail.
Squalls with head sea. Lost overboard,' — what shall we
THE SHIP-OWNER AND THE SHIP-CAPTAIN. 13
say? all! for example, — 'lost overboard Mademoiselle
Louise Vanderstein, cabin passenger, who, in a sudden lee
lurch of the ship, fell accidentally from the quarter-gallery
into the sea?' You would enter the occurrence in some
such words as these?"
'' As near as may be."
" Then don't forget the form — nor the example I have
given you."
" Meinheer Benosa," said Schlossejib, "are you in
earnest ?"
" It would be a very dull joke if I were not."
" I did not know you — I — I never should have imagined
— nobody would have imagined "
" Stop," said Benosa ; " how many men in Holland, do
you think, know you — know the secrets of your soul ?"
" Not one, I hope," replied the worthy addressed, '■'• ex-
cepting, perhaps, yourself."
" And how many in Holland do you think know me?"
" Not one, I believe — excepting, perhaps, myself."
" Hum ! — your knowledge goes a very little way."
" I know more than I did half-an-hour ago."
" That may be, and now you shall know more still — you
shall know your own fate. You will, winds and seas per-
mitting, make your voyage to North America, and thence
back to Rotterdam. Off the Brill I shall board you — shall
come down to this cabin, and shall ask to see your log-book ;
if there be no entry in it such as I have sketched, you shall
be denounced as a pirate and a cut-throat, and by your death
society will be avenged and the world so far purilied. If,
however, there be such an entry in the pages of your log — ■
not a sham one, observe, and there are ways of knowing, —
you shall, after you have discharged your cargo, be formally
put in possession of this stout ship the St, Nicholas, and shall
use her, if it suits j'ou, as a peaceful merchantman, or shall
hoist the old flag from her mast-head in the Spanish main or
in the track of the Mexican galleons. And now, Captain
Schlossejib, you know still more than you did half-an-hour
ago."
There was a long pause, and both the interlocutors eyed
each other keenlv, the face of Benosa wearino; the same
14 CLEMENT LOUIMER.
placid smile as before, that of Schlossejib quivering with
emotion and wet with perspiration.
" I fear," said Benosa, "you would dread the possibility
of such an accident in a ship commanded by you."
" Accidents," said the worthy captain, " are not of our
making ; do all we can, they Mill happen."
" Then I may possibl}' find an interesting entry in the
log on your return ? "
" You will find it."
" Good ! then we shall go and look after the ladies ; they
must think us quite ungallant, I declare."
So saying, Benosa rose and left the cabin. Schlossejib
lingered a moment to swallow a large glass of schnapps, and
then followed his jiatron.
In the main cabin Mas prepared a collation, of which
Benosa and the two ladies partook.
" When shall we take our next meal together, Louise?"
said Treuchden.
" Pooh, mademoiselle," said Benosa, " you dread the
sea. With a stout ship imder you — and Captain Schlossejib
will tell you that the St. Nicholas is as stout a ship as ever
swam — you need care no more for the waves of the Atlantic
than for the ripples of a horse-pond. Come ! a glass of
cham])agne all round, to carouse to the pleasant passage and
the safe arrival of Mademoiselle Louise Vanderstein ; and may
she find — as I doubt not she will — her betrothed, my trusty
and honoured friend, Heinnch Strumfel, ready to fold her in
his arms ere the anchor of the St. Nicholas has sunk into
the sands of the New World. Come ! is every glass brim-
ming? Fair winds for the sails of the St. Nicholas, and good
fortune for the hearts which beat beneath them !"
Every glass was emptied to the toast except that of Cap-
tain Schlossejib, who watched the merchant with a strangely
puzzled air.
" How ! the captain refuse the pledge ? Off with your
wine, man ! — off with it to the last drop, or our fair passenger
■will think 3'ou mean her evil."
The captain mechanically swallowed the contents of his
glass.
At this monent Jin Karl appeared at the cabin-door.
r^
.5^
• J i.,f .^^,J
THF .S7JIP-01VNKR AND THE SEIP-CAPTAINT
THE LAST DROP OF THE LAST PHIAL. 15
" The anchor is at the bows," he said, " and we are
moving seaward." So the party went on deck.
" Meinheer," whispered Schlossejib to his patron, " has
your purpose changed ?"
"Captain," was the reply, in the same tone, "has your
mainmast fallen ?"
Schlossejib took the speaking-trumpet, which the mate
handed to him, in silence, looking round as though he were
in a dream. The sistei's twined their arms round each other
for the last embrace, and Treuchden was lowered weeping
into the boat. The merchant prepared to follow her, but
paused on the gangway. His eye sought Schlossejib's, and
exchanged with him a long, meaning look. Then raising his
hat, he said, with a loud voice, using the phraseology of the
old bills of lading, " And so God keep the good ship on
her destined voyage."
Three hours thereafter the St. Nicholas had crossed the
Brill, and was standing to the westward.
THE THIRD CHAPTER OF THE PROLOGUE.
THE LAST DROP OF THE LAST PHIAL.
This history must make a second flying leap. The scene
of this chapter is in the vicinity of London, and the time the
month of May 1810, just a century since the St. Nicholas
left the Maas, and two centuries since Raphael Benosa died
in his house at Antwerp.
London of late years has been well explored and de-
scribed, not by mere topographers or parish antiquaries,
but by those writers whose fictions present, as in a glass, of
more or less distorting powder, the features of society in our
own days. Thei'e is one district, however, which has escaped
the literary scrutiny, and yet it is not one of the least re-
markable. It lies on the eastern and northern outskirts of
our city, stretching away beyond Spitalfields. It is neither
quite a suburb nor quite the country. It is cut up princi-
pally into small strips of garden ground, and in each of these
gardens there is a dwelling-house. The humbler class of
16 CLEMENT LORIMER.
these mansions are built entirely of the wood of old, broken-
up ships. The}' look like tliose deck-cabins which we see
in vessels from the Baltic ports, lifted from between the
masts, and set down amid cabbages and gooseberry-bushes.
You can trace the stains of coarse ship-paint and tar upon
these brown, Marped, shrivelled planks. Iron cramps and
ring-bolts, once supports for the rigging which towered above
them, still stand rustily out from the decaying, splintering
wood ; and, half overgrown by rank vegetation, lie around
such naval mementoes as broken gun-carriages, rusty cabin-
stoves, or staved and splintered water-barrels. Over each of
these mansions there generally rises a mast, with cross-trees,
and stays, and a vane ; and upon high days and holydays the
proprietor hoists a union-jack to the summit, and eyes it
witli great complacency, as he drinks his grog and smokes
his pipe in the little arbour, whereof the planks have tossed
many a stormy night and day upon the ocean. The sea-
faring people by whom these amphibious mansions are
reared are generally retired skippers and mates of coasting
vessels, or small dealers in maritime stuffs, who instinctively
keep as near as they can to the water-side and the docks.
But houses of a different, though peculiar class, are not
wanting. These are generally formal, old brick mansions,
with small ■\\'indows and heavy-browed doors, approached
by flights of stone steps from the grass-plot which stretches in
front. Most of these houses appear to date from the i\g\y
and tasteless age of Anne. They are inhabited by old city
families, who carry on an old-fashioned business in an old-
fashioned way, — plodding, careful folk, who have no West-
end visions, sigh for no opera-boxes, intrigue for no entree
to exclusive coteries, and dine before the western hemi-
sphere has breakfasted.
Into a ground-floor parlour in a dwelling of this class our
story leads us. The house stands apart, and a high brick
wall surrounds both it and the gardens and shrubberies at-
taciiing to it. Thus the passenger can only conmiand a view
of t!ie upper stories. At the outer gate, at the moment when
M'e reunite the tliread of t!ie story, stands a quiet, and by no
means dashing brougham. The lirst glance at its unobtrusive
panels, and its steady, well-worked horse, would tell the
initiated in the wavs and things of town, that he was looking
THE LAST DKOP OF THK LAST I'HIAL. 17
zi a doctor's carriage ; and he would guess right. The
brougham is the.property of Dr. Gunibey, and Dr. Gunibey
is at this moment in the ground-floor parlour, conversing
lowly and earnestly with the master of the house.
The room was dark and gloomy. Dr. Gumbey sat in the
lightest portion of it, and his companion in the darkest. The
doctor was a young man, plump and round-faced, with a
bald head. It is astonishing the number of doctors who
have bald heads ; perhaps they pluck out the hair with
tweezers to make them look learned. The master of the
house, who sat opposite the doctor, we shall describe pre-
sently.
" The case of Mrs. Werwold," said Dr. Gumbey, " is
absolutely the most unaccountable I ever came across."
" She got over her confinement well," remarked the
husband, in a low and slightly tremulous tone.
" Admirably — admirably; and the boy is positively the
finest boy I ever saw in my life. Nothing ails him. But from
the hour at which his poor mother ought to have got bette",
she has got worse."
" But what do the peculiar symptoms denote ? "
"Ay, the peculiar symptoms, — just so; there is the
puzzle. There are no peculiar symptoms — that is, none
other than a gradual wasting away of the vital energy, a
gradual absorption of the element of existence. Every indi-
vidual organ appears healthy. We can discover no latent
di.sease. The effect is palpable to all ; but human science —
so far, at least, as we can apply it — can point to no cause."
" There is a disease, a well-known disease, I believe,
called atrophy ?"
" There is ; but here is no atrophy. It is not the flesh
which wastes away, but the living principle whicii appeal's to
ebb from the flesh. Making the due allowance for her recent
condition, Mrs. Werwold looks as well as ever."
" Then," said Werwold, in a tone of deep despondency,
"there is no hope?"
" While there is life, thei'e is hope," replied the doctor.
" Hope for the best — prepare for the worst. It is my sad
duty to tell you to do so, Mr. W^erwold."
There was a long pause.
" Werwold," resumed the doctor, " if one could believe
c
18 CLEMENT LORIMER.
in the trash one reads of the slow poisons of the middle
ages — of their marvellous effects, of their blighting influ-
ence, of their power of killing, yet leaving, so to speak, no
scar, — I say, if one could believe in the idle legends of the
drugs in possession of the Borgias and the Medicis, — legends
which modern science has utterly put to the rout, — if we
could believe in such things, I would say that "
"What?"
" That Mrs. Werwold had drunk the wine of Cyprus of
the Roman, or worn the perfumed gloves of the Florentine."
" Or had her image fashioned in wax, and wasted before
a slow fire by a New England witch," said the husband, with
a sad smile.
" True — true," replied the doctor; "fooleries — fooleries
all, and I was in the wrong to talk of such nonsense. Well, I
wish we were wiser."
" But," resumed the husband, " must all means be aban-
doned ? "
" God forbid ! " said Doctor Gumbey ; " but I talk to
you candidly — drugs appear of no use whatever. We must
trust more to regimen, and if possible to moral means —
labour to keep the patient's spirits up, and promote a health-
ful excitement, if we can, in body and mind. Meantime we
must keep up strength by generous living and the moderate
use of stimulants."
" The port wine, then, as before?" said Werwold.
" Precisely," replied the doctor, rising, and buttoning his
coat. " I shall look in again in the evenitig. Meantime, 1
repeat, labour to keep the patient's spirits up, and for the
rest, we can only hope that some turn, some crisis, may
take place, and that this mysterious malady may depart as it
came."
With these words the doctor took his leave. Werwold
saw him into his brougham, and then, returning to the par-
lour, passed through it into a little room beyond, fitted up as
a study or small library, the door of which he locked behind
him. In a corner of this a})artment, bricked into the wall,
was iw iron safe of massive and ponderous dimensions. Wer-
wold opened it by a key hung from his watch-guard. The
various shelves were littered with papers, which he cleared
away, flinging them carelessly behind him. Then touching
THE LAST DROP OF THE LAST PHIAL. 19
a side-spring, there became visible the keyhole of a small
inner safe, worked still deeper into the wall, and the door of
which swung open between two of the shelves of the outward
repository. From this crypt Werwold lugged forth a heavy
box, opened it, and took out a small steel casket filled M'ith
phials secured by pieces of bladder round the corks, and
which he examined one by one. With the exception of the
last which he took up, they were all empty. In that one still
lay a drop or two of glutinous, transparent fluid.
" The last drop of the last phial," he murmured. " The
work is nearly done, and I shall know the grand secret."
So saying, he placed the phial in his waistcoat- pocket,
shut the casket, replaced it in the box, replaced that in
its crypt, restored the papers to the shelves of the outward
safe, locked it, and passing out through the parlour, as-
cended the broad flight of stairs which led to the bedrooms
of the house.
On his way he encountered a withered old female, dressed
in the prim style of the matrons of old Dutch pictures.
" Erpa," he said, " the doctor insists upon absolute quiet.
I am going to your mistress for awhile. Do not come up or
let any one of the other servants intrude until I call;" and
he passed on. After pausing for a moment at a door, he
entered a chamber. It was the darkened room of an invalid.
A portion only of one of the upper shutters was open, and
a narrow gleam of sunlight fell upon a table littered with
glasses, phials, and the usual appurtenances of a sick-room,
and played upon the sombre drapery of the bed. One of
the curtains was suspended in massive folds, so as to allow
the interior of the bed to be seen. It was occupied by a
lady, the patient of Dr. Gumbey, whose case we have just
heard stated, and which puzzled the worthy doctor so com-
pletely.
As Werwold entered, his wife turned her eyes upon him,
but did not speak, and he stood a few moments looking at
her in silence. Mrs. Werwold, as we have heard, betrayed
none of the usual appearances of an invalid rapidly sinking
to the grave. She was a mild, meek-expressioned woman,
with blue eyes, a delicately white skin, and rich tresses of
fair hair. Her features were of the ancient Flemish type,
somewhat large and heavy, but with a full, soft, womanly
20 CLEMENT LORIMER.
expression. In her eyes alone the sign of the malady was
apparent. They were lustrous, but suffused with a pearly-
hued fluid, which glazed them, so that the pupils shone with
a dimmed glare, as a red-flamed lamp would shine through a
thin sheet of falling water. The slightest motion made by
the patient shewed her extreme languor. Indeed, she hardly
appeared to have strength to stir her hands, which were
plump, yet wore a ghastly hue of yellowish white.
" Trenchden," said her husband, " the doctor wislies you
to continue the wine."
A slight movement of the eyes indicated that she heard
and was ready to obej'. A cobwebbed bottle, with two
long-stalked glasses, lay upon the table, which was drawn to
the head of the bed, so as to be concealed by the curtain
from the view of the invalid.
Werwold filled a glass nearly to the brim with richly-
coloured wine, and then, pausing, looked keenly all round.
The silence of death was in the room. The sick woman lay
with her eyes partially closed — she appeared dozing. Hold-
ing the glass tremulously in his hand, Werwold cast upon the
sick woman a glance of the bitterest agony.
" Oh !" he murmured, " accursed be the race of which I
come, and the sentiments in which I have been nursed,
which drag me on to fulfil this awful vengeance, even as
madness hurries its victim over some ghastly precipice ! But
no ! I may not pause ! — there is a fate — a doom in it. If I
dream of burning these horrible papers — that horrible book,
it seems as tliough the phantoms of my dead fathers rose
round me, and gibed and gibbered at the first man who,
with Corsican blood in his veins, turned from the behests
of a vendetta. No I — no ! — I may go mad, but I must do
the bidding of those voices from the grave !"
Then pausing? he glanced towards the bed. The invalid
had not changed her attitude. He looked steadily at the
glass of wine, and then, holding it to the light, permitted the
last drop of the last phial to trickle into it. As the two
liquids mingled, the rich glow of the generous port seemed
for a moment to pale and thin in intensity, and then the dee])
colour reappeared, only a shade darker, and making the
liquor appear more turbid and opaque than before.
With every muscle in his face strained and swollen, yet
THE LAST DROP OF THK. LAST PHIAL. 21
rigid and fixed as iron bars, Werwold approached the bed,
and drew back the curtain with one hand, while he hekl the
wine in the other. His hands were clammy and damp, but
not a nerve quivered in face or finger.
" Treuchden, your port."
He raised his wife up, and held the glass to her mouth,
while she slowly drank the contents; then wiping her lips
with a handkerchief which lay upon the bed, he replaced her
head upon the pillows. Then he drew aside the curtain, and
partially raised the window-blind. The light of the pleasant
summer day streamed into the gloomy room, and Werwold
placed himself by the foot of the bed, in its broadest glare.
" Treuchden," he said, " you are still very ill?"
A sad smile was the reply.
" You feel this unconquerable lethargy gaining on you ?"
She gave the same sad smile again.
" Your strength waning, your mind weakening, the very
spirit oozing from your body ?"
The patient fixed an anxious and inquiring look upon her
husband. The tone in which he spoke was very low, but
singularly distinct, and though fraught equally with sternness
and melancholy, it was neither harsh on the one hand, nor
tremulous on the other.
" Treuchden," he resumed, " I love you, and I am killing
you."
She started up. " You ! — my husband ! — you Michael
Werwold ! — killing me ?" she gasped.
" My name is not Michael Werwold," was the reply, —
" my name is Michael Benosa !"
The sick woman fell back on the pillows, and pressed her
eyes with her hands.
"Oh! oh!" she murmured, "it is the delirium come
back !"
" It is not the delirium come back," said the man ;
" when death is at hand the brain clears — it works ever the
truer just ere it rests for ever."
" Then — then," sobbed the woman, " death is at hand ?"
" In the chamber — by your bed !"
" Oh !" groaned the patient, " the heavy cui'se of the
Vandersteins is on me !"
" It is!"
22 CLEMENT LORIMER.
'* And you — you — my love — my husband — my sworn
protector — the father of my boy — you — what are you?"
" Your destroyer, my Treuchden."
She glared incredulously at him.
" Look at me !" he said.
She did. In his face were the features of old Raphael
reproduced. The same swarthy, intellectual beauty, the
same deeply-set, gleaming eyes, the same fine skin lines,
threading, as it were, forehead and cheeks. The complexion
was deadly pale, and the expression one of awful determi-
nation, toned down by placid, deep-fixed sorrow.
" I am not Michael Werwold, the Anglo-Saxon, — I am
Michael Benosa, the Italian. I come of a fated race, I am
predestined to a fatal end. Ties you can never understand
bind me to my awful career. Would — oh, would that I were
dead! — but while I live I must do that which I abhor I
From that terrible task before me I must never quail — never
turn !"
Treuchden lay and listened in a species of wandering be-
wilderment. The words of her husband rang continuously
on her ear, and she strained her weakened faculties to catch
their immediate purport, as one by one they were spoken,
while the connected sense of his discourse seemed to escape
and elude her.
" Treucliden," continued the Corsican, " I ask you not
to think ill or well of me. I am but the hammer which,
held by the strong man, breaks the precious vase, and spills
the goodly wine. Listen ! You are on your death-bed —
the sins of the fathers are visited upon their children. You
must die, and I must kill you. There is a fate above all ;
I bend to mine, which makes me a murderer. Shrink not
from yours, which makes you but a victim. You die and I
live, and your lot is happier than mine !"
The dying woman spoke not, but clasped her hands in the
attitude of prayer.
" Yes, yes," continued Benosa, " pray, pray to our com-
mon God ! You would not believe me, but I too can pray.
The evil that I do is done that it may be as it is written.
For two hundred long years the long vengeance has been
working — for two hundred long years that vengeance has
been ministered by those of my house upon those of yours.
THE LAST DROP OF THE LAST PHIAL. 23
It was decreed that the Benosas must exterminate the Van-
dersteins. No living man knows the cause of this hereditary
enmity. It is written in a book which I possess, but I may
not read it until the blood of the Vandersteins is purged
from the earth. Now you know why you die — you know
my fearful mission, handed down to me by my father, as it
was to him by his. To compass that mission I became the
husband of the last of the Vandersteins — to fulfil that mission
it is by my hand you must die. Treuchden, my heart is as
the heart of other men, and I could cherish you, wear you in
my bosom, worship at your feet, but I am the tool of a destiny
which discerns not until it has run its course. Poor, pale,
guiltless victim of a wrath above the wrath of men, make
your peace with God, and render up your spirit ! "
Treuchden lay for a moment still, her eyes shut, and the
nerves of her face twitching and quivering. Then she started
up, and stretched her arms out to her husband.
" My child I — my boy I " she ejaculated.
" You would ask whether the fatality will pursue him ?"
She nodded eagerly.
" The fatality clings to all in whose veins runs the blood
of the Vandersteins, and in your boy's veins runs the blood
of the Vandersteins."
" And of the Benosas, too," she exclaimed.
" Even so," was the answer.
''Monster! you would slay the unconscious infant!"
Benosa's face grew dark with suppressed emotion.
" Would I could I " he muttered, and then groaned aloud.
" He must live to taste how sweet is life, that he may know
how bitter is death ! "
"Then — then," exclaimed the dying woman, raising
herself in bed, the glazed pupils of her eyes dilating, and
the beads of cold perspiration which had gathered on her
forehead streaming, by the motion, down her face, on which
a pale bluish tint began to be visible — " then you, the father,
the protector, will be the demon to lure him, your son —
your flesh and blood — to ruin, to destruction?"
Benosa's face became absolutely awful, as he raised him-
self to his full height, and, stretching his clenched hand
upwards, said in low, deep tones, "It is so written!"
24 CLEMENT LORIMER.
Uttering a low, wailing cry, Treuchden fell back upon
the pillows.
The bluish tint spread over her face, and became espe-
cially visible underneath her shut eyes.
Benosa stood with unchanged countenance beholding her.
The lips moved — Benosa bent over her — she was praying.
He paused for a few moments, and then muttered, "She
is speechless ! emotion has aided the effect of the drug. In
ten minutes she will be motionless." And, in effect, the
movement of the lips began to slacken, and the facial muscles
to lose their power, when, stepping to the bell-pull, Benosa
rang a loud peal.
Erpa speedily answered the summons.
" The change is at hand," he said, in a low tone to the
attendant.
The woman replied by a mute gesture of sorrow and
resignation, and they both bent over the dying.
For some moments Treuchden appeared to live only in
her eyes; the light of existence shone in them still. Minute
by minute it paled and dimmed, until nothing of them
gleamed but the cold, glazed surface of the eyeballs.
Then Erpa placed a filament of down upon the lips ; it
remained there until the jaws dropped, and the feather, after
floating a moment in the air, settled into the open mouth.
That night Benosa locked himself in his study, and,
opening the repository in the safe, took from it an ancient,
quarto-shaped book, bound in coarse rough vellum, on the
back of which was inscribed, in faded gilding, "La Vendetta."
The pages were nearly all written on ; and it was remarkable
that the writing was in many hands, and traced in ink of dif-
ferent colours. The hue of the characters on the earlier pages
was jet black, that of those on the latter leaves was a rusty
brown. Every body agrees in thinking that they made better
ink long ago than in more recent times. In this book Benosa
wrote nearly two pages. As he shut it up and clasped it, he
murmured, " The last entry but one ! "
THE HISTORY.
CHAPTER I.
WHY MADEMOISELLE CHATE4UROUX DID NOT DANCE AT
THE OPERA.
Madame Werwold, or Benosa, died in the year 1810,
leaving a male infant. Our story commences twenty-three
years after that date, and the scene shifts from the east to
the west end of London.
We are in a room, then, looking over the green vistas
of Hyde Park, It is furnished with luxurious magnificence,
but with careless absence of harmony and taste. Elizabethan
furniture jostles with the gaudy decorations, the meretricious
gilding, and allegorical carvings, of the age of Louis Quinze.
Vast mirrors gleam upon the walls, extending from the rich
cornices to the lusciously soft carpet. Cabinet paintings of
great cost are interspersed with vulgar prints of favourite
danseuses, coloured portraits of fast -trotting mares, as they
appeared performing celebrated matches against time, and
ugly representations of ugly bull-dogs and snapping terriers,
the property of various gentlemen known and esteemed in
the most exclusive circles of the " Fancy." Sofas, couches,
causeuses, chairs, armed and unarmed, of every dimension
and every pattern, are jumbled together without order or
regularity. Costly ornaments, some of them recently broken,
Sevres vases, and rich specimens of Bohemian-coloured glass,
are strewed on marqueterie tables. Half-a-dozen time-pieces,
pointing to half-a-dozen hours, stand about. Valuable classic
books are jumbled on shelves with racing calendars, works
on the noble art of self-defence. Little Warblers, French novels,
and masses of the periodicals of the day. Every where there
is the same chaos of things good and bad — things intellectual
and trivial — things refined and vulgar; vases of flowers are
26 CLEMKNT LORIMER.
placed on open cigar-boxes ; a hunting-whip is flung across a
painter's easel ; an open portfolio of memoi'anda and sketches
is soaked through by the contents of a spilt bottle of wine ;
foils, pencils, musical instruments, single-sticks, lorgnettes,
meerschaums, unfinished sketches, watches, piles of carica-
tures, pencil-cases, snuff-boxes, cameos, spurs ; all this con-
glomeration of objects of taste, sport, ingenuity, and trivi-
ality, lies scattered on tables, chairs, on sofas and the floor;
whilst in the centre of the apartment — this, part museum, part
drawing-room, part study — on a magnificent couch, lined
with Utrecht velvet, is stretched supinely out at full length
a young man, the proprietor of the room and the house,
Clement Lorimer.
He wears a morning dress, consisting of a loose, soft,
velvet shooting-coat, and his feet are thrust luxuriously into
crimson slippers. His features are well cut, frank, and open ;
but his cheeks are deadly pale, and there is an air of languid
insouciance and lazy indifference apparent in all his motions.
By the couch stands, in a respectful attitude, a second in-
dividual, an undistinguished-looking personage, decently
dressed in black, with large shoes, and a very loosely-tied
and ill-washed white neckerchief. His features are strong,
harsh, and heavy, the skin coarse and yellow ; but he pos-
sesses two small, clear grey eyes, as clammily cold as those
of a fish, but as sharp and piercing as those of a cat.
" Blane," said Clement Lorimer, " I want money ; I feel
an extravagant fit coming on."
" Mr. Lorimer," replied the steward, in the sleek voice of
a flattering dependant — "Mr. Lorimer need not balk his
inclinations. God forbid ! He is in possession of a splendid
income."
" Derived no one knows whence," murmured the young
man.
" But as punctually paid as quarter-day comes punctually
round," continued the steward.
" Ay, therein lies the point," said the master. " Satan
may send the money, — 'tis all one to me, so long as the sove-
reigns do not turn into gooseberry-leaves."
" At least before they are spent," insinuated the steward.
*' Blane," replied Lorimer, " there is a strict immorality
about you which is absolutely refreshing. You never bore
WHY MDLLE. CHATEAUROUX DID NOT DANCE. 27
lie with good advice — you never annoy me with liints or
predictions that the unknown source of my income may some
day dry up — you never try to curb folly or check extrava-
gance. Biane, you are a cold-blooded old rascal, and — and,
therefore, I like you."
The man to whom this contradictory eulogium was ad-
dressed made a movement, which might have been taken
either for a bow or shrug. He was accustomed to his mas-
ter's particular moods, and appeared either not to understand
or to be perfectly indifferent to the tone of suppressed but
bitter sarcasm in which the words he had just heard were
spoken.
" I sometimes think, Blane," continued the young man,
" that you know more about me than I do myself."
The steward gave an almost imperceptible start.
" You have been near me since 1 can remember. You
brought me my pocket-money at Eton — you paid my bills
at Oxford — you manage my establishment here What
are you, Blane, and what am I ?"
"I beg your pardon, Mr. Lorimer, for reminding you
that you are already perfectly acquainted with the circum-
stances which led to my occupying the humble position I do
in your household."
" Yes," replied Lorimer, " I remember your version of
them. You answered an advertisement, you saw the adver-
tiser, he prescribed your duties, as regarded me, and you
never saw him since."
" Never ! " answered the steward.
Lorimer looked long and keenly into the face of his
servitor. He neither quailed nor flinched before the gaze,
but fixed his cold grey eyes coldly and clearly upon his
master.
Lorimer, who had raised himself upon his elbow, flung
his form luxuriously back upon the yielding cushions. He
felt himself baffled by the unmoved, phlegmatic being before
him.
" Then let me have money, Blane ; do you hear ? I give
you a forced confidence. If I come down, you follow ; mean-
time let us enjoy. 1 dine from home to-day. See that the
horses are ready ; and, by the way, has that note been con-
veyed to Mademoiselle Chateauroux ? "
28 CLEMKNT LORIMER.
Blane bowed. It had been delivered an hour after it
was written.
" Good ! I am at home to nobody but her. Give orders
accordingly."
Blane bowed again.
"And — ah, yes — there is person from Rundell and
Bridge's below ; is there not ?
" Yes."
" Then send him up at once."
And the steward retired.
" He's as deep as a well, and as cold as a toad in it," said
Lorimer to himself, when he was left alone. "I think he is
cheating me — I am sure of it. Pshaw ! never mind, he does
it neatly ! All the world's a cheat: those who think them-
selves honest mostly cheat themselves ; and those who don't,
at all events contrive to cheat the gallows."
As the man about town gave murmured utterance to this
profoundly ethic remark, the jeweller's emissary entered the
apartment. He brought a small morocco case under his
arm, which, being opened, exposed a mass of diamonds and
jewelled decorations of almost priceless value.
Lorimer took the box, and turning himself listlessly round
on the sofa, played with his white soft fingers amongst the
glittering stones. Presently he selected a gorgeous diamond
necklace, and holding it up where a ray of sun-light shot
into the room, watched the precious stones gleam and sparkle
in the brightness.
" Ah," he said, " here is a necklace worthy of a
queen ! "
" It was the necklace of a queen, sir," said the jeweller.
" Ah ? "
" Marie Antoinette wore it, sir, at her marriage with the
Dauphin," replied the dealer, in the sing-song tone of a show-
man exhibiting his wares.
"So — vanitas vanitatum! — if the diamonds had not
pressed her neck, the steel would not have cut it. Moral
— don't wear diamonds — eh?"
The jeweller shuffled with his feet, smiled, bowed, unbut-
toned a waistcoat button, and then fastened it again. It was
a very good piece of pantomime reply, signifying, " I ilon't
understand a word you say."
WHY MDLLE. CHATEAUROUX DID NOT DANCE. 29
" Well," continued Loriraer, — "well, how much for this
glittering vanity of Marie Antoinette ?"
The jeweller named a very large sum.
" Tolerably fair for crystallised charcoal. But you
lapidaries ought to take care of the chemists."
The emissary of Rundell and Bridge went through his
pantomime performance again. His notion of a chemist was
made up of three green bottles in the windows, black
draught, and a shop half open on Sundays. He did not
see what that had to do with jewellers.
" Take care ; the chemists will find out how to make
diamonds from charcoal."
"Have they turned charcoal into diamonds, sir?" asked
the jeweller.
" Not exactly. But they have done a thing nearly as
clever. They have turned diamonds into charcoal."
" Ah !" murmured the jeweller, in a tone which shewed
that the clev^erness of the feat did not strike him at all.
"And now," continued Lorimer, "leave me these pieces
of crystallised carbon, and see my steward. He will con-
clude the transaction."
The man bowed, packed up his trinkets, and retired.
Lorimer flung an embroidered handkerchief carelessly over
the diamond necklace, and opened a morning paper which
lay damp from the press upon the table.
"Ah !" he murmured, looking at the sheet, "to-night will
be performed Rossini's Grand Opera Seria of ' Semiramide.'
After which, for the tenth time, the new ballet d'action,
called ' La Reine des Feu FoUets.' The character of ' La
Reine,' by Mademoiselle Fanny Chateauroux. Ah, good,"
he continued, "that remains to be seen. I think the Favo-
ritta loves me sufficiently not to mind getting into a little hot
water for my sake. At all events I must dress, — she will be
here in a few minutes."
And accordingly, while Anatole, Lorimer's valet, was
arranging the tie of his master's cravat, a dark brougham
stopped at the door, and a lady, its occupant, skipped gaily
upstairs. She was a little, slightly-formed woman, wearing
a high, tight-fitting dress, disposed in perpendicular folds from
the neck to the waist, where it was lost in the drapery of a
splendid cashmere shawl, which, swathed lightly round the
30 CLEMENT LORIMER.
person above the girdle, hung in massive folds over the lower
part of the wearer's figure. The face of the visitor was
essentially French in contour and complexion. Its form was
oval, its colour a sallow olive ; the roughened skin of the
cheek told its tale of cosmetics, and the dark circles traced
beneath the eyes spoke of late hours and a life of feverish
excitement. Alt reste, the forehead was low, the lips and
nose commonplace, and the eyes deep-set, coal-black, a!id
lending, by their quick burning glances, an expression of
acute, passionate intellect to the whole face.
The visitor flung herself on the sofa, and when Lorimer
appeared smiled, pouted, and held him out a finger.
" Me voild, Clement" she said.
"Our compact, Favoritta," replied the young man.
" English in England."
The lady pouted her lip again. " But you speak French,
mon Dieu ! You speak French well enough."
This was said with a marked foreign accent, but with per-
fect fluency.
" It fatigues me, Favoritta, and I hate to be fatigued."
'■^ Dame! — have your own way."
" Yes, it is so pleasant."
The Frenchwoman looked at him with a meaning smile.
"You won't have it longer than I can help," she said in the
bottom of her heart. And to get to the bottom of tiiat heart
you had to dive deep.
There was a pause, broken by the lady resuming, —
"You will be at the theatre to-night?"
" No."
" Not when I dance?"
"You don't dance."
" Ah, parhleu! (I like moyen-oge oaths!) Look here,"
and she took up the newspaper. "See — 'Grand Ballet
d'Action. La Reine, by Mademoiselle Chateauroux.' "
" Yes ; but one mustn't believe all one sees in print. You
don't dance at the opera to-night; because after dining at
Richmond it would be a bore."
" But I must dance ! — Ventre Saint Gris ! "
" Must ! There are two classes of people in the world to
whom 'must' has no meaning; the one class consists of
despotic monarchs, and the other oi premieres danseuses."
WHY MDLLE. CHATEAUROUX DID NOT DANCE. 31
But if I don't dance, there will be an uproar ? "
Well, let there be an uproar."
" The people will tear up the benches."
" Well, let them tear up the benches."
Corbleu ! the manager will be ruined."
" Well, let the manager be ruined. What have uproars,
or broken benches, or ruined managers, to do with it? I say
you dine with me. Is it not so?"
The dancer looked fixedly at Loriraer. " No, Clement,"
she said, " it is impossible."
"The fact is," continued the other, as though he had not
heard the last remark, — " the fact is, I wished to see how this
bauble would become you ;" and he snatched the handkerchief
off the necklace. The diamonds and Mademoiselle Chateau-
roux's eyes sparkled together, as though trying to out-gleam
each other. " Will you wear it at Richmond ? " asked
Lorimer.
The opera-dancer looked in his face. Doubtless there
was meaning in the look ; for Lorimer rose, rung a small
silver bell, and said to the footman who answered the sum-
mons, " Step down to Mount Street. Give my compliments
to Dr. Gumbey, and say I should be glad to see him."
" Who dines at Richmond ? " asked Mademoiselle Cha-
teauroux. " Clever people, eh ? I hate fools."
" Oh ! only Sir Harrowby Trumps "
"Trumps, — ah Men ! Yes — he is clever — he lives on
his wife's soprano. Ordinary people can't do these things.
Yes, he is clever. Well ?"
" And Captain De Witz "
" Ob, he lives on nothing at all. He is cleverer still.
He spends five thousand a-year. He has nothing, and nobody
ever saw him work, or beg, or steal. Corbleu! "
"No. I'll answer for the two former; and as for the
latter, why, charity covers a multitude of sins, Favoritta."
" Yes, but whose sins?"
" Oh, in this case, those of Captain De Witz." There
was a thundering knock at the door.
" Here is the chei' docteur" said the dancer. " What
shall I be ill with, Lorimer ? "
" Oh, mon amie, as if I would force your inclinations I
Anything you like, from cholera to chilblains."
32 CLEMENT LORIMER.
Mademoiselle Cliateaiiroux drew her foot upon the sofa,
flung her shawl round her, and assumed a languishing, invalid
air.
" I look like a patient, eh?" she asked.
" Hush I you are one."
The door opened, and Dr. Gumbey entered. We have
seen the doctor twenty-three years ago. He lived in the east
then, but since, he had, like other wise men, come to the
west. He was only a doctor once, but now he was a doctor
and a courtier, and the queens to whom he paid his homage
were the deities of the coulisse. An accident — with which we
have here nothing to do — introduced the doctor to this new
circle of society and practice. He stumbled about in it clum-
sily enough at first ; but gradually he found his way, and
soon began to feel like a puppy after the ninth daj'. His eyes
were opened, and he saw a pleasant land before him. Now
Dr. Gumbey had conscience and tact. His Tact told him
that if he struck into the path which lay open to him, he
might as well fling Conscience out of the window ; and Con-
science suggested that if he chose this path. Tact would become
but a rascally guide. The doctor hesitated some time, then
chose — Tact; and so passed from the docks to the squares.
The twenty-three years had flown lightly over Dr. Gumbey,
only gracefully dyeing his whiskers, and padding his chest and
his calves as they went by. He was the smoothest-faced
doctor in town. He came into a room as softly as a ghost or
a waiter, and his words flowed forth as unctuously as castor-
oil, and without the nasty flavour.
" Doctor," said Lorimer, "you see a patient."
Dr. Gumbey bowed gracefully to the danseuse, then
cast a rapid glance from her face to Lorimer's. He saw in
an instant how the land lay.
"What! — bless me! — laid up! Oh, dear, dear ! this
is a sad business ;" and he approached the sofa.
" So sudden, too," said Lorimer, with a half-perceptible
smile.
" And what is it ? — what is wrong ? — what ails us ? — eh ? '"
" Oh, doctor," murmured the sick one, " I feel a — a "
and she hesitated.
" To be sure," said the man of medicine, — " to be sure;
but we must not be discouraged. How is the pulse ? '
WHY MDLLE. CHATEAUBOUX DID NOT DANCE. 33
" Fast and febrile, I should saj'," observed Lorinier.
" \''ery odd," said the doctor; " but it is fast and febrile,
now."
" Ah, not far from one hundred and twenty ? " inquired
Lorinier, hardly able to keep grave.
" Not far," I'eplied the complaisant Gumbey ; " one
hundred and seventeen."
" That denotes fever?" said Lorinier.
The patient caught her cue, tossed restlessly, and flung
her arms about, as though seeking for coolness.
" And you see fever is there," remarked the doctor.
" Is my face flushed ?" murmured the invalid.
" Terribly," said Lorimer.
" Awfully," said Gumbey,
*' Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! and I have to dance to-night."
" You must not, I am sure, my dear doctor, hear of such
a thing as her dancing to-night ? " questioned Lorimer.
Dr. Gumbey looked steadily into the faces of both, and
then said, —
" Decidedly not."
" Bravo !" exclaimed Lorimer. " Get up, Favoritta^ ihe
farce is played."
" Farce, sir !" said Dr. Gumbey. "1 do not understand
you."
" Pshaw ! doctor — it's all very right, of course, with the
public; but betwixt us three "
" Well, sir," replied the doctor, staring point blank in
Loriraer's face, and I'epeating his words, with long pauses
between each, — "well, sir — betwixt — us — three?"
" Why," stammered Lorimer, looking from the face of
Mademoiselle Chateauroux to that of Dr. Gumbe^s — " why,
I thought that — this — this sort of thing would be
But, pshaw ! manage it your own way. Here, I'll look as
grave as an owl."
" I see nothing to laugh at, for my own part," said Dr.
Gumbey, — "nothing to laugh at in the medical adviser of a
lady suftering from severe febrile symptoms interposing to
prevent her from taking violent exercise."
For an instant Lorimer thought that Chateauroux was
actually ill Mithout either she or himself having been aware
of it. Then dismissing the idea as quickly as it had arisen,
D
34 CLEMENT LORIMER.
he stood watching the placid face of the doctor, with its
cahn, unconscious expression and stereotyped smile. The
features of the Sphynx were not more immovably tranquil.
" Come," said Lorimer to himself, — " come, who says we
have no great actors ? "
" But, doctor," lisped the dancer, " there must be a cei'ti-
ficate, the management is — diable ! — so suspicious."
The doctor bowed, took pen, ink, and paper, and wrote
as follows : —
'' London, the 21st of May, 1832.
" As the medical adviser of Mademoiselle Chateauroux,
I hereby certify that she is labouring under a smart febrile
attack, and wholly incapable of fulfilling the duties of her
profession.
"John Gumbey, M.D. F.R.C.S."
" And the treatment ?" inquired Lorimer.
" Rest," said the doctor.
" A little country air " began the invalid.
" In that case," replied the doctor, " care must be taken
of cold. I should recommend a veil — a close veil," he added,
with emphasis.
" Ah, yes, I understand," observed Lorimer, with a
significant gesture.
" Sir ! " said Dr. Gumbey, putting on the face of the
Sphynx again.
" Good !" said Lorimer, "I forgot;" adding aside, "Con-
found the fellow, how well he docs it ! "
" I shall do myself the pleasure of calling at the residence
of mademoiselle to-morrow, when I hope to find her better,
if not, indeed, quite well. Good morning." And Dr.
Gumbey bowed himself out as noiselessly as he had entered.
As the door closed behind him. Mademoiselle Chateau-
roux sprung from the sofa, caught up her shawl, and wreath-
ing it into a scarf, flung herself into the attitude in which she
graced the print-shop windows, and in which so many of her
admirers lioped to see her that night. Then gaily bounding
round the room with a wild, quivering, leaping motion, Avhich
every moment deceived the eye, and made it expect to see
the dancer fly one way when she sprung another, Lorimer
recognised the marvellous ^^or* in which the Queen of the
WHY MDLLE. CHATEAUROUX DID NOT DANCE. 35
Jack-o'-lanterJis led astray the Wandering Prince of the
ballet.
" Very nice, indeed," he said ; " but not so good as
Dr. Gunibey." Then ringing the bell, Blaue appeared.
'•' This letter to the opera at eight o'clock." And he
handed the doctor's certificate, duly addressed. " And now,
the cab to the door !"
" The cab I — Ventre Saint Dieu ! you forget — the cold
air."
" True; the doctor was right — the carriage."
Blane bowed, and in half an hour the carriage, containing
Lorimer and La Favoritta, as he called her, rolled away.
Meantime Blane walked eastwardly. He was charged with
one letter to be delivered at the Opera; he handed iu
two.
The dinner at Richmond was a gay and a protracted one.
The sun had set behind Windsor castle, and a thin grey mist
had risen from the river, and floated like a gauze veil over
the vast panorama of wood and field, copse and meadow,
which diners at the Star and Garter love to look upon :
the long dim twilight of the summer-time was deepening into
calm night, and star after star was coming twinklingly forth,
and still the party lingered jo5''ously at the board. Sir Har-
rowby Trumps had retailed all the freshest scandal of town.
Captain De Witz, who had more imagination, had invented
a huge stock of strongly confirmatory and exceedingly-
piquant facts ; and Mademoiselle Chateauroux, installed in
an easy chair by the open window, had been as saucily witty
as any of them. Lorimer leant luxuriously back, imbibed the
aroma of the claret, listened, laughed, occasionally threw in
a careless sentence of sarcastic inference, or playful yet biting
commentary. He was in a mood which he loved. He Avas
allowing himself to be amused. In his heart — or rather iu
his brain — he despised the people who made up his entertain-
ment ; but they were useful for the moment. They made
him smile ; they kept him from thinking how slowly the
hours went by ; they kept him from thinking at all.
" Ah ! " said Sir Harrowby Trumps, " I wonder what
they're doing at the Opera this moment?"
" Yawning," replied De Witz. " Semiramide is not over
yet. Rossini's serious operas are fearful things."
36 CLEMENT I.OIUMER.
•• They may be opening their mouths with weariness be-
fore the curtain, but they're opening them with liorror be-
hind. No baUet. No Reine de l\u FoUetji!"'
*■' Afiflpos. Favoritta, Iiow goes the severe febrile attack ?"
inquired Lorinier.
Mademoiselle Cliateaiuoux twitched a handful of exotic
flowei"? from the china vase in the centre of the table, and
tlung herself luxuriously on the rich soft cushions of a sofa.
" An invalid is privileged," she laughed. " Has the fever
made my eyes bright ? "
" Very bright," responded Lorimer : '• the fever cr the
champagne?"'
" Libeller I " said the dancer, tiiiiging a canielia at him.
It fell on the earjun. ami De Wiiz. bowing for permission,
stuck it in his buttou-liole.
There was a moment's pause.
** We are getting flat.'' drawled Lorimer. " I wish some-
thing funny or something dreadful would happen. "
At that moment a waiter tlung the door open, and pro-
claimed, —
" Mr. Grogrum I '"
Mr. Grogrum was the ir/iprt\<sario to whom Dr. Gunibey's
certiticate had been despatched.
Every one started but LorinuM". The dancer made a nso-
tion as if to rise, east a quick glance at the founder of the
feast, then muttering some incolieient words in French, tiung
herself back on the cushions, beat a tattoo with her foot, ami
set to work, with downcast eyes, to pick the tlowers she held
to pieces.
Sir Harrowby Trumps laughed a loud hoi'se-laugh, and
De Witz muttei-ed to Lorimer, " A traitor in the camp."
The latter only waved his hand, and Mr. Grogrum bounced
headlong into the room. He was a large man, with heavy,
stolid features, purple-dyed whiskers, and a wig.
*• And so. mademoiselle — so," he exclaimed, " this is
the indispt^sition — the — the smart febrile attack I By the
Lord ! mademoiselle, you may think you'll play such pranks,
but you're mistaken — you're ''
'• Mr. Grogrum, " said Lorimer, with intinite calmness,
" that lady is my guest ; you will address her as my guests at
mv table ouirht to be addressed.''
WHV MDLLE. CHATEALROLX DID NOT DANCK. 3/
" Ay, ay, that's all vf-ry well, Mr, Lorirrifcr; but I'rn not
going to be ruined, for all that ! My theatre is not going to
be ruined ! As luck would have it, I got notice though."
" Hal" said Lorimer.
" I got notice where mademoiselle was; there is time yet.
I've a chai.se and four at the door. Come along, mademoi-
selle. You dance to-night in spite of your false or forged
certificate I" And the manager, frantic with anger and excite-
ment, made towards the Favoritta-
Lorimtr confronted him.
" Who dare detain you ? " shouted Grogrum ; " who dare
come between me and my lawful rights ? "
"/dol" said Lorimer, drawing himself up to hLs full
height, his eye flashing, and hLs face instinct with haughty
determination, — '•• / do."
There was a pause.
" Come — come," muttered Grogrum, at length, "every
minute is worth gold. Let this finish — there's law in the
country."
" Plenty of law," said De Witz, "but very little justice."
" Well, sir?" said Lorimer, addressing Grogrum.
" And mademoiselle knows her own engagement, and the
fine for any breach of it. If mademoiselle refuse to dance
to-night, she owes me two hundred pounds, and I'll have it
to the last penny. So, once for all, does she come?"
Mademoiselle Chateauroux, who was visibly cowed by
the catastrophe taking place, seemed about to rise, when
Lorimer again spoke, —
'• I invited this lady here ; of course I pay the expenses
of the evening."
The dancer started up in a flutter of surprise ; Sir Har-
rowby Trumps shrugged his shoulders, and whistled to him-
self; De Witz pressed his host's foot beneath the table, and
the manager stared in amazement on the group.
" Are you serious ?" he gasped.
" I am not in the habit of allowing considerations of
expense to come between me and my enjoyments," Lorimer
said.
" Verj- good, sir," replied Grogrum. " In that case I
suppose I am .safe ; but the puVjlic, sir — the audience will be
dreadfully disappointed, I assure you."
00 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" And are you called upon to bear the disappointment of
the public, Mr. Grogrum ?" asked Lorimer, gravely.
The hvpressario shrugged his shoulders, shook his head,
and smiled knowingly, while Mademoiselle Chateauroux,
bounding from the sofa, flung herself into the attitude in
which the heroines of the ballet are supposed to invoke
blessings on their lovers, exclaiming, —
" Ce clier Lorimer ! — co?nme il est genereux ! — dis-donc
cest superhe ! — C'cst marjnifique ! — cest a la Louis Qua-
torze /"
" Sit down, Favoritta," said Lorimer.
There was another uneasy pause. Lorimer had flung
himself back in his chair, and was gazing earnestly at his
companions. A bitter, scornful smile, which welled up from
the 1)ottom of his heart, had just begun to curl his lip, and
the idea, " And are such beings necessary to my happiness?"
had just begun to suffuse his brain, when a sinister side-look
from Sir Harrowby Trumps, and a furtive glance from the
black eyes of Mademoiselle Chateauroux, both of them evi-
dently interrogative as to whether his pre-occupation was
caused hj regret for what he had done, changed the bitter
smile into a loud, reckless laugh.
" So — bah!" he exclaimed; "to Satan with thought!
Waiters, more wine — clean glasses ! — Grogrum, sit down I
Bumpers ! bumpers ! every one of you ! You must
drink — I shall, and you must! Now for a night of it!
Shade of Alcibiades ! shade of Richelieu, hover in the
perfume of the wine ! Come hither, Favoritta. Your bright
eyes cost bright gold. Bah ! don't pout — they're Avorth
the price! Come! fill to the brim — to the brim — to the
brim ! We four human Jack-o'-lanterns carouse to our em-
press — our goddess — la Reine des Feu FoUets !"
CHAPTER IL
THE SPIDER IN THE WEB.
Blane, the steward of Clement Lorimer, after he had
delivered at the stage-door the letter he was charged with,
THE SPIDER IN THE WEB. 39
and another besides, as we have seen in the last chapter,
continued his walk down Whitehall towards Abingdon Street.
In all wide London there is not a drearier district than that
ijMng near the river's bank, to the westward of the Abbej-.
The ground was once a swamp, where the dull waters of the
Thames soaked into the earth, and nourished rank crops of
slimy bulrushes and creeping aquatic plants. And still the
place seems to retain an unwholesome savour of the original
marsh. The paving-stones are damp when other streets are
dry, and at high tides water-drops come oozing through the
grimy walls of frowsy underground cellars. The aspect of
the quarter is one of shabby, smouldering decay ; it does not
appear dead, but palsy-stricken. The houses are irregular
in structure, heavy, ghastly, and grim. Some of them have-
been brave in their day, for they shew antique porches and
massive, carved lintels. But mean dwellings stand side by
side with these faded mansions : shabby cookshops, where
unwholesome-looking meat simmers and soddens all day in
the steaming windows; and low, gloomy public-houses; and
rank-smelling chandler-shops, illuminated at night by feebly-
burning yellow tallow candles. The streets are narrow,
dark, ill-paved, neglected. Mud encrusts the lower part of
the walls. The windows are small, and dusty, and dirt-
stained. There is neither stir, nor show, nor comfort, about
the place. It looks cursed. If we wished for a house where
"we should be likely to hear dim, rumbling noises in the dead
of the night, and echoing taps against the mouldy wainscoting,
and spectral footsteps creaking in dark, nailed-up I'ooms, and
the nibbling and scampering of rats in cellars and choked-up
drains, and the beating of death-watches in damp, crumbling
walls, — we should, we say, if we wished for such a dwelling,
go and look for it in Abingdon Street, Westminster ; and
after looking, we should probably fix upon the very house
before which Blane paused, and into which, by the aid of
a latch-key, he proceeded.
As the steward pushed open the mudded door with its
heavy rusted knocker, the waning light of the summer
evening shone faintly into a dark, fusty-smelling lobby, car-
petted with half-rotten matting, and furnished with one or
two rickety chairs, and when he closed the portal behind
him, he remained in almost total darkness. With the readi-
40 CLEMENT LOEIMER.
ness of one accustomed to the localit}^, Blane groped his
waj' towards the stairs, but lie had not ascended many of
them when a low, half-choked sound of sobbing, caused him
to pause suddenly. Then there came the creak of footsteps,
as of a heavy man pacing furiouslj'- up and down a room.
" He's in one of his moods," Blane muttered ; " I dare
not cross bim till the hour be past."
He sat down upon the stairs, and listened intently. Pre-
sently the voice of a man, a loud, but hoarse and exhausted
voice, was heard, raised in furious exclamation.
"There! — there!" it shouted; "back! touch me not I
— am I not doing your will ? — I must do it — you know that
Avell ! You drive me on with that withered, tiesldess, merci-
less arm, that stretches down through two centuries!"
" He's mad," murmured Blane ; " I often thought it,
now I'm sure of it."
"Father and son," repeated the voice,' — "father and
son, have we not been obedient for centuries ? In the Ne-
therlands, in Holland, in England, have we ever spared, ever
flinched, from the work set before us to do ? Be merciful I
spare Him ! He is the last ! — our blood is in his veins I
— our blood! — the blood of the Benosas ! Spare! — spare!
— spare ! " And the voice was lost in an agony of sobs.
" There's some deep secret in all this," thought Blane ;
" if he's mad, it is what is on his mind that has made him so.
He's an awful man !"
There was a pause. The mood of the maniac, for such
he seemed, appeared to have undergone a change, and he
suddenly uttered a loud, discordant burst of laughter.
"Ha! ha!" he screamed, "am I turned chicken-
hearted ? — do I shrink from the Vendetta — I — the last of the
Benosas? Never fear ! I'll doit! She is gone, and He
will follow! Ha! — oh, 'tis a wild tale ! but I am worthy of
you, fathers ! I'll track him down — hunt him down — crush
him! Look ye, I see you all, and do I blench? I can see
your faces gleaming in the darkness! I see you, old Ra-
phael Benosa, as you looked two centuries ago in the old
house at Antwerp, when one of the two lights went out. I
see you, Mark Benosa, as you looked when, on the gangway
of the St. Nicholas, you wished Louise Vanderstein a goodly
passage, a hundred years ago. I see — I see you all ! — and
THE SPIDER IN THE WEB. 41
do I shrink? — do I fear? No! I will do it, I tell you, and,
when it is done, the Vendetta will be over and our family
will be gone, and our blood dried up, and we will haunt this
earth no more ; but we shall cease from troubling, and at
last — at last — we shall be at rest I"
A loud outbreak of mingled laughter and weeping wound
up this extraordinary rhapsody, and then came a heavy fall,
as of a man upon a bed or sofa.
Blane sat shuddering upon the stairs, the blood curdling
in his veins.
*' The paroxysm is over for the present," he said, "but
he nuist have lime to recover a little. He'll die in Bedlam,
that's sure ; but till then he's a good paymaster, and I'm his
faithful — sp3'."
Then, after allowing about five minutes to elapse, he felt
his way up the stairs, and stopping at the door of a room on
the first floor, knocked. There was soon heard a stir within
as of a man rising from a lying posture, and the same voice
as he had already heard, but speaking in weak and exhausted
tones, bade him enter.
The room, which was almost dark, was scantily and meanly
furnished. A ^•ery old-fashioned secretoire, littered with pa-
pers, stood opposite the curtained window. Near it was a
worn arm-chair, and behind that a very large black sofa,
reclining on the pillows of which lay a man.
" I have been ill, Blane," he said ; '• my head is not wliat
it ought to be ;" and he wi^^ed his forehead with a handker-
chief, and then squeezed it with both hands. " These nerv-
ous attacks grow on me — I must have advice — I — I —
my brain is wandering yet — it seems as if I had just waked
up out of a nightmare."
Blane muttered a few commonplace words of condolence.
" Light the lamp ! " said the other abruptly.
Blane bestirred himself, and by the help of a box of
chemical matches lighted a small lamp. Then, standing in
an attitude of respectful attention, he gazed upon the being
before him. Our readers have doubtless recognised Michael
Benosa. Twenty-three years have elapsed since vve saw him,
and they have done the work of forty. When his wife died,
Benosa was not above twenty-three. His appearance now
Avas that of a man considerably over sixty ; he was misei'ably
42 CLExMENT LORIJIER.
wasted in person ; his hair was thin and long, and perfectly
white ; his cheeks hollow and sunk, the bones of the face
and forehead standing prominently out beneath the clammy
yellow skin, Avhich was deeply seamed with those mj'riads of
minute lines which appeared to be stamped as a distinctive
mark upon his family, and which became more numerous
and more distinct as each member of it advanced in years.
The eyes of Benosa alone retained somewhat of their former
^jiillrciiicy ; but now they gleamed and glared with a fierce,
baleful, and unnatural light. Those who are accustomed to
the appearance of the eye in cases of mania would at once
pronounce that Benosa was suffering from chronic disease
of the brain — probably induced by continuous mental emo-
tion, which had so far exaggerated an enthusiasm in the
discharge of a particular agonising task,' as to convert it into
a species of monomania, which occasionally, however, as in
the paroxysm we have seen, suffered a partial and temj^orary
revvdsion from its own very intensity, and became for a
moment directed in favour of the object the destruction of
whicli it was generally bent upon effecting.
" Now to business ! " said Benosa, slowly ; and, sitting
down to the desk, he opened a manuscript book, took up a
pen, and jotted down Blane's replies to his inquiries.
" Clement Lorimer is deeply in debt ? "
" He is — over head and ears."
" All claims against him have been purchased by me ? "
" They have. You can crush him by shutting your hand."
" Where is he now ? "
" Dining at Richmond with Mademoiselle Chateauroux of
the Opera, Sir Harrowby Trumps, and Captain De Witz."
*' Yet Mademoiselle Chateauroux dances to-night?"
" Mr. Lorimer persuaded her to break her engagement,
partly by the gift of a diamond necklace, which cost him
seven hundred pounds."
" Is the money paid ? "
" I paid it to Rundcll and Bridge's — here is the receipt."
" But Mademoiselle Chateauroux renders herself liable in
a penalty to the management for breach of engagement ? "
'• She does, to the amount of two hundred pounds a-
iiight ?"
"What is her excuse?"
THE SPIDER IN THE WEB. 43
" Indisposition. Dr. Gumbey signed the certificate."
" Dr. Gumbey is a clever man ; he attended a near friend
of mine once, and knew perfectly of what she died; — it was
a curious case. Is the n^.anagement aware of the scene of
Mademoiselle Chateauroux's indisposition ? "
"It is — I gave the information. I have no doubt but
that, ere this time, Mr. Grogrum is on his way to Richmond;
and I have as little doubt but that INIr. Lorimer will become
responsible for the amount Mademoiselle Chateauroux is
liable to pay to Mr. Grogrum."
"Good — good," said Benosa; "the Star and Garter is
not a cheap house, but to-day it gives an especially expensive
dinner. Let us see : the diamond necklace, value seven
hundred pounds ; the broken engagement, value two hundred
pounds: total dinner-bill, nine hundred pounds, besides some
little extras, which we need not set down."
Benosa paused, chuckled, flashed his eyes triumphantly
about the room, and then resumed, —
" Lorimer is thoroughly dissipated, thoroughly extrava-
gant, thoroughly selfish. What do you think he would do
were he flung penniless on the world to-morrow? "
" Shoot himself."
" Ah ! you think so ? Good — we shall see. Does he love
Mademoiselle Chateauroux ? "
" As a child loves a toy."
" Then we need not mind about her. He has a horse
entered for the Derby ? "
" Yes, the Favourite ; the odds are two to one for Snap-
dragon against the field. Nothing is thought to have a
chance with Snapdragon."
"Indeed — ah! Take your money." He handed over
a rouleau of gold. " Here, in this room, at this hour, this
day week ! You will be punctual."
Blane bowed respectfully, pocketed the sovereigns, and
withdrew. As the door closed, Benosa called him back : —
" The odds are two to one for the Favourite against the
Field?"
" Yes."
" Well, do you want to make your fortune ? "
" Yes."
" Back the Field against the Favourite."
44 CLEMENT LOIUMER.
CHAPTER III.
THE JOCKEY.
We are again in the room overlooking Hyde Park, ^vhere
Clement Lorimer is lounging, as is his wont before dressing,
on a combination of easy chairs. Apparently liis musings
are of no agreeable sort, for his brow is clouded, and Iiis
lips bear the mark of having been bitten till the blood came.
" I'm a fool !" he muttered to himself — "a thrice-sodden
fool, to live the life I do ! What do they care for me, but
for what they can get out of me? — Ay, what does she care ?
Bah! they're all alike, men and women. And my monej^ —
it may stop any day : there's no certainty — it may stop, and
leave me, perhaps, some forty thousand worse than a beggar.
3Iort cle ma vie, as Favoritta says. I'll pull up — I'll — I'll
make a grand coup on this Derby — I'll bet as man never did
before. — Snapdragon shall w'in as horse never did before,
and then I'll have the yacht out and be oft' — off from Europe,
and try to find some place where there is no civilisation
to make people savages, and no religion to make them
heathens."
A footman appeared at the door, and announced laconi-
cally, —
" Tim Flick."
" The man I wanted — up with him directly ! " and
straightway Tim Flick appeared.
He was a very little man, not five feet high, and a perfect
marvel of thinness ; he had an old, wrinkled, meagered face,
with two sharp grey eyes, and the facial muscles worked
under the dry, tawny skin, like sharply-tugged whipcords.
Plis body seemed formed of nothing but skin, bone, and sinew ;
his arms were long and wiry : and his legs, which were very
bandy, were of a uniform thickness, or rather thinness, from
the thigh to the ankle. This odd-looking personage wore a
white cravat fastened with' a huge silver horse-shoe, a tight-
fitting coat, the waist of which appeared rather below the
hips, and which was garnished with a vast number of outside
pocket-holes ; and he had encased his flute-like legs in a pair
of corduroys, which clung to him like a second skin, and
THE JOCKEY. 45
were ornamented with half-a-dozen buttons above the
ankles.
" Bravo, Flick I — you're come in the nick of time I "
" Yes," was the replj', in a harsh, dry, grating voice; "I
got the office, an' I made the running."
" Well, sit down."
Mr. Flick deposited his grey hat upon the carpet, took a
cotton handkerchief out of it, with which he appeared about
to dust the chair ; but, suddenly changing his purpose, he
dusted the seat of his trousers instead, and then, perching
himself on the extreme edge of the fauteuil which Lorimer ,
pushed towards him, waited to be spoken to.
" Well, Flick, how does the horse train? All right down
at Hawleyden, eh ? "
Flick looked cautiously around : the door was closed,
and the windows fastened. Then, leaning forward, he said
in a low, hoarse whisper, —
" It's a safe thing — it is I Fve a-ridden seventeen Der-
bies and won five, and I tell you so. Inwest, ^Ir. Lorimer;
iuwest ! "
'•' He trains well, then ? FU go down to-morrow and see
iiim gallop."
" I was pretty nigh, as I may say, born in a stable, and
I never see such a pace as that 'ere 'oss can put out. I'm
proud o' him — as proud o' him as if he wor mine — every
ounce of horse-flesh o' him, Mr. Lorimer !"
" How about the other horses? I've heard no gossip —
hav'n't been at the Corner for a week."
"Don't tell me of other 'ossesi" replied the jockey.
" We're safe. I know 'em all — saw 'em all take their gallops.
There ain't the stride of our Snap in any two of them. Bar-
ring accidents, ~Mv. Lorimer, I'll win by four lengths, and not
a hair turned. I've a-ridden seventeen Derbies, Mr. Lorimer,
and won five ; and this I'll saj-, there ain't a 'oss going as '11
touch Snapdragon — unless, mayhap, the ghost of Flying Chil-
ders come on the Downs, with the devil for a jock "
'•Look here. Flick," said Lorimer; "I believe you to be
an honest fellow ! "
" Thank ye, sir — thank ye I I'm no better than I ought
to be in many things, but I never sold a race. I've a-ridden
seventeen "
46 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" Yes, yes," interrupted Lorimer, " I know. Well, Flick,
this race must be won ! "
" It shall, sir. Gents may laugh at a jockey's word "
" I laugh at the word of no man who I believe pledges it
sincerely."
" No, sir, no ; but we're the dog as has an ill name, and
there's a good many on us as deserves it — there's no denjing
that. However, sir, as I said, I never sold a race; I may
haA'e done a many things wrong, but I never sold a race to
any one, and it's not likely I'd do it to you, who has been
kind to me and mine, and who "
" Well, well, you fully believe that Snapdragon can
■win ? "
" I've laid out every penny I have in the world on it, and
I'd a done so if it wor twice as much."
" Snapdragon can win, and you ride Snapdragon; there-
fore Snapdragon will win."
" Sir," said the jockey, "the stakes is as good as in your
pocket ! "
Lorimer mused.
" You should ha' felt that horse rise under you, sir !
His muscles is like ropes o' steel, and his wind is as good
arter a sweating gallop as though he was standing idle in the
stall."
" Of course, Flick, I need not tell you to keep a good
look-out in the stable."
.. " Lord bless ye, sir, I sleep in it ! And there's Thor and
Odin, your two Saint Bernards, chained on each side of the
stall. He '11 be a clever fellow, sir, that '11 play tricks with
Snapdragon ! "
" Bravo, Flick ! I'll be at Hawleyden to-morrow, and
in the meantime my mind's at ease — I trust you, my man
— I trust you."
" If it wouldn't be asking over-much ? " said the jockey,
holding out his brown, horny hand.
Lorimer shook it heartily.
" Win this Derby, Tim Flick, and you're a made man ! "
" Mr. Lorimer, I've a-ridden seventeen "
" Good — never mind that now. Have something — wine?
— a thirnble-full of brandy?"
" No, Mr, Lorimer, with your leave, not a drop."
THE JOCKEY. 47
" Why, man, it will do you good — Avitli your hard exer-
cise and sweatings."
" After Snapdragon is placed, Mr. Lorimer, but not
before. You mind the Mazeppa Derby!"
" Certainly — five years ago — you rode the second horse,
Firefly. It was a close thing — Mazeppa won by a neck."
" Mazeppa won by a tumbler of champagne I " said the
jockey — "a tumbler of champagne I drank in the paddock."
" Ah ? " inquired Lorimer, " tell me how it was."
" It needs a clear head, Mr. Lorimer, to ride a Derby.
There ain"t no excitement in the world equal to it. I hadn't
had much breakfast that day ; I couldn't look at anything to
eat, and I felt faint when I was on my 'oss — I suppose my
backers see it, for one of them says, says he, ' Take a drop
of champagne, Tim,' says he ; so I emptied the glass, and sure
enough I felt the better for it. Well, we came to the
scratch, I felt the wine in my head — but it was quite com-
fortable and pleasant like — and I thought, ' I'll win, I'm sure
on it.' Well, 'Go !' says the starter; and go we did. Sir, a
good 'oss under one is always exciting, but a racer at the
pace is enough to madden one. It did me. What with the
fury of the gallop, and the rush of the air, and the roar of
the people, I felt as if neither heaven nor hell could hold
me. I headed 'em all in the first hundred strides — I dug
the spurs into the 'oss — it answered me, sir — I felt how it
rose — every time I punished it. Then I looked over my
shoidder, there was green turf between me and the second
'oss. I got sure of my race — we came up the rise like a
whirlwind — and round the corner; and the broad course,
sir, and the swarming crowd, and the cai-riages, and the
stands, all flashed on me like a dream. It was just then I
felt Fairfly flag in his stride — I welted him with the whip,
and dug his flanks with the spur. He swerved, but he didn't
answer as before. Then my head began to swim, sir — I wasn't
cool from the first, but then I lost all presence of mind. I
pressed the 'oss — checked him — punished him, but I couldn't
Avork him with hands and knees as I felt I ought. Then
I hear the second 'oss close on his haunches — I had given
Firefly too much to do at first, and he couldn't keep it up —
I rode him as bold as ever man did — but with no judgment,
sir. Mazeppa come abreast of me — I could see his rider
48 CLEMENT LORIMER.
was cool and comfortable. We glared in each other's ej'es
as we went stride for stride together, until, just fifty yards
from the post, he lifted his 'oss — lifted it, sir, past me — and
won by a neck. I had the best 'oss, but my 'oss hadn't
the best rider ; no one blamed me, but I made an oath then
— and I kissed my mother's Bible on it — that nevei*, s'help
me God ! from that day, would I touch drink for a month
before the Derby day."
" And I won't press you," rejoined Lorimer. " How is
your son ? Does he like his place in the City ? "
" He does, sir, he does ; and he blesses you as got it for
him. He's a good bo}'^, sir, is Dicky, and fond of his old
father. I hope I'll get him kcp oft" the turf, though —
sir "
Lorimer smiled,
" Ay, sir, I've had my share of luck in it, too. I've a-
ridden seventeen Derbies, and won five; but it ain't a good
trade, and I hope Dicky '11 stick to his pen, and never go
a calculating the odds, nor a backing either Field or
Favourite."
" What ! not even Snapdragon ?"
The jockey winced — smiled — blew his nose, and fidgeted
uneasily. His audience was over, and presently, with a pro-
fusion of bows, he took his leave. On the stairs he met Blane,
but resolutely declined that worthy's invitation to have a
snack in the steward's pantry.
" But — 1 say," he whispered, " you're a true blue sort o'
chap, and you belong to us. Back the Favourite. Snaj) is to
win : it's on the books. Inwest, and no mistake."
Blane marched slowly into his own room, sat down, and
meditated.
"I wish," pondered Blane, "that nobody could tell lies
but myself, what a world it would be then to be sure! Now,
here's an honest jockey ; that's at once a fool and a phenome-
non ; but he is honest, and he believes mastei"'s horse is
going to win. Again, there's the old hunks in Abingdon
Street, he's not honest, but he's deep — deep, and he believes
master's horse is going to lose ; what shall I do ? Ah ! I'll
do what I've done all my life — I'll try to butter my bread on
both sides — I'll hedge."
THli SNAKE AND THE BIRD. 49
CHAPTER IV.
THE SNAKE AND THE BIRD.
In a dim court off Fenchurch Street is the counting-
house of Messrs. Shiner and Maggs. The establishment
occupies the ground-floor ; and if you have business there
you enter a large low-roofed room lighted on dark days by
gas, and behold a dozen or so of clerks scribbling busily, or
handing huge ledgers about from one to the other over the
brass rails of the desks. From this room two doors, of
frosted glass, lead to the private business apartments of the
two members of the firm. On one of these portals is painted
" iNIr. Shiner's room," on the other " Mr. Maggs' room;" and
if you were suddenly to push open the first, you would pro-
bably find Mr. Shiner drinking soda-water and sherry, and
reading a sporting paper ; while, if you were to swing open the
other, you would, in all likelihood, discover Mr. Maggs drink-
ing nothing at all, but deeply absorbed in the report of the
mission to Quashj^bungo, — a pleasant tropical coast, where the
good missionaries have got possession of some twenty square
miles of land and two converts, who are continually striking
for more wages. People ^^ onder what could have brought
Messrs. Shiner and Maggs together, but together they are,
and carr\ ing on, pi'incipally under the management of their
head clerk, a very thriving business.
It is, however, with the clerks, not with the merchants,
that we have now to do. Nine o'clock is striking from a
neighbouring church tower, and the former-named gentlemen
are dropping hurriedly in. Each, as he arrives, signs his
name in a book, and a porter stands ready, after the five
minutes of grace have expired, to draw a line below the last
signature, and thus expose the misdeeds of the lazy and the
lagging. The five minutes are nearly up when the two
junior clerks arrive together. The names they inscribe are
Richard Flick and Owen Dombler, and having hurriedly
scribbled these appellations, they proceed to their desks, in
30 CLEMENT LORIMER.
the darkest corner of the office ; and as they check oft' the
entries of the books under their care, manage to carry on a
whispered and interrupted conversation.
Flick is an open-featured, freckled, country-reai'ed-look-
ing lad, the expression of his face simple, ingenuous, and
confiding ; Dombler is a pale London boy, with long, sharp
features ; ugly, pinched, and bilious-looking.
"Dick," he said to his companion, "you're quite
browned by the sun since Saturday."
" Yes ; I've been to Hawleyden to see the old boy at the
stables. Oh, ain't he a good old fellow — -just I He says he'll
get us both into the grand stand at the Derby ; and the horse
he's to ride — Mr. Lorimer's horse, Snapdragon — you know,
is sure to win."
" Ay, but will they let us off"? old Maggs hates races."
" Yes, but Shiner don't ; and the governor is to ask Mr.
Lorimer to ask Mr. Shiner to give us a holiday."
" I'd like to go. I hav'n't had a bit of fun since Spiffler
left our lodgings."
"Who Avas Spiffler?"
"Oh, don't you know? he was an odd sort of chap —
literary they said — connected with newspapers, and theatres,
and all that. He stayed in bed all day, and was out all
night, and paid for his lodgings in orders for the play —
little, dirty pieces of paper, with 'Admit two,' and 'Before
seven o'clock,' written on them. I never get an order
now."
"Oh, I'll manage that for you, if you care about it. I
can get as many as I like."
"You!"
" Yes — orders or almost any thing. Hush! — in your ear
— I never told you of my new friend."
" No, who ? "
" I don't know his name, I call him — the man at the
eating-house. It's an old gentleman who has taken such a
fancy to me — oh, such a nice old chap, he goes every day to
the eating-house at the same time that I do. We sit in the
same box, so he got to speak to me, and he tells me such
lots of things, and gives me treats, and I like him so —
only I don't knoAv, sometimes I'm afraid of hini — he's so
solemn and grave, and has such staring black eyes, that
THE SNAKE AND THE BIRD. 51
when he looks at you you somehow feel as if he was burning
you."
'<What is he like? 1 never saw him at Boffle's."
<' No ; you don't dine till after me, and by that time he's
gone."
" Well, but what is he like ? "
" Oh, an old man with black sunk eyes that glare so, and
grey hair, and a thin pale face, and long skinny hands, and
funny marks, like threads all along his cheeks and forehead."
" And will you see him to-day ? "
" Oh, I suppose so ; he's got such a manner, and talks so
to one. I've told him every bit about myself, and what I am
here — yes, and about you too, and "
" Take care, Dick ; perhaps he's a cheat, and wants to get
information about the house."
This supposition staggered Richard Flick for a moment,
but he speedily recovered himself, and treated the suggestion
with disdain.
"A cheat — he's more like a bishop — he's as good a man
as any in the world — he's as good as my father;" and then,
in a lower tone, "But even — even if he were a scamp, do
you think he'd get anything out of me ? Oh, you may call
me countrified, but J tell you, Owey, I'm down — down as a
hammer."
Dombler gave a grin and a shrug, and at that moment
the head clerk called out, —
" Now then, you two, you're chattering a deal too much
for work. Take care there's not an error in your books — ■
that's all."
And so the tasks were plied in silence until two o'clock,
when Richard Flick, after interchanging meaning looks with
his comrade, went out to dinner.
Now, not only that day, but for several days thereafter,
it was a mighty puzzle with the habitues of Boffle's, who
the old gentleman might be who seemed, in the vernacular
of the speculators, so " thick" with young Flick of Shiner
and Maggs. His dinner — generally a plate of beef and
greens — bolted down, the boy would lend a devouring ear to
the whispered discourse of the old man, the pair being
generally ensconced together in the furthest corner of the
most deserted box ; and those who stole furtive glances at
52 CLEMENT LORIMER.
the couple, and watched the eager, upturned face of the boy,
and the cold, clammy, glistening e^^es which were fixed upon
it, and caught the low- murmured, but deeply-musical tone of
the voice, which the boy appeared to drink up with his very
soul, — the people who saw and heard all this thought of the
stories they had read of fascination, and how tropical birds
flutter, screaming from the branches, into the very jaws of
the serpent beneath.
To be sure, it was a vulgar place for charms and enchant-
ments that cheap city eating-house, with its steaming atmo-
sphere, redolent of over-cooked meat and simmering watery
vegetables, and crowded all day long with hungry clerks
munching large and small plates of boiled and roast, and
ceaselessly demanding more " breads," and additional "half-
pints," and inquiring whether the potatoes were " nobby
mealy 'uns," and whether the waiter coidd, upon his credit
as a gentleman, affirm that the pork was " iu prime cut."
It was a vulgar, shabby, uncomfortable, hot, steaming, greasy
place; but there, nevertheless, day after day, the young
clerk remained up to the very last moment he could devote
to dinner, in earnest converse with his unknown friend.
And in the meantime Richard's general manner became
gradually silent and pre-occupied. The chief clerk of
Shiner and Maggs had no longer any necessity for checking
his chattering propensities. Dombler questioned him, quizzed
him, threatened to quarrel with him, but could obtain nothing
save the very driest answers. The lad's character seemed
suddenly changed. He gave Dombler the orders he had
promised him, but without any further explanations as to the
old gentleman at the eating-house. In fact the conversation
which we have just narrated was all that passed between them
upon the subject. Dombler bored j^erseveringly for further
information, —
"What had happened?" "Happened! Nothing had
happened. What made him ask ? " " What was the mat-
ter?" "Nothing was the matter. Why should he think
that anything was the matter?" "Had Shiner and Maggs
been saying anything?" " No, of course ; what could they
have to say ? "
So Dombler shook his head, gave it up, and waited for
the mood to change, concluding either that his friend was
THE SNAKE AND THE BlUD. 53
labouring under a tremendous fit of the sulks, or that some-
thing unpleasant, which he did not care to communicate, had
occurred at home.
So stood matters, when, on the Monday before the Derby,
Flick repaired at his dinner hour to Boffle's. The old
gentleman was there as usual ; Dick ate little or nothing,
which his companion observing, and attributing his want of
appetite to illness, caused some hot spirits and water to be
prepared, and pressed the boy to drink. We have now to
let the reader into the secret of this apparently odd com-
panionship.
" Richard," said Michael Benosa — we presume he has
been recognised, — "you say you love your father?"
" Dearly ; you know I do."
'* And to make him comfortable in his old age would be
the joy of your youth and the pride of your manhood?"
" Yes — yes — a thousand times yes!"
" You know that old bones cannot bestride racers, and
that the men who own racers are proverbially selfish and
indiff'erent to the welfare of those — men or brutes — who
have won for them their cups or their stakes, when the
strength and the speed, or the skill which gained those tro-
phies, have passed away?"
Richard nodded acquiescence.
" Well, your father cannot ride many more Derbies.
He is past fifty."
" How do you know that ? "
" No matter, I do know ; and you have seen, Richard,
that I know many things besides."
The boy half sighed.
" Well, have you considered what I said yesterday ? "
"I cannot do it."
" Reflect, Richard. Have I not your good, and your
father's good, at heart ? A month ago I was a stranger to
you. I came accidentally to dine at this place, I was struck
with your face — your air. I liked both. I am an odd, eccen-
tric old man, I have whims, and take caprices and sudden
tastes. I liked you — we soon got acquainted ; we got to be
friends — good friends I hope; and so you told me about
yourself, and about Avhat you are, and what you did, what
you liked, and what you hoped for. I encouraged you,
54 CLEMENT LOBIMER.
sympathised with you, and wished well to you, and you
liked the old man's talk and the old man's stories. Is it
not so ? "
" Yes, until — until that day " and Richard hesitated.
" Good — go on. You would say until the day when,
becoming thoroughly acquainted with your particular posi-
tion, and your particular opportunities of acquiring certain
knowledge by which vast amounts of money can be gained,
I laid before you a simple, harmless plan, by means of which
in a week from this time you may be the possessor of a
fortune."
" Yes, but the means ; it would be to do evil that good
may come of it."
"And why not? Listen, Richard. Near us is the cathe-
dral of St. Paul's. You have seen the paintings on the cu-
pola ; they were executed by Sir William Thornhill. One
day, forgetful of the dizzy height whereon he stood, the artist
walked backward, step by step, to watch the effect of a group
he had just painted. He neared the edge of the planking —
still, step by step, he unwittingly approached it. A stranger
was on the scaffolding, he saw the artist's peril, he saw that
another backward pace and he would be a mangled mass on
the marble pavement below. To call to him would be but
to hasten his fall, so he seized a brush and flung a daubed
smirch over the dainty flesh tones and the pencilled drape-
ries ; the artist rushed forward to save his work ; the paint-
ing was indeed injured, but the painter was preserved. Evil
had been done that good might come of it. And was not
the doer of the little evil the author of the great good ? "
Poor Richard was no matcli for the subtle casuistry of
his antagonist. He could only murmur some argument at
once unintelligible and inaudible.
"But in this case," resumed the tempter, "there is not
even a little evil to be done. It is only the semblance of evil.
The law has rightly said, that he who shall imitate another's
signature, with the intention or in the hope of obtaining ano-
ther's goods, commits a crime. But the law does not say that
he who imitates another's signature, without any such inten-
tion, is guilty of offence. Suppose you Avished to imitate the
signature of Charles the First ; to imitate it without intent to
deceive anybody, could that be called a crime? It would
THE SNAKE AND THE BIRD. 55
only be a feat of penmanship, like drawing a swan of flou-
rishes. One would be just as harmless as the other."
"But Shiner and Maggs are not dead and gone two
hundred years ago, like Charles the First."
" No; but the imitation will no more hurt them — can no
more hurt them, than it would or could hurt Charles the First.
Crime consists in intent to injure, not in the act of injuring."
" Still what you want me to do is forgery."
"No — it is only imitation. Suppose you go to your
room, and draw a check for a thousand pounds, and sign it
with the name of Rothschild, and then tear it up or burn it, —
you perform an act of imitation. But if, instead of destroy-
ing the paper, you present it at the counter of a bank as
genuine, then you commit an act of forgery."
" But in this case I am not to destroy the paper without
presenting it."
"No — but I am. You doubt me? Fie, fie, Richard!
Why should I present it ? I would then be the forger, be-
cause the presentation makes the uttering, and the uttering
constitutes the crime. I should thus be punished, not you."
*' But why do you not commit the for I mean, make
the imitation yourself? "
" Because I am not at all acquainted with the signatures
to be imitated, and because, even if I were, I am old, and my
hands shake."
He held forth his long, skinny fingers — they trembled
with a palsied motion.
" You say that the reason why you wish for the imitation
cheque of Shiner and Maggs is just to shew it, to flash it
about among people who ai'e not intimately acquainted with
the signatures of City firms ? "
" Px'ecisely : so as to get credit, and by means of credit to
get riches."
"Is credit necessary in betting?"
" Credit is necessary whenever money transactions are
concerned. Do you think a man would bet five thousand
with a person who might not have the means of paying if he
lost "
" And do you mean to bet five thousand ?"
"Five thousand — ten — twenty, if I can ; the more I bet
the more we win,"
56 CLEMENT LORIMER.
'' But if we should lose ?"
" Lose ! What did your father fell j-ou, last Sundaj',
when you were at Hawleyden ?"
" That Snapdragon will run fourteen inches for every foot
that any other horse in England can cover."
" Good, he can win. The question then is, Will he be
ridden to win ?"
" Sir," exclaimed the boy, with a glowing face, " my
father never sold a race."
" I know it ; the race, so far as human calculation can go,
is then already won."
" But human calculations are not infallible."
" Granted ; but we must act on the best calculations we
can make. We may die to-night, but we do not the less
provide for to-morrow. See, if I have the cheque, 1 get the
credit ; if I get the credit, I make the bet ; if I make the bet,
I win the money."
There was a pause.
"I — am — afraid," murmured the boy.
Benosa, unseen by his companion, made a gesture of
violent anger, and then resumed tke conversation in his softest
and most musical tones.
" Wednesday come and gone," he said, as if speaking to
himself, "and fortune will have come with it, — fortune
destined for high and holy ends, — that the jDoor maj' be
enriched, and the aged pass their evening days in peace."
Richard's face flushed, then grew deadly pale. The
tempter eyed him keenly. Then the boy set his teeth, and
clenched his hands, and said, -'I will do it."
" A bold boy and a good son," said Benosa; and then in
a whisper, " Have you the cheque ?"
" Yes."
"I knew it," said the old man to himself. "He kept his
hand in his pocket, and I knew the precious paper Mas
grasped there."
Richard stole a quick glance round, — no one was look-
ing, and he rapidly passed an envelope to his companion.
Benosa opened it leisurely.
"Take care ! — take care, for Heaven's sake !" whispered
the clerk, in an agony of apprehension.
"There is no feai", Richard, — no fear whatever," replied
THE FIELD AGAINST THE FAVOURITE. 57
his companion. He glanced at the contents of the packet.
It was a cheque on Messrs. Smith, Payne, and Smith,
in Richard's writing, and purported to be for the amount
of five thousand pounds. Tlie signature was an approxi-
mation to that of Shiner and Maggs. As Benosa read
it, Richard made a half snatch, as though he would recover
possession of the fatal document. Benosa observed the
motion.
" My dear boy," he said, " if you repent what you have
done, you may undo it. Here is the cheque;" and he held it
out to Richard, who took it, and gazed for a moment on the
face of his companion. It was calm and smiling, and the
eyes had their usual glassy, lustrous stare.
" No," he muttered. "No — I was a fool — there, take
it ;" and he returned the cheque.
" Would you like it to be destroyed by me or by your-
self?"
" By myself," said Richard, in a choking voice, and
wiping the perspiration from his forehead.
" Good — by the time the horses start it will be on its
way to you. Shall I address to Shiner and Maggs?"
" No, no — to my lodgings."
"Then, on Wednesday evening, by the six o'clock deli-
very, it will be there."
"Oh, indeed — indeed, I have done this innocently. I
have done this for my father — my poor, old, good father ! On
you be the shame, if there be shame, — and on you the guilt,
if there be guilt ! "
Having uttered this burst of passion, the boy flung his
arms on the table, and rested his head on them.
When he raised it the old gentleman was gone.
CHAPTER V.
THE FIELD AGAINST THE FAVOURITE.
It is the night before the Derby, and the whole of sport-
ing London — and for that matter, a great part of London to
58 CLEMENT LORIMEB.
which the term cannot in strictness be applied — is in a state
of nervous restlessness, anticipating the chances of the mor-
row. The thousands who have risked money upon the race
are on the qui vive for any stray information which may
enable them, even at the last hour, to improve their prospects
of success. Reports and rumours fly hither and thither from
mouth to mouth. The last editions of the evening papers
are ransacked for hints from sporting correspondents, and the
latest shade of variation in the betting at the Corner. The
sporting taverns are crowded with those who are knowing on
the turf and those who desire to be thought so. Mysterious
intimations — half-spoken, half- retracted hints of one horse,
which is to be made "safe," of another which, at the eleventh
hour, will be "sci'atched," of one stable which has "declared
to win," of another which boasts a wonderful "dark horse ;"
secret information touching one steed which, it is whispered,
has mysteriously fallen lame ; dark doubts flung out as to a
flaw in the pedigree of another, and certain news of the
style in which a third had that morning taken its sweating
gallop — all this chaos of hints, nods, winks, morsels of ex-
clusive intelligence, and scraps of secret information, is dis-
cussed, amplified, canvassed, disputed, amid the fumes of
tobacco and spirits, until the young gentleman who has
started a " book," and dropped into the sporting public-house
in quest of information for his hedging projects, drops out
again, utterly bewildered by the mass of contradictory intel-
ligence and diverging advice which a dozen of high au-
thorities, each in possession of authentic and exclusive
particulars, have favoured him with.
And the excitement is not confined to the more vulgar
haunts of gentlemen who speculate on the turf. Wherever
you go the words, " Snapdragon," " Odds," " Field," " Fa-
vourite," " Safe to win," strike your ear. You catch them in
the whispered converse of the opera-box ; you distinguish
them in the noisy hum of the theatre when the act-drop has
fallen ; even ladies catch the universal epidemic, and lay
reckless wagers of gloves and flasks of eau-de-Cologne ; the
clubs echo witli the chances of to-morrow; and the debate in
the House of Commons must be exciting indeed, if groups of
members, under the galleries and in the galleries, be not
clustered together, eagerly discussing the merits of the line
THE FIELD AGAINST THE FAVOURITE. 59
of horses which will be to-morrow drawn up before the
starter on Epsom Downs.
Snugly ensconced in his well-littered stall, in the training
stables of Hawleyden, stands one of the unconscious objects
of all this excitement, all this anxiety. Snapdragon, as he
arches his neck, tosses his head, and neighs and snorts in the
flush of his rampant energies, has little idea of the noise his
name is making in the world. The animal itself, muffled in
warm cloths, and the padded sides of his stall, shew the care
of the comfort and the health of the racer.
The hour of ten can be faintly heard tolled by Epsom
clock, when the door of Snapdragon's stable opens, and three
gentlemen, attended by Flick the jockey, and one or two of
taken his subordinates, emerge into the yard.
" Bring the horses out, and we'll ride over to the Spread
Eagle at once," said one of the group ; " I think, Flick, we
may sleep sound upon the chances of to-n)orrow."
" Yourself saw the 'oss, Mr. Lorimer ; he couldn't be in
better condition for running," replied the jockey.
" Mind you keep him so, my old Trojan," said another of
the party, in the hoarse voice of Sir Harrowby Trumps.
'' For if you don't," continued the third, " my address, in
twenty-four hours from this blessed moment, will be the Hotel
de Suede, Brussels, — a good house that, Trumps; and if
Snap's heels should not be the speedier, I would recommend
3'ou to patronise it. The air of Belgium is always my specific
for complaints of the money-making organs."
So saying, the party mounted their horses.
"I shall be over to-moiTOw morning by six, Flick —
meantime don't leave the horse — I know your people here
are honest, but they may be tampered with ; and this is just
the nervous night."
" Never fear, Mr. Lorimer ; I ^lep over the stable for a
month, and I shan't go for to be caught napping the last
night: whoever touches Snapdragon, sir, must put me out of
the way first."
" Good, I have all trust in you. Come, gentlemen,
supper wails at the Spread Eagle." And the party rode
briskly away without noticing the figure of a man, who
crouched behind a cart in a dark corner of the stable-yard.
Flick watched his patron and his friends until the ring of
60 CLEMENT LORIMER.
their horses' hoofs died away in the distance. He then
turned into the stable. It was a small building, containing
four stalls, of which Snapdragon and another racer occupied
the two centre ones, while, in each of the others, was chained an
immensely powerful dog of the Saint Bernard bi'eed. Both of
these animals lay with their grim muzzles resting upon their
outstretched forepaws, and their deep dark eyes twinkled suspi-
ciously around, as Flick moved about the stable. The place
was diml}^ lighted by a large dusty lamp suspended from the
roof; and at one end a ladder, rising upwards through a trap-
door in the ceiling, led to the garret apartment above, which,
as Flick had intimated, had lately been occupied by himself.
The jockey carefully locked and bolted the stable-door,
and, after casting a hasty glance at the horse, took from a
large chest, which stood in the far corner of the stable, a
light racing-saddle, and commenced an examination of the
girths and leathers — so minute that it seemed as if every
particular thread in their stitching underwent an individual
scrutiny.
" All right," he murmured, as he laid the article down ;
he then cautiously proceeded into the stall with Snapdragon,
and, stooping down, appeared to occupy himself in feeling and
chafing with his hands the joints and legs of the noble animal.
" Not a bit of stiffness or swelling," he muttered, as he
rose and patted the neck of the racehorse. " You'll do your
work to-morrow ; won't you, old Snap ? " he continued,
speaking in a caressing voice to the horse. " You'll shew
'em the blood you come of — ay, and how Tim Flick can
ride you — won't you ? eh ! old Snap ? "
The racer, as if he understood the questions put to him,
tossed his delicately-moulded head upwards, and answered by
a loud shrill neigh. It had hardly subsided into silence when
a low growl rose from the next stall.
" Hey ! Odin ! " said Flick, " what makes you angry, old
dog ? ■'
He left the racer's stall and entered that of the Saint Ber-
nard mastiff. The dog was on its legs, straining upon the
strong chain which bound him to the manger; his outstretched
muzzle sniffing anxiously in the direction of the stable-win-
dow, and his muscular tail lashing his sides with long
measured sweeps.
THE FIELD AGAINST THE FAVOURITE. 61
" The dog scents something," said the jockey; and just at
that moment, Thor, the mastiff', in the other and further stall,
took up the growling concert.
" Can there be any body lurking about the stable ? "
thought Flick. He went to the window and glanced out.
Every thing was dark and silent. He then cautiously undid
the fastenings of the door, slipped out, examined narrowly
all round, but saw or heard nothing to alarm him. Then,
after lingering for a moment upon the threshold, he re-
entered the stable and closed the door as before. As he did
so, a man cautiously slipped down from the lower branches
of a huge elm which overshadowed the stable, and took up
his position behind its trunk.
The night waned slowly. One by one all the lights in
the buildings of Hawleydeu were extinguished, except that
Avhich gleamed from the window of the stable in which stood
the Favourite. Eleven had long ago struck upon the distant
Epsom clock. The night breeze made a moaning music
over the bare Downs, and in the creaking branches of the
old elm. The stars appeared and disappeared as sailing
clouds passed between them and the earth. Now and then a
swallow, accidentally awakened, would twitter in the eaves.
Now and then, with a loud buzzing hum, a flying beetle
would shoot past upon the damp night air ; and now and
then the rusty weathercock which surmounted the stables
would creak and rattle as a gust, fresher than ordinary,
caught and twisted its painted vane. With the exception of
such night noises, there was the silence of midnight over
Hawleyden.
It might be one hour towards the morning Avhen the man
who descended from the elm advanced cautiously to the
stable-door, and looked through the keyhole. The light
still burned. He stood a moment, as if undecided. Then
there was heard a recommencement of the former growling.
Neither Thor nor Odin had gone to sleep. This seemed to
decide the lurker, for he immediately rapped, not loudl}', but
distinctly, at the door. The dogs replied with a volley of
hoarse baying, in the midst of which Flick's voice, demand-
ing, in startled tones, who the knocker was, could be barely
distinguished.
" Are you alone?" was the answer of the applicant.
62 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" What's that to you? What do you want?" returned
the jockey. " Be off ! or I'll loose the dogs on you ! "
"I am armed," replied the stranger; "and if you do I
must shoot them, which I should be sorry for. I dare say
they are fine animals."
There was a pause.
" I must speak with you ! " continued the stranger.
" About the race ? " inquired the jockey.
"About that in the second place — there is a more im-
portant matter for the first."
" But you said you was armed. How do I know
you're not come here to do some mischief to the 'oss or to
me ? "
" W^ill this prove to you that ray purpose is inoffensive ?
— see, here are my pistols." He produced the weapons he
spoke of and shoved them beneath the stable-door. " Now I
am defenceless," he said.
Apparently the jockey was satisfied with this demonstra-
tion of confidence, for he undid the fastenings, and, partially
opening the door, held up the lamp, which he had lowered
from the ceiling, to the stranger's face. It was one he had
never seen before — the face of an elderly man, with keen
black eyes, an aquiline nose, and thin grey hair.
'• What do you want with me, and at this hour of the
night ? "
" Admit me, shut the door, and I will tell you," said the
jockey's visitor.
" No, d me, tell your business first ! "
" It is about your son."
" My son ! " exclaimed Flick, starting backwards, and
evidently alarmed. The stranger took advantage of this
movement to make good his entrance.
"I trust in God, sir," said the jockey, "that there's
nothin' wrong! — nothiu' turned up agin the lad! Richard
is a good boy, sir ! It would break my heart if there was
any thing wrong "
" I know that," said the stranger; "that is the reason I
am here. Shut the door and silence those dogs." Thor and
Odin were still growling at the intruder. The jockey hastily
did as he was directed, and, then turning to his visitor, saw
nim seated upon the corn-chest, over which Flick had spread
THE FIELD AGAINST THE FAVOURITE. 63
a small mattrass, and upon which he had been dozing when
disturbed as we have seen.
" Now, sir, if you please," said the jockey, with consider-
able nervous anxiety — "now, sir, if you please, about iny
son — about Richard "
" So that is Snapdragon — that is the Favourite ! " said the
unknown.
Flick's suspicions as to his mission revived at the keen
glance the stranger cast upon the horse, and he flung himself
between his visitor and the racer.
" You need not be afraid, Mr. Flick," observed the in-
truder, " I shall not do any thing to the horse without your
full permission."
" You had better not try," muttered the jockey.
" Nor will I To business."
" Ah, to business — the sooner the better."
" Good ! You have a son in the firm of Shiner and
Maggs ? "
"General agents and commission -brokers, Curney's
Alley, Fenchurch Street, City," continued the jockey, with
volubility.
"A fine lad — I see him often," replied the stranger.
"Shiner and Maggs bank with us — with Smith, Payne,
and Smith, I mean — I am a cashier in that house."
The jockey rubbed his hands nervously. He could not
divine what was coming, but he feared that all was not right.
" I do a little in the sporting way, however," continued
the cashier. " One must have some other amusement than
counting sovereigns all day long which don't belong to us —
eh, Mr. Flick?"
The jockey assented. " But what's all this here got to
do with Richard ? " he inquired.
" Oh, every thing in its proper time," replied the cashier.
" We are very methodical, we bankers."
Flick stamped with impatience, and cast his eye towards the
dogs, who from time to time she\ved their teeth and snarled.
" I have invested largely this Derby, Mr. Flick," pur-
sued the cashier, " and I've backed the Field against the
Favourite."
" Then, as sure as Snapdragon stands in that stall you'll
lose ! "
64 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" As sure as Snapdragon stands in that stall I'll win ! "
The jockey started back.
" No tricks !" he exclaimed. " Hands off! — no tricks!
— I'm awake! — I am! Oh, the d fool I have been
to let you in ! But lay a finger on that 'oss, or stir a step
towards him, and by the God above both of us I'll blow your
brains out with your own pistols ! "
And so saying, Flick presented one of the weapons at the
head of the cashier. The eyes of the latter flashed, and his
nostrils dilated, but he neither shrank nor quailed, but looked
steadfastly into the muzzle of the pistol, which was not two
feet from his forehead.
" To return to your son," he said, with the most perfect
coolness ; " one of two things w ill happen — either Snapdragon
will lose, or your son will be hanged ! "
The jockey's face grew ghastly pale, and the pistol
dropped upon the ground,
" What's that you mean ? " he stammered, pressing his
hand forcibly upon his heart, as if to control its throbbings.
"Nothing can be clearer," returned the cashier. "Look
at this;" and he produced from a closely-clasped pocket-
book a cheque.
" Do you know the hand in which this cheque is drawn?"
said the cashier,
" Oh, God I — yes, it is Richard's ! " gasped the father.
" Do you know the hand in which this cheque is signed
— ' Shiner and Maggs?'" continued his questioner.
" Yes — yes — it is the same as the other — it is
Richard's !"
" So the hanging I spoke of, Mr. Flick, is not quite such
an improbable business as you seemed to think."
The poor jockey staggered against the wall, hid his face
in both of his hands, and sobbed convulsively.
Benosa — he mus-t have been recognised — looked at him,
his big black eyes flashing with excitement. Yet the ex-
pression of that terrible face was not a vindictive one ; on
the contrary, there was an undefinable look of pity in the
gaze.
"Oh!" groaned the jockey — "oh, I thank (iod that
his mother didn't live to see this day ! "
" Your son, Mr. Flick," continued Benosa, in his former
THE FIELD AGAINST THE FAVOURITE. 65
unmoved tones, and putting the cheque carefully awaj* in his
pocket — "your son, JNIr. Flick, presented the document I
have shewn you, this afternoon. Fortunately for hira, he pre-
sented it to me. I saw the forgery at once ; and I could
have guessed it from the boy's manner if I did not hold the
proof in my hand. But there it was — in black and white.
Now, Mr. Flick, T do not pretend to be better than my
neighbours, and a notion came across me as I looked at that
forged cheque. I told your son that the hour for paying
money was past, but that he had better leave the cheque and
call the first thing in the morning. He was afraid to object ;
so here I am, now, to await your decision."
'= My decision on what, sir ?" faltered the jockey.
^' On your son's life," said the pretended cashier.
" It is in the hands of the law," murmured Flick, wring-
ing his hands. " O Richard — Richard I that it should
have come to this! You I always thought the best — the
best of boys. O my God, but this is hard to bear I "
" Your decision I" said Benosa, sharply.
Flick looked vacantly up.
" Listen. I have told you I backed the Field against the
Favourite. If the Favourite wins, your son hangs ! You
understand that?"
" Snapdragon must win," murmured the jockey. " He
could do it in a canter."
" Not if he had half-a-dozen drops from this bottle down
his throat," said Benosa, drawing from his breast a phial
filled with a dark-coloured fluid.
" It is pison !" exclaimed Flick. " You would pison the
"•OSS."
Benosa uncorked the phial, and allowed a drop or two of
the liquid to trickle into his own mouth.
" What is poison for horses is poison for men, Mr. Flick;
except for throwing him off his speed for four-and-twenty
hours or so, the mixture is as harmless as mother's milk."
^' No, by G — ! no ! I won't do it, nor suffer you to do
it. There stands the swiftest horse in Europe, and he
sha'ii't be doctored. Keep off, I say — keep off I" and the
jockey, snatching up the pistol, stood between Benosa and
the stall.
"Did you ever see a hanging?" muttered Benosa.
F
66 CLEMENT LORIMER.
The jockey shrunk backwards as though bitten by a
reptile.
" Hinder me from giving this dose to the horse, and
you'll see one that will interest you. Permit me, and by the
time the news reaches London that the Favoui'ite has disap-
pointed her backers, the cheque will be in your son's hands ;
and I presume he will not again try the experiment of cashing
it in a hurry."
The jockey groaned in bitterness of spirit. Benosa's
keen eye saw the inward struggle which was going on.
"A gambler's interests," he said, "or a son's blood —
choose ! "
But the jockey remained dumb.
" O, Mary — Mary!" he murmured at length, "that
your boy — that our boy should have done this thing!"
Benosa saw the direction of his thoughts, and skilfully
availed himself of them.
" Richard is like his mother, is he not?" he inquired.
Flick writhed in mute agony at the question.
"It's hard — very hard," muttered the false cashier, — "a.
favourite son, and an only son, and one that reminds the
father of a dear one gone."
The jockey uttered a loud inarticulate cry of agony, and
theu fell on his knees.
" Spare him ! — spare him ! — spare Richard ! Spare my
son!"
" Then you consent ? "
Flick bent his head in answer. His hands were stretched
before his face.
" Turn the horse in liis stall," said Benosa, in as cool a
tone as though he were giving an ordinary stable order.
The jockey quietly complied, undid Snapdragon's halter,
and the docile animal, obeying his voice and the pressure of
his hands, wheeled himself round, with his tail to the manger.
"Now fetch the lantern."
Benosa spoke in the composed but decided tone of a
man to whom command was habitual.
Again Flick mechanically obeyed, placing himself between
the racer and his visitor.
Benosa uncorked the phial. " Stand aside," he said.
Poor Flick flung his arms round Snapdragon's neck, and
T«E FIELD AGAINST THE FAVOURITE. 6/
then, shrinking from the piercing gaze of Benosa's ej'es, stag-
gered to the corn-chest, instinctively supporting himself upon
it, while he held the lantern so as to light his companion.
" You swear it will do no lasting harm to the 'oss ? "
he exclaimed.
" You may enter him for the St. Leger, and win it too,"
replied Benosa. " Onlj^ you will be in the ruck to-mori'ow."
The jockey groaned aloud.
" How am I to face Mr. Lorimer? '" he gasped.
" Are you responsible for the horse's health or the
horse's humours? " answered Benosa. " It is enough for you,
that having watched all night in the stable, you know that he
has not had foul play."
During this brief conversation Snapdragon began to snort
and move restively, as though his instinct told him that all was
not right. Benosa stood upon the near side, soothing him
with word and touch ; all at once, with his left hand he
grasped the nose and jaws of the horse. The animal snorted,
flung aloft his head, but the long thin fingers of Benosa
grasped its flesh like firmly-screwed iron bars.
" Open — brute ! So — there ! " he exclaimed, violentlv
wrenching the upper jaw, and at the moment that the teeth
parted, dashing between them the phial, which was rimmed
with brass. The noble animal reared upwards, Benosa
clinging to it, and still holding the phial between its open
jaws.
The jockey stared wildly at the struggle. For a moment
it was a terrific one, — the horse plunging and snorting in its
terror, — and Benosa, with his long arms twined round its neck,
and his bright black eyes flashing into those of the racer's,
dashed upwards and downwards, as the animal wildly flung
about his head, and struck out alternately with his fore
and hind legs. But the strife only lasted a moment. All at
once Snapdragon dropped down upon all fours — his ears,
which were laid back, assumed their natural position. He
breathed hard and quickly, and then became motionless in
the stall.
In a moment Benosa slipped from its side, recorking the
phial.
" The sedative does its work at once," he said.
He took Flick's hand, it was trejiibling and moist with
perspiration.
68 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" I have lost the honesty," murmured the poor jockey,
— " I have lost the honesty I was proud on for them twenty
jears — I have sold a race ! "
"You have saved your son," said Benosa, "and you
have read him a lesson. Henceforth let him count as ene-
mies all who have not proved themselves friends."
The jockey looked at the false cashier wonderingly.
" Richard will explain the rest. He is not so guilty as
you think him. You may be a happy father yet — a happier
father than I am. Farewell. God forgive you and me, and
all of us."
Turning to the door, Benosa rapidly undid its fastening
and glided out. Flick followed in haste, but his mysterious
visitor was gone.
"God help us," said the jockey, turning back to the
stable. "It seems like a dream of the night."
CHAPTER Vr.
THE DERBY.
The great yearly festival of London is the Derby day.
Christmas-tide brings its associations and its joys. Easter
inaugurates the Spring, and Whitsun-tide crowns Summer on
her throne. All tliese are festive times — times of holydaj'-
making and epochs in the story of the year, but the especial
day on which London rouses itself, and pours itself forth
beyond its bricken barriers, is undoubtedly the 25th of May,
when the great race of England — of the world — is run on
Epsom Downs. Describe the English, if you will, as a
shopkeeping nation, as a peerage- worshipping nation, as a
roast-beef-eating nation, or as a bell-ringing nation, their
proper definition is a horse-racing nation. England alone
worships with unbounded devotion at the shrine of the
Turf. In some countries racing is a passion — in others
it has become a mode — but in England it is at once a rage,
a fashion, a science, an art, a trade. ISIen give up their lives
to it. Men study it as they would study an abstruse branch
of philosophy. Men make and lose fortunes by it. The
turf furnishes at once a matter of business and a game of
THE DERBY. 69
chance. We devote our commercial energies to it. We
lavish our gambling propensities on it. We have erected it
into a profession, a science, a mystery. It has its techni-
calities, and its outer and inner secrets. It is represented in
every place and degree of our social system. It has its par-
tisans in parliament — its representatives and its advocates in
every department of public and domestic life. Developed by
certain mental features in our national character, it has
created new ones. It has its calendars, its journals, its
hand-books, its guides. It has fostered schools of litera-
ture and art exclusively its own. Nay, more; at a period
of political disorganisation it gave a party in the legislature a
leader, ready cut and dry ; and in the most matter-of-fact
times the world has ever seen — times of stubborn facts and
rigid figures — has not the turf furnished us with the only
race of vaticinators who have ever found not only honour,
but profit, in their own country — with those far-sighted sooth-
sayers who, mounted on the tripods of Journalism, prophesy
the fate of sweepstakes, and announce the hidden destiny of
horse-flesh !
This, then, is the Derby day, and Snapdragon is still the
favourite ! Every bridge leading from Middlesex to Surrey
is a highway of that grand procession which marches an-
nually from London to Epsom Downs. That long jolting,
rattling, glancing, glittering train of equipages, which could
be poured forth by no city of tlie eartli, save our own Island
Capital, — that interminable cataract of toiling, panting, per-
spiring pedestrians, rushing forth in endless march — pushing,
hustling, swarming — blackening the broad highways of the
suburbs — blackening the winding roads of the open country —
straying and straggling away from the main line, across fields,
and in search of soft turf and yielding grass, fresh and grateful
to hot and blistered feet — that wonderful annual Pilgrimage —
that great British Caravan on its annual journey to the
Mecca of the Grand Stand — is in full, roaring march. We
need not here stay to describe the minutiae of the procession ;
we need not dwell upon the upsets — the collisions — the
crushed panels — the slaughtered horses — the battles round
the turnpikes — the general engagement before the Cock at
Sutton — the shoutings and yellings of rural charioteers —
the plungings and lashings of frightened and infuriated steeds
— the gibes, and jokes, and flying " chafl"," bandied from
70 CLEMENT LORIMER.
pedestrian to equestrian, launched from britska and landau,
and caught up by van and donkey-cart — all this has been
done, and well done, again and again — is annually done, in
fact — in the pages or the sheets of magazines and journals,
which every year find a feature in the great racing festival
of England. It will be enough to say that, on the present
occasion, the throng, the crush, and the excitement, were as
great as ever — that the usual array of dashing equipages
smoked along the dusty road — that the usual number of
slangy four-in-hands were " tooled " down by knowing whips
— that the usual number of creaking, lumbering vans went
jolting by — that the heterogeneous mass of wheeled things,
carts, gigs, phaetons, buggies, cabs, and masses of vehicles to
which any name, or no name at all, can be properly applied,
filled up, as usual, every interstice in the procession — and
that the whole moving mass of men, women, horses, carriages,
equestrians, and pedestrians, rolled on togethei', — one long
column of dust, noise, smother, and excitement I
On the road to the Derby, or on the^Downs, might be
found, with one exception or two, all tlie personages intro-
duced in this history. Mr. IMaggs, of the firm of Shiner
and Maggs, had, indeed, chosen to manifest his contempt for
the great racing anniversary by presiding on that day over
the first annual meeting of the Society for Inducing the
Ashantees to wear Nankeen Breeches ; but his partner, Mr.
Shiner, was rattling along the road in a snug, open phaeton,
drawn by a couple of nettlesome bays, and occupied, besides
himself, by one of the most dashing and agreeable wits of
the Stock Exchange — a gentleman who had invented more
lies, in the way of getting the fluctuations of the funds to suit
his OM'n particular purposes, than had been ever perpetrated
by the combined eftbrts of the diplomacy and the i)ress of
Europe, — and a couple of young ladies, presumed to be con-
nected with the ballet department of one of the theatres, of
very gay and flaming exterior, and such childlike simplicity
that they never blushed or fidgeted at the most self-evident
double entendre. Mr. Shiner had likewise given a holyday to
several of the clerks — Richard Flick and Owen Dombler
amongst the rest ; but, to the intense astonishment of Owen,
his friend had hung back from accompanying him. Dombler
was there, however, in full fig, perched upon the top of a
four-horse coach, beside his friend SpitHer, who, having made
THE DERBY. 71
a decided rise in his profession of penny-a-line literature, had
come out very strong in a second-rate weekly sporting paper
as a Derby Prophet, and who, grounding the prediction on
the information which he had received from Richard Flick
through Owen, had finished his prophetic poem, published
the Saturday before, as follows : —
" On none — though, like Lavinia, they have friends —
On none of these the laurelled crown descends.
For, pure in blood, symmetrical in bone,
The ' Favourite ' claims the Derby as his own :
Yet, unless every sign and omen fail,
Jim Crow, placed second, sees Sxapdragon's tail !"
Not far behind the flying chariot of the Derby Prophet
rolled a low, open landau, whisked along by four thorough-
bred greys, bestrode by the smartest of post-boys in the
smartest of jackets and caps. It was occupied by three
persons — Mdlle. Chateauroux, iMr. Grogrum, and Dr. Gum-
bey — who were proceeding in great and confidential amity
together. For these three worthies could only afford to
cjuarrel in the make-believe style — not that they did not
distrust each othej* up to the very limits, and perhaps beyond
the limits, of a good, wholesome, mutual hatred, but so long
as their interests pulled in the same way, the three strands of
a cable could not be more amicably unanimous.
" Tliey say, if he loses this race, he's a gone 'coon," said
the manager ; " regular up the tree, and no mistake."
" Let us hope that these are but the malicious rumours
of the enemies of our good friend Mr. Lorimer," replied the
doctor, in his castor-oiliest of tones.
" Well, I don't care, I don't hold his paper," rejoined
Mr. Grogrum. "He has had his day, like any other dog;
there's people been cheating him long enough. When he's
sucked dry, let him turn to and suck some one else; that's
the way the thing is done: d — it! I ought to know."
(And, to do him justice, so he ought.)
"Nay, nay, Mr. Grogrum, hush now; remember our
dear friend here; — you are positively quite unfeeling."
" Let him alone, mo7i cher docteur, let him alone,"
said Mdlle. Chateauroux, in her foreign accent; " he's a great,
coarse man, who has no feelings and no delicatesse. Lorimer
'will win the race, I feel it here;" and she indicated her
lieart. " I know it, he must win ; or, if he loses, and what
72' CLEMENT LORIMER.
you say be true, Avhy then " And she stopped and
touched her eyes with a handkerchief, which appeared one
bundle of lace.
" Well, mademoiselle," said the manager, winking at the
doctor,^ and affecting a voice broken by sympathy, " you
■were saying — ' why then ? ' "
" Why then," exclaimed the lady, briskly twitching the
handkerchief from her face, — "why, then — Ventre Sf. Gris f
— as your English proverb says, ' There is as good fish in the
sea as ever came out of it ! ' "
And the sympathising three burst into a loud laugh.
The landau had hardly assumed its position on the Downs
when Clement Loriraer appeared by its side. He was deadly
pale, but his manner was as quiet and comjjosed as usual. His
appearance was of course the signal for a volley of" greeting.
" Ce vieux cheri Ziorimer," murmured the dansettse,
leaning over the side of the vehicle, and whispering in her
sweetest tones, — "We shall win — 7ie ccst pas ? It is what
you call ' safe? ' Oh, I am in such a state of terrible anxiety !
Corhleu ! I did not sleep a wink these three nights,"
" It's all right, Lorimer, my boy ? " said the manager.
"Gad, we'd be broken-hearted if there was a miss but all
the knowing ones say the thing is safe."
" I hope the knowing ones may be right," said Lorimer.
quietly. "Much hangs to-day upon a horse's sinews;" and
he began to compliment Mdlle. Chateauroux on the fashiou
of her parasol.
" He's d — d down in the mouth, Gumbey," whispered
Grogrum. " There's a screw loose, depend upon it."
" I hope and trust our friend Snapdragon is in full feather
this morning? " said the doctor.
"I hope so, too. I see nothing wrong with the horse.
But it does strike me that his eyes looked dimmer, and liis
motions were not quite so fiery this morning as usual."
Gumbey and Grogrum exchanged glances.
" Tell me, Lorimer," whispered Mdlle. Chateauroux,
*' there is nothing wrong?"
" Absolutely nothing. But one has all sorts of Avhims
and fancies when one is jaded and excited. I took it inta
my head, for example, this morning that Flick, the jocke5'
who is to ride Snapdragon, looked flurried and confused. I
can hardly tell what made me think sos but I did."
THE DERBY. 73
" Pshaw ! You are tormenting yourself. Sucre bleu !
la he still as confident as ever ? "
" In Avortls : but the tone seems altered."
" Pooh ! You are nervous. There, go drink a glass
of sparkling Moselle. Tliat wicked docteur has stolen one
out of the hamper already, on purpose to j^ledge to Snap-
dragon."
But here the saddling bell rang, and Lorimer hastily left
them to be present at that important ceremony in the paddock.
In a short time the competing horses appeared one by one
before the Grand Stand. The crowd pushed and hustled in
their eageiness to see and criticise. Opinions and hopes
were loudly bandied about. Books were reopened to enter
final bets. Profound amateurs of horse-flesh discussed action,
blood, and bone. Mounted jockeys received final hints and
instructions from their backers, and the limbs of the com-
peting horses were chafed, and their nostrils sponged for the
last time. A loud shout proclaimed the appearance of the
Favourite; and the noble animal, with its arched, glancing
neck, its thin, finely-chiselled head, its widely-dilated nostrils,
and sinewy, stag-like legs,' paced proudly out upon the turf,
becoming an immediate centre of interest and admiration.
Flick was already in his saddle, bearing himself as though he
■were part of the animal he bestrode.
" Here, Flick," said Lorimer, " let me feel your hand."
" It's steadier than most upon the Downs, sir," replied the
jockey, putting his hand within that of his employer. It dird
not tremble certainly, but it was clay-cold.
" You look very pale, Flick," said Lorimer.
" Watching, sir. I haven't had over-much sleep lately,
and I was werry nervous last night. "
The owner of the Favourite looked long and anxiously at
his horse, felt its joints, and then, patting its neck, said, —
"Do your best — man and horse."
In half-an-hour after this the start was momentarily ex-
pected. There was the dead hush of expectation, gradually
wrought up to its highest pitch, over all that vast assemblage ;
the course, like a bright, broad, green riband, stretched down
between two masses of breathless human beings. Not a face
but was either preternaturally pale or preternaturally flushed.
People grasped each other's hands and strained their eyes
till their heads grew dizzy. Every body was on tiptoe —
74
CLEMENT LORIMER.
every body pressing forward — every body looking towards
the same pomt, the famous Tattenham Corner. All at once
a throb, liiie a flash of moral electricity, passed through the
crowd. °
" They're off!"
There was a movement— a wave, so to speak, rolled through
that human ocean — those behind were pressing on to the
front. Then came a moment of noisj^ turmoil. " Keep
steady !" — |'Down in front !" — " Hats off !" — " Hurrah !"
— " Hush I" and the murmur subsided.
A cluster of horsemen were seen at a full gallop dashino-
over the ridge of the eminence to the right. "
"Here they are !" — " They're coming! they're com-
ing ! "— " Hurrah ! " and one of those indefinable, indescribable
noises, which none but an excited crowd can produce, rose
Avith a mighty murmur into the summer air.
At that moment, the point where the broad green course
forms a portion of the horizon near the corner, became, as if
by magic, dotted with the hurrying: figures of the racers.
The next moment they were careering down the course, as it
seemed, in a cluster.
Then the low, universal murmur, rose and swelled into a
loud hoarse roar, and voices, frantic with excitement, shouted
and screamed their hopes and fears.
" White and Pink ! White and Pink ! Where's the
Favourite?"— "Red is leading! Hurrah! Red! Red I
Tom Tit for ever! Where's Snap? Where's White and
Pink .^"— " Hurrah, Red ! "— " No, Blue ! give it 'em, Blue !
Go It, Jim Crow!"— "My G— ! the Favourite's in the
ruck! Red! Red! Red! Hurrah !"—" Blue does it'
Blue does the trick!" — " Red ! White and Pink! Blue!
Here they are ! Hurrah ! hurrah ! hurrah ! "
And amid one loud, universal, roaring shout, and speed-
ing, fleeting, impalpable as a vision of the night, there shot
past hundreds of thousands of dazzled eyes a dozen of career-
ing horses, flying at a speed which made the eye dazzle and
the brain whirl, and beating the turf with their l?oofs like a
loud, fast roll of drums !
It was over in a moment:— the Derby was lost and won !
Instantly the spectators on either side burst the barriers
of rope, and the course was obliterated by a rushinir, shoutinsr,
jostling throng. *
THE LOSERS. 75
" Tom Tit had won!" — "Jim Crow had won I" — "Bubbly
Jock had won !" So announced a discordant babble of voices.
" Hush ! there's the figures ! "
Jim Crow was placed first, Tom Tit second, the Fa-
vourite — nowhere !
CHAPTER VII.
THE LOSERS.
As soon as Clement Loriraer was aware that Snapdragon
had lost the Derby, he retired alone into a private room
attached to the betting accommodations of the Grand Stand,
and locked the door. As he moved towards the table, his
eye caught the reflection of his own features in a mirror
hanging on the wall ; he paused, and gazed upon the glass,
then, flinging himself into a chair, muttered, —
" The first time I have seen in a mirror the face of a
ruined man."
Then pressing his clenched hands against his forehead,
he leant back and mused.
All around him rose the loud murmurs of the crowded
race-course ; the tramp of hurrying feet shook the structure
in which he sat. He heard his own name loudly demanded,
and from time to time the door was rudely knocked by ap-
plicants for admission ; but he never stirred or gave token
of his presence. A mean spirit might have guessed that
the waking dream of the ruined turfite turned on pistols and
deadly drugs, but the firm mind of Lorimer gave way to no
such morbid fancies. The rudeness of the shock only proved
the strength of the sinewy springs of his intellect. It was
his first misfortune ; for a moment he staggered under it,
then he grappled, he wrestled with it, and many minutes had
not flown ere the big spirit of the man rose the conqueror
from the strife.
A first misfortune is often the turning point of life. If
there be nothing in j'ou, down you go — crushed; but if there
be the dormant stuff' which hereafter will make a good, great,
brave man, then be thankful for the shock ; and as you rise
76
CLEMENT LORI.MER.
to the battle, as you feel every mental muscle, every bit of
sinew in your mind, swell, and stiffen, and strengthen for the
fight, why, thank God for the rough stimulant— jump bravely
to your feet; reflect that you must put down your misfortune,
or It will put you down ; and then, having conquered in your
own brain— and if you feel what we have sketched, conquer
you will,— why climb proudly to the very summit of the op-
posmg Avoe, trample it down beneath you, and feel that you,
a JMan— erect upon the ruins of a hostile Circumstance— stand,
conquering and to conquer, a God upon a prostrate Titan .'
If Clement Lorimer did not speak these words, he felt
dimly, yet intensely, the thought which these words convey :
and as that thought illumined his soul with a flood of
burning, purifying light, he felt, for the first time in his life,
the full innate dignity of Mind. An instant more, and he
was almost grateful that he had lost the Derby.
" Strange !" he murmured, " but since last night a pre-
sentiment that my life is entering on a stage of storms has
taken hold of me. It is not fancy,— I am cool, perfectlv cool,
and can look steadily in upon my soul. It is the warning
shadow of coming events which darkens it. Up to this time
my hopes have not known a disappointment, my schemes
have not known a cross. The tide has turned, and I must
pull against it. Aye, and I am glad of it. I have lived long
enough in gilded sloth, careless of all but the excitement or the
pleasure of the hour. Now for a plunge into the icy current
of a struggling life, now to try if its waters will not brace
me to dare— to do,— aye, and to suffer !"
In a few moments Lorimer had settled his plans. He
■would go to sea for one M'cek in his yacht, in order to enjoy
perfect solitude, and to refresh and re^-invigorate his physical
powers. Then he proposed to return to town, manfully face
his disasters, examine into his affairs, and find, if possible, the
clue to the secret of his birth. As soon as he had settled
this in his mind, he rose, glanced at the glass, and then
proudly murmured to himself, —
No, I have seen many, but I never saw the face of a
ruined man so calm before."
As he continued almost instinctively to gaze upon the
glass, he saw that it reproduced another face besides his own.
Framed, as it were, in the window opposite to the mirror, was
THE LOSERS. 77
the head and upper part of the figure of a man. The fea-
tures were distorted with a wild expression of demoniac
triumph, and the black eyes glared and sparkled beneath the
bushy grey eyebrows.
" A winner by the race," thought Lorimer. " Luck
seems to have turned his brain." Then he saw that the man
was gazing through the window at the reflection of his (Cle-
ment's) own features in the mirror, and it struck him that
the mad expression of gratified hate, which glared from the
face of the stranger, appeared to fade away as he contem-
plated the calm features revealed to him by the glass, until
at length all indication of strong passion — passion perhaps
occasionally uncurbed by the bond of reason — had passed
awaj', leaving the bright eyes illumined only by the light of
intellect, and the features noble in their calm placidity. For
a moment Lorimer, as though fascinated, continued to gaze
upon the two faces reflected in the mirror: his own, pale and
young ; the stranger's, pale and old. Both pale, and both
— ha ! what a thought flew through the startled soul of
the gazer! — both similar in feature and in expression — the
one the young version of the other, — as it were the faces of
father and son. The vision lasted but for a moment. Lori-
mer felt again that foreboding of coming events, that unde-
finable stir within him, as though his soul, forewarned from
without, was girding up its loins for great deeds or great
suffering. Then making a desperate effort he wrenched him-
self round towards the window — the man was gone. He
rushed to the casement, flung it open, and looked out, but
hundreds of figures Avere moving restlessly backwards and
forwards. Many faces were there, but the strange old
double of his young features was nowhere to be seen ; so
with flesh, which in spite of himself crept and shuddered, he
shut down the window.
As he did so Raphael Benosa turned the corner of the
Grand Stand, and as he pushed his way amid the crowd mut-
tered to himself, —
" So — a calm voice and a strong soul. With the brave
the first blow is not half the battle. Be it so. I hate to fight
— sapling to steel. Now it will be blade to blade, and hilt
to hilt. Yet I have the advantage. I have the knowledge !
Ha ! T have the sun !"
78 CLEMENT LORIMER.
As the old man pronounced these words he flung aloft
his arms with a passionate gesture. Immediately a voice
sounded in his ears, —
" Now, then, old Shandrydan ! are you going mad for
grief because you've lost a glass of brandy-and-vvater on the
Derby?"
" There's only one specific," remarked another voice, in a
tone of drunken gravity, — " there's only one specific against
sorrow occasioned by the loss of bets, and that is, to hug
yourself in the consciousness that you can't pay them : I'm
embraced in that species of hug myself."
The question and the advice came from the box-seat of
a four-in-hand coach, and on that box-seat were stationed
Owen Dombler and his friend Mr. SpifHer. The former
not having lost sufficiently to take away his appetite was
eating ; the other, being about as much ruined as a gentle-
man not possessed of either landed or personal property
could be, was drinking. The natural consequence was that
the clerk was sober and the prophet drunk. As may be
supposed, however, the object of their remarks paid little
attention to them, and the next moment they were " chaffing"
somebody else.
Meantime Lorimer stood motionless by the window in
his solitary room. A rapping at the door caused him to
unlock it, and De Witz entered. The captain's face was
partly flushed, partly pale, and his hand trembled very much.
He sank down into a chair, and looked at Lorimer with a
fixed stare. At length he spoke.
"I'm off'! By — ! is not it a smash? U P, and no
mistake ! " And the captain uttered a long, loud whistle,
which gradually subsided into a species of whine, the
which dying away in its turn, the performer finished off" with
a discordant burst of song, the words keeping some sort of
hobbling time to the good old tune of Malbrook, in this
" ' He won it in a canter,
And so, to end all banter,
I turned a gay Levanter,
And walked myself away ! '
<' That's the time of day— eh, Clem? Brussels — Brussels
THE LOSERS. 79
— the sanctuary — the free city of our modern days — I salute
thee ! Any commands for the Montague de la Cour ?"
It was quite easy to see that Captain De Witz had sought
for consohation under his misfortune at the same source to
•which the ingenious Spiffler had applied.
" Here, Lorimer," he continued, pouring out half a
tumbler of wine from a decanter on the table, " drink, man I
sorrow is as dry as a lime-kiln in tlie Great Desert."
Lorimer took up the wine and looked at it.
"How do I know," he thought, "but that the devil
Avhich is besetting me may not now lurk in that crystal ?"
Then he threw the glass with its contents into the lire-place,
and poured out and drank a tumbler full of clear water.
"There is nothing so cowai'dly," he said, "as Dutch
courage."
At that moment there was heard a clamour of voices in
the passage, then a scuffling of feet, and in an instant the
door was burst violently open, and from the midst of a
shouting, struggling group, Sir Harrowby Trumps dragged
Flick forwai'd upon the floor. The coarse, pimply features
of the baronet were purple and swollen with passion ; the
foam he had churned lay in flakes on his thick, worm-like
lips ; his dress was soiled and disarranged ; and his brown,
brawny hands, glistening with rings, were twisted in the
neckcloth of the poor jockey, who, with his white-and-pink
jacket almost torn from his back, had evidently been dragged
violently along by the maddened turfite.
" Shame! shame ! Let go the man ! Shame ! " shouted
the crowd who mustered about the door. "Shame! — Where's
the police ? Where's the stewai'ds ? Is a man to be throttled
for losing a race ? "
"Back, ye curs! Back, d — you!" roared Sir Har-
rowby. " He's sold the race — he did ! "
" For shame, Trumps ! " said Lorimer. "Unloose your
grasp ! "
The baronet stared at him.
" I tell you he sold the race !" he said between his grinding
teeth.
" Hands off, I say, or "
"Well, then," thundered Trumps, "there!" and he
pushed poor Flick violently away, and glared at him as he
80 CLEMENT LORIMER.
stood pale, and panting, and rolling his eyes wildly about the
room.
"Trumps, are you a man — a gentleman ? Be cool — be
cool, sir ! If money has been lost, honour is still at stake."
"Oh!" roared the excited gambler, still glaring at the
jockej'. "Oh, if this country was like Russia, and you were
one of my serfs, oh, by the Lord I wouldn't Europe ring with
what I'd do to you !".
" Sir Harrowb}' Trumps," interposed Lorimer, " you are
in my room. You talk to a person in my service, not in
yours. Be silent — or leave us !"
There was a hum of approval from the spectators.
Trumps, perceiving that he had no supporters, grumbled out
some inarticulate oaths, and flung himself heavily into a
chair, wiping the perspiration from his hot, flushed face.
" Well, Flick," began the calm, rich voice of Lorimer,
" we made ourselves too sure, you see. Snapdragon was
a good horse, but not so good as we thought him."
The jockey made a mighty efi^brt to speak, but there was
a big swelling in his throat ; and he moved his lips and
gesticulated, but no voice came from his chest.
"I trusted you, Flick," continued Lorimer. "I trusted
you yesterdaj% and I trust you to-day. I know it was not
your fault."
The jockejf wrung his hands and shook his head.
" Ah," said Lorimer, " not yours ! Well, aud whose
was it ? "
Just at this moment the jockej' uttered a loud exclama-
tion. Lorimer, we may mention, was standing with his back
to the mirror, looking towards the window, and the jockey
fionted him. Consequently, when the stranger, whose ap-
pearance had already filled Lorimer with such strange
emotions, passed again, as he at that moment did before the
casement, the owner of Snapdragon saw the reality of that
vision in the glass, on which the eyes of the jockey were
fixed at the moment he uttered tlie involuntary cry which
proceeded from his lips. Again Lorimer sprang to the
window — again he looked vainly for his extraordinary visi-
tant. When he turned into the room, the jockey appeared to
liave recovered and partially manned himself. He was closely-
questioned, first, as to the cause of his exclamation, but he
THE FLY-BY-NIGHT. 81
gave' no satisfactory reply. " He did not know what had
made hiui behave so — it was involuntary — it was nervous-
ness. Sir'Harrowby had used him so roughly. He had seen,
nothing in particular — nobody in particular. He did not
know why they asked him." As to the race and the horse,
Flick's answers, though perfectly respectful, aiid given with
every evidence of deep feeling, appeared to Lorimer unsatis-
factory. " He was disappointed — of course he was : so were
many other people. These things did happen sometimes.
He could not help it — could not account for it: the race
was lost, and there was an end of it. He hoped and trusted
for better hick next time." It was evident nothing more
could be made of him, and so for the time he was dismissed.
Lorimer then sat down and wrote a hurried note to
Blane with respect to arrangements to .be made for settling-
day. As he wrote, Trumps and De Witz, who still remained,
observed that at almost every second word he cast a keen,
quick glance at the \vindow. When he had sealed his
despatch, Lorimer stood up and passed his hands across his
forehead.
"Like an ancient knight," he murmured, " I must go
forth to the task alone. Trumps, De Witz, good-by ! "
" Good-by ! " said the baronet : "and for how long?"
"I know not," replied Lorimer; "perhaps for ever!"
and passing out he left them staring at each other.
CHAPTER VIH.
THE FLY-BY-NIGHT.
Heaving and rolling with a long, sickly motion upon
the successive ridges of a tumbling ground-swell, her timbers
creaking and cracking as she wallowed in the deep trough of
the sea, — her canvass flapping in loud-sounding surges against
the rigging which restrained it, — thei'e lay upon the restless
ocean a small, jauntily-rigged cutter vessel, with sharp,
wedge-like bows, and a long, low, graceful quarter. It is
black night when we introduce our readers to her deck ; a
lowering and gloomy night to a landsman's eye, a threatening
G
82 CLEMENT LORIMEH.
one to a sailor's. The fitful breeze, \yhich has blown in puffs
all day, has taken off, and, with the exception of the slight
movements and currents of air, partly, if not wholly, produced
by the heaving of the waters, there is not a breath to stir the
heavy, torpid atmosphere which broods over the sea. Over-
head all is pitchy dark, except occasionally when the haze
partially opens, and shews a planet twinkling with the dim,
uncertain lustre of a star of the third magnitude. Only on
the south-eastern horizon of the ocean is there a wide, pal-
pable break in the dusky masses of cloud ; there, a broad,
straight streak of dim, ruddy light stretches across the line
of vision, in the midst of which, partially veiled by blur-
ring masses of shifting and spreading vapour, the moon is
surrounded by successive rings of murky halo, each getting
paler and paler, until the outward circle fades into the dim
glare of the horizontally lying belt of light, which rests, as it
were, upon the saw-like horizon of the distant waves. All
on board the cutter is hushed. The tiller is lashed amid-
ships, and the steersman, whose post is a sinecure in the calm,
is sitting on the low taffrail, swaying his body to keep time, as
it were, with the motion of the vessel, and occasionally looking
anxiously out in the direction of the boding streak of light in
the south-eastern sky. Presently a man ascends the little
companion ; two steps bring him to the binnacle ; and the
steersman rises and leans upon the jerking tiller, —
" Her head is west and by south now, sir," said the latter;
*' but she has been boxing round and round for the last
hour."
The new-comer looked abroad on all sides. Standing
with his face to the westward, he saw before him a bright,
steady light ; a little to the right was a ruddier and more
distant speck of fire, which was now and then obscured ;
about eight points of the compass to the left might be seen,
but only occasionally (when the cutter rose on the sea), a
small constellation of three lights, in the shape of a triangle,
with a very broad base. These appeared to be displayed on
board a ship. Behind the observer, placed in the position
which we have indicated, but still rather to the left, burned,
at a comparatively great elevation, two bright lights, one
above the other ; and right behind him could be indistinctly
seen a dim, ruddy point of fire, lying low, but fixed and im-
THE FLY-BY-NIGHT. 83
movable. From these lights the mariner accustomed to the
pilotage of the English Channel could at once fix the position
of his vessel. The one high, bright light burned in the
market-place of Calais; the intermittent, ruddy glow crowned
Cape Grinez ; the constellation of three was displayed from
the light-ship which marks the southern extremity of the
Goodwin Sands ; the two lights placed one above the other
denote the bold promontory called the South Foreland ; and
the low, ruddy^ speck is the harbour light of Dover.
Clement Lorimer's cutter-yacht, the Fly-by-Night, is
therefore lying, tossed by the billows, in the Straits of Dover,
about seven miles off the English coast, and Clement Lorimer
himself is standing by the steersman.
" Go forward," our hero said to his companion, "and ask
Captain Blockey to step this way.
" I suspect we shall have it presently," murmured Lorimer.
" Well, no matter ; the Fly-by-Night shall not turn tail to a
Channel blow, like a fresh-water craft from the cruising-
ground at Cowes."
He was interrupted by the approach of Captain Blocke}',
the acting commander of the yacht, a Dutch-built old sailor,
with a face browned and tanned by the suns and seas of
every latitude from the Line to the Antarctic Circle. For
Captain lUockey had led a tolerably roving life. He had
harpooned whales amid the icebergs, and shipped negroes from
tlie Bight of Benin ; he had groped his way through the
Straits of Magellan, and smuggled opium in China. The
man had passed a long life, which was nothing but a series of
escapes from death. But Captain Blockey was tough. The
yellow fever could not kill him in Cuba, and he had wea-
thered through the plague in the Levant ; he had once had
a wonderful escape from being roasted on the white beach of
a beauteous coral island in the South Seas, and had been all
but snapped up by a shark in the middle of the surf at
Madras. Of coui*se. Captain Blockey had served many
masters. When he was a man-of-war's man on the coast of
Africa, he had chased slavers, and when he sailed as mate on
board a slaver he had evaded men-of-war. Many colours had
flown over the grizzled head of this sailor of fortune. He
had knocked about in the Baltic under the glaring flag of the
Hanse Towns ; he had hoisted the tricolor on board of the
84 CLEMENT LORIiMER.
Brest lugger Le Coq Chantant, unfavourablj' known to manj'-
English revenue cruisers ; he had served the Spaniard west
of the Horn, and the Dutchman amid the spicj^ islands of the
Indian Archipelago. Captain Blockey had battled with
Nor-westers on the banks of Newfoundland, in a clipper
Yankee schooner, and seen white squalls amid the Isles of
Greece in a trim Maltese speronare. There was no rig he
did not understand, no language of which he had not a smat-
tering of the naval terms, no Cape which he had not doubled,
no roadstead in which he had not anchored. But Captain
Blockey had not been so prudent as he had been adventu-
rous ; he had made money like a horse and spent it like aa
ass ; and so old age had surprised him, unable to continue
his longer and more perilous voyages, and fain to direct the
coasting operations of a pleasure-yacht. Such was the gallant
tar whose opinion Lorimer now asked upon that all-important
topic at sea — the weather.
Captain Blockey pronounced decidedly in the matter.
" In an hour, these swells will begin to comb white hair,
and we shall be taking in a reef; an hour after, we shall be
plunging bows under, with three reefs in the mainsail and a
storm-jib ; and by daybreak, why, we'll either be lying to
under a trysail, or scudding under next to nothing at all, as if
the devil were kicking us behind ! "
" So be it," said Lorimer ; " it may be the last time I
shall sail the cutter. We sha'n't put up the helm till the Fly-
by-Night can't shew her nose to it."
"D — it !" said the captain, in great delight, "you
ought to have been a sailor, Mr. Lorimer ; you've got the
savour of the brine in you. You don't think the sea is the
sea till it begins to dance, and till the froth is flying like barm
out of the lee scuppers."
So saying, and rubbing his hands with delight at M'hat he
considered the pluck of his patron. Captain Blockey walked
forward to see all put in readiness for the gale which he ex-
pected. It was not long in coming. Lorimer, as he gazed
anxiously out upon the dim, leaden sea, saw the bright belt
on the horizon suddenly become clearer and wider, and then
white streaks glanced out upon the dull, dusky expanse of
Avater. The wind was coming fast. A low, hoarse roar —
the mingled sound of the moving current of air and of the
THE FLY-BY-NIGHT. 85
combing and breaking crests of the waves — made itself heard
amid the plunging of the cutter and the wild flapping of the
heavy canvass.
" Stand fast ! Here it comes I" shouted Blockey, grasp-
ing the tiller ropes ; and he had hardly spoken when a damp
column of cold air swept by the cutter, bellying out the can-
vass with a jerk, and wrenching the yielding mass, until it
bowed heavily over before the shock. Recovering from
the first impulse, the cutter struck her sharp bows into a
rolling sea, driving the green water over her weather bul-
warks, from the laowsprit almost to the mast ; and then,
rising gaily from the encounter, and pouring, by a heavy
lurch, the fluid from her decks, the yacht moved rapidly on,
— her head kept towards the French coast, and as near the
wind as she would lie.
The captain's prognostications as to the probably in-
creasing strength of the gale were amply verified. An hour
had not elapsed ere the Fly-by-Night was leaping from sea to
sea, plunging her sharp bows into the tumbling masses of
water with shocks which made her quiver to her keel, and
urged forward in her mad career by a tearing and struggling
mainsail, diminished almost to one-half its bulk by three
reefs and a tiny jib, which was frequently driven bodilj'
down into the water. It was a wild scene for a landsman's
eye ; but a sailor, confident of the qualities of his craft, and
aware that he had unlimited sea-room, would see nothing to
excite alarm in the situation of the yacht. Above, all was
black and starless, but tlie light eliminated from the beds of
sparkling foam, produced as each sea curled, combed, and
burst, more than made up for the gloom caused bj' the
density of the clouds. The gale itself blcAV with steadily
increasing strength, the roaring wind, coming thick and heavy
with the driving brine, caught up in pelting showers from the
summits of the waves.
Captain Blockey, aided by the oldest sailor on board, was
at the tiller, Avatching the run of the seas, and easing off the
cutter's bow as each mass of tilting water swept foaming by
her cutwater. Lorimer stood on the weather quarter, his
arm twined round a cracking back-stay, strung to the tension
of a harp-string, and his eye sparkling with excitement as the
little craft beneath him tossed and leaped, and tore through
86 CLEMENT LORIMER.
the M'ater. For he enjoyed the strife of the elements. The
unbridled storm without seemed an echo to the surging
agitation of his own soul. The presentiment that the stirring
epoch of his life was at hand had deepened and intensified
upon him; and as the wind howled aloud, and the wet
canvass struggled and surged against the resisting cordage,
and the labouring yacht staggered and wallowed with roaring
plunges deep into each successive ridge of foaming sea, his
working brain seemed to attune the mangled uproar into a
grand prelude to the unknown events beneath \vhose shadow
he was standing — into a fanciful and terrible overture to the
drama of a struggling manhood I
Hours passed thus. The yacht had of course made
several tacks so as to keep well away from either coast, and
the glimpses caught of the shore lights, when the haze
occasionally lifted from the Mater, shewed that, although an
extremely weatherly craft, she was barely holding her own
against the combined fury of the wind and sea.
Still Lorimer kept his position upon the weather-quarter,
his drenched hair flying back from his face, and his features
streaming with salt water.
" What a look-out you'd make," shouted Captain Blockey
in his ear ; "and to do it for the love of the thing too ! "
" A light on the lee bow I " roared one of the men
forward.
" You see you had better not trust to me," replied
Lorimer.
"It's a steamboat's light, sir, I think," put in one of the
hands at the tiller, bending down to see under the boom.
And so it was. She was standing athwart the hawse of
the Fly-by-Night, at half a cable's length, and the sails of the
latter were accordingly shivered to allow the steamer a wide
berth. She was proceeding down Channel in the teeth of
the gale ; battling her steady way, against wind and seas, as
though endowed with a fixed purpose which neither gale nor
waves could bend. There was something grand in the
onward passage of that dusky mass, urged forward by a self-
impelling power, her bows diverging neither to the right nor
the left, but keeping ever, as it were steadily fixed to one
unseen, unknown point. The gazers in the cutter could see
that a great portion of her paddle-boxes had been rent away,
THE FLY-BY-NIGHT. €7
and the huge revolving wheels flung the foaming water high
into the air. Not a sign of human life was visible on board ;
but high above the x'oar of wind and water the shriek of the
escaping steam rang up into the air, and a long bright streak
flj'ing to leeward from the aperture of the waste pipe shewed
like a white pennant streaming forth upon the nigiit. And
so, plunging heavily on, tilting with sea after sea, and fling-
ing the baffled waves loftily aside, the steam-driven ship
passed on her way and was seen no more.
The gale was now near its height. It was not a storm of
the first magnitude, but one of those stinging bursts of wild
weather which occasionally break in upon the gentle summer-
time, and leave their handvvriting on the shores in the shape
of stranded coasters and capsized and foundered boats. The
little Fly- by-Night behaved nobly, tipping like a duck over the
wild ridges of angry water, bending under her close-reefed
mainsail and storm-jib, so as to immei'se three or four of the
leeward planks of her deck in the buzzing, foaming brine ;
and sometimes, but not often, when she plunged at a
combing wave taking in a ton or two of clear green water
over her bows. It might have been about an hour before day,
• — when the darkness is always most intense, — that Lorimer,
who still kept his station on the weather-quarter of the yacht,
thought, as the cutter rose upon the crest of a sea, that he
caught a glimpse of a pile of white canvass standing out
against the dark sky, and appearing to belong to a large
square-rigged vessel, careering before the gale, and pursuing
a course which, in all human probability, would bring her
I'ight upon the cutter's broadside. Uttering a half-stifled
exclamation, he caught Captain Blockej^'s arm, and pointed
eagerly to windward. At that moment they sank into the
deep trough of the sea, and the foaming crown of the coming
wave formed their only horizon. In an instant the yacht
was of course again swung upwards, and then, apparently
close upon them, roaring through the waves, and driving a
huge double column of foam from her ample bows, appeared
the dusky hull of a large ship, urged onward right before the
wind by the ample spread of her courses and double-reefed
topsails. She appeared to be barely twice her own length
from the cutter. Lorimer saw the glitter of lier copper as
she rolled and her bows rose di-ipping fioni tlie sea. Anotlver
88 CLEMENT LOUIMER.
second, and it •would ap])ear as though the huge, careering
mass would have ihuiulered down upon the tiny cutter,
crushing her as lixlling granite would crush an egg-shell.
Forming a trumpet with his hand, Blockey uttered a
roar which spread around above the hoarse uproar of the
dements, —
" Helm a starboard ! hard a sta-a-arboard — ahoy ! "
Lorimer grasped the stay with fingers as rigid as the rope
they surrounded. The cutter fell again into the trough ; but
they could see the sails of the scudding ship broad upon the
quarter.
" A shave — for our lives — it's touch and go ; if we scrape
clear, then I was not born to be drowned after all!".
The words had hardly passed the captain's lips, when lo !
within a fathom of the cutter's boom, Hinging herself, as it
were, on the towering crest of a tremendous sea, there shot
past them, amid the loud hissing roar of rapidly cloven water,
the massive bulk of a huge shi[), with her glancing copper
and dusky bulwarks, and dimly-seen fabric of masts and
spai-s, and tense rigging, and bellying, struggling canvass.
Lorimer involuntarily held his breath and closed his eyes :
when he opened theni the ship was but a half-blurred mass far
down to leeward.
" Thank God," he murmured, " we are still atioat ! "
*' I have had a good many close squeaks," replieil Blockey,
"but nothing ever closer than that. No thanks to the
Yankee, thougii, that wc are not at this moment inspecting
the sea-weed some thirty fathoms under tiie keel."
"You think the ship was an American, then?"
" A New Yorker — nu)st ])robably a liner. Did not you
see the squareness of his yards? To give the devil his due,
the star and stripes Hoat over as ship-shape crafts as any on
the ocean." And the captain of the yacht, giving his
(lerman tinder a smart rub over a dry spot of the bulwarks,
set to work to light his cigar.
In half-an-hour the pale grey of tjic dawn began to
shine upon the turbulent watei-s, and Captain Blockey gave
it as his o])inion that about sunrise the gale would favour
them with a parting salvo, wilder than any thing they had
yet experienced, and would then probably rapidly subside.
The morning came, dim and grey ; a pall of driving mist
THE FLY-BY-NIGHT. 89
swept over the white crests of the seas, and reduced the visible
circle of their horizon to~a ring of about a mile in diameter.
Of course no land was visible ; l)ut the cutter, when the light
came, was, according to Captain Blockey's estimate, not
very far from the place she had occupied the previous even-
ing, before the coming on of the gale. It was then that the
parting blow, which the weatherwise captain had predicted,
fell upon the struggling craft. There was a momentary lull,
and the cutter rose on an even keel, while the wet mainsail
flapped like thunder. Then suddenly the mist to windward
was rent asunder, shewing an expanse of water, not furrowed
into the usual ridges, but one white tumbling bed of foam.
In another moment, the cutter, struck down as though by a
powerful enemy, wallowed on her beam-ends, the sea pour-
ing like a cataract over her weather bulwarks, and the tem-
pest hurling through the air a loud hissing shriek, which rose
over the deeper thunder of the waves.
"Up helm I — hard up! Get her before it, boys I "
roared I31ockey from his post in the weather rigging, as soon
as the Mater would allow him to fetch breath. A less lively
craft than the yacht would probably have gone bodily down
as she lay ; but every man on board was confident in her
splendid capabilities as a sea-boat. Nor did she disappoint
them. Raising hur.'^elf from the shock, and moving heavily
onward, she felt and yielded to the impulse of the rudder.
Then the bows fell off from the sea, and in a moment her
crew felt the sharp pitching dig of a close-hauled vessel,
changed for the buoyant, luxurious roll of a ship travelling
with wind and sea.
"Ease off the main sheet!" ordered the captain. The
heavy boom swung away broad on the beam, and the Fly-
by-Night, bounding forward like a racer, flew on in the
very heart of the squall, chasing and beating the foaming
seas as though ship and waves were living things, gambolling
and speeding on together.
" Up through the Downs, I suppose, Mr. Lorimer ? " said
the captain, pitching his wet cigar into the sea. " We'll be
obliged to grope our way for an hour or so; but I think the
worst is over, and the fog will lift before we're much past Deal.
Here, you forward — rouse out a lead-line ! " and the captain
seriously addressed himself to the important business of
90 CLEMENT LORIMER.
sounding. Twenty minutes had scarcel)'- elapsed when he
confidently pronounced that the cutter had doubled the South
Foreland and was running into the Downs. The wind had gone
considerably down, and the speed of the yacht had, of course,
fallen with it ; but the sea still combed and broke with great
fury, and the mist still packed heavily upon the ocean. All
at once a deep smothered explosion rolled over the water.
Captain Blockey pricked up his ears, and stood motionless,
with the lead-line twisted round his hand. In a moment it
was heard again, coming from seaward, and in a direction
rather ahead of the cutter.
" Boat ahead, sir ! " sung out one of the men from the
forecastle.
" Boat on the starboard bow, sir ! " roared another.
" Aye, aye," said Blockey, " it's plain enougli. Look,
sir." Lorimer obeyed, and saw two lugger-rigged boats,
each of them carrying a mere rag of canvass on their fore-
masts, and a still smaller mizen-sail aft, rising over tiie white
crests of the waves, and then disappearing, sails and all, in
the troughs of the sea.
" There's a ship on the sands. That was her firing ; and
there's two Deal men going off to her."
" If it should be the American who so nearly ran us down
last night," suggested Lorimer.
Blockey thought for a moment, made a mental memo-
randum of the course which they were steering when the
liner crossed their track at i-ight angles, and then, lighting a
fresh cigar, coolly said, he should not wonder. Just then
a third gun was fired to seaward, but this time the report
appeared to come over the cutter's quarter.
" We have passed her, whatever it is," observed the
captain.
"Port the helm, sir! — hard a port!" was shouted from
the forecastle. " There's floating wreck just ahead."
The direction M'as obeyed, and, as the cutter diverged to
the right of her course, a cluster of broken spars with a mass
of tangled rigging rose upon the crest of a wave, so close
to the bows that it might have been touched with a boat-
hook from the forecastle. At the same moment the cutter
rose high upon a sea, and Lorimer's keen eye caught the
flapping of female drapery amid the coils of cordage and the
AN AUTHOR IK SEARCH OF A SUBJECT. 91
splinters of broken wood. Springing on the low bulwark,
and at the same instant winding the lead-line round his arm,
Lorin er, heedless of the cry which burst from every man
upon the cutter's decks, sprang with one vigorous bound
X the foaming sea. The water closed over 1- j^^ -t^j a
.ur-ing crash; then he rose to the surface — the wieck was
clo^e to him-three desperate strokes, aiid he had grasped
a tangled mass of blocks and cordage and raised himself out
of the water. He was right ; a female figure lay hi he midst
of the wreck, clinging with a death-gnp to a broken spar.
An instant sufficed to unclasp her hold to grasp her firmly
in his arms, to cast round both of them halt-a-dozen coils of
le lead-line, and then to spring boldly back into the sea
The ^^•ater surged and boiled around Lonmer as he halt
swam was half dragged to the cutter's side, and the thunder
of 2' I'fing sea was mingling in his ears with the rousing
cheer of the crew, as he found himself on the deck of the
vacht kneeling by the insensible form of a young and lovely
v«"4o1ay\van and motionless befoi-e him her ong
hair streaming over her shouldei-s, and her face, cold, blood-
less, placid, the blue-veined lids of her eyes closed, her lips
'vhite, and still quivering, as it seemed, with the motion of
'^^^^^MTpot one_so pretty and so young ! Is she gone?"
murmured Blockey, kneeling beside her, and speaking m as
plaintive a tone as could be assumed by a voice which foi-
fifty years had been accustomed to shout in the teeth of
hurricanes.
There was a pause. . . „ , j ..p
-xVo'" exclaimed Lorimer, gently raising the head ot
the insensible woman-" no ! By heaven she breathes !
CHAPTER IX.
AN AUTHOR IN SEARCH OF A SUBJECT.
Mr. R\nson Spiffler— his Christian name was John,
but he called himself " Ranson," because it looked better at
the head of an article— returned from the Derby very tipsy,
92 CLEMENT LORIMER. '
was assisted to bed by Owen Dombler, and woke next
morning with a rousing headache, and an abominable
swimming in his brain, which rendered a matter of some
difficulty the perusal of a letter which arrived with the
earliest post, and which contained his dismissal from the
honourable post of Sporting Prophet in ordinary, to that
famous weekly journal, " The Time o' Day." This accident
affected Mr. Spiffler very little ; for being used to the chances
and changes, the fortunes and misfortunes of wai*, which
the Modern Literary Free Lance must put up with — as
did his ancient prototype before him — he immediately
addressed himself to search for another banner beneath
which his services might be enlisted. Pending his success,
however, — divers pressing claims having to be attended to, —
Mi\ Spiffler was obliged to undertake a rather severe course
of magazining, corresponding with country papers, furnishing
the literary and dramatic matter for minor weekly journals,
and so forth ; so that, by the end of a week, nobody will be
astonished to learn that Mr. Spiffler's ideas, though well spun
out, Avere running somewhat short, and that occasionally, in
place of writing, he found himself drawing a series of
cartoons of doubtful genius upon his blotting-paper pad.
It happened, at length, towards the afternoon of the day
following the night the events of which have been detailed
in the last chapter, that the author found himself perfectly
aground. He had still an imaginative article to write, and
not the ghost of an idea would rise at his bidding. He
fidgeted on his seat, tried a course of new pens, made an
experiment with note instead of post paper, flung himself on
his face on the sofa, sat in extraordinary positions on chairs,
and finally poured cold water on the back of his head ; but all
in vain ! For the time being, he was exhausted. The most
desperate efforts could only evoke dreary platitudes, and^little
by little the ability to ])roduce even those vanished, until, as
Mr. Spiffler himself said, all his brain seemed melted down,
and his skull was full of nothing but fog. Then, flinging
down his pen, he caught up his hat. " Fll walk this off," he
said to himself: "nothing like a stroll for making you think."
And the next moment he was in tlie Strand. Mr. Spiffler
stood a moment undetermined at the corner of the street
which debouched upon the great thoroughfare, and then
AX AUTHOR IN SEARCH OF A SUBJECT. 93
turned East. He sauntered gloomily along, his eye ranging
carelessly over the well-known objects of his walk — the
familiar shops and the swarming street. The air and the
change of scene produced their usual stimulating effects. An
idea for a tale struck him. His eye brightened and his step
cjuickened, as the subject grew and expanded in his viviEying
mind. It was a complicated love story. The mutual at-
tachment of hero and heroine commenced in Fleet Street ;
a necessary cause of misunderstanding was found in St.
Paul's Churchyard; and an unexpected incident thrilled upon
the author's brain in Cornhill. "Good — decidedly good!"
said Sjiiffler to himself; and seeing an inviting tavern, he
entered and regaled himself with a glass of stout, as a reward
for his ingenuity. Then he continued his ramble : the tale
prospered all along Aldgate and High Street, Whitechapel,
and he was not far from Mile-end gate when a most dramatic
denouement flashed upon him. " Bravo ! " he thought ; " I'll
have another glass of malt, and then be off home again."
But, whether there was a screw really loose in the purposed
wind-up of the plot, or whether the second glass of malt had
rather a muddling than an inspiring quality, it so chanced
that Mr. Spitfler found his brain rapidly becoming as hazy as
before, and the strands of the tale, as it were, starting and
untwisting beneath his hand. Uttering a few inward
expressions of more vigour than sanctitj', the author pushed
rapidly on, plunging from street to street, as though he were
pursuing the fleeting ideas of his brain. For nearly an hour
he walked utterly at random — threading his way through
labyrinths of mean streets, and occasionally crossing large
thoroughfares, of an open and suburban character, with
broad and partially unpaved trottoirs, and occasional rows of
ancient elms, until at length, with an exclamation of disap-
pointment at the non-success of his mental travail, he stopped
short and looked about him.
He was in an unfrequented and shabby-looking street.
Close to him stood an unpretending bricken church, of
poverty-stricken Gothic ; and stretching along the way lay
the churchyard, in which a man was digging a grave.
Spiffler was tired, so, entering by the open gate, he sat down
on a tombstone, and began to curse the hero and heroine of
94 ; CLEMENT LORIMER.
his tale for their obstinacy in refusing to be worked into the
plot which he had been constructing with so much useless
toil. Then leaning upon an upright stone, he began mecha-
nically to read the inscriptions about him. Amid the com-
monplace monuments around, one tombstone particularly
excited the author's attention. It was a round block of pure
white marble, without a stain or flaw, on which, ujDon the
ezistern side, was engraved, in deep, black letters, the single
Avord, —
Evtud)tim.
Spiffler inspected the stone curiously, but it bore no
other memento — not even a date or an initial. Then he sat
down opposite to it, and began to nmse.
"There's a story connected with that stone:" so ran his
ponderings. "A single name — a female name — a foreign
name. I may as well pick up a hint or two if 1 can. I'll go
and ask that fellow digging the grave."
And so saying — or rather so thinking — Spiffler walked
off to the labourer. He was a squat, commonplace-looking
fellow, and as the author approached he stood breast-deep
in the grave, leaning on his spade.
*' Curious tombstone that," remarked Spiffler, indicating
the marble block. " You don't happen to know who's buried
there, eh ? "
"No I don't," said the man, civillj' ; " it was there afore
me or my pardner worked this ground. I reckon it's put on
some one as 'ad a misfortune — a young lady, perhaps. You
know" — and the man winked significantly: "the friends
was close, likely, and didn't Mant no names spoken of."
" Ah, not a bad guess," said Spiffler. " I thought as
much myself. Poor girl I died of a broken heart ! Treuch-
den ! what a funny name! — there's nothing rhymes to it!
And so no one knows anything about her? "
" Yes, but there does," said the gravedigger quickly.
" Ah ! who is that ? "
"An l^old gent, the rummiest old cove you ever see, as
comes here most days in the week. He has fits — he has —
souictimes — and falls down among the graves, a-hoUerring
and whooping like mad." , .
AN AUTHOR IK SEARCH OF A SUBJECT. 95
"|Tell me," said Spiffler, greatly interested, — "tell me
all you know al)out the old man. Come, I'll make it worth
your while."
"Yes; but I have told all as I knows on — except, per-
haps, that if he'd any friends they'd a-been and locked
him up long ago."
"I see," said Spiffler, tapping his forehead.
" That's about it, sir, and no mistake," replied the grave-
"It's clear — it's quite clear," muttered the author, his
thoughts running on bookmaking. " Treuchden — a Dutch or
Flemisli name. Ah I — yes! — of course — a young English
student at — Ley den, perhaps — the Burgomaster's daughter
— romantic attachment — elopement — arrival in England —
desertion — death — remorse and ultimate madness of the
seducer — with an epilogue about the tombstone ! I see — it
will do capitally ! "
"Hush!" exclaimed the gravedigger. "Talk of the
devil — here he is ! "
And a tall old man came pacing amongst the tombs.
"By Heaven !" cried Spiffler, "I've seen that face — I've
seen that face before ! Where was it ? where could it
have been ? " And he racked his brain to discover.
Meantime Benosa walked straight to the white marble
tomb, and stood before it in an humble attitude, as a criminal
might before a judgment-seat. Spiffler watched him closel}'.
Sharp twitches passed over his grim features, and now and
then he bowed his head, as though listening to an invisible
speaker. Then he flung his arms wildly about, his lips
moved fast as though he were muttering to himself, and his
gaunt frame shook with emotion.
Presently the church clock struck three. The stranger
started, turned quickly round, made what appeared to
Spiffler to be an obeisance to the tomb, and then, with a
rapid motion, buttoned to his chin his long surcoat, and
walked away.
" There's a old lunatic — just," remarked the gravedigger.
The author sat on a stone plunged in thought.
Meantime Benosa Avalked out of the churchyard, and
stopped upon the pavement opposite the central door of the
96 CLEMENT LORIMER.
church. Here, as the chimes struck the quarter past, he
M^as jouied bj^ Blane.
" Mr. Lorimer will be at home to-night — be has \vritteD,"
said the latter.
" To-night he will be homeless," replied Benosa, in his
usual calm, impassible manner.
" He is bringing some people to London he saved at
sea."
"Let him find a roof to shelter them. The legal posses-
sion of the Park Lane house now rests in me ?"
" It does ; all that was easily arranged. I could have
made Lorimer sign anj'thing."
" Then, within an hour, my agents shall be in actual
possession, and from them he shall learn that he is penniless.
Is Sir Harrowby Trumps in London ? "
" I believe so ; but out of the way."
" Good ! I have no more need of you at present. Go
to Abingdon Street and sleep there."
The speaker waved his hand, and the twain parted with-
out further words.
All turned out as Benosa had spoken. That night a post-
chaise drew up at a house in Park Lane : admission was
refused to the man who demanded it. There was a violent
altercation. A crowd collected. It was dispersed by the
police, and the post-chaise, with all its occupants, moved
away. It stopped again at a West-end hotel, and from it
there descended a thin elderly man, a stout elderly female,
a young girl, exquisitely beautiful, but deadly pale, and a
young man, who, instead of following the party who entered
the hospitable portal, turned abruptly away and disappeared.
At that moment the thin man said, . with a strong
American accent, —
" Ne-ow, then, whei'e is Mr. Lorimer?"
The stout lady echoed the inquiry ; the beautiful girl
looked it. But no one could give any information upon the
subject.
Clement Lorimer was gone.
A NIGHT IN THE STREETS. 97
CHAPTER X.
A NIGHT IN THE STREETS.
With his hat pulled low upon his forehead, with knit
brows and clenched teeth, Clement Lorinier strode away
from the door of the hotel. What he conceived, in his short-
sightedness, to be the crowning-blow, had fallen on him.
The cloud had been gradually darkening ; for days ruin had
been in prospect, and he had dared to look it in the face ;
but now the actual crash rung around him. Lorimer had as
brave, as tough, and sinewy a spirit, as falls to the lot of most
men, but he was stunned, bewildered, by the last catastrophe.
Literal beggary was what he had hardly contemplated ; but
here he was homeless, houseless — absolutely a pauper! He
put his hand into his pocket. With the exception of some two
or three shillings, he was destitute. For a moment he seemed
inclined to laugh : there was something wildly ludicrous in
the idea. He, Clement Lorimer, who had never in his life
felt the want of a hundred pounds — he, the owner of a west-
end palace, of carriages, of yachts, of racers — that he should
find himself, in a single instant, a homeless, penniless man !
The idea could hardly be realised. It overwhelmed, as it
were, the brain ; numbed and paralysed it, as an electric
shock might the limbs, leaving behind merely a dull aching
thrill — a sense of heavy, half-felt, half-frozen pain.
Presently, little by little, the mind began to rally from
the blow. Lorimer thought of the transformations in the
Arabian Nights — of princes and emperors changed by magic
into dogs and owls — and began to wonder if their state of
mind after the catastrophe could have been in any degree
like his own. For, cavil as you will, the man who finds
himself at one crash turned from a millionaire into a pauper,
undergoes, if not in fact, at least in effort, very nearly as
tremendous a revolution as befel any of our childhood's
Eastern friends, when some potent enchanter sprinkled over
them a fevv drops of clear water, upon which, instead of the
merchant or the prince, there stood before the magician a bird
or a beast.
H
98 CLEMENT LORIMER.
Thus musing Lorimer began to recover his self-pos-
session, and to turn his mind with calmness to the exi-
gencies of his position, when another consideration burst
like lightnijig upon him. His debts ! how did they stand ;
— who were his creditors? — and, above all, his turf debts !
the vast sums for which he had become liable by the defeat
of Snapdragon on Epsom Downs ! The thought was ap-
palling. It scared his very soul. To be stripped of what he
possessed was a blow ; but he could bear it, he had manfully
borne it. But the debt, an unknown, mighty load of debt,
hanging like a rock of granite above his head ! No mortal,
neither flesh nor soul, could withstand its crushing fall.
Then, for the first time, Lorimer felt his blood grow cold
within him, and his stout heart shrink, and quail, and
sicken.
"Madman!" he mutteied to himself. " Infatuated I
doomed ! could I not have foreseen a fate different from
other men? Has not my life been a black mj'stery even to
myself? have I not been the toy of some tremendous hidden
power — tiie toy long played with, long cherished — but now, at
la-^t, to l)e broken in the hollow of the hand ? And I never
sought to discover the secret of my birth — of my parents!
I lived on in idleness, and folly, and debauch, thoughtless and
careless, nntii, i:i a moment, from out the sunny air the levin
boit has struck me."
Uttering an inarticulate cry of agony, Lorimer rushed
mechanically forwards, uncaring and unwitting whither he
went. His heart beat thick and fast, his temples throbbed,
and, when he pressed them with his hand, he felt how the
heat of fever radiated from his brain. The long lines of
lamps began to dance and flicker before his eyes ; passengers
and vehicles dashed past him like the dim half-seen images of
a troubled dream. Then the whole outward scene around
seemed strangely blended with the turmoil of thought within.
He hardly knew whether he looked upon realities or upon
jiliantasms. He heard voices in the air, which mingled with
the roar of passing carriages; he saw mocking faces, which
hovered about his own. In his madness he shouted aloud,
struck random blows at the phantoms which beset him, and
tlien. suddenly losing all consciousness, tiell heavily upon the
pavement.
A NIGHT IN THE STREETS. 99
When he opened his eyes, he found himself stretched
upon a bench in the bar of a small and quiet public-house.
The landlady, a buxom dame in satin, was bending over him,
and untying his neckerchief; the landlord, a meek little
man with an apron, was holding his wife's vinaigrette to his
nose ; two or three habitues of the place were smoking clay-
pipes, and wondering whether the gentleman had got apo-
plexy or was simply intoxicated ; and the policeman, who
had raised Lorimer from the ground, was in the act of
hurrying off for the divisional surgeon.
" We're never to lose time in them cases," said the
latter functionary ; " perhaps it's a stomach-pump business,
you know."
" No, no I I've taken no poison I" said Lorimer, faintly.
"Ah, bless you! There I he'll soon come round — the
colour is coming back to his cheeks already," murmured
the landlady. "Make hira a little port-wine negus — poor
gentleman ! "
"Well," grumbled her husband, "it's as well to be
charitable; and, besides, he looks as if he could pay for it."
A mouthful of the hot mixture in some degree revived
Lorimer, and he was lifted in a reclining position against the
wall. He was still unable to stir his limbs, and he felt
deadly faint as, with closed eyes, he lay listening mechani-
cally to the conversation around him. The policeman, under
pretence of looking after the gentleman in the fit, was being
treated by the men with clay-pipes at the bar, and in return
was regaling them with some choice morsels of police
experience.
"Ah, he's a reg'lar bad un, is George," said one of the
men.
" He's wanted now very pe'ticklar," replied the police-
man. " For that job down by Ponder's End — a reg'lar out-
and-out burglary that was, sure-ly I It 'ud be worth twenty
pound in a poor man's pocket to meet him — it would ! "
"Who are you talking of?" inquired the landlady, with
some disdain.
"Of Georgy Simmons, ma'am! — old Simmons' son as
kept the chandlery shop down King Street^him as broke
the old man's heart."
iOO CLEMENT LORIMER.
" And that's true," struck in the landlord " He was
bad from the beginnin'. I know'd him when he oiFer a
bad shillin' at this bar for 'avannar cigars, — did that boy — -
before he was ten years old."
" He warn't more nor twelve when I had him in charge
the first time as he was locked up," said the policeman.
" My eye, warn't it a rum go, nyether ! "
" What was that, polisraan ? " inquired the landlady, in
a tone of dignified curiosity.
" Why, you see, 'urn, there was an old lady as lodged
in Simmons's — -the three-pair back —and teuk the fever, and
<.ied on it. So in course they laid her out all regular, and,
'case the old lady was somethink of a lady, and had some tin,
they put a couple of bright crown pieces, as she kep in a
sharaoy leather-bag round her neck, a-top of her eyes to
keep em shut. Well, ma'am, who should see the body but
(ieorgy Simmons, and thinks he, ' Them crowns 'ud be jolly
useful to me, and penny-pieces would do just as well for the
old gal.' "
" Ugh — the brute !" said the landlady.
The men laughed.
" Well, 'um, sure enough, that very night up he goes,
with a shaded rushlight, into the room, and whips off" the
crowns. Blow'd if the old lady didn't open both her eyes,
as though she wor in astonishment ! ' Never mind, mum,'
says Georgy, 'it's all right — it is, mum,' says he; and he
claps on the coppers, and cuts down stairs like winkin', and
off out with the money. The grandson of the old lady
comes to our station next day, and gives information of the
robbery, and that very evening I see the young un loitering
about the Yorkshire Stingo. He got three months for it —
he did ! "
" And serve him right !" said the landlady, in great in-
dignation ; '* and I hope he'll soon be among the kan-
garoos."
"Well, ma'am,*' said the officer, "I think that's pretty
sure — that is "
The gossipers were interrupted by a movement of Lari-
mer, and turning round they saw that he had risen, and
was supporting himself against the wall.
A NIGHT IN THE STREETS. 101
" I have to thank j'ou all," he said, in a low, feeble voice ;
"you have been very — very kind! I — I am better now,
and the fresh air will quite restore me !"
" Are you sure — quite sure, sir?" said the landlady.
"Quite," replied Loriraer. "It was only a fit — a
sudden faintness — a giddiness! I have been excited and
worried; but I am well now — quite well!"
All offer of remuneration being generously and firmly
declined — by the landlady, because Lorimer was such a
mild, sweet-spoken young gentleman — by the landlord,
because his xvife would not let him touch a farthing — ajid
by the policeman, because he was afraid of taking money
for the discliarge of his duty before witnesses — Lorimer
turned to go, when his eye fell ujx)n a figure which rivetted
him to the spot.
In a window recess, on the opposite side of the bar to
that in which he had been deposited, sat, apparently in a
state of tipsy torpor, his clothes torn and soiled, his face
sunken and unshaved, and sodden with continued drunken-
ness, the once smart and trimly-attired Tim Flick. He
looked up at Loriraer, but there was no recognition, no
mind, in the glare of his fixed, blood-shot eyes.
"How long has that man been here? how long has he
been in this state?"
The landlord shook his head.
" It's a humbling sight, sir ! That there 's Flick the
jockey, who rode the Favourite at the Derby. I hear he's
never been sober since : they say there was foul play, and
the owner of the 'oss was ruined."
" Ah ! " said Lorimer. " Who says so ? "
" I don't know, sir," replied the man. "I only hear it
talked about like."
" And has that man, Flick, said anything?"
" Nothin' sir! — nothin' that can be made out! He
grumbles and mutters ; but you see the state he's in
yourself, sir ! It will not be many more Derbies that he'll
ride."
The jockey caught up the word.
"Derbies!" he muttered, in thick, almost unintelligible
accents. " Derbies ! I've a-ridden seventeen and won five,
and I never sold "
102 CLEMENT LORIMER.
He did not complete the sentence, but, with a sudden
start, became silent, and seemed to shrink within himself.
Of all those present Clement Lorimer alone knew how, in
former days, the assertion would have been finished.
All at once the drunkard started up, —
" Back !" he roared ; "stand back — he's the swiftest 'oss
in Europe, and no one shall doctor him. No one — back —
back I say! Eh I what's that? — the check! — oh, mercy,
mercy ! "
And staggering forwards, he fell heavily upon the table,
splintering the glass of spirits and water which stood before
him.
The bystanders looked at each other.
"Delirium tremens!" said the policeman. "I often
see men like that. Unless he's looked to soon, that's a gone
man, that is ! "
"Let all care be taken of him here," said Lorimer.
" Get medical attendance — every thing requisite — I will be
responsible."
The landlady would be only too happy : the landlord
coincided, only be would be glad of the gentleman's address.
The word went like a red-hot wire through Lorimer's
brain. The blood mantled up in his cheeks as he stammered
out, in evasive reply, that he would return on the morrow,
and that, in the meantime, his friend Dr. Gumbey would
receive instructions to call upon the poor wretch before
them.
In a moment afterwards Lorimer was in the street. He
was faint and exhausted, but the cool night air revived him,
and he walked slowly on, his limbs trembling and shivering
beneath him. Again and again he tried to discipline his
mind to a calm and steady consideration of his position.
But the over-wrought brain refused to perform its functions
of thought. It received the images conducted to it by the
organs of sense, but it failed to arrange, or classify, or retain
them. Often during his after-life Lorimer tried to recall
distinctly the events of that night, but in vain, A dim haze
hung over it. The fever-fog was abroad upon his mind, and
only broken, disjointed recollections rose, like pinnacles,
above it. He remembered standing under a pillared portico.
Lights flashed about him — carriages, all glancing in the
A NIGHT IN THE STREETS. 103
glare, dashed by — groups of company flocked around —
women enveloped in cacheuieres and ermined drapery — and
men in all the elegance of evening toilet; — while on every side
there rose up into the summer night the rich joyous sounds
of laugiiter and mirthful words. Then it appeared to
Lorimer that he was one of the crew assembled in a night
musical tavern. There were flaring gas-lights toned down by
rolling clouds of tobacco smoke, and long tables, lined down
all the vista with double rows of red, excited faces, and the
walls around rung to the roaring chorus of a drinking-song.
Anon the scene changed — the grey dawn was pale in the
almost deserted streets, and red streaks of light stretched
along the eastern skj' behind the steeples. A group of men
and women — the former principally muffled and great-
coated cabmen, the latter slatternly and painted outcasts —
stood round the barrow of an early-breakfast man, and with
drunken glee guzzled down the hot, unsavoury liquid, he set
before them. Then gradually the summer's sun filled the
silent streets. The air seemed as pure as ever was Parisian
sky. The far-extending lines of roofs cut the blue heavens
clearly and sharply. The hum of the returning day com-
menced to sound, — shops opened, and passengers began to
press along the pavement : the day had begun again. Then,
as though utterly unable to retain the mere ordinary pheno-
mena of common-place life, Lorimer's memory was obscured
by an utter blank. He only remembered a sense of weari-
ness — a sensation of dreary, purposeless wanderings — a
dreamy vision of houses, streets, hurrying crowds, and some
dim, indefinite power, which always hurried him on — on
— on !
At length a light and gentle touch was laid upon his arm,
and a sweet voice sounded in his ear, —
"Mr. Lorimer — my preserver! Thank God we have
found you ! The General, and Mrs. Pomeroy, and myself,
have all been watching your return. We have heard some-
thing of how it stands with you — nay, do not start I — and I
thought it likely, very likely, you would wander here."
Lorimer made a violent effort, turned his face from the
sweet countenance which gazed into his, and looked around.
He stood opposite his late house in Park Lane.
104 CLEMENT LORIMER.
With a faint exclamation, he would have broken free from
the firm, yet gentle clasp, which detained him.
"No! you are ill — very ill!" exclaimed his companion,
at the same time signing to a passing coachman .
It was just in time : Lorimer was lifted in a senseless
condition into the vehicle.
" O God !" murmured the lady, " how inscrutable are
Thy ways ! Yesterday he saved me — to-day I have saved
him ! "
And then the carriage drove away; she who engaged it
having given an address in Cecil Street, Strand.
CHAPTER XI.
AN EVENING AT THE OPERA.
We are at the Italian Opera. The orchestra has just
burst into the opening strains of the prelude to Norma. The
pit is nearly full, and although many of the boxes — nearly
all in the grand tier — are yet empty, there are signs by
which the habitue can guess that the house will be a brilliant
one. In the front of the pit, not far behind the conductor,
occupying, indeed, the two places upon the foremost bench,
next the avenue which runs up the centre of the parterre.,
stand two of our personages with whom the reader has
already some acquaintance — Mr. Spiffler and Owen Dombler.
The former is gazing round the house with that familiar air
which betokens a man who is perfectly at home — the face
of the latter wears that expression of eager, but awe-struck
curiosity, which so particularly distinguishes those to whom a
visit to the Opera is an era in their lives — a thing by which,
for months afterwards, events are to be dated. From time
to time Mr. Spiffler, with a patronising air, handed his com-
panion his double-barrelled ivory lorgnette, and condescend-
ingly pointed out the great folks around.
" I'm afraid the attendance will be thin," Mr. Dombler
ventured to remark.
"My dear boy, don't shew your ignorance — a brilliant
AN EVENING AT THE OPERA. 105
night I But people can't be expected to hurry away from
their dinner at eight o'clock, you know."
" Oh, of course not I " said the City clerk, humbled and
rebuked.
Mr. Spiffler was busily sweeping the house with his
lorgnette.
"Do you expect anybody in particular?" asked hiS'
companion.
« No — no— nobody : merely the Box-office Barometer !"
" The Box-office Barometer ! who or what is that ? "
" Ah ! — I see ! — so — in the pit — good ! " murmured Mr.
Spiffler to himself. Then addressing his companion, " You
see a square-shouldered man with red hair, standing at the
back of the pit? — he's the Box-office Barometer."
Dombler was still in the dark.
"Why, don't you see, he always has boxes somehow or
other for nothing. It's a very useful art that of getting
boxes for nothing — there's lots of fellows who live by it.
Well, the red-haired gentleman is very clever at it. If
there's a box unlet in the ho»ase he's sure to have it ; so you
can always tell the state of the box-list — particularly when it
ain't a subscription night — by his position. If he's in the
grand tier, put down the performance as a dead loss to the
lessee ; if in the second, there's a little. His apparition
further up denotes a so-so state of things; but if he's only in
the pit, you may be certain there's over a thousand pounds
in the house."
And having delivered this luminous exposition of the
state of things denoted by the red-haired man, Mr. Spiffler
continued to scan the house with his glass, considerately
informing his meek and wondering companion of the result
of his observations.
"The Duke of Gravesend — in that box, three from the
proscenium — and the Honourable Erith Marshe. Look at
the duke ! it always takes him twenty -five minutes to put on
his left-hand glove, and half-an-hour to put on the right.
Chalkstones on the joints, you know — terrible thing gout,
by Jove ! Ah, there's the countess and her daughters !
Did you ever see a more beautiful arm ? how it does come
out against the crimson, eh I Ha!" with a wave of salu-
tation to a gentleman who entered a box on the third tier,
l06 CLEMENT LORIMER.
came to the front, looked about the house with a rather dis-
paraging air, and then sat down, resting his chin on his
hands, and gazing moodily into the pit. " That's Dorling,
the critic for the " (Name of the journal whispered.)
" He's so conscientious that we call him ' the only correct
card!' But, then, look in the omnibus box. What, the
deuce ! you don't think the omnibus-box is in the gallery ?
So, you see that young fellow with the slight moustache?
He broke the bank one night, when I was present, at Aix-
la-Chapelle. De Mythe's his name. You'll see it to-
morrow among the men whom the fashionable -intelligence
reporters of the papers always 'observe' at the Opera.
Ah!" — in a louder tone to an acquaintance at a little dis-
tance — "how do. Colonel Black?" Then, softo voce as
before, " \ most curious chap — nice, good-hearted, agree-
able, gentlemanly little fellow — remarkable for being like a
bird, everywhere at once! You think he's only here at
present. Stuff and nonsense, I'd take ten to one he's talking
to one man at the French Plays, and another at the Adelphi,
at this very moment. You see the pale, thin man beside
him ; he's a noted hand at play, that fellow ! He never wins
hardly, but he's always making wonderful combinations of
figures, and thinking he has discovered the doctrine of
chances. Lord, what a swarm of Jew music-sellers as usual!
That's Moses, the sherifF's-officer. I know the scoundrel's
muzzle well — I was two days in his den in Cursitor Street —
the thick-lipped black fellow there, with the lot of rings, in
the box on the second tier, by the third lustre. Hillo ! —
old Flethers ! — that stupid-looking old man. He was
introduced to me once, at a mild party at Islington, as a
literary character, and the author of the celebrated conun-
drum, " When is a door not a door?' "
And in this manner did the multifariously informed
journalist run on, until his companion, in utter wonder at his
stores of information, exclaimed, —
"Ah, Spiffler! what jolly times you have of it — going
every night to the Opera, and getting up to all these things
— compared to us poor fellows in the City, who have to
drudge away until foreign-post hour! I wish I knew enough
of music to be a critic!"
" So you do," said SpifHer.
AN EVENING AT THE OPERA. 107
" But I don't know anything."
" That's enough ! "
" What ! and music so complicated a science ! "
" Music may be a science, but writing about music is a
dodge, and one dodge is worth three sciences any day in the
week — that is, of course, if you know how to work it! "
" I don't understand — I "
" Hold your tongue, and I'll make you a musical critic in
three words. Call all tunes ' movements' — never say any-
thing is correctly played, but 'conscientiously interpreted;'
whenever you hear a slow air, and then a quick one, lug
in a sentence about a ' largo,' and a ' cabaletta' — write as
much about ' diatonics,' 'major-fifths,' and 'chromatic inter-
vals,' as you please, because nobody but fiddlers and piano-
forte teachers know anything about them. If you want to
do the severely classical, you can always talk about some
old Dutchman of the name of ' Bach,' who wrote fugues —
go into raptures about '• Iphigenia in Tauris' — sneer at any
one who writes lovely melodies as a quadrille composer — and
say good-naturedly, that of course Auber and Bellini are
very well in their way. Then, as to vocal music, take care
you don't get confounding mezzo-tintos with mezzo-sopranos,
for that is awkward ; but be sure, when a detnitante comes
out, to be great upon the quality of the tones of the upper or
lower 'register' — don't forget that word — nor 'flexibility'
either — nor 'wiry' — nor 'timbree.' Never call a voice a
voice, but always an ' organ ;' and above all, and here's half
the secret of musical criticism in a word, make it a solemn
rule never to conclude an article without complaining that
the brass drowned the stringed instruments, and finding
fault with the conductor for taking the time of the adagio
'too fast,' or, if the allegro, 'too slow.'"
Dombler was expressing his obligations for this piece of
enlightenment when the curtain rose, and the grand marching
chorus of the Druids burst over the house. Mr. Spiffler,
who seemed to make it a rule to look as little at the stage as
possible, was still hard at work bringing his lorgnette to bear
on the various tiers of boxes, and it was not until, amid the
most solemn silence, as the first notes of the opening reci-
tative were chanted by the stern priestess from the altar,
that he turned languidly round, muttered approvingly,—
108 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" Ah, good I Grisi is in voice to-night !" and then, half
shutting his eyes, leaned back to enjoy the " Casta Diva."
In due time the opera was over, the curtain fell, half
the pit was in motion, and the corridors and staircases became
crowded with that mob of fashionable idlers who night after
night haunt, with such indefatigable perseverance, the bril-
liant avenues of the Opera. Amongst these was a sleek,
faultlessly dressed man, who walked as softly as a cat, and
seemed to know, and be known by, everybody. You
couldn't tell whether his whiskers or his coat were glossiest,
and his face was all one silent smile. He was accosted by
a showily-dressed man, wearing a profusion of rings and
chams.
" Ah, Gumbey ! how de do ? Grisi 's good to-night ! "
" To-night only, Mr. Shiner?" in a low, oily tone.
"But the treat is to come — Chateauroux's new pas !"
" Apropos of Chateauroux, does any body know what's
become of Lorimer? That was a smash, by jingo I warn't
it, doctor? Good for us we weren't much in advance,
too ! "
" Oh ! Lorimer has been distinguishing himself ! Haven't
you seen the evening papers ? "
" No ! what is it ? Hung himself, or cut his throat, eh ?"
" Fie, fie. Shiner I You ought not to speak so — Lorimer
is a very dear friend of mine."
" Was, you mean ! " said the dashing merchant.
" And a very, oh, a very gallant fellow to boot ! " the
other went on, not heeding the interruption. " After the
Derby — oh, a sad affair ! dear, dear ! — he went off to sea in
that yacht of his. Well, sir, it appears by the evening
papers, that there was bad weather the other day down in
the Channel, and that an American liner was, shocking to
say, totally lost on the Goodwin Sands. The yacht, the
Fly-by-Night he calls her, was near, and, gad, sir I if Lorimer
didn't, — I don't know the story perfectly, — but, somehow, he
saved a lady who was clinging to some spars, and then was
instrumental in rescuing a lot of passengers from the wreck,
particularly some American general or other, and his wife ;
and — and I believe the lady I told you of was their daughter,
or belonged to them somehow or other, but — in short it was
very gallant, and all that sort of thing, and — and — but in
AN EVENING AT THE OPERA. 109
fact you'll find it all much better than I can tell you in the
newspaper ! "
" So, so ! " answered Mr. Shiner. " Well, I must say
that was like Lorimer — keeping other people's heads above
water when he can't keep his own I "
" Don't be too sure of that," said Dr. Gumbey, myste-
riously.
" Why, it was an out-and-out smash ; and those two
fellows that were always with him, Trumps and De Witz,
are both nowhere — never been heard of since the Derby
day ! "
" You have not heard the latest news, my dear fellow I "
replied Gumbey, in the same silky tone of mystery. " Sir
Harrowby Trumps was at the Corner this morning, and
lionourably paid every farthing he owed upon the late
race."
" By the living jingo! did he though? No, d — n it!
the man hasn't a rap I and they say he has mortgaged his
wife's salary. The thing 's impossible, doctor!"
" The thing may be impossible, but the thing is true. I
saw De Mythe this morning with a handful of bank-notes he
had from Trumps. Why, man ! he's in the house, you can
ask him."
" In the house! — who? De Mythe or Trumps?"
" Both ! De Mythe is in the omnibus. I saAv Trumps
in the stalls, staring round as if he were looking very sharp
after somebody."
" There's a good many people looking devilish sharp
after him. Well, by heavens ! we're coming to the times of
niiracles again ! I won't despair of seeing an honest Jew
before I die I "
"Stop!" said Gumbey; *'a miracle is an impossibility
in fact; an honest Jew is a contradiction in terms. But,
touching Trumps' resurrection, here he comes to answer for
himself."
And the coarse, pimply-faced baronet, dressed in elaborate
evening costume, swaggered up. He only stopped, however,
to grunt out a harsh, "How de do, Gumbey?" and an
equally curt, "Ah, you here, Shiner!" and then passed
hurriedly on, and they heard him roaring for the boxkeeper.
110 CLEMENT LORIMER.
"Mr. Werwold's box — it's on this tier, isn't it?" he
said, looking nervously at the numbers displayed upon the
doors.
" This way, sir ! " said the functionary addressed, and
bustling down the corridor, he threw open the door of a box,
and Sir Harrowby Trumps entered.
The curtain was drawn on the side furthest from the
stage, so as to screen from general view the occupant of the
box, and as the baronet entered, the former hitched his chair
info the corner, and flung the drapery before him, so that
Trumps could only see that he was a tall old man, with long
straggling grey hair. The face of the unknown was the more
effectually concealed, inasmuch as he held to his nostrils
a large bouquet, over which gleamed a pair of piercing dark
eyes.
Such seemed to be the appearance of the figure which
motioned to Sir Harrowbj'^ Trumps to take a chair. The
i) ironet obeyed, casting half-curious, half-sheepish glances,
upon his mysterious host.
The prelude to the ballet had began before either of
them spoke.
At length the old man, with a slight inclination of the
body, said, in a cold, measured tone, —
" A nobody like me has reason to be proud of the
punctual attendance of so recherche an individual as Sir
Harrowby Trumps."
The word recherche sent a thrill through the baronet's
veins. It had a complimentary meaning, and an unpleasant
one. However, he stammered out, that the circumstances of
the invitation were too strange for him readily to have for-
gotten it.
" Yes, the circumstances do appear strange at first sight I
You last night received a visit from a stranger ? "
" How he found me out, Satan only knows ! " exclaimed
Sir Harrowby.
" There is nothing more likely," resumed the other, in
his glacial, impassible tone. " Satan only knows I"
Sir Harrowby stared at the speaker with his big blood-
shot ejes. Were it not that he was in the centre of a gay,
crowded theatre, he would have felt nervous. But, like
AN EVENING AT THE OPERA. 1 i 1
nianv other people, the baronet was onlj' afraid of the devil
in the dark.
Meantime the man with the bouquet resumed, —
" The stranger brought you a letter, and delivered this
message, — ' If you think tit to comply with the recommenda-
tions contained in this letter, do so to-morrow morning, and
to-morrow evening meet the writer at the Opera. Ask for
Mr. VVerwold's box, and bring with you the letter as a token
of identity.' These were the words?"
" The very words."
" Give me the letter."
Sir Harrowby mechanically produced a paper from his
breast coat pocket.
" I shall read it — I may, as I wrote it ! "
The baronet bowed, and his compaTiion read the following
lines, in his usually cold and measured tones, —
"Sir Harrowby. — The writer of this note may prove
serviceable to you : you in turn can prove serviceable to him.
You have little money, and need much : he has much money,
and needs little. A contract mutually advantageous may be
made. As an earnest, the writer encloses a cheque — it is
for the amount of your present turf debts. Pay them, and
appear in public. The bearer will add a verbal message, and
bring back a verbal answer."
There was a short pause.
" The bearer brought me back word that you would
comply with the contents of the note. You have done
so I "
" Almost to the last farthing of the cheque, and here I
am now. What do you — what can you want with me?"
" I want," said the old man, " I want a man who is
covetous and unscrupulous — a man who is heartless and
debauched — a man who has many acquaintances and no
friends! 1 want a ruthless agent — a pitiless mercenary
tool ! "
Sir Harrowby leaped upwards from his chair.
" By all the gods !" he was beginning; when the
clear, keen tones of Werwold, penetrated the hoarse sounds
ot his husky voice.
112 CLEMENT LORIMER.
"Man, man!" exclaimed the latter; "cannot such as
you hear the truth from such as me without starting up
like a beardless boy at Oxford, or a greenhorn cornet of
dragoons ? "
Trumps muttered some unintelligible words, and grasped
the chair in his brawny fists as though he intended to hurl
it at his companion. The latter never moved a muscle, and
his eyes gleamed over the bouquet, in the dark corner, like
two glow-worms.
" Sit, man, sit ! " said Werwold. " We must hear and
speak many hard, cold truths, if we are to be useful to each
other ! '^
The baronet mumbled something to himself, of which
the words "old madman!" were alone audible. But Werwold
took no heed of them. Then Trumps flung himself sulkily
hack into his chair.
" You are a friend and associate of Clement Lorimer ? "
hegan the old man.
" I must know what you are driving at before I answer
that or any other question."
" You shall know in good time. I ask for no ordinary
purpose — the events of last night may convince you that I
am no ordinary man. Deal by me as I want, and I shall
deal by you as you would wish. I have need of truth in this
matter. I don't want to buy your soul — I only want to hire
it : will you lend it out for gold ? "
Trumps paused, and then said, "Goon — but I must make
my bargain ere you go far."
"Good, and only reasonable! You are a friend and
associate of Clement Lorimer?"
"I was — he's ruined now."
" Of course you helped to do it ? "
"I wasn't the only one.
" Who else ? "
At this moment, a loud round of applause welcomed the
appearance of a favourite upon the stage, and the heroine of
the ballet came bounding down the boards and bowed before
the footlights — bowed, so low and so long, that the upper
part of her figure appeared as it were to sink into and fade
away amid the misty wreaths of her muslin drapery. She
represented a bright aerial spirit, who once a year, upon the
Tkf. Oh era- Box .
AN EVENING AT THE OPERA. 113
anniversary of a beatified saint, was permitted to appear upon
the earth, to try and reward the purity of virtuous love.
"Who else?" repeated Werwold.
" Her," said Trumps, indicating with his elbow the pure
aerial spirit.
" Humph I And Mademoiselle Chateauroux cares as
much for the victim as you do?"
" Just as much."
" Notwithstanding, Lorimer may not prove so pitiable a
victim, after all."
" Why he's plucked !" said Sir Harrowby ; " plucked to
the last feather! Perhaps you don't know his history. He
never knew his parents ; he never knew where his fortune
came from ; and now, all at once, the supplies are stopped."
" Perhaps," repeated the other, in a freezing tone of sar-
casm, "perhaps I don't know his history — perhaps I do."
Trumps looked at the speaker keenly ; but he only saw
the two eyes glaring over the bouquet.
" He must have hundreds of creditors," continued the
baronet, " and not a rap to stop the jaw of one of them."
" He has not hundreds of creditors. He has only one."
" One ! — and who is he ? " gasped Trumps, in amazement.
"You — if you like," answered his companion.
The baronet started almost off his seat, and stared at
Werwold.
"Come, by G — !" — he at length exclaimed, with a
horse-roar of laughter — "confess, old cock, that all this,
is a hoax,"
" Was the cheque this morning a hoax ? "
Sir Harrowby 's mirth ceased, and he fidgeted uneasily
on his chair.
The old man resumed.
" Lorimer owes tens of thousands. Suppose his debts
were made over to you ?"
" Yes — but who can make them over? "
" I can."
" And much good they'd do me. He might rot in prison ;
but what better should I be?"
Werwold's eyes twinkled, with an odd expression, as he
answered, —
" Perhaps I don't know Lorimer's history — perhaps I do."
114 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" You must speak more plainly, then, if we are to work
this game together : I 'm not good at riddles. If 3'ou can
make it worth ray while to help you, tell me how it is to be
done."
"Listen, then. I am a cautious man: therefore I will
not say that I state facts. I will simply put a case. Suppose,
in days long gone by, I had been wronged. Suppose also
that I am of an unforgiving temperament. Suppose my
enemy has a son — a son by ; no matter, that we have
nothing now to do with. His fortunes depend upon his keeping
the birth — the existence of that son, a profound secret. Still
he lavishly expends money upon the youth — loves him while
he indulges him — suffers him to fall into the worst of company
— into your company "
Sir Harrowby stifled an oath in his throat. His com-
panion went on.
" Until, on a sudden, there comes a crisis in the for-
tunes of father and son. The latter, by an unlooked-for
chance, becomes most in want of money just as the former
is least able to furnish it. At the same time, too, the father
is made aware of the prodigal courses of the son. He finds
that riches have ruined him : he wishes to try if poverty will
not restore him. The one was a moral laxative ; the other
may be a moral tonic — a moral corrective. In fact, by a
lucky chance, prudence seems to prescribe what necessity
would dictate, and the supplies are stopped. Now, mark I
The father loves the son. He sees little serious evil in the
boy's being cast upon his own resources. He thinks it will
merely cause his son to rough it for a time. He has no idea
that his debts amount to the sum they do. Now, then, comes
the chance. Down upon the son with all the terrors, all
the grinding, crushing powers of the law. But let one arm
hold tlie thunderbolt — it will be grasped more steadily — it
will be launched more surely. Will that arm be yours ? "
" Again," asked Sir Harrowby; " again — how should I
benefit ? "
" Short-sighted that you are I The father in that case
will pay the son's debts — pay you."
Sir Harrowby clenched his hands — the veins in his
forehead dilated — and his eves gleamed with greed and
exultation.
AN EVENING AT THE OPERA. 115
"Yes, I see — I see! But, yet — no — stop. You otter
me these advantages — why do you do so? How would
they benefit you ? "
" To pay the son's debt would ruin the father. But the
father would pay the son's debts — and the father is ray
enemy. There I— is the logic good?"
" Then you barter money for revenge ? "
" Every one has his whims. I want you to barter honour
for money."
" You ask me," said Sir Harrowby, with an uneasy smile
— " you ask me to do what no gentleman ought to do I "
" I ask you to do what no gentleman would do ! "
" And you expect me to comply ? "
Werwold paused for a moment, looked keenly at the
baronet, and then said, —
'' Yes."
There was a pause, filled up by the gay dancing music
of the ballet. Sir Harrowby Trumps squeezed his forehead
with his brawny hands, and then said, —
" You have bought up all the young man's debts — why
don't you sue yourself?"
" Because it is too dirty a business for me to appear in I"
" By jingo, old man, you're a cool talker! But consider
my reputation — Lorimer was my friend."
"it is because I have considered your reputation that I
have made this proposition."
Trumps' cheeks coloured, and iiis eyes flashed. Then
he appeared to make a mighty effort over himself, and sat
motionless — in thought.
Werwold's eyes glared at him over the bouquet. At
length Sir Harrowby spoke.
"We understand each other — give me your hand."
And he held forth his own.
" No ! " replied his companion. " I will pay you your
hire ; but I will not give you my hand."
" By the Lord ! " shouted the baronet, " this is coming it
rather too strong. Is the one better than the other ? Ain't
we both on the same high way ? "
" Travellers to the same point are not always friends of
the same mettle."
116
CLEMENT LORIMER,
Sir Harrowby Trumps gazed at his companion for a
moment, and then said, quietly,—
" I am at your orders."
" Good ! " replied the other. " You will hear from me by
eight o'clock to-morrow morning."
A volley of "bravos" at this moment rung through the
house, and the baronet looked towards the stage.
" It's Chateauroux's new pas" he said.
Even as he spoke the dancer finished a brilliant series of
sparkling entre-chats, by suddenly becoming as motionless as
a marble statue before the centre footlight. A peal of
applause rose from boxes, pit, and gallery.
" We shall often see each other now," said Werwold. " I
need not recommend secrecy, of course."
Meantime the pas had been encored, and Mademoiselle
Chateauroux was again bounding round the stage. Werwold
followed her motions with his eyes.
" Yes !" he murmured; "yes — good — very good. She
has aplomb — grace — brilliance."
Sir Harrowby Trumps eyed this strange connoisseur in
wonder. In a few moments the pas was concluded, and
Werwold, shouting " Brava ! brava ! " leant over the box and
flung his bouquet at the feet of the dajiseuse. It happened
to be the only one thrown at that particular moment, and
Spiffler's quick eye rapidly followed its line of flight to the
point from whence it proceeded.
" By Jove ! " he cried, " there's the man who knows the
secret of ' Treuchden.' " And without staying to enlighten
his astonished comrade further, he made his way through the
centre avenue of the pit, up the spacious staircase, and along
the corridor of the tier, in which Werwold (or Benosa) and Sir
Harrowby Trumps had been placed. The door of their box
was open ; but the box itself was empty, and the box-keeper,
when appealed to, stated that " Both the gents was just
gone."
THE TRAP WORKS. 117
CHAPTER XII.
THE TRAP WORKS.
Two days have elapsed since Mademoiselle Chateauroux
danced her new pas at the Opera, and we have to transport
the reader to the drawing-room of the house in Cecil Street,
Strand, to which the coachman was directed to proceed
when Clement Lorimer was recognised by a young lady, in a
fainting condition, in the street.
The room is a large and handsome one. It contains no
lack of furniture, both gaudy and comfortable. Mirrors
gleam from the walls, and damask and muslin curtains hang
in festoons down the sides of the long narrow windows. Still
the apartment lacks the more refined comforts of social life.
With the exception of an evident circulating-library volume
or two, no books are arranged upon the tables ; neither harp
nor piano stand in snug corners ; no loose music is strewed
carelessly about, and the china card-bowl is as devoid of
cards as of punch. The whole place has that primly and
superciliously neat look which denotes the better class of
lodging-house.
Two persons occupy this apartment. One of them the
lady saved from the floating spars by Clement Lorimer, the
other Clement Lorimer himself. He is stretched upon a
sofa. The pallor of his features and their thin shrunken
appearance tell of the smart fit of illness just recovered from,
and the movements of his limbs as he tosses restlessly on the
couch are feeble and languid.
His companion is a fair girl of twenty. She sits by the
sofa, stooping over her needlework ; her rich chestnut hair
arranged in massive folds upon her cheeks, hiding the face of
its wearer except when she looks gaily and frankly up, in
conversation with Lorimer. Then you may see that this face
is of gentle and winning beauty ; that the eyes are large, and
lustrous, and blue, shaded by the long soft lashes ; and that
the features, although not perfectly regular, are pretty in
themselves, and lighted up with an exquisite expression of
118 CLEMENT LORIMER.
innocent gaiety, blended, sometimes, with a passing shade of
deep thoughtfulness, at others with an arch look of shrewd
naivete. Her isW svelte — we have no corresponding English
word — figure is shewn to advantage in a high well-fitting
aiorning-dress, and a single antique brooch fastening a pink
riband round her neck is the only ornament she wears.
" Now, Mr. Lorimer," she said, and the ringing tones of
her voice tinkled gaily, "although, as a true-born American,
I am a stanch Republican, yet now I intend to be a despot.
You must not dream of stirring out to-day. You are such a
fidget — you will be sure to worry yourself into a fever again."
She paused, and then added in an altered tone, " We are not
old acquaintances, Mr. Lorimer, but circumstances have
caused us not to be ordinary ones,"
Lorimer looked intently at her. " Circumstances, in-
deed!" he said, in an abstracted tone. "But I cannot — I
will not remain longer inactive. I have fallen from a tower,
but I have recovered from the stun. How shall I ever suffi-
ciently thank you, Miss Eske, for your kindness? — the Gene-
ral and Mrs. Pomeroy, for their kindness towards a poor
homeless fellow like myself?"
The words were words of humility ; but as Lorimer ut-
tered them his cheek coloured, and his lip curled proudly.
Then he saw the soft blue eyes of his companion fixed so
meekly, so tenderly reproachfully on his own, that a pulse-
like thrill passed through his soul, and he added, in tones
which were low and slightly faltering, —
" At all events, whatever may be my future fate, can I
ever forget the face which looked its meek brightness into
mine when the cloud was at its gloomiest?"
It was now Miss Eske's turn to colour.
" You know my position," Lorimer continued ; " you
know my most singular — I fear people will soon have to
add, most fatal — history. As soon as I recover my health,
and I have nearly recovered it, I must act — I must make
some efibrt to penetrate the riddle of my being. I must do
something — I must turn to something — though I am sure I
hardly know what. 1 feel I ought to do everything. I know
not how to set to work about anything ; but this 1 do know,
that evtjry moment passed without exertion seems to me to be
a moment of crime."
THE TRAP WORKS. 119
"If we — I mean, if the General and Mrs. Pomeroy
could in any way be of service, oh, believe me ! — they are
odd people, perhaps, not like you polished Londoners — but
they have good, kind hearts."
"I know it — I know it; but this is my own battle, and
my own arm must fight it."
" And you will win, too!" said the girl, with a sudden
glow of enthusiasm ; " win what you have lost, and more
than what you have lost ! " Then suddenly stopping, as if
she thought she had expressed herself too warmly, she
coloured deeply, and bent over her work in silence.
Lorimer looked tixedly at her, and made a motion as if to
take her hand ; then, checking himself, he said, " I don't
know — I hope so. When the first shadow of these evils fell
upon me, I felt bold and strong, and almost longed for a
struggle which would put my mettle to its proof. Then the
mood changed. As we approached London — that night "
He paused, and then went on : " that night, which was the
first of my illness, I felt my spirits, my energy, ebbing from
me."
" You had been over-fatigued — over-excited," interrupted
Lorimer's companion.
" Perhaps so," he rejoined. " I would fain hope that it
was the failure of the body, which for a time broke down the
mind. Yes! it must have been so — now again I begin to
feel nerved for the battle ; but I shall only know where my
enemy is by the quarter from which the next blow will be
struck at me ! "
"Let them strike — do you ward," exclaimed Miss Eske.
" Oh, if I were a man, I should wish nothing better than to
bear my own brave heart against the odds of fortune ! "
Lorimer gazed upon the beautiful girl before him —
gazed upon her kindling eye, and her veined and dilated
nostrils.
" Miss Eske 1 " he said, " Marion Eske ! will you allow
me to call you ? "
" You are the preserver of Marion Eske ! call her as you
will, and you will call her as she likes."
"Then — Marion — good, bold -hearted Marion, why did
we not meet before ? "
" Have we met too late for me to speak an encouraging
120 X CLEMENT LORIMER.
word to one who, even though he be an invalid, scarcely
requires it?"
" No, no ! " replied Lorimer, in a low and significant
tone. "Let fortune go as it may — if we have met while
both are young, while both can love — we have not met too
late."
He took her hand in his, and was drawing it, in spite of
the coy struggles of its possessor, towards him, when a loud
knock sounded at the street-door.
" Here come the General and Mrs. Pomeroy ! " she ex-
claimed. " Shall 1 report that you have been a good
patient ? "
" 1 think I can trust you," he replied, " to say nothing
very bad of me."
At that moment the door opened, and the General and
his lady entered. General Pomeroj' was a little, thin, sallow
man, of meek and pacific appearance. His warlike title he
owed to some nondescript rank — it was not easy in Europe to
discover the exact grade — which he held in a regiment of
Massachusetts militia. In America, brevet military ranks are
of no difficult acquirement, and General Pomeroy found the
warlike handle to his name so extremely respected in Europe,
that he was by no means in a hurry, by any overt act or
statement, to reduce himself as it were to the ranks. We
have said, that in person the general was small. He had
little twinkling grey eyes, but their keen expression was
counteracted by the easy good-humoured smile which played
around his thin lips. As for his dress, it was constructed in
that happy medium which it has been reserved for American
tailors to discover — between the styles of the English sloven
and the French swindler.
Mrs. General Pomeroy was a very stout lady, in re-
splendent satin, and decorated with a very heavy and massive
gold chain, supporting a very small Geneva watch, made at
New York. She was, she said, of a highly nervous tempera-
ment — an assertion which would be perfectly credible were fat
one of the symptoms ; and furthermore, she was afflicted with
a strange disease, which she stated had prevented her from
sleeping a single wink for many years: at which assertion,
and it was usually made every day at breakfast, the general
was accustomed to wink secretly out of that eye furthest from
THE TRAP WORKS. 121
his lady, and immediately to make some observation respect-
ing the unpleasantness of snoring — as regarded listeners —
and which he said he could corroborate from personal
experience.
" And how do you find yourself, Mr. Loriraer, now ? "
inquired the General, bustling up to him. Mr. Lorimer was
daily, almost hourly, recovering strength; and so he said.
" We've a-been sight seein' till we've almost walked our
legs right off — this mornin' — ain't we, Mrs. Jiniral ? "
observed the Transatlantic man of war.
" Don't talk to me, Jiniral ! " replied the lady, stretching
herself on an easy chair. " What with not having had a wink
of sleep last night, and you lugging me up and down this
great smoky, black town, I'm a'most done up, and that's
a fact."
" We've been to see Westminster Abbey," resumed the
General. "It's neat, considerable neat — rayther a goodish
location; but it ain't up to Deacon Barl's raeetin'- house in
Applesquash Town — nohow ! "
" It ain't to be expected in the Old Country, Jiniral,"
responded the nervous lady ; " but its not so bad, considerin'.
There's no Poet's Corner in Deacon Barl's."
"In course not," responded the General. "Ours is a
free country — it is — and as long as a man has dollars to pay
his location, he may go to any corner he likes, whether he's
a poet or not — exceptin', of course, the niggers, who have a
tarnation gallery to themselves, quite handsum, with strict
injunctions to the first rank not to go ahead in the way uf
spittin'. "
" And after the Abbey?" prompted Lorimer.
" Oh, then we had a look at the Houses of Lords and
Commons ! " said the lady. " My lawful heart alive, but this
is an aristocracy-ridden country ! There was the Jiniral, and
not a soul takin' notice of him ; while the porters and people
about were touchin' their hats like mad to all the old fogies
who were goin' in and out."
" Yes, my dear," struck in the General, " but there was
the Duke of Gravesend. You know he was pointed out
to us goin' into the committee-room — he was; a sort of
kinder skeared he'd a-been, if he knew that there was lookin*
at him a citizen of that free and enlightened country where
122 CLEMENT LORIMER.
there's no nobility but dollars and no serfs but niggers. You
saw him, Mrs. Jiniral ? "
"I guess I took no notice — I despise aristocrats and
aristocracy too much to look at 'em ; but if you mean the in-
dividual with the high-coloured face and black hair, very-
glossy — and dark surtout with silk buttons — and them light
plaid trousers, tightly strapped over his boots — and his gloves
very neat and not a wrinkle in them, for you could observe his
nails through the kid — and no jewellery about him but a
couple of bright little diamond studs in his shirt; if it's him
you mean, yes, I saw him. They told me he was a duke ; but
I calculate I wasn't going to notice him on that account."
Lorimer and Marion Eske exchanged glances.
" We'll go to the theatre to-night," said the General ; " to
Drury Lane. It must be a poor place compared to the
Bowery or the Park. You won't be riled, Mr. Lorimer,
when I say it's jinirally admitted to be so. What do you
think, Mrs. Jiniral, ayre we a-goin' to the play ? "
" Well, I don't know," said the lady, " but I require ex-
citement — my nerves, Mr. Lorimer, are in that unstrung
state. Dr. Bodge — that's Bodge of Applesquash Town, Mr.
Lorimer; you have heard of him, I guess — says I'm all one
nerve. Didn't he, Miss Eske, my dear? But, lawful heart
alive, here have we been gallivanting about all day, and
havin' no end of luncheons at pastrj'-cooks' "
" Rig'lar prime uns," said the General; "loud uns —
chicken Hxings ! "
"While you two have had nothin' all the morning! Ring
the bell, Jiniral."
The military man complied, observing, that he would not
be the worse himself of something in the drinking line. " But
Lord, now, Mr. Lorimer," he continued, " your drinks ain t
fit to hold the candle to ours. You don't go ahead in the
Old Country. I asked to-day in a pastry-cook's — Farrance
was the name — for a 'sling" then for a 'cocktail,' then
for a 'yard of dead-wall,' then for a 'gullet-scraper' —
Lord! it wasn't of the least use — nohow; the girl looked at
me as though I was a coon a-turning hisself outside in on a
rail I But you're an inferior people — it's a fact. We are
young — we improve — we progress — we go ahead. The
Old Country 's at the end of its tether ; and that's a proposi-
THE TRAP WORKS. 123
tion there's no disputin', or may I be rubbed down with
alligators' teeth and knocked into immortal gravy ! "
Here the General's eloquence was interrupted by the
luncheon tray, the contents of which Mrs. General
Pomeroy, in despite of the combined effects of previous
lunches and nervousness, attacked with vigour and effect.
So also did the General, while Miss Eske presided with
infinite grace over the meal.
Lorimer was engaged upon the wing of a chicken, when
the postman's rap heralded a letter.
" I guess it 's from our minister," said General Pomeroy.
" I despise the tarnation vanities of kings and queens ; but
that's no reason why one of our free and enlightened citizens
should not be presented at Court."
But the letter was no favourable response from the
American minister. In fact, it was not for General Pomeroy
at all ; but for Clement Lorimer, who started as he recognised
the great sprawling superscription.
" From Trumps ! " he muttered. " What can he have to
say, or how has he found me out?" Then nervously bowing
for permission — a piece of ceremony which neither the
General nor his lady appeared to understand — he broke the
seal and cast his eye over the contents of the missive. It was
an extraordinary one. Lorimer could not believe that he
read aright. His colour came and went, and he sank back
on the sofa with his eyes mechanically fixed upon the paper.
Miss Eske looked anxious and frightened. The General
put down an untasted glass of sherry, and Mrs. Pomeroy
entreated him just not to make himself nervous — for she
knew what it was — she just did. After a moment. Miss
Eske ventured to hope that there was no bad news.
Lorimer made an eflPort and said, " No — not bad — only
surprising — very, very surprising!"
Both General Pomeroy and his wife looked very much as
if they would have liked to hear this surprising intelligence ;
but they had too much natural good feeling to hint their
desire, particularly in the agitated condition into which they
saw Lorimer had been thrown.
Apologising for the necessity of answering the letter at
once, Lorimer rose to withdraw, whispering as he passed
Miss Eske, —
124 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" The next blow is struck ! "
" And from an unexpected quarter ? "
" Amazing — overwhelming ! " said Lorimer ; " but I
shall know more by sundown,"
CHAPTER XIII.
SQUEEZING THE DRY SPONGE.
In one of the gaunt, musty, old-fashioned streets which
abound in the neighbourhood of Soho Square, and in a
shabbily furnished, slovenly, and not over clean room, sat a wan
and worn-looking woman, who had once been beautiful. Her
neglected hair — the grey thickly mingling M'ith the black, fell
in elf locks down her cheeks and streamed on to her shoulders,
over which was tightly strained a dingy old shawl of uncer-
tain pattern. There was a melancholy air of chronic desola-
tion and misery in the woman's whole appearance. She
seemed faded, and withered, and shrunk ; and only her large
black expressive eyes appeared to possess anything of the
pristine fire and energy of their owner. Round her were
scattered heaps of engraved and manuscript music ; and in a
corner of the room stood an open pianoforte, almost the only
handsome article of furniture it contained. Taking up a
sheet of blotted manuscript music, the occupant of the cham-
ber placed it upon the piano, and ran her long thin fingers
over the keys, evoking a brilliant and elaborate prelude.
Then adding her voice to the instrument, she began to sing.
A critic, were he present, would have been startled by the
mingled richness and clear ringing brilliancy of the soprano
possessed by the performer ; and he would soon have known,
from the ease and precision with which she warbled a florid
and difficult piece of music, that he was listening to a vocalist
of the highest order.
She was so engrossed with the music before her, that she
did not hear the door open or a heavy step cross the
floor, and it was not until a man's hand was laid upon her
shoulder that she turned round with a start and a little gasping
sigh.
SQUEEZING THE DRY SPONGE. 125
Sir Harrowby Trumps stood at her side. Without
evincing any emotion at his appearance, she shrugged her
shoulders as though chilly, swathed the shawl closer round
her, folded her arms, and said, —
" I did not expect you ! "
" Well — there's the more pleasure in seeing me — eh ? "
said the baronet.
She shrugged her shoulders again, and a melancholy half-
smile stirred her thin white lips.
" Come Polly, old girl, give us a kiss — things are looking
up, so try and be jolly."
She submitted to his embrace with perfect passiveness,
and then he sat down near the music-stool, on which she
remained as motionless as a statue. There was a moment's
pause.
"Well," resumed Sir Harrowby, "you ain't looking well,
I must say. What will put colour into these cheeks of
yours, eh ? "
" Paint I " said the woman.
" Don't get aggravating," replied Trumps. " You're
very well here."
" On fifteen shillings for seven days ? That was what
you left me out of my last week's salary."
" What can I help that? I had only a pound myself
— the Jews took the rest."
The vocalist again shrugged her shoulders and was
silent.
" Come," resumed Trumps, "I'll soon have lots of cash.
Funny things are brewing — and then you may keep the
whole of your salary yourself, and welcome."
" Thank you ! " she replied, in a tone which was sarcastic
from its very meekness.
" ' Thank you ! ' Yes, I should say so," replied the
baronet, losing his good humour fast. " ' Thank you I ' Ah,
you think you're a persecuted martyr — an injured dove, eh?
Curse it, ma'am, ain't you my wiie?"
" Yes."
" And don't all you've got, and all you do get, belong to
me, eh ? W^ho has the law on his side — eh, woman ? Ain't
your voice and your talents — not that 1 ever thought so
126 CLEMENT LORIMER.
much of them myself — but ain't they mine? and the money
they bring, ain't it mine too ? "
" All, all yours," rephed the vocalist.
" Then don't let us have any more of your whining
' Thank you's ! ' that's all. Sing your music, act your parts,
and let your husband draw the money — for the reason that
you can't help it — eh! Do you hear that? that you can't
help it ! — and the best of all reasons going."
" You said," replied the woman, who was Lady Trumps,
but to whom we shall give her stage name of Madame
Lorton — "you said that strange things were brewing."
" What's that to you ?" exclaimed her husband. "I've
an appointment to meet some one here, and the time is almost
up — so clear away some of these piles of music, and make
the place look more habitable,"
So saying, he flung himself down in a ricketty arm-chair,
which creaked beneath his weight. The meek wife proceeded
to perform the task assigned her.
" Do you sing to-night ? " said Trumps.
" Yes."
"What?"
" Rosina."
" A sparkling part that — keep up your spirits for it, Polly."
At that moment a low knocking was heard at the street-
door.
" Go into the bed-room and wait there until J. call you,"
said Trumps.
She obeyed, and in a few seconds the tall form of Benosa
strode into the room. Sir Harrowby Trumps, with a great
show of uneasy cordialitj', bustled about to place a chair for
his visitor. The old man repelled his advances with a silent
wave of his hand, and took his seat by the table.
" A fine day," the baronet remarked, hesitatingly.
" The weather is not to the purpose," replied the other.
" You have written to Clement Lorimer, and preserved a
copy of the letter ? Such were my directions — let me
see the document."
Sir Harrowby Trumps produced a draft of the letter,
which he put into Benosa's hands. The latter read it aloud.
It ran thus, —
SQUEEZING THE DRY SPONGE. 127
" My dear Lorimer, — I feel sorry to stand in the posi-
tion by you which now 1 do ; but rum things turn up, and
of course no one can blame any one for standing up for his
rights (which the law recognises), you owing me money for
which am much pressed. In fact, to make a long story
short, you are damnably in debt, and 1 am your only creditor.
How this is — which will surprise many, and none more than
your humble servant — of course, as you ought to know
something of your own family history — you should be in a
position to have some idea of. But that, of course, is your
atfair — not mine. Now 1 would be the last man in the
world, as you well know, to press hard on any man in tlie
way of money matters ; but as you have probably backers in
the dark — of which I beared hints — it will be all the easier
for you to shell up, them standing the needful. But, how-
ever that may be, there's no use talking. We were very
good friends and all that ; but, of course, being men of the
world, every one knows that the man as is hard pressed him-
self must press others hard too : it being quite impossible
that I can meet the demands on me without my own debts
are paid up. You will have a letter from my solicitor in a
day or two, with items which hope will be satisfactory, and
proofs that it's all as I say. I write these few lines to you
myself in a friendly way, and as preventing any one from
saying as I acted unhandsome by you.
" Apologising for the intrusion,
" Am yours faithfully,
"Harrowby Trumps."
"It's the style you like, I hope," said the baronet; "I
took some pains on it,"
" It is the style which I expected," replied Benosa.
" Here," and he produced a packet from an inner breast-
pocket ; " here you will find the items and proofs of debt you
spoke of — send them to your solicitor. I hope he is a
grinding one."
" He 's a Jew ! " answered Sir Harrowby.
" That is enough," said Benosa.
" The epistle will astonish Clem — eh ? " inquired Sir
Harrowby, jocosely.
128 CLEMENT LORIMER.
"It will instruct him," replied Benosa, " as to the
value of the men in whose faith he had confidence."
Sir Harrowby Trumps flushed up and clenched his hands.
At this moment a thundering appeal to the knocker roused
the echoes of the silent street.
Sir Harrowby flung open the casement, looked out, and
then suddenly drawing in his head, with evident marks of
discomfiture, said, —
"It's Lorimer himself— sink him 1 I never thought he'd
have traced me here."
" You fear to meet him ! " sneered Benosa.
" Fear !" echoed the other; "no, it's not just come to
that yet, I hope ;" and he concluded the sentence with a
bust of harsh and forced laughter. " But you — do you wish
to see him ? "
"To see him — yes! To meet him — no! at least not
yet. Suppose me away."
Uttering these last words, Benosa glided into one of
tne window recesses. They were deep ; for the walls of
the old-fashioned house were thick and massive, and the
folds of the dingy moreen curtain entirely concealed
him.
The next moment the door was burst open, and Lorimer,
pale and excited, rushed into the apartment. Sir Harrowby
Trumps tried to assume an easy smile, which sat with ghastly
effect upon his twitching, anxious face.
" My — boy, Lorimer," he was beginning, when the other
interrupted him.
"Is your name to this scrawl a forgery, or is it not?"
And he held the open letter out before the baronet, who took
it, and, evidently to gain time, pretended to inspect the hand-
writing with great attention.
" Come — yes or no ! " exclaimed Lorimer.
" Well, then — no ! " said Sir Harrowby. " There ! "
" It is your production. Good. What am I to under-
stand from it ? "
" The letter, I thought, was plain enough."
" So far as it goes it is plain enough ; but you know
more than you wrote."
*' Upon my sacred word of honour "
" Trumps ! " said Lorimer, with such a bitter sneer upon
SQUEEZING THE DRY SPONGE. 129
his features, that even the obtuse and brutal man whom he
addressed felt its force.
"Very good," answered the baronet, doggedly. "Find
out what you can — I will screw out what 1 can, and we'll
see who'll rise the winner from the game."
" Then," said Lorimer, " you refuse to give me the least
inkling of information upon this most extraordinary trans-
action ? "
" Yes. Why should I ? I am in my rights. You owe
me money ; I require it, and I shall have it."
" You know," replied Lorimer, mildly, " that you ;speak
this to a ruined and penniless man."
" That remains to be proved," answered the other. " Some
people take a lot of ruining."
" There is a dark complot on foot," said Lorimer. " I am
to be its victim, and you — you are its tool. Confess — you
were bought for a purpose ? "
"Lorimer," said the baronet, with some show of mode-
ration, " circumstances give you license. We were friends, I
confess."
" Friends I" exclaimed the other with bitter emphasis.
" Why, man, I fed you ! "
Trumps started back, and glared upon the speaker.
" Take care," he muttered between his clenched teeth ;
" take care, or it will be the worse for you I Your day is
gone, and your night is coming ! "
"Ah, 1 thought as much!" replied Clement Lorimer,
coldly. " This is no ordinary debtor and creditor business ;
there are springs at work beneath the money. Look to
yourself, Sir Harrowby Trumps. You are sailing in deep
water. There is conspiracy, foul, hidden conspiracy, beneath
me. I do not pay your brains the compliment of saying
that you are one of the conspirators, but I pay your mean-
ness the compliment of saying that you are one of the conspira-
tor's engines. Look to yourself! lam roused, and begin to
know what is in me, I may not baffle my enemies ; but I
will fight hard — fight to the last I There is war between us.
I will track you — I will dog you. I will follow the wires
until 1 find the hand which pulls them."
" No doubt you will do clever things," sneered Trumps ;
"but you will not set aside the law — the law which says
K
130 CLEMENT LORIMER.
that every debtor shall pay his creditor, or submit to the
penalty."
" The law ! " rejoined Lorimer. " You invoke the law !
It may well be that I shall turn the tables — shall bring
the law down on you and your employers. You are
frightened now, man ! You are blenching! — you begin to
fear that even you stand on rained ground ! Invoke the law,
indeed I There is an awful mystery which the sleuth hounds
of the law may trace — a mystery of suspicion, perhaps a
mystery of crime — the mystery of my own being! Before
long, perhaps, that secret shall be unravelled, and I will
know who I am, and the world shall know what you are ! "
Breathless with excitement, Lorimer paused. Sir Har-
rowby made violent efforts to appear calm and unconcerned ;
but his flushed cheeks and dilated nostrils betrayed his
agitation.
" There ! " resumed Lorimer. " Tell your employers
what I have said. Tell them, that if they burrow I can dig
— if they can plot, I can unravel; and tell them, too, that
not a peaceable night, not a tranquil day, shall I enjoy,
until I have unkennelled them, one and all ! until I stand
face to face with the deadliest of my enemies — although that
enemy should prove my own unknown father! "
At the commencement of the last sentence, Clement
Lorimer had clutched the collar of the baronet in his excite-
ment, and gradually drawn Sir Harrowby close up to him,
until, as he spoke the final words, he flung him, by a violent,
but almost involuntary effort, away ; so that, as Trumps stag-
gered heavily against an arm-chair, which he overset, Lori-
mer passed hastily from the room.
When Sir Harrowby recovered himself, he saw Benosa
confronting him. The features of the latter wore their usual
cold, impassible look, but Trumps observed that his teeth
were closely set.
"He is a bold youth," the old man said, "and bears
him with a brave heart. The father ought to be proud
of such a son — eh ? The father ought to be proud of him, and
help him, and pay money to get him out of such clutches as
yours. Sir Harrowby — eh? Speak, man, speak! Ought
not a father to be proud and fond — ought he not to cherish
such a son as Clement Lorimer ?"
7*"^^
T^k-elDebtcrv' auTi^ i)t^ C'redttcnr
SQUEEZING THE DRY SPONGE. 131
Any one more accustomed than was Trumps to note the
feelings indicated, rather than expressed by words, could
not have failed to notice the tone of acute agony in which
these words were spoken. But Sir Harrowby was thinking
of himself.
" This is an ugly business," he said.
" How easily is a bully bullied !" replied Benosa.
" D'ye take me for a bear to be baited, old man ? "
shouted Trumps. "I've stood enough of this I I've stood
more than ever I suffered yet, and more than I'll suffer
again ! "
" That is to say, that you will allow many thousands of
pounds — a fortune — to slip through your fingers, because
your lawful debtor can make fluent speeches ? "
Sir Harrowby stood irresolute. Benosa eyed him
keenly.
" Choose," he said.
" Between what ? " answered the baronet.
" How did you pay j'our turf debts a day or two ago ?
I lent you the money — is it not so? Choose, then,
between being Lorimer's creditor, and forcing him to pay
the money he owes you — between that, and being my
debtor, and being forced to pay the money you owe me !"
Sir Harrowby stood aghast.
"Do you think, man!" and Benosa hissed out the
words between his clenched teeth, " do you think that the
agents I employ slip through my fingers so easily? You
will learn better I I can prove my loan. I can prove it
was given and accepted to further a conspiracy — an un-
lawful conspiracy! You hear? This is a free country. Sir
Harrowby Trumps ; but there, even as you stand, an English-
man on English soil, you are as much my slave as though
you were a Russian peasant and 1 the Czar I "
"I — I will do your bidding," stammered the baronet.
" You will do wisely," replied Benosa. " You have my
uistructions — act upon them ! In the meantime, I think our
business is over. I hope I shall soon have to congratulate
you on your accession to fortune. 'It's an ill wind,' Sir
Harrowby, ' which blows nobody good.' For the present,
adieu ! Do not fear but that we shall shortly meet again."
With these words, and with a grave reverence, Benosa
132 CLEMENT LORIMER.
withdrew. As the door closed upon him, that of the bed-
room opened, and Madame Lorton appeared. She was paleif
than before, and trembled excessively.
" Who — who was that man ?" she inquired.
" The devil for what I know," vociferated her husband.
" Harrowby I H arrow by ! what is all this?" she ex-
claimed.
"A plan to get money, Poll!" he replied. "Money —
thousands on thousands — a fortune, my girl !"
He paced the room for a moment, Hung open a cupboard,
from which he took a decanter of spirits, half filled a tumbler
with brandy, swallowed it, and then shouted, with his hoarse,
rouurh laugh, —
" A new invention, Polly, for squeezing water from a dry
sponge I "
CHAPTER XIV.
THE LANDLADY S HUSBAND.
The landlady of the lodging-house in Cecil Street, in
which were installed General and Mrs. Poroeroy, U. S.,
was a pale, pinched-in looking little woman, having a perfect
mania for scouring and scrubbing ; and a remarkable talent,
amounting to genius, for scolding. Her name, as it appeared
in fat letters upon the brass door-plate, was Ginnum. Now
there was occasionally seen slipping about the house, in a
meek and stealthy manner, and with the air of a man who
merely existed on suffrance, a dirty little person, with a
stubbly chin, no outw^ard appearance of linen, and altogether
impregnated with a mouldy flavour. For a long time none
of the lodgers could make out who the mouldy little man
was, and many guesses were made, and theories constructed,
as to his identity. At length one ingenious individual hit
upon the happy scheme of asking the mouldy man himself.
The reply was at once startling and characteristic.
" Sir," said the mnuldy man with great meekness, " I am
Mrs. Ginnum's husband ! "
THE landlady's HUSBAND. 133
He was so known ever afterwards. Nobody thought of
calling him Mr. Ginnum, or even plain Ginnurn : he was
always "Mrs. Ginnum's husband."
What the particular duties fulfilled by Mrs. Ginnum's
husband were, it would be difficult to specify. He was
sometimes absent from the house, as though he were attend-
ing to some regular calling. At other times he haunted the
lower regions of the establishment. Glimpses were caught
of him in the passages, and his dirty face vvas occasionally
seen looking up from the front area. Where he had his
meals, and where he slept, were mysteries more deep than
the authorship of " Junius," or the identity of the " Man
with the Iron Mask." The only piece of legitimate duty he
ever appeared to perform was sitting up at night to let the
late lodgers in. On these occasions he gave loose to his
conversational powers, so far as saying very meekly, " Good
night, sir !" as he delivered the flat-candlestick to the re-
tiring guest. The other characteristics of the mouldy little
man were, that he was always shabby, and occasionally not
sober.
It was upon the evening following the interview described
in the last chapter, that Mrs. Ginnum's husband opened the
street-door, came out, closed the portal very quickly behind
him, and after casting a hurried glance up to the windows,
apparently in the fear of Mrs. Ginnum being stationed at
one of them, walked quickly up the street, turned westward
when he got to the Strand, and then suddenly plunged down
a gloomy tunnel, leading beneath the houses to the banks of
the Thames. It was a passage black enough, and dismal
enough, to have led to a robber's den or a coiner's cave,
but it simply conducted those who trod it to a series of coal
wharves, stables, and to a waterside public-house. The latter
was the destination of Mrs. Ginnum's husband. The pre-
mises were apparently familiar to him, for, passing straight
through some sanded passages, he ascended one or two flights
of stairs, and presently emerged upon the roof of the tavern.
The apparent oddness of this proceeding on the part of Mrs.
Ginnum's husband will vanish when we state that the roof
was flat, that a wooden railing ran round it, and that tables
and benches were placed upon the leaden plateau thus
formed for the convenience of those customers who liked, ia
134 CLEMENT LORTMER.
pleasant weather, to enjoy their liquor and the prospect of
the river at the same time.
Mrs. Ginnum's husband seated himself at one of the
smallest tables, and was presently accommodated by the
waiter with a pint of porter and a plate of shrimps, on which
dainties he regaled to his evident satisfaction — jerking the
savoury marine insect, in a tender and skinless condition,
out of its shelly jacket with great skill and success; lazily
watching the fast-pulling wherries and heavy barges as they
shot past or drifted drowsily up and down the broad river;
and occasionally casting a keen glance around, as though he
expected some one to join him. At length a coarse, common-
looking man, with a snuffy white cravat, made his appear-
ance ; being, indeed, no other than our acquaintance Mr.
Blane.
" How do you find yourself, sir ? A pleasant evening,
really — a pleasant evening — for taking one's little refreshment
by the river. The cool air here, sir, is quite refreshing I"
This cordial speech having been duly acknowledged, and
its points agreed to by Mrs. Ginnum's husband, the twain sat
down amicably together, as though it were not their first time
of meeting ; and by Blane's directions, spirits and water and
tobacco were supplied to them.
"Don't you indulge in a whiff, sir?" said the ex-prime
minister of Clement Lorimer, scratching a lucifer-match upon
the rough table, and coaxing the blue sputtering flame by
placing it in the interior of his hat.
" I'd like to," replied Mrs. Ginnum's husband ; " but my
missus 'ud feel the smell in my hair."
" Ah, she's particular about smoking ! Many ladies are,"
replied Blane, in a consolatory tone.
" It ain't only smokin'," said the persecuted spouse ;
"she's a horrid nose for spirits ! But I found that she can't
smell gin through peppermint, and so I do her that way."
" And very proper, too," said the ex-steward ; " but
women will be women, sir: that's the nature of things."
"She's very aggrawating though, sir, is Mi's. G. —
aggrawating to me and the servants, she is. She has a way,
sir, of putting sly little pinches of dust on the cornices and in
out-of-the-way corners ; and then, if the girl don't sweep 'em
away, oh, my I ain't there a row?"
THE landlady's HUSBAND. 135
" Cleanliness, sir," responded Mr. Blane, " cleanliness, as
was well observed by the poet, is next to godliness ; so that
the scrubbing-brush may be described as first-cousin to the
mitre !"
And Mr. Blane smiled complacently, as though he had
said rather a good thing and knew it.
After a short pause, during which Mrs. Ginn urn's husband
applied himself heartily to the spirituous compound before
him, Mr. Blane resumed the conversation Ijy asking, —
"Whether business was good up there?" and he indicated
Cecil Street with the waxed end of his pipe.
" Well, it's not bad," said his companion. " We're full
at present."
" That's satisfactory," replied Blane.
"Very," said Mrs. Ginnum's husband.
" I saw a lady and gentleman, who looked foreign like, go
in yesterday when 1 was passing the top of the street."
" Ah !" said the landlady's helpmate, " they're Yankee
Doodles, them is. They're our front drawing-rooms."
" Bless me !" said Mr. Blane. " Good customers, I dare
say ?"
" Yes," replied the other ; " the General — he's a General
in his own country — is always making rummy drinks with
spirits and things ; not bad some of 'em, for I tasted 'em in
the kitchen when there wasn't nobody there."
" I shouldn't be surprised," answered Blane. " And do
the General and the lady take much of 'era ?"
" Oh, they ain't alone !" said Ginnum; " there's a young
lady, too — a Miss Eske."
" A relation, I suppose?"
" No — or only a distant one. She's a sort of friend or
companion — you know — of the General's lady ; so my missus
thinks. But, bless you, she ain't treated like ladies as were
at our house often treated their companions ; they're so fond
of her, you can't think !"
" Ah, quite a nice little family !" said Blane, vacantly.
" 1 suspect," rejoined the other, with what was intended
for a sly grin — " 1 suspect there will be another member of
it soon."
" Ah !" said Blane, with affected indifference; "who's
that?"
136 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" Oh, a young chap — devilish good lookin', from the little
I saw of him ; a Mr. Lor — Lor — Lor ■"
" Lorimer ?" prompted the steward.
" That's the name !" said the other. " He's got the two-
pair back bedroom ; but he lives in the drawing-rooms with
the Yankee Doodles. He's a great friend of theirs. He
came one morning in a cab with Miss Eske ; but he's been
very ill since."
" Ah !" drawled Blane ; " and is he better now?"
" Better ! oh, yes ; quite well. He was out yesterday in
the afternoon. The Yankee Doodles went to the play ; but
he didn't go, and Miss Eske stayed at home with him."
"Oh, Miss Eske stayed at home with him?"
"Yes," replied the gossiping husband of Mrs. Ginnum;
" they're uncommon sweet on each other. I wouldn't be
surprised if it was a case ; and my missus thinks so, too."
" Indeed ! your missus thinks so, too?"
" Yes, I heerd her say so this mornin' to cook, and she
knows the symptoms."
Mr. Ginnum then proceeded at great and increasing
length — for the spirits made him communicative — to impart to
Blane the gossip, not only of his own house, but of sundry
other lodging-houses in the street : how the front parlour at
37 M'as three weeks in arrear ; and how the two-pair back at
38 had given warning, because he had had his tea made three
mornings with water from a cistern in which he himself had
secretly deposited the cat, with a clock-weight about her
neck.
Blane listened with the same degree of apparent interest
as he had paid to the details with which Ginnum had fur-
nished him of the domestic economy of his own household ;
and the coming night was dark upon the river ere the ex-
steward assisted the tottering limbs of the landlady's husband
down stairs, making an appointment witii him as he did so for
another festive meeting.
Having got rid of his companion at the top of Cecil
Street, the spy entered a neighbouring coffee-house, deliber-
ately registered the inforn)ation wiiich he had received in a
greasy pocket-book, and then calmly called for and betook
himself to the perusal of the evening paper.
. THE SEQUEL TO THE SHIP-OWNER, ETC. 137
CHAPTER XV.
FORMING A CONTINUATION OF CHAPTER II. OF THE PRO-
LOGUE. THE SEQUEL TO THE SHIP-OWNER AND THE
SHIP-CAPTAIN.
The scene is the drawlng-roora in Cecil Street. General
and Mrs. Pomeroy have gone to one of the theatres ; Cle-
ment Lorimer and Marion Eske sit close to each other upon
a sofa by the window. Their eyes are mirrored in a long
mutual gaze, and the fair hand of the girl lies in the grasp of
her lover.
" It is a wild tale," she murmured. " Your life is like a
dream."
" You know its every occurrence, and you do nut think
very, very ill of me ?"
" Much must be pardoned," she said softly, " in a career
so strange."
" And yet," resumed Lorimer, " there is no life unfla-
voured by a spice of romance."
" Perhaps not," she replied. " My own family history is
not without its interesting pages."
Lorimer looked all eager attention.
" I do not mean my own life," said Miss Eske. " I
speak of a maternal ancestor, — a Flemish lady, who emi-
grated from Europe more than a century ago."
"And she had an adventure?"
" A strange one, which caused both her and her husband
to change their names and to leave New York, where they
intended to reside, for another and a distant State. The
story was long a tradition in our family. At first it was
preserved a dead and solemn secret. Gradually the necessity
for guarding it seemed to pass away, and it was more freely
spoken of; and now I cannot see wherein would be the harm
were it trumpeted in the street."
" At all events I have some claim to hear the tale."
Miss Eske rose, left the room, and presently returned,
bearing a carefully-folded packet. She opened it, and two
138 CLEMENT LORIMER.
rolls of paper fell upon the table. Lorimer took up one.
It was a manuscript written in a neat but cramped female
hand, and in a language perfectly unknown to him.
" If this be the story," he said, " I am not likely to make
much of it."
" That is the original Flemish," replied Miss Eske.
" Here," and she unfolded the companion roll, " is the trans-
lation. I am acquainted with the hand ; shall I bore you by
reading?"
" Bore me !" said Lorimer, playfully. " Try."
" Then listen, and heed."
And with a clear voice she read the following narrative : —
" MY VOYAGE ACROSS THE ATLANTIC.
" At the suggestion of my dear husband, Heinrich
Strumfel, now known and to be known as Martin Vanbrugger,
I put upon paper the following plain narrative of facts, which
we wish to be preserved as a family document (but in no
wise to be communicated to strangers) ; in the hope that it
may some day serve as a clue for the discovery of a deep and
fatal mystery, which appears to brood over the family of the
writer.
"I left Europe on the 10th of May, 1710, in the good
ship St. Nicholas, Captain Schlossejib, belonging to the
trading-house of Benosa, sailing from Rotterdam, and bound
for New York. My sister Treuchden accompanied me on
board. She was oppressed with forebodings of coming evil
to our family, which prepossessions I strove to combat and
to banish. Meinheer Benosa himself recommended me to
the care of the captain, a sinister-looking man, who, as I
have heard, has since been hanged to the yard-arm of an
English ship-of-war in the Spanish Main, the said Captain
Schlossejib having become a noted and dangerous pirate.
This I mention as shewing the character of the man. We
left our moorings below Rotterdam with a fair wind, and
passed the bar of the Rhine, called the Brill, in about three
hours ; after which we stood to the south-west, intending to
double the extremity of England, and so into the Atlantic
Ocean.
" The weather, though occasionally boisterous, was gf)od
upon the whole, and we made fair progress. I sutf'ered at
THE SEQUEL TO THE SHIP-OWNER, ETC. 139
first from sea-sickness, and so kept my cabin. Captain
Schlossejib, during this time, frequently inquired how I
did, and was attentive in sending such delicacies as he
thought might tempt the appetite of an invalid. We had
weathered the Land's End, as it is called, of England, and
were fairly launched upon the Atlantic ere I appeared upon
deck. Captain Schlossejib then congratulated me upon my
recovery, and expressed his hope that he would land me safe
and well in the New World. This hope he frequently
repeated before the crew, and especially before Jin Karl the
mate. I took no particular notice of it at first, esteeming the
phrase an expression of common courtesy. I have since been
led to think that it was dictated by deeper motives.
" We had been three days out of sight of the last portion
of Europe we would see, when Jin Karl, the mate, fell ill of
a severe fever and ague. He was a kind man, and had been
most attentive to me ; I therefore did my best for him, and,
having some knowledge of simples, as also a stock thereof
on board, I was perhaps instrumental in restoring him to
health — a service for which he professed much gratitude and
devotion to me. By the time of the mate's recovery, we
were half-way across the Atlantic, having experienced a fair
voyage hitherto, and having every prospect of making a
comfortable and successful passage.
" All this time the captain was laboriously polite to me ;
often talking about the happiness he should feel in welcoming
on board my betrothed Heinrich Strumfel, and consigning
me to his fond care ; but I observed that he was but ill at
ease ; that, though he spoke to me often, and laughed with me
loudly, he was forcing himself to do the one and the other —
in short, that his manner was constrained and unnatural.
" On the 3d of June, the weather, which had until then
been prosperous, became foul and disagreeable. We were
then within one hundred and fifty leagues of the American
coast, and expected, unless the wind continued very adverse,
to make it within a week. To my surprise the unfavoui'able
change of weather seemed rather to please the captain than
otherwise. Squalls, with rain, became frequent ; and as these
furious gusts blew off the continent which we were approach-
ing, the regular heave of the ocean, which, under long-
continued easterly winds, was setting heavily towards the
J 40 CLEMENT LORIMER.
west, became broken and interrupted. What is called a
cross sea was thus formed, and the movement of the ship,
which had long been regular and easy, became violent,
abrupt, and unpleasant ; and occasionally, notwithstanding the
most skilful steering, the waves would wash our decks.
" During the whole of the voyage it had been my custom
about sundown, or soon after, to leave my cabin and take the
air in a stern gallery which ran round that part of the ship.
On this gallery my cabin opened. A massive, but not very
high balustrade of carved work protected those who stood
upon it from falling overboard. Above, rose the structure of
the poop, which was very high and richly ornamented, ac-
cording to the fashion of Dutch ships. The wheel by which
the vessel was steered was placed upon the main-deck, close
to what is called the 'break' of the poop, so that, as the
men of the watch were principally in the fore-part of the
ship, it often happened that I sat in the stern- gallery alone,
and removed from all who were managing the vessel at the
time. During the early portion of the voyage Captain
Schlossejib would often join me here. Afterwards, however,
he seldom appeared in the gallery, although I once or twice
observed him looking down upon me in silence from the poop,
and wondered why he did not speak.
" About the same hour as that in which I was accustomed
to leave my cabin for the stern gallery, it was the practice of
the captain to retire to his apartment to write up the log or
journal of the day's proceedings ; it being after he had per-
formed that duty that he occasionally joined me, when he
would inform his passenger how far the ship had run during
the previous twenty-four hours, and what appeared to be the
prospects of the voyage. In this cabin the captain kept his
best telescope, which was only taken on deck on particular
occasions.
" Such was the state of matters upon the 12th of June.
That day was peculiarly stormy. The west wind blew in
strong gusts, each squall being accompanied by thick gloom
and heavy rain. The sea raged furiously, the pitching mo-
tion of the ship was violent, and, owing to the broken nature
of the waves, extremely uncertain. Notwithstanding the
unfavourable state of the weather, I had, as usual, repaired
about nightfall to my favourite gallery. The captain, I
THE SEQUEL TO THE SHIP-OWNER, ETC. I4l
understood, was in his cabin, occupied in writing up his
log — a seaman who entered the gallery for some purpose
told me so — but a few minutes before, I had seen Schlossejib
looking down at me from the poop. I was sitting pen-
sively, leaning upon the balustrade or rail, and watching
the foaming seas which gambolled beneath, when a squall of
unusual fury struck the ship, bending her over until the brine
was on a level with the leeward portion of the deck. The
shock was violent, and when the St. Nicholas recovered from
the first blush of its fury, she moved rapidly on, plunging
and wallowing in the broken water. Amid the noise of
wind and waves, however, I could hear a cry raised that a
strange vessel was close to us ; and, sure enough, there passed
presently, almost obscured in the gathering gloom, a dimly-
seen ship careering before the wind. The squall had by
this time abated, but there appeared to be every chance of a
foul night. Still I lingered in the gallery, when the mate,
Jin Karl, suddenly came to me with horror in his face,
' Thank God you are here ! I am not yet too late.' These
were his first words. Full of surprise, I asked him what he
meant. Judge of my terror when, in broken sentences, he
told me that the fury of the late squall had caused Captain
Schlossejib to come abruptly on deck from his cabin — that
almost at the same moment the strange sail appearing pretty
near us, the captain had, in a moment of forgetfulness, as it
would seem, sent him below for the best telescope, and that,
as he was reaching it down from the brackets, his eye fell
upon the open log-book, the last item inscribed in which was
a record of my having been unfortunately lost overboard
from the stern-gallery during a violent squall of wind ! The
ink in which the words were written was still wet, and the
hour at which the alleged accident had happened was re»
corded as half-past eight, it being at the moment we spofe-
together within about twenty minutes of that time.
"This horrible and extraordinary announcement flung me
into a violent state of agitation, and indeed the honest mate
was almost as much terrified. We could not doubt but that
the captain intended to murder me, and that he had laid
his plans with devilish ingenuity. But what could be his
motive ? How could he be a gainer by my death ? All at
once the forebodings of my sister Treuchden fiashed upon
I42 CLEMENT LORIMER.
me. I recognised their truth and sanli trembling on my
knees.
" ' Leave me,' I said to the mate, — ' leave me to my death.
Ours is a doomed race ; there is a curse upon us. The
Jonah must be flung into the sea.'
" But Jin Karl, though puzzled and terrified, had a warm
and honest heart.
" He stood for a moment irresolute, and then a sudden
thought illuminated his countenance. Through the open
door of my cabin could be seen a trap leading to some of
the lower recesses of the ship.
" ' If the captain believed you dead — believed that you
had really fallen overboard '
" I saw the honest fellow's eye fixed on the trap as he
spoke, and a gleam of hope warmed heart and brain.
" ' Yes, yes I ' I exclaimed, ' God has sent you that thought.
Quick ! I trust myself to you. There is not a moment to
lose. I may be hidden in some secret corner of this huge
ship. You know them all, you M'ill be my protector, my
saviour; is it not so?'
" * I will !' exclaimed the sailor. ' You shall not die.'
'• Then we hastily passed into my cabin. A cloak with
white linings belonging to me lay upon the cot ; I pointed
to it.
" ' Could it not be thrown overboard,' I said, ' and the
captain's attention called to it?"
" Jin Karl nodded eagerly.
" ' Leave all to me,' he said. ' Meantime there is not a
moment to lose ;' and he wrenched open the trap-door. It
revealed a dismal hole, dark and stifling.
" ' The hardware crates cannot be more than four feet
below,' said the mate ; and taking me gently in his arms he
let me carefully down the hatch. I found that, standing
upon the packages beneath, I could just raise my head above
the cabin floor.
*' ' Sit, or, better still, lie down,' said the mate : ' 1 shall
find means to come to you,'
" The trapdoor was closed, and I was left in utter dark-
ness. It was a terrible situation. The huge timbers
groaned and creaked around me. The noisome bilge-water
exhaled its sickening steams. I felt giddy — my brain
THE SEQUEL TO THE SHIP-OWNER, ETC. 143
whirled, and I fainted. I was roused by loud trampling above
me, and I heard a confused noise of hollaing voices. The
alarm of my being overboard was evidently being given, and
I could perceive, from the faintly-heard fluttering of canvass,
that some mancEuvre was being performed — probably a feint
of attempting to pick up the supposed victim. These sounds
gradually subsided, and I heard nothing save the ordinary
noises of the vessel, until Karl paid his promised visit. He
came with a dark lantern, having made his way through the
cargo and stores from a distant part of the vessel. From him
I learned that my conjectures as to what had taken place
above, were correct. First making sure that Schlossejib was
still in his cabin, he flung my cloak into the sea, and in a
moment afterwards shouted that Mademoiselle Louise had
fallen overboard in a violent lee-lurch of the ship. The
captain rushed directly from his cabin, and Karl, with every
sign of horror, pointed to my cloak as it appeared dimly seen
on the ridge of a sea. As he did so he watched the captain
narrowly, and saw the flush of savage joy which rose into his
face.
" A few ineffectual endeavours were made to rescue the
supposed unfortunate, and then the usual routine of duty was
resumed. The captain had sealed up my effects, and had
then gone into his cabin to add in the log-book — so he told
his mate — the record of my loss to the other entries of the
day. Karl had afterwards stealthily peeped through a cranny
in the door. The captain was rubbing his hands gleefully
and chuckling to himself. Of course not a soul on board
but fully believed that I had fallen overboard. The sailors
talked over ray fate for a couple of days, and then, in the
excitement of the approaching termination of the voyage,
I was forgotten by all but the staunch-hearted mate. He
laboured hard to make my prison bearable. He formed
for me a rude bed of canvass. He brought me the little
food I required when it was his watch at night, and sup-
plied me with candles and books wherewith to while away
my solitary hours. Since my disappearance he said that the
captain had been in excellent spirits, and so remarkably
good-humoured that the crew talked of his change of disposi-
tion as something marvellous.
" But there is no need of recapitulating at length the
144 CLEMENT LO RIMER.
monotonous round of circumstances which formed what I
may call my prison life. Jin Karl and I, after many anxious
consultations, had settled the policy to be adopted upon our
arrival, and our plans had hardly been matured when we
entered the harbour of New York. In the evening I received
a visit from Karl, who exhorted me to be prepared for disem-
barking at midnight. The hour came, and the trapdoor lead-
ing to what had been my cabin was raised. I was assisted up
b}' the muscular arm of Karl, who led me out on the stern-
gallery. A rope-ladder formed the means of descent to a
boat beneath. The night was dark and gusty. The captain
had gone on shore, and the solitary seaman who formed the
harbour-watch was dozing on the forecastle. We experienced,
therefore, no interruption in our proceedings, and as I clam-
bered down the rope-ladder I was received into the arms of
my dear Heinrich Strumfel. Jin Karl followed me into the
boat ; he and my betrothed constituting, indeed, its entire
crew. In half-an-hour I set foot on the soil of America, and
was shortly thereafter lodged in an obscure but respectable
inn, passing under the assumed name of Madame Wilfreid.
*' The rest is soon told. Heinrich concurred in my view
of our situation, and thought it expedient to remove from
New York. After, therefore, making a suitable show of con-
cern for the alleged loss of his betrothed wife, he wound up
his affairs ; and I having preceded him here, he shortly
joined me, and under a feigned name we were married.
This course was adopted with the view of saving me from
any ulterior attempts of my secret enemies, whoever they may
be. No doubt they believe me drowned."
Miss Eske threw down the paper.
" Such," she said, " was the adventure of my ancestress."
Lorimer mused deeply.
" A strange story, but told with all the simplicity of truth.
Madame Wilfreid, or Vanbrugger, was "
" My great-grandmother," said Miss Eske.
" And her real name ?" said Lorimer.
" Was Louise Vanderstein !"
FATHER AND SON. 145
CHAPTER XVI.
FATHER AND SON.
Nearly in the centre of the group of comfortable but
essentially bourgeois squares, which acknowledge that of Rus-
sell for their chieftain, there is situated an odd locality, which
combines in itself the characteristics of an arcade and a
mews. The passenger who seeks a short cut from the stupid
respectability of Bernard Street to the respectable stupidity
of Guildford Street, and with that view plunges beneath the
wide archway which opens near the western extremity of the
former thoroughfare, will observe, stretching away upon his
left, the curious row of houses to which we refer, and which
a painted board will inform him is locally called " The
Colonnade."
This finely-titled locality consists of a string of shabby,
dingy old houses, whereof the leading peculiarity is that they
project over the raised pavement which runs before them, and
are, therefore, partially supported by a row of pillars which
rise from the outer margin of the pavement to the level of the
Hrst floors. Opposite these houses runs a set of stables and
coach-houses ; and behind them, again, tower the dingy
backs of the mansions of Guildford Street.
The Colonnade is inhabited by a community of small
tradesmen and mechanics, such as abound in poor neighbour-
hoods and shabby suburbs ; but one wonders how they came
to nestle in the cold shade of the grim gentility and gaunt
decorum which surrounds them. What, for instance, can the
majestic ladies and gentlemen of Russell Square possibly
want with marine-store shops, and cheap curds-and-whey
shops, and small coal shops, and children's schools at four-
pence per pupil per week ? None of the fine linen of Guild-
ford Street can, we conceive, be allowed to flutter, drying,
between the pillars and the mews. None of the genteel mas-
ters and misses of Brunswick Square can possibly sigh for
the sticky bull's-eyes and greasy rock which abound in the
cracked and broken windows of the confectioners of the
146 CLEMENT LORIMER.
Colonnade. No, the place must, in some mysterious way, be
self-supporting. It is a compact, thriving little vulgar colony,
stuck by some unknown chance into the very centre of the
region of starched, staring, middle-class gentility, just as we
hear of mysterious tribes of Welshmen having been found
amid the Pawnees and the Sioux, and clusters of people being
discovered in remote and almost inaccessible nooks of the
Italian Alps still speaking the language of the Forum and the
Colosseum.
The Colonnade is not, if the truth must be told, a parti-
cularly eligible place of residence. There is a fusty, greasy
atmosphere about it — a faint odour of stables and litter.
The dust from curry-combs mingles with the sickly vapours of
low cook-shops, and the hot whiiFs of soap-suds and ironing
and mangling, which float from doors and windows. For the
locality is a great resort of cheap washerwomen. Clothes-
lines stretch from pillar to pillar, and from the pillars to the
stables on the opposite side of the way, and on fine drying
forenoons the whole place is one flutter of linen, or, at least,
of garments which are usually understood to be composed of
linen. Children, of course, abound, clustering round the
windows of the eatable-displaying shops, pointing out to
each other, with their dirty little knobs of fingers, the most
luscious lumps of congealed flour and treacle, and speculating
upon which tumbler of curds-and-milk they would choose in
the remote and improbable contingency of their becoming
owners of half-pennies. The adult inhabitants of the Colon-
nade are also given to the partially al-fresco conferences
which the nature of their locality invites. Begrimed
mechanics lean over the mouldy railing which fences in the
paved and covered way and chat listlessly to the grooms,
who sit, polishing harness, at the stable-doors opposite. Slat-
ternly women and big girls emerge from the houses with pails
and tubs of dirty hot and frothing water, and resting them on
the rail, scream and chatter to each other, or occasionally
exchange compliments with the coachman, who, after having
set down his employers in Russell Square or Guildford
Street, drives the sober-looking family equipage to its rest-
ing-place in the Mews.
It is on the evening of a hot summer day that we must
beg the reader to accompany us to the Colonnade. About
Father and son. 147
the centre of it, by the side of an open door, there is a board,
a couple of feet lonp. and half as wide, with a pictorial repre-
sentation, in colours of a glowing red, of a hard-working
female, industriously turning a mangle ; while, in order that
there may be no mistake as to the identity of the laundress,
an inscription, in thick, plutFy letters, informs us that we
may consider the work of art to represent " Mrs. Dample,"
by whom, the legend goes on to state, both " washing and
mangling are taken in."
It is to the ground-floor room in Mrs. Duraple's esta-
blishment that we have first to introduce the reader. It is a
dim, dank, close-smelling apartment, reeking of the fumes of
linen in the wash-tub, and linen undergoing the process of
the flat-iron. By the wall, opposite to the single window,
stands a mangle — supposed to be that delineated upon the
sign-board, but now in a state of rest. The large table
which occupies the centre of the room is covered with many
layers of shirts, most of them in various stages of decom-
position : while the pile of washing-baskets in a corner ap-
pears to prove that Mrs. Dumple enjoys a good business
connexion. A set of tables, chairs, stools, presses, cup-
boards, and cooking-utensils, of the class which generally
adorns the common room — used alike for business and do-
mestic purposes — of such establishments as Mrs. Dum-
ple's, lie scattered about ; and between the ironing-table and
the small morsel of glowing fire — before which stands a small
battalion of flat-irons, rearing, as it were, upon their hind
legs, in order to catch all the heat going — bustles about the
portly form of Mrs. Dumple herself.
She is a matron of sober fifty, with red, fat checks, and
thin, weevily hands, whitened and pared down by the labours
of the washing-tub. But, upon the whole, she seems to have
thriven on her business. Her broad, vulgar, healthy face
runs over with a fat expression of unctuous, buttery good-
humour: and her dimensions appear to have owed their
origin to some more substantial sustenance than the washer-
woman's proverbial favoured tea.
Besides this estimable matron, two other persons were
present in her ground-floor parlour — a youth in his teens,
and a little boy not yet arrived at that sage epoch in liff^.
The latter, as might be discerned frnm his square paper cap.
148 CLEMENT LORIMEE.
formed of the sheets of an unsuccessful almanac, was under-t
going the novitiate to the life of a journeyman printer. He
was a curly-headed, black-eyed varlet, about ten years old,
endowed with a keen, sharp face, from which shone a pair of
remarkably bright and intelligent eyes. This young gentle-
man was apparently the victim of that distressing complaint
known as the "fidgets;" in a continued paroxysm of which
he was eternally jerking himself about, flinging his limbs into
impossible attitudes, and using the chair near which he was
stationed for every possible purpose except that of sitting
down upon.
The third occupant of the room the reader has already
been introduced to, although it is possible that in that thin,
pale face, sunken eyes, and dejected and melancholy expres-
sion, he would hardly recognise the once healthy and robust
features of Eichard Flick, the son of the jockey.
" Gill," said Mrs. Dumple, " I wish you had as many
pounds weight on your bones as I have, and then you'd sit
quieter."
Gill, by '^vay of reply, leaped upon his chair, sat down
upon the back, and then tilting his weight rearward, upset
the article of furniture, slipping off the back as it fell, and
tipping neatly down upon the edge of the sitting portion of
the chair, as, in the midst of a loud scream from his mother,
it came with a crash to the ground.
" I'm only lively, mother," said Gill ; "nothing like being
lively."
" I wish you were in your bed," sighed the matron.
" You're after some mischief as long as you have your eyes
open. I'm sure no poor, lone widow can manage such a imp.
— You're a limb. Gill — a limb."
" Don't talk of bed, mother," responded the son, extend-
ing his own along the front legs of the chair, and swaying
his body downwards, until his head rested on the back of the
prostrate article of furniture, — " don't talk of bed — I've slep
two hours to-day already."
" Slep! — where, Gill ?" asked Mrs. Dumple, in some sur-
prise,
" On the door-mat, second pair back, 13 Little St.
Peter's Street, Cjimderj Town. That's where Mr. Spilfler
lives now, that ig — ~"
FATHER AND SON. 149
<* Mr. Spiffler ! " rejoined iMrs. Dumpie; "who is Mr.
Spiffler?"
" He's a author, he is; and I go for his copy — that's the
writing that's to be printed, mother, you know."
" But why do you sleep on his mat, Gill?" inquired the
matron .
" Because he's never done his copy in time ; no author
ever has — and so I wait."
"Well, I do think Mr. Spiffler — if that's his name —
might have let you wait in his room," replied Mrs. Dumple,
coming down upon one of the wrist-bands of the shirt then
undergoing the ordeal of ironing with a spiteful dig.
" So he wanted me," said Gill. " Bless your soul ! has
a very good chap is Spiffler ; but I wouldn't, 'case I liked to
keep sliding down the banisters — and so I did, till a splin-
ter "
Here Gill stopped, wriggled himself on his seat, and
grinned.
" It's no more nor you deserved, Gill," said Mrs. Dumple.
" And so then I rolled the mat up comfortable, and went
to sleep till Mr. Spiffler had done a comic story that we
wanted to make up."
And so saying. Gill Dumple caught up the chair, and
placing the back of it upon his chin, proceeded to balance
it in the style of the most artistic acrobats.
During this conversation Richard Flick had preserved a
moody silence ; at length, when Master Gill, fatigued with his
juggling feats, put down the chair, and condescended to sit,
tailor fashion, upon it. Flick spoke, —
" Do you think, aunt," he said, " that the doctor will let
me see him to-day? Oh, I wish — I wish he would I"
" My poor boy," replied Mrs. Dumple, "you know he
said yesterday that he thought your father would be well
enough to see you to-day. He has had a sore time of it,
poor fellow !"
Richard wrung his hands.
" And all through me. Oh, I heard him rave about me,
when I crept out of bed at night, and sat crying on the
stairs."
" We have all our troubles, Richard," said the matron.
*' I'm sure the trouble I have about shirt-buttons would n't
150 CLEMENT LORIMER.
be believed by nobody who don't get up linen. But they
will come off, and it's no use talking."
" You'll be sure to ask Dr. Gumbey when he comes,
Mrs. Dumple, about my seeing my father. Tell the doctor I
know that I can say something to hira that will cure him
better and faster than all the drugs in the world."
" I hope you can — I hope you can," replied Mrs. Dum-
ple; "but what is it, Richard? — is it about the race, eh ? —
the race — or the horee that he was raving about when the
bx'ain-fever was on him? You may tell me, Richard, — me,
that's your father's own sister ; and who, I hope, acted as
such when he was carried here mad with delirium."
" No — no, aunt; I wish I could: but it is impossible.
I can only tell my father. It's a secret — a dreadful
secret."
" Oh, very well ; if it's a secret, in course I couldn't keep
it, or be expected to keep it. I'm such a one for blabbing,
as is beknown to all the Colonnade, — in course I am." And
the offended laundress dashed her iron over a wristband
with such fury, that the button Mas wrenched off and flung
into the lap of Master Gill, who immediately seized it, stuck
it into one of his eyes, and winked with the other.
At this moment a tap was heard at the door, and the
smooth, clean shaven face of Doctor Gumbey was presented.
" How are we ? "' he said ; " how is the old gentleman
up-stairs, eh? Going ou well? — not a doubt of it; oh, not
a doubt of it."
Mrs. Dumple hurriedly smoothed her cap, slipped off a
rather dirty apron, diverting the doctor's attention by a series
of curtseys, during the performance of these operations, and
then prepared to marshal the visitor up-stairs.
Richard had slunk into a dark corner, as if ashamed to
face Doctor Gumbey ; but, as Mrs. Dumple was leaving the
room, he twitched her gown as a mute refresher, in reference
to the interview with his father. The matron nodded, and,
preceding the doctor up the narrow stairs, the boys were left
alone together. Flick then came out of his corner, and
dropped down upon the chair which he had formerly occu-
pied near the window, and Gill, approaching him, saw ttie
tears running down his face.
" Come, cousin Dick," said the diminutive printer, " don't
FATHER AND SON. 15
cry so. Your father's getting all right, you know ; and I'm.
sure mother s very kind to him."
" Yes — yes; you're all very good — very kind; and if
it had n't been for you here, he must have gone to the hos-
pital, and I must have gone — I don't know where — to the
work-house."
" Yes, but you didn't — and what's the use talking of them
things? Be lively — I'm lively."
Flick shook his head, and making no answer, appeared to
listen attentively for the return of Mrs. Dumple and the doc-
tor. At length their steps were heard upon the creaking
staircase. Richard's pale face grew paler ; his breath came
thickly and in sobs ; and rising from his chair, he felt, with a
trembling hand, in an inner breast-pocket. As he did so.
Gill heard the crumpling of paper.
The next moment Gumbey and Mrs. Dumple appeared at
the door.
" And so you wish very much to see your father, my
boy, eh ? "
Flick bowed ; he could find no words to speak.
" You know he has had a very severe and dangerous ill-
ness, my boy ; and it was necessary to keep him very quiet,
and prevent his being excited, you see."
" Yes — yes, I know; but now "
" Well, now, he's convalescent — decidedly convalescent;
and I think you may go up to him."
" God bless you, sir!" said Flick, making for the door.
" Stop — stop one moment, my boy ! " said Dr. Gumbey ;
"we must do nothing hurriedly — nothing rashly; we must
say nothing that would be likely to bring on agitation^"
" What I have to say, sir," cried Richard, " may agitate
him, but it will be with joy."
" I am the best judge of that," rejoined Gumbey, sooth-
ingly. " What is it, my good boy, eh ? Speak to me as
a friend — as a well-wishing friend."
" I know — I know you are," exclaimed Richard ; " but
what I have to say is a secret must be known to none but
mv father and myself."
"Humph!" muttered Gumbey, " I thought as much!"
And then he added aloud, "Well, I shall not seek to intrude
on your confidence. Your father waits you."
152 CLEMENT LORIMER.
Kichard sprang up the narrow stairs four steps at a
time ; and Dr. Gumbey, after gravely nodding to Mrs. Dutn-
ple, walked up the Colonnade, pondering deeply.
" There has been some deep business brewing," he
thought. "Lorimer disappeared — Trumps rich — the ravings
of that old man, talking as he did of forgery, drugging
horses, and of his lost and ruined son ! There's some deep
knavery been working underground, and sooner or later will
come the explosion."
The doctor's carriage was waiting for him in Guildford
Street, and he got in, telling the coachman to drive to Sir
Harrowby Trumps.
In the meantime Richard Flick had reached the door
of his father's sick room in half-a-dozen bounds, and, after
pausing a moment on the threshold to wipe away the gather-
ing perspiration from his forehead, gently raised the latch
and entered. It was a small apartment, of which more than
one-half was taken up with the bed. Upon the table, placed
near the window, lay an ominous collection of empty phials
and such-like relics of the doctor's presence. A few com-
mon rush chairs completed the scanty furniture. The win-
dow was partially open, and, the little mushn curtain being
drawn aside, the waning light of the summer evening lin-
gered dimly in the room, falling with mild and subdued ra-
diance on the form which, propped up with pillows, lay upon
the bed.
As Richard caught sight of his father, he stopped short,
uttered an exclamation of horror, and gazed as though
fascinated upon the sick man. And, in truth, the poor jockey
presented a dismal figure. Always remarkably thin and
hard-featured, the sharp fever had ground him to the bone.
His face was not pale, but white ; the projecting cheek-bones
gave it a ghastly expression, and the eyes, sunken as they
were, and alternately flashing and becoming glazed and
dim, were encircled with two darkly livid rings. As his
son stood gazing on him, the invalid slowly, and as if the
effort were painful, raised one of his grisly, wasted hands —
a mere cluster of bones, covered with yellow skin — and,
pointing to his own face, said in a low, faltering voice, —
"■' It is you have doue this, Richard ! "
Utltriug a cry of anguish, the youth sprang forward.
FATHER AND SON. 153
and, flinging himself on his knees by the bed, hid his faee
with hi-i hands.
" When your mother died," said the jockey, in the same
solemn tone, " I thought I eouhi never bl(;ss God that she
was took away. I was wrong, Ricliard — wrong!"
" Father! father !" exclaimed the son, "I am not so very,
ver}' guilty ! "
"Guilty!" repeated the jockey — "arn't you a felon,
there, where you kneel? I bought you from the gallows —
bought you with the honesty I was proud on — the honesty
which, when many things went wrong, kept my heart glad
and warm. Hut now I've sold a race. I'll never ride
another, and I won't trouble you long, anyhow."
"Father," exclaimed Richard, "listen! I have a wikt
story to tell you. I did all for the bast ; I was rash, but
not dishonest"
" You 're a forger !" said the old man, briefly.
"I was haunted," said his son — "haunted, tempted,
ruined by a man who" — and his voice faltered — " who must
be a sort of Satan."
" A sort of Satan?" repeated the old man, dreamingly.
"Yes," said the son, "a sort of Satan, with a devil's
mind and a devil's tongue — a man, tall, old, with bright eyes
and grey hair."
"Ha!" exclaimed the jockey, with a start, "and a low-
sounding, hollow voice, which you could not help listening
to, and which went into you — into your very brain !"
"Yes, yes — you know him — it must be the same!"
cried Richard ; and then, in a low, rapid tone, broken by sobs
of eagerness, he poured out, with a wild, simple eloquence,
the whole story of his connexion with Renosa — how the
old man had gradually worked upon him — gradually, as he
said, enthralled his very soul, so that he seemed to be acting
under a strong spell, until at length the triumph was achieved,
and the few strokes of a pen accomplished, which made their
writer a felon.
The jockey listened with tremulous earnestness, occa-
sionally lifting his clasped hands in thankfulness, until, as
his son paused in his impetuous narrative; to catch his breath,
the old man burst into a passion of tears, caught Richard's
154 CLEMENT LORIMER.
head between his hands, and, drawing it towards him, kissed
tlie throbbing brow.
" You have been rash, Dick," he said, — " rash and foolish,
but not wicked; and you were rash and foolish for me."
Tliere was a moment's pause.
Then the old man, starting up, exclaimed, —
" But the cheque, Dick! the cheque! — he has it — that
devil has it, and you are still in his hands ! "
Richard tore open his waistcoat, and snatched from his
breast a carefully -folded packet.
The old man glared at it in breathless suspense.
'When this man — this Satan," continued the son, "left
me, he said that the cheque would be in the post-office,
addressed to me, by the time the horses started. Oh the
agonies I suffered all that long day ! I had a holiday, and I
wandered from one end of London to the other, 1 could not
rest — could not pause. I think I must have been in a fever,
for my mind wandered, and was clouded, and I thought I
saw forms and figures in the air, and sometimes 1 found
myself laughing and sometimes crying, I didn't know why.
I had determined not to go home till an hour after the last
postman would have gone his rounds, so that I might know
at once whether the tempter would keep or break his word.
The servant who let me in said that there was a letter for
me on my table. I rushed up-stairs, locked and bolted the
door, and caught up the paper; I almost fainted as I broke
the seal, and 1 was staggering to a chair, when the cheque —
the terrible cheque, fell upon the floor."
" And you have it now ? "
" Here," resumed Richard, tearing open the packet which
he had produced — "here, with the letter in which it was
enclosed ! 1 have had them on me night and day."
The jockey took the cheque, glanced rapidly at the sig-
nature, and then, with impassioned gestures, tore the paper
into fragments, and flung them wildly in the air.
" And now the letter!" he said.
Richard handed it to him, and the old man, with a fal-
tering voice, read aloud the following words : —
"Boy, — I return the cheque: it has done its work. Do
you take warning by what will ensue. Be chary of trusting
FATHER AND SON. 155
the unknown. Commit not the semblance of a crime, lest
the shadow prove a herald to the substance. Shew this letter
to your father ; he is an honest man. Imitate his example,
and bless Heaven that both are free to walk in those paths
of truth and fair dealing without which there is no peace."
There was a moment's deep silence after the reading of
this extraordinary communication. The jockey lay back in
bed, squeezing his forehead with his trembling hands. At
length he started up.
" Not a day must be lost ! " he exclaimed ; " we must
find out Mr. Lorimer."
" To tell him " asked Richard.
"All — every item!" interrupted the jockey ; "there's
some devilish work on foot, and — who knows? — we may give
the clue. I will keep this writing carefully. In the mean-
time you must try every means to find Mr. Lorimer. I
can't sleep until I know we're on the way to get justice
done. It must all come out — all! There will be shame
for you and me — that 's no matter. You were rash, and I
was weak ; but, thank God, we may match them yet ! "
"Father," said Richard, "I think I can find out Mr.
Lorimer's present address."
" Do, do," replied the jockey, " that he may know all,
and consider what is best to be done."
The old man rose in bed in a state of high excitement ;
his hot, dry hands trembled as though with palsy, and his
eyes glared fiercely.
" We '11 match them yet ! " he shouted, in a hoarse,
broken voice. " We lost the Derby, but there 's another
race to run — a longer and a fiercer one; we 're at the
starting-post — ha ! ha ! ha ! Let 's see this time who will win
the stakes."
And with another burst of mad laughter, which very
much alarmed Richard, for he feared a relapse, the over-
excited invalid fell back and fainted.
156 CLEMENT LORIMER.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE "flail" supper.
About ten o'clock on the night following the day when
the scene related in the preceding chapter took place, Mr.
Spiffler might be seen proceeding to his lodgings followed
by an emissary from the neighbouring fishmonger's shop,
who bore a huge dish on which sprawled a couple of scarlet
lobsters, split and ready for the festive board. Close to the
lobster-bearer marched a shambling youth, with a dirty face
and red hair, the potboy of the " noted stout-house " at the
corner, carrying a huge tin can, which, taking a primd-facie
view of all the circumstances, appeared to contain beer.
Having arrived at the door of 13 Little St. Peter's Street,
Camden Town, Mr. Spiffler opened it with a latch-key,
shouted down the kitchen-stairs for Sarah-Jane, to whom, on
the appearance of that maiden, he intrusted money sufficient
to pay for the dainties waiting at the door; and being in-
formed by her that the cloth was laid and all ready, marched
gravely to the second floor.
Mr, Spiffler's room might be described as a sea of old
newspapers, piles of MS., long printed ribands of " proofs,"
heaps of half-torn magazines, piles of stitched French farces,
and masses of books ; this literary ocean being bounded by
the four walls of the apartment, and studded with a desk, a
round table, a musty sofa, and a group of chairs, which rose
like islands above the tumbled masses of daily, weekly, and
monthly literature, which lay littered in some places a couple
of feet deep upon the floor.
Mr, Spiffler, after glancing at the table, and remarking
with satisfaction that the cloth was laid for supper, and
adorned with knives and forks for five, seemed to think that
the room was in a somewhat disorderly condition for the
reception of company, and proceeded to tidy it by kicking
huge masses of paper from the more central portions of the
apartment into the corners, whore they lay in wreaths which
would have delighted the eye of a butterman. After having
performed this necessary t)peration, Mr. Spiffler lighted the
THE " flail" SUPPER. 157
candles by the help of the taper he had carried up-stairs, and
after having exchanged his coat for a species of garment
which seemed a cross betwixt a shooting-jacket and a dress-
ing-gown, sat down to his desk, wrote a few memoranda on a
slip of paper, and then, lounging to the window, flung it
open and looked forth as a loud rap sounded on the knocker
beneath.
" All right— just a-going to begin, and only waiting for
you to say grace I " shouted Mr. Spitfler to the gentleman
beneath, who returned the greeting by replying, in a rich
Dublin accent, that "that was the toime of day ! " and in a
moment or two the Irish gentleman entered the room. He
was a strapping fellow, well-dressed, good-looking, and
abounding both in speech and gesture, with a great deal of
superfluous energy.
" Hiere we are, my dear fiUow ! " he exclaimed, grasping
Spiffler's hand in both of his ; " I haven't been so deloighted
since I left old Trinity College. And where's the rest of
the boys ? By Jove, won't we work it ? The Satirical peaper
they had in Dublin, which has never been surpassed in
Europe, will foind its match at last ! "
"Sit down — sit down, Con !" said Spiffler, "we'll dis-
cuss it all to-night. There 's Sharpe and Trotter coming,
and an old fellow — Jorvey — who is to be our printer, and
— hark I in your ear — our capitalist I "
"You don't mean it!" returned Con O'Keene; "a re-
spectable old gentleman who unites enterproise with capital —
I shall be quite pleased to be introduced to him ! Do you
think, as we 're to be connected in the way of business, he
would enter into a little commercial arrangement with me
in the way of a beel ? "
" No, no ! " said Spiffler, decidedly, " I bar that — none of
that with our capitalist! Find a Jorvey for yourself — I can
tell you they 're not to be picked up every day ! "
" Pardon me, my dear boy ! " replied the Trinity-College
alumnus, " but you speak as if there were some doubt about
moy taking up a beel when it falls due."
" No, I don't," said Spiffler — " there 's not the least doubt
about that matter I "
" Now that 's ungenerous, my dear boy ! " said O'Keene,
"and I won't forgive you till you come over to Dubhn and
158 CLEMENT LORIMER.
taste me father's claret, and have that cruise we planned in
my yacht in the R«y."
The unfolding of this magnanimous plan of revenge by
Mr. O'Keene was interrupted by the arrival of Mr. Sharpe,
arm-in-arm with the capitalist Jorvey, to whom the three
gentlemen paid great deference, and welcomed with many
expressions of disinterested attachment. The printer was a
fat, good-humoured-looking man, with twinkling little grey
eyes, and a habit of assenting to every proposition made to
him. Mr. Sharpe was a young man of two or three-and-
twenty, stylishly dressed, with glossy hair, on which a great
deal of pains and oil had obviously been expended ; he
had a rather Jewish, but intelligent cast of features, and
enunciated his conversation with the rapidity of an accom-
plished, touch-and-go farce actor.
Shortly after the arrival of these gentlemen, Sarah-Jane
appeared with the lobsters, and Mr. Trotter, being still an
absentee, the Trinity College man proposed and carried a
motion for a small glass of brandy all round, to prevent the
possibility of the lobsters disagreeing with them. The
cei-emony was hardly complete when Mr. Trotter, a some-
what seedy-looking young fellow, with shoes, no straps, an
unbrushed coat, and a hat apparently brushed the wrong
way, appeared, and the discussion of the shell-fish and porter
commenced.
*' They're remarkably foine lobsters," observed Mr.
O'Keene ; " but you should see the fellows that go crawling
about the rocks on me father's estate in Oireland."
" I thought that that estate was inland," said Trotter.
" The one you mean is," replied Con ; " but the one I
speak of is on the coast of Galway. It was given to an
ancestor of ours by Malachi — the same who wore the collar
of gold — for feudal services performed in the wars with the
ancient Picts. It's called Carrig-na-Houlan."
" What's the rental?" asked Sharpe, abruptly.
"Why, sure, it's good round sum in paper; but then, as
the tenants always shoot the agent on the noight bifore
quarter-day, it's of little practical binifit."
" Never mind, O'Keene, my boy," said Trotter, " if your
tenants don't pay you rent, you don't pay your landlord, and
so it comes all right in the long run."
THE " flail" supper. 159
" Yes," cried Sharpe, " only that old Briggs will iiet
pressing some day, and we shall have O'Keene waiting for
him with a blunderbuss round the corner to commit an
agrarian outrage."
" Have another claw, Mr. Jorvey," said Spiffler. " You
and I will eat the fish while these fellows talk. Trotter, my
boy, the beer is next you — just fill our friend Jorvey's
glass."
" And moine too," put in the Irish landlord. " They may
say what they loike about us poor Oirishmen, Mr. Jorvey, but
we're not a bad set of fellows after all."
The supper went off swimmingly, Mr. Spiffler and his
friends vieing with each other in paying the most delicate
attentions to the typographic capitalist, never allowing either
his plate or his glass to remain empty, and predicting the vast
fortunes to be made by the union of mind with matter — that
is to say, by a judicious junction of the contents of their own
skulls with those of Mr. Jorvey's pockets. Con O'Keene,
however, went beyond all the rest in his professions of ever-
lasting friendship for Mr. Jorvey, pressing on the acceptance
of the decent tradesman a pair of rifle-barrelled and hair
trigger duelling pistols, with which his (Con's) uncle, by
the mother's side, the Marquis of Howth, shot his uncle bv
the father's side, the Duke of Bannagher, owing to a slight
family difference, the result of which had however been, to
keep the unfortunate Con out of an estate in Derry with a
yearly rental of £15,300.
In the midst of this curious romance of the Irish peerage
the last relics of the eatables were cleared away, and certain
bottles of spirits, flanked by cigars, with pipes and a blue
glass jar of Turkish tobacco for those who liked them belter,
having been produced, and Sarah-Jane having contributed, as
her share towards the festivities, copious jugs of steaming hot
water, the business of the evening fairly comarienced.
" Now, this is what I loike to see — this is really gratifoying
to see," exclaimed O'Keene, " men of litters and men of
business mingling "
" Mixing," suggested Sharpe
" Mingling and mixing," contiiivied iht Irish gentleman,
"in all good fellowship around the i.jste. beard."
160 CLEMENT LOniMER.
The eapitaUst assented, and, having mixed his grog,
drunk to " the gentlemen all."
" Ah," continued Spiffier, " I hope we shall have many-
such nierrj' meetings. Never was there such an opening for a
good weekly slasher, and never — I say it fearlessly — was
there such a combination of literary talent, with commer-
cial enterprise and liberality, as the ' Flail ' will shew the
world 1 "
•' Mr. Jorvey," shouted O'Keene, " I envy yer feelings as
a man and a phoilanthropist I To you I dedicate this bumper
— to you, sir, and to the 'Flail,' with which my friend Mr.
Spiffler is so good as to promise me a humble connexion.
Moy name may not be known to ye, sir, but go to Trin.
Coll. and ask there. Go to the gay and dazzling ceercles of
our poor old Oirish capital, and ask there — there, sir, for your
humble servant, Cornelius O'Keene I
The capitalist, according to his custom, gave a nod of
assent, and followed it up by a gulp at the comfortable jorum
before him.
" Yes," said Spiffler, " as we intend to come it rather
strong — to lash fearlessly the vices of the age, and to dash
the caustic of satire relentlessly into the ulcers of society "
"Come, come," interrupted Sharpe, "don't give us the
prospectus entire."
" I beg your pardon, gentlemen," resumed Mr. Spiffler,
" I meant that, as we are going in hard for personalities "
" Hear I hear 1 " said Trotter and Sharpe.
" We have wished that Mr. O'Keene should attend to
the department of seeing able-bodied persons, of suspicious
appearance, who may ask for the editor "
" To seeing them, first at the office," broke in the cham-
pion of the "Flail," "and afterwards at any place which may
be feexed on as convanient; with noine paces — less if desired
— between the muzzles of the pistols."
" A desirable precaution, my very dear sir," said
Spiffler. "Great social reformers always encounter oppo-
sition. Socrates was poisoned for proclaiming his un-
belief in the false gods of the Athenians. Galileo was
imprisoned by the Inquisition for asserting that the earth
moves. While I myself, when I was doing the ' Weekly
Stinger,' was brutally horsewhipped by Major BlazarooD
THE " flail" SUPPER. 161
for complimenting him upon the manual dexterity by means
of which he could make dice turn up whatever number
he wanted. However, that's apart from the question."
"What's to be the politics of the 'Flail?'" inquired
Trotter. " You know, I'm only to do the literature, theatres,
and fine arts."
" We will be guided by a simple rule," replied Spiffler
— "always pitch into the losing side."
" But if both sides are fighting a doubtful battle ? "
inquired Sharpe.
" Then take both sides," replied Spiffler. " These views
are in accordance with your sentiments, my very dear sir?"
The capitalist raised his tumbler to his lips, and nodded
over it.
" Having," continued Mr. Spiffler, " the great good for-
tune to find my own sentiments in complete accordance with
the enlightened political views of our good friend Jorvey, he
has signified his wish — a wish which, since I have known and
appreciated his active and powerful mind, has been my law
— that I should undertake the management of our new
journal "
" Hooraw ! " shouted O'Keene. " Hooraw for the editor !
Nish ! nish ! nish I Hooraw ! and a touch up with the
crowbar ! "
" Con," said Spiffler, "hold your Celtic tongue. Honoured,
gentlemen, as I am with the full — I trust I may say the full
confidence "
The capitalist took a fresh mouthful, and nodded.
" — The full confidence of our excellent friend, I have looked^
about me for coadjutors. Drodgiman, who is too much
occupied with the necessary preparation to be here to-night,
is to assume the sub-editorial scissors and spread the sub-
editorial paste. Our friend Sharpe, formerly of the ' Stinger,'
afterwards editor of the ' Monthly Blazer,' a magazine whigh
did honour to our national literature, will assist me with
leaders and the original matter in general. Trotter, there,
will look after books, theatres, and pictures — of course
cutting up the kangaroos."
•■' Eh?" said the capitalist, "the kangaroos?"
"The kangaroos," rejoined the editor — " the kangaroo,
sir, is an animal not provided by nature with any means of
M
J 62 CLEMENT LORIMER.
self-defence, either by teeth, claws, or heels, and \s, therefore,
a creature which offers great advantages to the bold hunts-
man. Of course there are literary, dramatic, and artistic, as
well as Australian kangaroos. I alluded to the three first
when I talked of cutting up. Well, Trotter does the general
literature and art — the fancy biscuit-baking — slicing the
kangaroos — while our Dublin friend, here, cannot but be
useful from his scholastic acquirements."
« Ask at Trin. Coll.," said Con.
" As well as from that gallant and resolute character, which
is — — "
*' Not unknown in the Phaynix," interrupted the Milesian.
" Our excellent friend Mr. Jorvey," resumed the editor
" being our proprietor, and having opened an account for the
carrying on of the 'Flail,' — a transaction which I fervently hope
he will never repent of "
Here Mr. Spiffler's speech — for speech it was — was
drowned in loud acclamations. Mr, Jorvey's health was
simultaneously drunk by the editor, the contributor, the
cutter-up of kangaroos, and the cutter-up of indignant people
who had been libelled, — compliments which the capitalist,
whose oratorical powers were limited, returned by drinking
"gentlemen all" again, concluding with the brief but emphatic
peroration of — " Here's luck !"
The festivities now proceeded apace. The candles soon
blinked dimly through clouds of tobacco-smoke, while up
from the festive mist uprose the loud clamour of gradually
thickening voices — that of Con the loudest and most con-
tinuous of all.
" Soilence, jointlemen," he thundered, " for the toast —
the toast of the evening! No heeltaps ! — no skoy-loights I
Here's success to the ' Flail I' may it thrash the straw so
many men are made of — may it always go against the grain
of humbug, — and, ever merry, ever satiric, may it never stop
flinging about the chaff!"
" Bravo, Con !" shouted the party; and O'Keene himself,
who, having drunk about four times as much as any other
two men present, was fast verging towards uproariousness,
flung his glass behind him with a wild convivial shriek, and
demanded whether any body then present was prepared to deny
the title of the " Flail " to be the leading journal of Europe.
THE " flail" SUPPER. 163
" When it appears," added Spiffler.
•Talking of that, I edited a paper called the *Eye'
once," exclaimed Trotter ; " and do you know the first leader
1 wrote in my first number, which was accidentally delayed ?"
" No ! no I " shouted a chorus of voices.
" It was short and sweet : — ' Here we are with our Eye
out at last.'"
A roar of laughter followed this, in which even the capi-
talist joined.
" God bless you, sir I " cried Con. " Sure it's you that
has the turn for humour. I honour ye, sir — 1 do. Allow
me to have the pleasure of shaking hands with ye, sir. The
cold world may understand me not, but there are souls, sir —
souls which — but never moind that. They'll laugh at me —
let them. Jorvey, I love ye I "
And, amid the screaming laughter of the rest, the over-
flowing Irishman seized the astounded printer by both hands,
and swore that he would never know happiness till Jorvey,
the dearest friend of his youthful prime, should have resided
a year at Carrig-na-Houlan Castle, and hunted a winter with
the Carrig-na-Houlan hounds. Meantime the less impulsive
Saxons settled the details of business fast.
" We'll walk into the ' Welter?'"
" And into the ' Sunday Knout,' double hot and strong."
"Don't forget Choker's work — he cut me up once —
squelch him I "
" Nor Dramley's novel — he's an ass !"
" Yes ; but he's a good chap, let hun down easy."
" Say he's as good as James."
" Do you call that letting him down easy ? "
"A good word for Jones of the Adelphi — mind he's a
friend of mine."
" Let's go in for Smith of the Haymarket being a stick
— I'm not on the free list."
"I'll notice my own farces, mind."
" Very good — that saves trouble."
" Of course we praise the Opera ?"
" I see no objection."
" And Chateauroux ? "
" Yes."
"And Lorton?"
164 CLEMENT LORIMEK.
" We'll see what they say about boxes."
" But — stop — hold hard ! what the devil is Con about ?"
This question broke up the whispered conference. And,
indeed, it seemed one natural to ask, for Mr. O'Keene, hav-
ing cut his straps with a knife, was standing on a chair, with
one foot on the back, and his trousers raised almost to the
knee, calling on Jorvey to I'emark and wonder at the sym-
metrical proportions of his leg. This exhibition having been
duly admired, Mr. Con volunteered a song, dashed oiF full
tilt into the " Shan-von-Voh," modulated the strain into " She
is far from the land," diversified it with a verse from a lyric
beginning " Whisky, drink divine," wandered into " The bells
of Shandon," floundered for a moment in " The night before
Larry was stretched," and then burst into tears, because, as
he sobbed out, the strain reminded him of tlie laie kA nis
areat-great-great-grandmother, who was one of the fifteen
hundred virgins burned by the heretic tyrant, Oliver Crom-
well, at the Cross of Limerick.
After this era of the evening the recollections of all the
party became somewhat cloudy, it being only Mr. Spiffler
who remembered the next day that the festivities had been put
an end to by the indignant entrance of the first-floor lodger,
seconded by the landlady, while Master Con was in the act of
performing a series of terrific howls, which he said were cor-
rect imitations of the cry of the Banshee, or tutelary spirit,
which watched over the fortunes and misfortunes of the illus-
trious house of the O'Keenes of Carrig-na-Houlan !
CHAPTER XVIII.
HOW MINERS MAY BE UNDERMINED.
"Once more, then — I ask it on my knees — grant what
I seek ? "
" No ! "
" By the best memories of our old love ? "
" No I "
"Out of pity to the wretch before you?"
«' No ! "
HOW MINERS MAY BE UNDERMINED. . 165
Then followed a pause.
Lady Harrowby Trumps, or Madame Lorton, rose from
her knees, and Sir Harrowby Trumps walked to the window,
put on his hat, and whistled.
" You are going ? "
" Yes ! "
" When you come back I shall not be here."
Sir Harrowby shrugged his shoulders and walked out.
Ladv Trumos listened to his footsteps on the stairs. They
stopped for a moment, and she started up. She thought that
he was returning — no, the latch of the street-door rattled,
then the door banged to, and a cab drove noisily away.
She drew a long breath, and clenched her hands and her
teeth. She was dreadfully pale, and a wild, tortured expres-
sion was on her face.
"His blood be on his own head," she said; and then
wrung her hands, and swayed herself backwards and forwards,
as though writhing in mental misery. This was but for a
minute. She became motionless, and then rose calmly up,
walked into a neighbouring room, returned with a desk, un-
locked it, and from a secret drawer took out a letter and
read from it these words, —
"If ever you should hate the husband you now love,
seek the writer."
She repeated the words over several times mechanically
and rang the bell.
" A coach to the door directly," she said to the servant.
Meantime she hurriedly wrapped her shawl about her, and
taking up the letter glanced over it again, appeared to make
a mental memorandum of the address, and presently drove
away, placing the document in the bosom of her dress.
We must precede and anticipate the arrival of the coach
which carried Lady Harrowby Trumps from her apartments
near Soho Square.
In a dingy lane, in the outskirts of Bermondsey, lying
amid mean suburbs, unpaved and unlighted, and spotted
here and there with blotches of waste ground, bestrewn
with heaps of rubbish, and scooped into holes by swarms
of uncared-for, dirt- grubbing children, stood an old-
fashioned house which had been a brave hall once. It was
placed a little back from the lane, and two or three scrubby
166 CLEMENT LORIMER.
trees rose above the wall, between that boundan' and the man-
sion, and a mud-incrusted and battered old postern admitted
the visitor from the lane to the hall-door. It did not seem
to be a much-trodden entrance, nevertheless we will pass it
— pass through a dark, narrow lobby, ascend a dark, oaken
stair, and enter a small, wainscoted parlour. It was scantily
and shabbily furnished, and even in the warm summer's time
its atmosphere was dark, and cheerless, and chill. Narrow
windows, made still narrower by heavy damask curtains,
admitted grey wedges of light which fell upon an old oaken
table highly polished, upon some half-dozen high-backed,
tapestry-covered chairs, upon a few hard, old-fashioned por-
traits in dark wooden frames, and on an antique escritoire,
on which were placed writing materials ready for use.
Into this sullen-looking room, there walked about an
hour after Lady Harrowby had left her house, a woman of
very remarkable appearance. Those of our readers who are
familiar with the female forms produced by the very early
Flemish artists, with those stiff, rude, flat, cast-iron looking
figures, without mellowness, or roundness, or grace, which
were the offspring of the first century or two of oil-painting,
will have an idea of the appearance of the person we wish to
describe. She was a woman not past the middle age, but so
thin and spare, with a face so worn by the rigour of asceti-
cism or solitary suffering, that she seemed much older. She
walked perfectly uprightly, and sat down at the escritoire, the
spinal column still preserving its unflinching rigidity. In-
deed, she looked less like a woman than a gaunt statue
worked by machinery, her face was wan and worn, and full
of deep lines and wrinkles, and her hair, perfectly grey, fell
in clusters down her cheeks. She wore the very deepest
widow's weeds, and the material of the dress, which hung
around her in straight, ungraceful lines, could hardly be
discerned, so deeply was it trimmed with festoons of crape.
She seemed a creature joyless and griefless, because she was
passionless ; a sort of halo of coldness encompassed her.
She was a living death.
We have said that this woman sat down to the escritoire.
She had written about half a page, in neat, but stiff charac-
ters, when the sound of wheels was heard. They seemed to
stop at the door, then a deep, hollaw-sounding bell was rung,
HOW MINERS MAY BE UNDERMINED. 167
and in a minute after a withered old woman brought in a
card.
" 'Tis her at last," muttered the widow. She took the
card and added, " I thought so — admit her." The servant
departed, and presently a lady having her features hidden
by a thick veil entered.
The widow rose and said, very courteously and quite
calmly, —
" Lady Harrowby Trumps stands before me."
The person addressed bowed, and replied in an agitated
voice, " And I see "
" The writer of a certain letter to you, which you have,
perhaps, taken the precaution to have about you."
Lady Trumps answered by producing the note, the brief
contents of which the reader is already acquainted with.
The lady of the house glanced at it, signed her visitor to
a seat, and then stood motionless before her.
" I wrote you," the widow said, " to come hither should
you ever hate your husband. You have come ! "
Lady Harrowby made a gesture of mingled passion and
despair.
"I know not who you are, madam," she exclaimed,
" I yielded to the impulse of a moment. Perhaps I did
wrong — I will return. My life is one dreary waste of toil,
insult, and neglect; but yet — but yet — I do not — cannot
hate him ;" and she wrung her hands and groaned aloud.
The widow looked at her with a stony smile and cold
glittering eyes.
" He lives upon your earnings?" she said.
Lady Harrowby Trumps bowed her head, weeping.
" And yet," she exclaimed, " if he had only given me that
money to-day — I know he has it — I would toil for him, and
suffer for him, without a murmur."
" Then you asked money not for yourself? "
"No, no!" exclaimed the other, with vehemence. "Not.
for me — for my father — my father whom I left when my
husband first won me — for a poor, wifeless, heart-broken old
man, deserted and lonely in his age, and dying — dying of
absolute, literal want ! "
And she burst into an agony of tears. The widow stood
calmly by until the paroxysm had passed away. Then her
168 CLEMENT I.ORIMER.
visitor, compressing her forehead with her hands, and
striving, as it appeared, to regain her composure and pre-
sence of mind, said vacantly, —
"But to whom — to whom am I telling all this? My
sufferings, my state of mind is such, I hardly know what I
say — what I think. Who are you, madam?"
" Look at me," said the other. " Does your heart
whisper no words of terror and of shame ? "
Lady Ilarrowby Trumps started and looked wildly
around, while her breath came thick and fa^t.
"I am," said the lady of the house, — "I am Esther
Challis!"
Lady Harrowby Trumps winced as though she had re-
ceived a blow. Then her face became of an ashen hue,
and her dimmed eyes wandered vacantly ; she was as one
stunned.
"Esther Challis!" she murmured at last, apparently
speaking to herself. "Esther Challis I but she is dead —
dead, long years since — dead — dead !"
" Yes I" replied the other, " dead to the world — dead to
joy — dead to affection — dead to hope; but, alas! living
still."
All at once Lady Harrowby Trumps started up.
" What have I heard ? " she screamed. " Was it a dream
— a vision — or has the grave given up its dead? Speak!
— say the words I heard again. Who are you ?"
" Esther Challis, the first and only wife of Harrowby
Trumps."
The lady we must now call Madame Lorton fell for-
wards, without making an effort to save herself, and her
forehead smote the ground. The woman who had made the
astounding revelation we have heard struck the floor thrice
with her foot, and almost immediately the withered old
servant appeared. Her mistress signed to her and without
manifesting any surprise at the occurrence, she aided the
former to raise the prostrate form of Madame Lorton and
place her on an old-fiashioned couch. She then set a tumbler
of fair water on the table and withdrew. The lady of the
house, whom we shall henceforth designate by the name
which she bore in the neighbourhood, that of Mrs. Challis,
stooped affectionately over the fainting woman, sprinkled
She flBHBHml {faonilB^ tfinn flBiikniigr s vnfflsnt ^tell, ^kk tkooi'
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— a laaewwgiwJwiry awMB J MiiiM t yg i —r lilim jlj a ^wa B wir iflaa
Ac w t MK iarihaHlEn ia (fte ihwrftij iniflg ami -wAMe apaflt
lAe cam boffe Ha sKCft asm a> feoBX^?"'
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Ami wby — afc}„* she wHt •■*■*
^ffar jiwai irti'/
170 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" For mine ? "
" Yes ! so long as I believed his conviction would destroy
your happiness I forbore all proceedings. You could feel no
injury knowing none. So long as he retained your affections
he was safe. Often has my very soul cried out within me to
smite and humble him ; but while you, an innocent person,
loved him, the blow could not fall on one without striking
both. I said to myself it is better that the guilty should
escape than that the innocent should perish. If she ceases
to love him, not as a husband — for he is not hers — but as a
man, then I am free to act."
" But," said Madame Lorton eagerly, " does Sir Har •
does he — I mean — know that you still live ? "
" Well," replied the deserted wife.
" And yet he seemed to have no fear of your vengeance
— no dread of the law?"
" He knew me too well. He knew he was safe in your
innocence and my compassion for it. Soldiers have ere now
placed their women and children in the front rank, and the
enemy has not fired."
" 'Tis a coward's device," said Madame Lorton.
" My husband is a coward," was the reply. " Do you
still love him ? "
"Can you ask me?" said Madame Lorton, with a
shudder.
" Good ! " replied the wife of Sir Harrowby Trumps, —
" the shield is broken, and the steel can reach him."
She paused for a moment, and then said with an expres-
sion of the most perfect courtesy, and taking Madame Lor-
ton's hands in both of hers, —
" 1 offer you hospitality as one sister might to another."
" You are good — very good," murmured the singer ;
"but my father — I must go to my father," and her voice
became choked with sobs.
"So be it," said Mrs. Challis, "but you talked of money."
She went to the escritoire and took from it a cheque which
she presented to her companion. " Do not scruple to accept
it. From the proceeds of your profession, now freely your
own, you can reimburse me at your convenience."
Madame Lorton rose with difficulty, her face ghastly
pale, and her limbs trembling and bending beneath her.
THE COUNTERPLOT BEGINS TO WORK. 171
" What," she murmured, — " what do you mean to do ?
Will you yourself "
" Not until it becomes necessary," answered Mrs. Challis,
anticipating her thought. " Others will be glad to take the
first steps ; besides, I can bring down on him a more awful
catastrophe than a mere prosecution for bigamy. He is
engaged in a dark and dangerous plot."
Madame Lorton started. "You know aught " she
was beginning, when Mrs. Challis interrupted her again.
" If I am dead to the world, I still see it with the eyes
and hear of it with the tongues of others. I have means
and I have agents. I know much — for those who bide their
time must watch their time. I have waited and I have
watched, and the moment is at hand. My husband had
once a thoughtless, heedless friend. That friend he is now
leagued to ruin. Why, I know not. That is a matter with
which I am unconcerned ; but the friends have become ene-
mies, that is enough for my purpose. Two men fight in
unequal strife — the stronger is my foe ; but I have the means
of placing a deadly weapon in the hands of the weaker ; and
then if the battle be not won by me, it will be, at least, won
for me."
In less than an hour after this conversation, the withered
old servant deposited in the neighbouring post-office a very
long letter, the superscription of which bore the name of
Clement Lorimer.
CHAPTER XIX.
THE COUNTERPLOT BEGINS TO WORK.
The household in Cecil Street in which we are interested
remained during the progress of these events in a generally
unchanged position. Clement Lorimer was still an inmate
of the lodging-house ; the prompt payment of a few slight
personal debts, owing to him by some of his more honour-
able friends, permitting him to pass, without trenching on the
kindness of others, the short breathing time which the law-
allows its victims between the period of its first marking the
172 CLEMENT LORIMER.
quarry and its final swoop. It had been one of Lorimer's
earliest cares to visit many of his principal creditors, men in
business, with the view, if possible, of gaining some clue to
the person who had bought up their claims, in order, as it
appeared, to concentrate them all in one hand. Everywhere
during these researches he was met with the same story.
Different persons, apparently attorney's clerks, had called
upon the tradesmen, stated to them in a sort of half confi-
dence, that the unknown guardian of their debtor had deter-
mined to arrest the course of Lorimer's ruinous extravagance,
and that with this view, while he wished no person in busi-
ness to suffer in the matter, he still intended to arm himself
with a power over Lorimer which would effectually enable
him to control the conduct of his ward in future.
" What were we to do, sir ? " said the tradespeople. " It
seemed not altogether an unlikely story. You were known
to have suffered terribly on the turf; and — and it was said —
beg your pardon, sir — that you were out of the way — and,
in fact, there was the ready money, and we took it."
To this explanation Lorimer could take no exception.
None of those amongst whom he pushed his inquiries had
seen any person who appeared to be a principal in the matter.
Every thing was conducted by means of adroit agents. More
than once during these researches Lorimer thought of Blane.
He was convinced that that worthy could, if he chose, give
him important information, and the more he thought of his
ex-steward's demeanour, of his sly, peering, noiseless, self-
satisfied manner, the more firm became his conviction that
the man had been an adroit and intelligent spy. But he
could obtain no information respecting Mr. Blane's where-
abouts, although that worthy was actually in daily communi-
cation with Mrs. Ginnura's husband.
It was when puzzled and almost broken-hearted with the
fruitless result of his endeavours to ascertain who the fisher-
man was in the meshes of whose net he was enveloped that
Lorimer was visited by Flick and his son. The jockey was
very feeble and terribly wasted, and when Lorimer took his
hand, he burst into tears, and, sinking on a chair, cried like
a child. Then, from first to last, without prevarication and
without reservation, father and son told their stones. Lori-
mer listened with almost affrighted interest. The forged
THE COUNTERPLOT BEGINS TO WORK. 173
cheque, as we have seen, had been torn up, but the letter in
which it had been enclosed was placed by the Flicks in
Lorimer's hands. He had no recollection of the writing.
The next question was touching the identity of the man who
had begun the work of temptation with the son and crowned
his task by the corruption of the father. Lorimer was much
struck by the report given by both of his informants of the
solemnity, and even tenderness, of manner of the unknown.
The jockey could repeat, almost verbatim, the conversation
which had occurred in the stable the memorable night before
the Derby. The words, " You may be a happier father yet
— a happier father than I am," haunted Lorimer strangely.
He compared the sentiment with the tone of the note en-
closing the cheque and with the general tenor of the con-
versations held with the son at the eating-house in the City ;
and the more he ruminated, the more dark and mazy seemed
the windings of the labyrinth. Half-formed suggestions —
momentary glimpses — fanciful guesses — every species of
mental jack-o'-lantern glimmered by turns, each for an in-
stant, across Lorimer's brain, and then left it in darVness
more profound than before. It was, however, evident, that
the person who had hocussed the horse was one of Lorimer's
principal enemies, if not his only foe. Then he suddenly
recollected the face he had seen looking in at the window
of the grand stand. The jockey at once admitted that he
had also, in the same room, and at the same moment as
Lorimer, caught a glimpse of a face which had startled him,
so that he could not conceal his agitation. It was, as Flick
said with a certain awe, the face " of the man." Thus one
point was gained — Lorimer had seen his enemy. The next
step was clearly to trace out the person in question, to track
him and confront him. And now another light flashed upon
the path. It will be recollected that Owen Dombler, the
fellow-clerk of Richard Flick, was an acquaintance of our
literary friend, Mr. Spiffler. On the evening subsequent to
Owen's visit to the Opera with the latter, he had called upon
Richard at his poor lodgings in the Colonnade — called upon
him, indeed, with a note of dismissal from the firm of Shiner
and Maggs, for the jockey's son had been obliged for a time to
desert his post in Fenchurch Street to attend upon his father
during the latter's illness ; and as Messrs. Shiner and Maggs
174 CLEMENT LORIMER.
were not in the habit of entertaining more cats than caught
mice, and, moreover, had no mind to keep on hand any samples
of filial affection, they had despatched Dombler with a polite
intimation that the services of Mr. Richard Flick would in
future be dispensed with. After conveying this message Mr.
Dombler had naturally adverted to his last night's operatic
entertainment, and described the frantic way in which Spif-
fler had run out of the pit to ascertain, if possible, something
about a curious-looking old man who had flung a bouquet to
Mademoiselle Chateauroux from one of the boxes near the
stage, and whom he (Dombler) remembered to have seen on
the course at Epsom. To this narrative Richard Flick had at
the time paid little attention, he was far too much occupied
with the subjects of his father's illness and his own dismissal.
Since the explanation come to with the jockey, however, his
mind had reverted to Owen Dombler and the story of the
old man in the box. He had, therefore, gone into the City,
seen the clerk, and although the description given by the
latter of the appearance of the bouquet-thrower was vague
in the extreme — he had, in truth, caught but the merest
glimpse of the person in question, — he was yet able to
inlorm Richard, upon the authority of Mr. Spiffler, that the
old man was in the habit of visiting an obscure and remote
churchyard in the vicinity of Hackney, and of gazing fixedly
upon a tombstone on which was inscribed a curious name
which Richard had quite forgotten. He believed, however,
that it was a female name — a Dutch, or German, or Flemish
name. Involuntarily Loriraer's thoughts recurred to the ma-
nuscript which had been read to him by Miss Eske.
" A Flemish name," he said, with a half smile at his own
absurdity, " was it Treuchden ? "
" Yes," said Richard Flick, in a tone of perfect decision,
— " yes, that is the name."
Again Lorimer sank into an ocean of dubious, darkling
dreams. Vague presentiments, misty fragments of floating
theories, sailed over the dim firmament of his mind, assuming
fantastic shapes, and forming themselves into strange and
wild combinations, but it was all cloudland, and these fleet-
ing shadows soon lost the little coherence and outline they
possessed, and united into a deep gloom, through which the
inward eyes of the brain strove fruitlessly to penetrate.
THE COUNTERPLOT BEGINS TO WORK. 175
At length Lorimer roused himself, and the result of a
long conversation with his visitors was, that Richard should
ascenain precisely the locality of the churchyard in question,
and that his cousin, Gill Dumple, should be despatched
there next Sunday — the only day he could be spared owing
to his duties in Mr. Jorvey's establishment — with instruc-
tions carefully to watch the appearance of " the man," and,
if possible, without being suspected, to track him to his
home, wherever that might be.
After the departure of Flick and his son, Lorimer de-
scended to the drawing-room occupied by the Pomeroys
with a lighter heart than he had known for some time.
Miss Eske was there — alone. It is astonishing how often
Clement Lorimer found her alone. He went up to her and
took her hand.
"Rejoice Avith me, Marion," he said, "I think I hold
one end of the clue. We shall baffle our friends at the
other, yet."
Miss Eske started joyfully up. " Oh ! can 1 help — can I
do anything ? "
" Have you not done wonders ? Do I not feel that in
fighting for myself I am fighting for you ; and then can I
lack either heart or courage ? "
He led her into the window recess, and they talked in
low, sweet whispers. While they are thus pleasantly engaged
let us bestow a word upon the general and his lady.
They found London agree marvellously well with them,
and liked it better and better every day. The general, like
all Transatlantic republicans, entertained a profound reve-
rence for a title, and having brought some good credentials
from New York, was not long in making the acquaintance of
no less than five City knights, two or three baronets, and an
actual live lord — an Irish one — who drank sixteen tumblers
of whisky punch in one evening at the general's expense,
and then considerately saw the Transatlantic man of war
home to Cecil Street. The general, himself, when he en-
tered the drawing-room where his wife was sitting up for
him, was by no means steady on his legs, — a phenomenon
which he accounted for by observing that the whisky which
he had imbibed had been distilled from barley grown in a
monarchical country, and which could not, therefore, be
176 CLEMENT LORIMER.
expected to be so wholesome as true blue republican strong
drinks. Mrs. Poraeroy did not by any means subscribe to
this view of the matter, but as soon as she understood the
noble company in which the whisky had been consumed,
her soul was appeased, she gulped down an incipient curtain
lecture, and took advantage of the general's hilarious dispo-
sition to extract from him a promise that he would rent a
house for, at least, six months in London, and job a carriage —
say a nice two-horse phaeton — for park and shopping pur-
poses. Mrs. Pomeroy having, without much difficulty, ob-
tained the necessary permission, straightway called Mrs.
Ginnum into conference with respect to the house, while the
general himself undertook the providing of the vehicle. This
last matter was soon arranged, the only difficulty being with
respect to the heraldic insignia to be emblazoned on the
panel; The republican dignitary enlarged to the astonished
coach-builder upon the contempt in which he and the other
free and enlightened citizens of the United States held all
such relics of an effete and barbarous feudal system.
" Then don't have 'em, sir," said the tradesman ; " that's
soon arranged."
But it was not arranged at all so easily. The general had
a peculiar scheme of his own in view.
" You see," he said, " I don't kinder like that, nyether.
The folks in the old country here-away, who aien't so spry and
right down, slick, go-ahead, as us on t'other side the Herring-
pond, think them gimcracks on a man's carridge a great
thing, and not to be sneezed at nohow. Ne-ow, I aien't a-
goin' to degrade myself to the level of them aristocratic pre-
judices, and have a whole bilin' of griffins, and hands with
daggers, and lions-rampant, and them sort of things, which
altogether belong to the old country, I calculate. No ; I
aien't a-going to have them, 1 guess ; but then I aien't
a-goin' to let down the dignity of Uncle Sam by havin' nothin'
on the panel, nyether."
" But you must have either armorial bearings, or nothing,
sir," said the coach-builder.
" No, I needn't ne-ow. I'll have a pictur', I guess. It
shan't be arms, but it 'ill leuk like them. I'll have a 'coon
a-sittin' on a rail, with a couple of our free and enlightened
citizens on each side, wollopping their niggers with one
THE COUNTERPLOT BEGINS TO WORK. 177
hand and holding out the peerless flag of freedom with the
other."
" Any motto, sir?" said the tradesman.
" No ; I guess I aien't goin' to have a motto — nothiu'
but a few words written on a scroll at the bottom, ' America
expects every man to larrup his own nigger.' So, you see, it
won't be one of them aristocratic and feudal humbugs of
coats-of-arms ; but a right-down, straight-up, good, democra-
tic, emblematic pictur', and an ornament beside."
It was on the Saturday afternoon on which Madame
Lorton had visited Esther Challis at Bermondsey that the
general's phaeton, decorated with his ingenious apology for a
coat-of-arms, was reported ready for service. On that same
afternoon, at a later hour, Lorimer received the letter which,
as we saw, had been addressed to him by the real wife of
Sir Harrowby Trumps. It enclosed copies of the two wed-
ding certificates, with full memoranda of the dates of the
marriages, the names of the witnesses, and an intimation
that ample evidence would be forthcoming in the event of a
charge of bigamy being brought forward. The writer con-
cluded by stating, that her object in possessing Loriuier with
the information which he had just received was partly that of
furnishing him with the means of checking a conspiracy being
hatched against him, and in which the writer had reason to
believe that Sir Harrowby Trumps was deeply and foully im-
plicated. Should Lorimer not wish to come forward as an
accuser, the documents enclosed would still be of service in
the way mentioned.
Such was the tenor of the extraordinary communication
over which Lorimer was deeply pondering when the general,
bursting into his room, announced that the phaeton would be
ready for a drive in the Park the next day, and trusted that
his young friend would occupy a seat. Clement was on the
point of politely declining the offer when a thought suddenly
struck him.
It was now, of course, an object of primary importance
for him to see Trumps, and it occurred to Lorimer that a
public appearance in the Park, while it would probably bring
about that end, would also be of use in dispelling the persua-
sion which he found had been so industriously circulated
amongst his tradesmen, that he was out of the way, hiding,
N
178 CLEMENT LORIMER.
in fact, from his creditors. Besides, the temporary depression
of spirits which had followed his illness had rapidly given
way under the influence of the active occupation in which he
had lately been engaged. Friends, too, seemed to be spring-
ing up from hitherto undreamt-of quarters ; and, above all,
there glowed in his soul, purifying it, chastening it, strength-
ening it, the influence of a deep and holy passion. Let our
readers take it as an axiom, that no man really knows what
he is made of — no man knows the force of the secret springs
of his heart and his brain, until he has been in trouble and in
love.
" So I hope we may count upon you, Mr. Loriraer : the
car is none of your common doings — quite a chicken fixing;
and, in course. Miss Eske will be of the party, — I calculate
there's aa inducement for you, — and Mrs. Jiniral guesses so
too."
So Lorimer yielded a ready assent, and the hour was
fixed upon there and then.
CHAPTER XX.
" CHECK TO THE KING."
We are in Hyde Park. The afternoon is brilliant, the
season is at its height, and the rich blaze of the summer sun
streams gladly upon the broad, trampled greensward, the
stately avenues and picturesque clump of noble trees, and the
shining waters of the Serpentine. Above, all is cloudless and
blue; while towards the horizon, on either hand, a filmy
summer's haze floats over the earth, through which you can
see dimly, and as it were impalpably, the outlines of the long
extended ridges of building, stretching to Bayswater and
Kensington, the bricken ribs which encompass this, the prin-
cipal of the " Lungs of London."
The time is about four o'clock on a Sunday afternoon ;
the hour and the day when the Park is a vast, open-air par-
liament, to which every class and rank of society pours its
representatives. You can trace the various foot-paths by the
streams of pedestrians which mark their course. The ex-
" CHECK TO THE KING." 179
panse of green turf is dotted with loungers. Crowds of
shouting and screaming boys fly hither and thither over the
sward and among the trees ; groups of equestrians speed
along the tan-covered avenue of Rotten Row ; while, on the
great carriage thoroughfares, particularly in the vicinity of
the Apsley-House corner, and by^ the northern bank of the
water, two stately ranks of glittering equipages move slowly
in a double line, the trampling of the glossy horses and the
rattle of the wheels scarce heard amid the loud, continued
buzz and the restless stir of the swarms of foot-passengers
who occupy^ either pathway, and between v, hich the double
line of vehicles slowly passes in stately and brilliant review.
And herein is one of the true sights of London. No city
of the earth beside could furnish such a show. Watch the
never-ending stream of carriages pass by. How the eye
dazzles and the brain whirls before the rapidly-changing
phases of the brilliant pageant ! It is a sort of equipage-
kaleidoscope. There they roll on, hour after hour, a won-
drous procession of high-bred, champing horses, of brilliant
panels, of gaudy liveries, and richly-draped hammer-cloths
— the stream of vehicles here and there varied by a single
horseman, who rides bowingly by the side of a carriage, or
dashes along threading his way between the revolving wheels.
Now passes, perhaps, the perfectly-appointed equipage of
some brilliant leader of ton — following it conies the old-
fashioned, comfortable chariot of a comfortable dowaper — here
is the gaudy carriage of a foreign ambassador, marked by the
chasseur, with his short sword and long feather, perched be-
hind — then comes, perchance the quiet brougham of an actress,
or dancer, followed by the flashy, jerking cab of the gentleman
who flung her the largest and heaviest bouquet of ttie shower
which last night rained upon the stage. And so the grand
review of beauty and fashion goes on : and the people on the
footpaths stare, and remark, and criticise ; and knowing men
of town recognise liveries and point out notabilities, happy
when there is a momentary stoppage in the march, and they
can remark the lady who reclines in the carriage on the
panels of which bloom the ducal strawberry-leaves.
The afternoon wears on, and General Pomeroy's phaeton
has made some half-dozen journeys from the Achilles to the
bridge across the Serpentine, hapjiily without anybody re-
180 CLEMENT LORIMER.
marking the peculiar substitute for armorial bearings which
the democratic ingenuity of the general had invented. That
M'orthy gentleman reclined upon the cushions with a gratified
and patronising air, which seemed to say to all beholders,
" Look at me ! there's no charge. I'm a free and en-
lightened citizen. Take a lesson by me. I'm not one of
your aristocrats. I'm one of Nature's nobility, I am."
And, by the way, it is a curious fact, but a true one, that
there is hardly a thorough-paced, democratic leveller going
who does not console himself for the personal insignificance
to which his doctrines would necessarily reduce him, by a
certain inward opinion that he is, at the very least, a duke in
that convenient, but rather indefinite, species of aristocracy
called the " nobility of nature."
Mrs. General Pomeroy was also, of course, in full blow.
She had, for once, forgotten her nerves, and had not alluded,
since they had passed the Apsley Gate, either to the delicate
state of her exceedingly corpulent frame, or to the fact that
she had nevtr enjnyed a wink of sleep since she had been
lulled to rest by Dalby's Carminative and Godfrey's Cordial
about the remote era when she was weaned.
" There's a pretty considerable percentage of carridges
here," Mrs. General Pomeroy remarked ; " but it aien't up,
nohow, to New York. It's generally admitted, Mr. Lorimer,
that the old country can't touch us in these fixings."
" It arn't to be expected," replied the general. " We're
young — we're slick — we're spry — we're go-ahead. Oh ! we're
as tarnation smart as a 'coon with three legs chasing a 'tarnal
flash of lightning up the rainbow."
" The Marquis of Pimlico," said Lorimer, indicating a
gentleman who drove his own cab. " You wished me," he
continued to the American lady, " to point you out some of
our aristocracy."
" Yes, I convene I did," was the reply ; " that I might
not look at 'era, in case they should think there was a female
citizen of a free and enlightened country who could be found
to stare at a man tor nothin' except his bein' a lord. V\ ell,
now, but the marquis ain't bad-looking nohow, Mr. Lorimer,
and that's a fact. Don't you think now, jiniral, that he's
like young Hiram Peabody, who keeps the dry-goods store in
Chesnut Street, Applesquash Town, opposite Deacon Barls' ?"
" CHECK TO THE KING." 181
" I expect that Hiram's more distinguy about the whis-
kers," replied the general. But the reported similarity formed
a capital excuse for the aristocracy-contemning couple to stare
at the aristocrat with all their eyes.
Just at that moment there was a pause in the rolling tide
of carriages, and some loungers on the pathway, who had
probably espied the curious armorial bearings of General
Pomeroy's equipage, honoured its occupants with a length-
ened and very critical gaze, which was, perhaps, directed as
much to the mild and gentle beauty of Marion Eske as to
the robust charms of the Transatlantic matron. Nevertheless,
the latter lady thought proper to take the half-heard expres-
sions of admiration to herself, and she nudged the general
accordingly ; at the same time Hinging her drapery around
her in what she consi<lered the most becoming folds, and
assuming the most graceful air of fashionable languor which
she could call up at a moment's notice.
" I expect," whispered the general, " that they are taking
you for a Britisher peeress."
■"I calculate that's hardly complimentary, jiniral," replied
the lady, swelling with delight; " I hope, now, I ain't much
like a peeress. These loatiers stare so, I guess. I'm quite
riled ; but the common people of this location can't be ex-
pected to have the manners of our free and enlightened
citizens."
A movement in the string of carriages soon removed
Mrs. Pomeroy from the gaze of Marion Eske's admirers;
and she thought, in her inner soul, with what delight she
would tell Deacon Barls, when they returned to Applesquash
Town, how once, in Hyde Park, the resort of the British
aristocracy, she had been humbled and insulted by being
taken for a British peeress.
Meantime, of course, Lorimer recognised a few friends
and many acquaintances. This was his first appearance in a
place of public resort since before the Derby, and he keenly
watched the faces which he knew. From most of his old
companions he received a surprised but easy nod. A few on
horseback rode up to the side of the carriage, greeted him
warmly, and Lorimer's heart swelled as they wrung his hand,
and told him how happy they were to see that the absurd
reports circulated about him were without foundation. More
182 CLEMENT LORIMER.
than once there was whispered in his ear, " Take care of
Trumps, mj' boy ! there's somethinji; wrong there — be alive
in that quarter." To each of these friendly warnings Lorimer
nodded gaily : he felt that the ball was somehow rolling to
his foot, and Miss Eske, as she watched the flush of his
cheek, and the brightened sparkle of his eye, thanked God in
her heart thai health and energy seemed returning to her
lover.
Only once did Lorimer's cheek partially blanch, and then
flush up crimson. Fortunately, Miss Eske, who was talking
at the time to Mrs. Pomeroy, did not observe these mo-
mentary — and they were but momentary — symptoms of con-
fusion, but they were occasioned thus. In the opposite rank
of carriages rolled a brilliant open curricle, the harness of the
sleek and champing horses blazing with silver. This vehicle
contained but one person, a lady, who lay sinking back in a
couch formed of rich shawls and cloaks. As she passed, her
eyes — large, lustrous, black eyes — shone full into those of
Lorimer, but not a muscle of her olive-coloured face moved.
That she saw Lorimer was evident, but not a spark of recog-
nition lighted up the long, fixed stare. For an instant he
thought she was about to make a sign, as she raised her
exquisitely gloved hand, but it vv'as only to place it upon the
head of a King Charles spaniel which occupied the cushion
beside her, and then, as she stooped to caress the dog, the
two carriages separated, and Lorimer saw her no more.
Certainly Mademoiselle Chateauroux excelled in the art
of giving the cut direct. Lorimer's lip curled, and there was
the bitterness of contempt, not of outraged feeling, in his
smile, as a cavalier, who had been proceeding at a hand
canter, suddenly checked his horse by the side of the car-
riage, and in a coarse, familiar voice, said, —
"Ah, Lorimer, how de do? — smiling, eh? That's right,
take it easy : I always do." And the coarse, sensual face of
Sir Harrowby Trumps appeared, as its owner was on horse-
back, on a level with the occupants of the phaeton.
"Your American friends, I presume?" continued the
baronet, with insolent familiarity. " Glad to see them : intro-
duce me to the young lady."
Lorimer coldly mentioned the necessary names. The
general and his lady looked delighted at the introduction ;
"CHECK TO THE KING." 183
Miss Eske, who alone of her party knew something of the
leal character of the man before her, shrunk back, and
looked inquiringly up into Loriraer's face, as though to ask
how she ought to meet his advances.
" Not much of this sort of thing on the wrong side of the
Atlantic — eh, general?" said Sir Harrowby, reining in his
impatient horse — a fine grey — and pointing to the opposite
line of carriages.
The worthy general and his lady were both so much
taken by surprise at this audacious apportionment of the
right and the wrong sides of the ocean, that ere they could
answer Trumps went on, talking at Miss Eske, —
"Ah! — humph! — not a bad sample of Uncle Sam's
beauty, eh ? " he said, addressing Lorimer ; " but I hear
they don't last. Never mind, make hay while the sun shines
— that's the way."
Lorimer restrained himself by a mighty effort : he felt
that he could have hurled the ruffian from his horse, but ne
answered calmly, —
" 1 have heard of a rare beauty here, I think you knew
her once."
" Ah ! " replied the other: " name I "
" Presently," answered Lorimer ; " 1 think of going to
see her."
"Then you'd better make haste about it — or — that is,
if you don't pay up, you know, she'll have to come and
see you."
" Ah, you still intend to go on with that action ? "
" Morbleu ! as somebody says, I should think so."
" You dream you'll get your money ? "
" I know I'll try."
" Is there no influence would induce you to spare me ? "
Sir Harrowby laughed one of his coarse horse-laughs.
" I did hope that there might be," said Lorimer, with a
scarce perceptible smile.
" You did ! " said the other. " Ha ! you may see an-
other Sunday here, but that will be the last until "
" Until you relent, eh ? "
Sir Harrowby laughed again. The general and Mrs.
Pomeroy listened with open-mouthed curiosity, and Marion
Eske with fear and awe, to this strange colloquy.
184 CLEMENT LORIMEB.
" There are other prisons besides the Fleet and the King's
Bench," said Lorimer, musing!}'.
" Ah, yes ! " answered the baronet : " there's Horse-
monger Lane and Whitecross Street."
" And Newgate ! " exclaimed Lorimer, with vehemence.
Trumps started, and looked wonderingly up in Lori-
nier's face.
" Some to the Farringdon Hotel, and some to the neigh-
bouring establishment in the Old Bailey, — which party would
you rather join. Sir Harrowby ? " Clement asked, in his former
apparently dreamy mood. " Such good friends as we have
been may not be separated so far after all, Sir Harrowby
Trumps."
The brow of the baronet grew dark : he muttered to
himself, and then abruptly asked Lorimer what he meant.
" Nay, nothing of consequence," said Clement. " I was
only wondering where we should be if all had their deserts.
Never mind, it is over now."
"Poor devil!" thought the baronet, "1 see — it's all up
— brain affected — he looks quite vacant."
As he mused in this manner Trumps could not have ob-
served the eyes of Lorimer, which were fixed upon him as
are those of a hawk upon its quarry.
" Touching that beauty — that lady I spoke of," resumed
Lorimer, " she assures me that I shall have all her interest
with you."
" Her interest with me I "
" Yes, and it ought to weigh heavily in my favour."
Sir Harrowby looked moody and puzzled for a moment,
and then muttered, —
" He is raving — it has been too much for him. Well, it
doesn't much matter, mad or sane it's all one to me — but Fll
humour him." Then he continued, in a coaxing tone, as
one would speak to a child, " So you say 1 know this
lady ? "
" You do : better than any one else."
" And she knows me ? "
" She does : better than any one else."
" Come, then," said Trumps, soothingly, yet anxiously,
"where have I seen her? Give me the clue, man I tell me
a place where I have seen her."
" CHECK TO THE KING." 185
" Before the altar," replied Clement Lorimer.
" My wife ! " growled the baronet ; " what has Madame
Lorton to do with it?"
" I talk of your wife," said the other, " and Madame
Lorton has nothing to do with it."
The colour on Sir Harrowby's cheeks began to come and
go, his lip quivered nervously, and he struck his spurs into
the flanks of his gallant grey, and at the same moment se-
verely checked the noble animal with the powerful curb
which he used. The keen eye of Clement Lorimer lost not
a single symptom of his manifest uneasiness. " It was no
hoax," he whispered to himself.
" Who the deuce, and what the deuce, are you talking
about ? " he roared out at length.
" You wish to know ? — you really wish to know ? "
"Yes! yes!"
" Nearer, then, — nearer ! you will hardly have forgotten
her name. It was once — ere it was changed "
" What ? " shouted the excited man, " what ? "
" Esther Challis ! "
Sir Harrowby Trumps gave a violent start, and all but
lost his saddle ; when he recovered himself his bloodless lips
were quivering and he was ashen pale.
" Some to the Fleet," resumed Lorimer, as if he were
still talking to himself, "and some to Newgate."
" It's a lie ! " shouted Trumps, furiously ; " it's a con-
spiracy — a lie I she's been dead these fifteen years. Who
dares to say otherwise ? "
" You know this hand ?" said Lorimer, calmly, and he
held out to Sir Harrowby a letter stamped with the postmark
of the Bermondsey district.
Large drops of perspiration started out upon the fore-
head of the man he addressed, and a fearful imprecation half
burst from, half died away, upon his pale lips.
" Listen ! " said Lorimer : " remember what I told you
near Soho Square — if you can plot I can unravel : you see
it was no idle boast. I have you, man I the trap is down
upon you — you are at my mercy."
Sir Harrowby's lips moved, but no sound passed them.
" If by noon to-morrow," said Lorimer, in a deep, stern
whisper — " if by noon to-morrow I have not a receipt in full
186 CLEMENT LORIMER.
for the sums you say I owe you,— you need not send it to my
rooms, for I shall be at Bow Street."
" At Bow Street ! " repeated the other, mechanically.
" Yes," cried Lorimer, " where you shall be before night;
only 1 shall be simply in the office, you will, probably, pay a
visit to the cells."
There was a pause, partially filled up by the soft, sleek
tones of a well-remembered voice. It was that of Dr.
Gunibey, who passed in a gentleman's cab which formed one
of the opposite line of vehicles, and who, leaning out, waved
his hand to Lorimer and Trumps, exclaiming, "How do?
— how do? glad to see you together again."
Lorimer slightly returned the salutation, Sir Harrowby
took no notice of it.
*' Speak," said Clement, at length — " speak, shall I hear
from you to-morrow ? "
Sir Harrowby Trumps clenched his hands, and glared up
in the face of the other with a wild expression of impotent
fury.
" Yes or no ? " repeated Lorimer.
" Yes ! " shouted Trumps, the foam flying from his lips.
As he spoke he struck his spurs deepl}' into the side of the
horse, which plunged, lashed out its hind legs, and then bore
away its rider at a perilous pace through the throng of
equipages.
"What is all this? — what is it? — what does it mean, Mr.
Lorimer?" burst simultaneously from the general and his
wife.
" It means," said Clement, sinking back upon the seat, —
" it means that we are playing chess for life and death, and
that I have given check to the king."
CHAPTER XXL
THE FINAL SCHEME.
On the morning of the self-same Sunday on wnich the
events which we have just chronicled took place in Hyde
Park, Mr. Gill Dumple sallied forth from the Colonnade
THE FINAL SCHEME. 187
upon his north-eastern mission of espionage. In due time
he arrived at the churchyard of wliich he was in searcii.
The church, of poverty-stricken Gothic, wa^j open, an<l
the low, booming sounds of the organ floated with a lazy
hum out into the summer's air. The graveyard was empty.
Nothing stirred in it except a stray butterfly or so, fluttering
from stone to stone, and settling on the twigs of the stunteil
shrubs which grew here and there. Gill speedily found the
very peculiar tombstone of which he was in search. There
it stood, in its significant mystery, a block of glittering
marble, with its one word graven as deeply as chisel could
cut. There was a little clear space around that single grave,
whereon some simple but sweet-smelling flowers, evidently
carefully tended, grew, forming a border to the green live
turf which capped the little hillock beneath the marble stone.
All beyond was mere rough earth and gravel. So the little
birds which haunted about came to the single green grave,
and seemed pleased to rest their feet upon the little spot of
melancholy verdure.
The afternoon passed slowly and drowsily away. The
heat was intense, and Gill, who was something tired of wait-
ing, at length pitched upon a convenient stone, and stretching
himself beneath it in the shade, dropped off" to sleep. He
wakened with a start and a consciousness of having neglected
his duty, and suddenly springing up, his face flushed all over
as he saw a tall, stately old man, standing before the marble
stone.
There could be no mistake as to that man's identity.
There was the gaunt, wasted form, the grey, flowing hair, the
face so marked with myriads of slight crossing lines, the stern
and finely-cast countenance, and, above all, the black, flashing
eyes, which burned with that strange, fitful fire, whereof the
fuel is a subtle influence — a mighty but a secret pestilence,
which has its dwelling in the material masses of the brain —
warping their hezdthy action, scorching and withering their
healthy powers.
Benosa was dressed in his usual long single-breasted sur-
coat. Gill knew not how long he had been standing in the
position in which he appeared when the boy waked. Trem-
bling, he knew not why, the spy crept behind a neighbour-
188 CLEMKNT LORIMER.
ing stone, and watched breathlessly. Presently Beno?a
stooped, and appeared to be engaged in rearing a drooping
flower. He also detached a few withered blades of grass,
and placed them reverently in his breast. Then he stood
again motionless, except that he occasionally bent his head
and moved his lips before the sepulchre. This lasted for
nearly an hour. Then the first toll of the bell for evening ser-
vice was heard. Benosa started, inclined himself in a more
marked manner than he had yet done towards the tomb-
stone, and then walked slowly away. At a safe distance the
spy followed him.
On leaving the churchyard, Benosa directed his steps to
the eastward. His eyes were fixed upon the ground, and
Gill felt that he could follow him closely without risk of
being observed. The twain proceeded accordingly through
a labyrinth of obscure streets, all of which Gill carefully
observed. At length, after a good half-hour's walk, they
emerged from a poor, squalid neighbourhood, into a locality
where there were many gardens, bounded by high walls and
intersected by narrow lanes. As they proceeded down one
of the latter. Gill observed over the wall the higher windows
and the roof of an old-fashioned house, built of red brick.
There was a gate for carriages, a ponderous mass of wood,
studded with nails, in the wall, and beside it a small postern.
At the latter the watched man paused, when suddenly the
noise of horses' hoofs was heard in the still lane. Benosa
and Gill looked instinctively backwards, and saw a gentleman
mounted upon a grey horse approaching at a gallop. The
rider shot past Gill, who observed that his face was red and
excited, and that the horse was in a lather of foam. The
horseman waved his hand to Benosa, however, and pulled up
bis panting grey at the gate with a jerk which threw him
on his haunches. The old gentleman immediately disap-
peared by the postern. Then there was a creaking and
jangling as of iron bars shot backwards — the ponderous gate
swung open, the horseman rode in, and the portal was closed
behind him. Gill Dumple started oft" westward in high spirits.
He had accomplished his original mission, and somewhat more
besides.
We follow the man on the grey horse. He rode up to
THE FINAL SCHEME. 189
the door of the old-fashioned house, leaped off his horse
(which directly marched on to a green plot of shaded sward),
and following the guidance of his conductor, entered a small
apartment. The reader is already familiar with that gloomy
parlour, its narrow windows and its dusky draperies. It is
the same room wherein Benosa, then called Werwold, held
conference with Dr. Gumbe)', touching the mortal illness of
the lady whose grave the old man had that day visited. The
master of the house sat down as was his wont with his back
to the windows, and carelessly asked to what he was in-
debted for the pleasure of the company of Sir Harrowby
Trumps.
The baronet seemed to have some difficulty in framing
his reply. He made several abortive attempts to speak, and
at length exclaimed bluntly, —
" The long and the short of it is, that I don't like this
business of young Lorimer."
" You find it connected with some unpleasantness, I
dare say," said Benosa.
" I do," replied the other ; " and so I mean to cut it."
'' It is not what you mean to do," answered the old man,
" which will be done ; it is what I mean you to do."
Sir Harrowby's face became purple, and the veins on
his forehead stuck out. Then he made an effort and said,
calmly, —
" You can get some one else ; there's no lack of men to
do the work; and I will assign the claim. Come- — that's
reasonable."
" Very reasonable ; but I decline the proffer."
" Why ? " shouted Trumps, hoarsely. " Why ? "
" Because partnerships of which I am a member are only
dissolved by death."
" Then you think me your slave," exclaimed Trumps,
bitterly, and labouring to keep his fury under.
" You live bj' me," cried the other.
" Well," said Trumps, " but I can cease being your de-
pendant for the future."
" True ; but can you cease being my debtor for the past ?"
Trumps started and groaned.
" Let us give up this foolish conversation," said Benosa,
mildly. " Serve me, and you end your days in luxury— .r
190 CLEMENT LORIMER.
seek to withdraw from that service, and you end your days
in gaol."
Trumps writhed in his seat, and his breast swelled as
though he were about to weep.
" Have mercy on me," he said, in a choked voice, " and
let me go. I will never come across your path. I swear
it!"
" There is no mercy in me, man," said Benosa, in a hol-
low voice. " Pity me ! — pity a man who would spurn you
from him like a crawling reptile I but who cannot, who must
work with you — who must wield the hammer until it, or the
substance it is employed upon, be crushed by the blows."
This was spoken in tones in which there was so much
blended calmness and despair, that the baronet sat staring at
his companion in stupid amazement, utterly unable to read
the riddle of his strange mind. At length he said, —
" Well, be it so ; I will go to prison. Better the Fleet
than the hulks."
" The hulks ! " repeated Benosa.
" Ay," said the other, with a species of dogged coolness.
" Lorimer — curses on him ! — has found out a secret I thought
safe for ever. Never mind ! Ha, ha ! " and he laughed a
ghastly laugh. " You'll come and see me, eh? You'll come
and see your poor debtor, eh? Won't you? W^e'll be jolly
together — you and the dupe you've caught in your net.
Poor old Sir Harrowby ! Bravo, old angler! With your
keen eyes and your cold, quick brain, you know how to land
the fish, eh ? 13y Jove, Lorimer will be in too. You'll come
and see both of us, eh? I know you will, and then — and
then "
He started from his chair, in a burst of frenzy, and ad-
vanced close to Benosa, churning his teeth and clenching his
fists, his cheeks pale, his forehead purple, and his bloodshot
eyes flashing and dilated. The old man never stirred.
" You'll come and see us," Trumps shouted; " and then,
when the wine is in our brains — when we're mad with drink
and despair — we'll roar and sing! The three — all the three
— debtors and creditor ! And we'll keep it up till morning,
when, mayhap "
He sunk his voice to a whisper, which hissed through tlie
room.
THE FINAL SCHEME. 19J
" — Till morning, when, mayhap, the turnkeys 'ill find an
old gentleman, livid in the face and black about the throat,
down on the floor amidst the empty bottles, eh ?"
And Sir Harrovvby flung his clenched hands upwards,
and shouted the laugh of temporary mental aberration.
Still Benosa never stirred. Trumps, exhausted by this
burst of half-maudlin passion, sunk down again on his seat,
staring at the unmoved face opposite to him, behind which
dim and awful thoughts seemed to move, thrilling through
that warped and jarring, but awfully gifted brain. There
was a deep silence in the darkened room. At length Benosa
spoke.
"Lorimer has dug a counter-mine then, — good. He can
transport you?"
" Yes !" said Trumps, his passion bursting out into a
new channel, and imprecating curses upon his ancient friend.
" Then you would not care to have him silenced for
ever ? "
" Of course not," said Sir Harrowby, boldly.
They looked at each other in silence for more than a
minute. Then four distinct taps were heard at the door, and
a very old woman entered.
" The man you know of," she said, " is below."
" Shew him up," replied Benosa. " Sir Harrowby, step
this way ; I will not detain you long." And he ushered the
baronet into the library which, as we know, opened from the
parlour.
As the door was closed upon him, Blane entered the
room. Benosa nodded to him, and the spy coming close to
his master, said, in a low tone, —
" He is still in Cecil Street ; he drove out to-day with
the Pomeroys in the Park, where he met Sir Harrowby. He
is shewing again. He has been making inquiries. He seems
determined to die game."
" Does he appear to continue his attentions to Miss
Eske?"
" Yes ; they love each other."
" She is a companion ?"
" Yes ; an orphan without friends."
" Are the Americans to stay long here ?"
" For some time, and they are looking out for a house."
192 CLEMENT LORIMEH.
Benosa was silent for about three minutes. Then his face
lighted up with a look of devilish inspiration — his pale lips
moved, and his long, thin fingers were clenched convul-
sively.
Blane eyed him askance. Even he would have shrunk
away had he known the awful scheme which was rising up
in Benosa's brain — like the pitchy smoke in the " Arabian
Nights," which, at length, took the form of a gigantic and
cruel genie.
At length Benosa said, abruptly, —
" The Pomeroys are looking for a house. The house in
Abingdon Street has been repaired and re-furnished ?"
" Certainly it has, by your directions."
" And the hidden door on the river side, and the secret
staircase constructed by my father for his smuggling trans-
actions, are available?"
" Perfectly."
" Can you manage so that the Pomeroys take that
house ?"
" I think I can."
" Good : do so. You may go."
And Blane retired. Benosa then re-introduced Sir Har-
rowby, motioning him to his old seat.
" I have an interest in the life of Mademoiselle Chateau-
roux," he said, abruptly.
Sir Harrowby stared.
" You know her well," Benosa continued. " Can you
prevail on her to have her life insured?"
" What will she gain by the transaction ?"
" The most brilliant set of diamonds she can point out in
London."
" Of course you pay the premium?"
" Of course. '
" Then it can be done."
" For five thousand pounds, — in three offices at least, —
five thousand in each. The policies to be assigned to Cle-
ment Lorinier, and the insurances to be effected in the name
of Marion Eske."
Sir Harrowby Trumps sat tongue-tied in amazement.
" You will see to this ; it is your duty : set about it
straight. Your horse has been fed : mount and ride."
THE BY-PLAY OF THE DRAMA. 193
CHAPTER XXII.
THE BY-PLAY OF THE DRAMA.
The exigencies of the story here require the interpolation
of a chapter devoted to several of the subsidiary branches of
our narrative, it being understood that a portion of the inci-
dents which we are now about to relate took place subse-
quently to the events in the next chapter, through which the
main current of the history will again flow.
Sir Harrowby Trumps obeyed the instructions, and went
about the will of Benosa, as a malignant demon might be
supposed to execute the beiiests of a hated but potent en-
chanter. First, he communicated with Mademoiselle Cha-
teauroux, framing his statements in accordance with a
detailed series of instructions which he had received from
Benosa on the morning of the Monday following his inter-
view with Clement in Hyde Park.
The danseuse was considerably perplexed by the pro-
posal.
" Ventre St- Gris ! " she exclaimed, " what is my life to
any body but myself? Why should a stranger wish to
insure it ? "
" A whim," Sir Harrowby replied, — "merely the whim of
an old fellow who has more money than brains, and who has
desired me to ask whether you had any objection to gratify
him. Remember the diamonds."
" Yes, I remember," said the other. " The insurances
will gratify him, and the diamonds will gratify me. Now, I
don't care about his pleasure, but, mort de ma vie! I do about
my own.*'
Mademoiselle Chateauroux then plied the baronet with
questions and guesses as to who his principal in the business
was ; but, as may be supposed, she gained little by her
inquiries. Again and again she was on the point of abso-
lutely declining the proposal, when a timely word from Sir
Harrowby altered her mind. In fact, the baronet was asto-
nished at his own powers as a negotiator, forgetting that he
had only one argument to urge, and that that was easily
o
194 CLEMENT LORIMER.
stated, it being indeed comprehended in the sinjile word —
"Diamonds." At length, therefore, the Favoritta yielded,
acquiescing in the propriety of allowing the transaction to
take place in an assumed name, and solemnly pledging her-
self to the profoundest secrecy. With her assurances to this
rffect Sir Harrowby took his leave. Two hours after his
departure Mademoiselle Chateauroux received a card in-
scribed with a name unknown to her. The owner of the
name and the card having been favoured with an interview,
described himself as a London emissary of the Italian
Opera at St. Petersburg, and declared his commission to offer
to Mademoiselle Chateauroux an engagement on the njost
brilliant terms, provided she could leave England within a
fortnight. The Russian agent concluded by handing the
danseuse a cheque upon a London banker as an earnest of the
shower of roubles which would descend around her on the
banks of the Neva. He then withdrew, begging that in
the course of the evening — before foreign post hour — lie
might have her decisive reply.
Madrmoiselle Chateauroux pondered deeply on the events
of the day^, and soon determmed upon the course to be taken.
It had struck her more than once, in her interview with Sir
Harrowby, that the fact of her life being insured for several
large sums give to some unknown person an interest in her
death, and the thought blenched her sallow cheek. Now,
however, she reasoned, as she could and would immediately
start for a distant part of Europe, and without giving notice
to the insurance offices, — thus, in all probability, vitiating the
policies — the interest in her death, the existence of which
she dreaded, would necessarily be extinguished ; while, at any
rate, she would be far removed from the influence of any
machinations in London which might be connected with Sir
Harrowby's proposal.
Her engagement with Mr. Grogrum was nearly at an
end. The i'ew days which it had to run would not prevent
her from fulfilling the condition annexed to the St. Peters-
burg offer, — and that offer she therefore determined to
accept. In the course of the afternoon she accordingly
wrote to the address left by her visitor formally accepting
the Russian engagement, and acknowledging the amount of
the cheque received from him. That same night the tidings
THE BY-PLAY OF THE DRAMA. 195
of her rngagement were despatched to St. Petersburg ; the
agent of the Russian management informing his principal, in
a confidential note, that the London firm to which the theatre
was indebted for a certain advance made to secure the ser-
vices of a celebrated tenor, would quit half its claim on the
day on which Mademoiselle Chateauroux appeared as pre-
miere danseuse on the St. Petersburg boards. Under these
circumstances, the agent concluded that he had not exceeded
his duty in off'ering an engagement to the lady in question,
whose reputation was European, and who would in any case
be an acquisition to the theatre.
The sequel will shew Benosa's reasons for wishing ^^ade-
moiselle Chateauroux removed from the scene of his opera-
tions as soon as she had performed the part allotted to her in
the terrible drama which his scorched and fevered brain was
piling around the destined victim.
Dr. Gumbey, the bland, was the next personage upon
whom, in pursuance of his instructions, Sir Harrowby
Trumps called. From what we know of the doctor's con-
nexion, and his peculiar system of practice, which included
the pledging of his word that people were ill when they were
well, we may conclude that he was not over-particular in
placing his signature to a declaration, that a person whose
name was left in blank was in a perfectly sound and satis-
factory state of health, and quite free from any acute or
chronic complaints having a tendency to shorten life.
" Raising money, I suppose, eh ? " he said, as he flung
down his pen after making the necessary signatures.
Sir Harrowby grinned, and muttered an unintelligible
something about "A form — merely a form."
Dr. Gumbey had far too much tact to press an embar-
rassing question. So he turned the conversation, and said,
that he had been really quite delighted yesterdaj" to see
Sir Harrowby in the Park, apparentl}' on such a friendly
footing with their old chum Lorimer, whom indeed he (the
doctor) was most happy to hear would soon appear again
in society.
The baronet winced at the remark, bundled up the
papers which Dr. Gumbey had signed, and took himself off
with short courtesy, leaving, however, a cheque as a plaster
for any wounds which the doctor might have inflicted by the
196 CLEMENT LORIMER.
certificate which he had just given, upon his sensitive con-
science.
When Gumbey was left alone, he flung himself into his
easy chair and pondered deeply.
" There's some one sailing in deep water." he thought.
" But who could have imagined Truraps being intrusted with
a bit of diplomacy which may have its denouement at the Old
Bailey ? I should as soon have thought of employing a bull-
dog to do the work of a weasel. Why, the thrice-sodden ass
had not even brains to observe that I altered the form of
(^ach of my signatures, and that not one of the three is pre-
cisely that which I ordinarily use. — A man," pursued the
tloctor, communing with himself, "must take care of his
interests in this wicked world." Then he looked at the
cheque which he held in his hand, folded it up, and deposited
it in his pocket-book. "If the worst comes to the worst,"
he continued, " it will be quite clear to any judge of band-
writing that the s^ignatures for which I pocket this cool
hundred are nothing but wicked and indeed clumsy for-
geries."
Exactly that night week, that is to say, on the night of
the following Monday, a Jew attorney, located in a miserable
den of an office in Wiiitechapel, was making out certain legal
instruments, by which one Marion Eske assigned to Clement
Lorimer three policies of insurance effected upon her life,
each for 5000/-, in consideration of value received ; while
about a mile from him one of the stately steam-ships of the
IJeneral Steam Navigation Company was moving down the
Tool, conveying away the person in whose favour these
policies had been actually, though not nominally, granted, —
Mademoiselle Chateauroux was, in fact, on her way to Ham-
burgh, from whence she intended to push on for the capital
of Russia.
When Blane had informed his master that he could
manage to induce the Pomeroys to take the house in Abing-
don Street, he had not over-estimated his powers. He
worked, of course, through the medium of Mrs. Ginnum's
husband, who was instructed to convey to his better half the
fact, that if she could prevail upon Mrs. Pomeroy to take
a certain house in Abingdon Street, which the owner had
peculiar reasoqs for wishing to see promptly let, not only
THE BY-PLAY OF THE DRAMA. 197
would the rent be found moderate, but she herself would
receive a suitable amount of remuneration for her services.
Accordingly Mrs. General Pomeroy, attended by Mrs.
Ginnum, set off in the phaeton to inspect the njansion in
question. It was in a very different condition to that in
which we have seen it on a former occasion. Outside and
inside had been subjected to a thorough process of revivifi-
<!atton. Bright curtains gleamed through the glitteiing
windows, and the once mudded door and rusty knoci\er
looked as brave and fresh as the art of the painter and
the ironsmith could make them. Inside the improvement
was still greater. There was still something of a grave,
antique air in the gilded cornices and the heavy wooden
pannellings of the rooms, but rich carpets and a pro-
fusion of handsome furniture in the newest taste took
away all appearance of gloom from the dwelling. The
house stood upon the Thames side of Abingdon Street, and
a little plot of grass stretched at the back between the walls
and the water's edge. Mrs. Pomeroy was delighted with
the appearance of every thing, and not less with the mode-
rate rent at which so desirable a residence could be secured ;
and a neighbouring hou«e-agent, to whose charge the pro-
perty had been intrusted, having been summoned, the bar-
gain was concluded, and the keys handed over to the new
tenants, who in a couple of days took possession.
Miss Eske was then installed in a little back drawing-
room, looking upon the river, which was specially made over
to her in the light of a boudoir. It was a little room, bril-
liantly furnished, but toned down as to effect by the solid
masses of cornice which extended round it in ridges of
carved wood, and by the massive appearance of the oak pan-
nelling, which when struck gave back a deep, hollow sound.
The door of this apartment was of great strength, and
crossed and recrossed by bands of iron. It had, however,
been so thickly overlaid with paint and varnish, that it was
only by the weight of the door, as it was moved, that its
solidity could be estimated. Miss Eske was much struck,
moreover, with the immense thickness of the walls in the
vicinity of the windows of her apartment, which was situated
in the left-hand corner of the house, and beneath which a
low out-building ran down to the water's edge, the structure
98 CLEMENT LORIMER.
in question appearing to belong to the wood wharf which
bounded the Pomeroys' mansion on the left, — a similar mer-
cantile establishment lying upon the right.
These were details of which Miss Eske took but very
passing notice ; but it is fit that the reader should be ac-
quainted with them, for reasons which will shortly appear.
The Pomeroys, then, are to be considered as installed in their
new house. Lorimer retained his rooms in Cecil Street, but
was of course a daily visitor.
The first and second numbers of the " Flail " came out
with brilliant success, Mr. Spiffler's schemes having for once
fructified into golden produce. In the second number ap-
peared the following paragraph : —
" TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION.
" The reappearance upon the town and the turf of a
gentleman lately celebrated on both may be confidently
looked for. Discoveries of a very remarkable nature con-
nected with a late racing event, upon which immense sums
changed hands, are said not only to be in the course of
making, but to have given a clue to certain mysterious pro-
ceedings, the exact character of which we forbear hinting
at, but which will, in all probability, — so it is whispered —
give ample employment to the gentlemen of the long robe,
and perhaps add another to the catalogue of causes celehres.
In an obscure London churchyard is a mysterious tombstone
bearing merely a single female name, with which it is not
improbable that the world will sooner or later be made
acquainted. A baronet of sporting reputation and eminent
dramatic and vocal connexion is said to be not unconnected
with the train of events to which we allude ; although it is
not distinctly known whether the late sudden retirement —
we trust it n»ay prove but temporary — of Madame Lorton
from the scene of her triumphs, is in any way mixed up with
the very curious and piquant affair which we have the good
fortune to be the first to hint to the wonder-loving portion of
the community."
" There ! " said Mr. Spiffler, as he struck off the above
paragraph, founded, it will be seen, on facts partly discovered
by himself and partially gleaned through Owen Dombler
from the Flicks, — " There ! we shall see if that does not pro-
BENOSA WEAVES THE CROWNING WEB. 199
duce much the same result as pitching a stone into a hornet's
nest."
And, in effect, on the evening of the publication of the
paragraph in question Sir Harrowby Trumps called at the
" Flail " office, and having inquired for the editor, was
ushered into a room in which sat Cornelius O'Keene, of
Trinity College, Dublin,
CHAPTER XXIII.
BENOSA WEAVES THE CROWNING WEB.
Benosa, our readers will remember, had been dogged to
his East-end house on a Sunday afternoon, and the com-
plicity existing between him and Sir Harrowby Trumps had
circumstantially been proved by the fact of the latter having
joined the former immediately after the scene with Lorimer
in the Park, as if to communicate to his accomplice the
check which their scheme had received by the power which
Clement possessed of completely turning the tables upon the
agent who had been chosen to work his destruction. The
discovery made by Gilt Dumple was, of course, communi-
cated through Richard Flick to Lorimer, who resolved to
allow a couple of days to elapse, so as permit any suspicion
which his unknown foe might entertain of having been
watched to subside, and then himself to make his way into
the old house beyond Spitalfields, and confront the ex-
traordinary personage, who seemed his evil genius, face to
face.
The night previous to the day on which the Pomeroys
were to remove to Abingdon Street was chosen by Lorimer
for the adventure, and he commenced his walk about nine
o'clock. The day had been glaring and hot, and the streets
w'ere filled with passengers enjoying the cool air of the
evening. It was a fairer night than one often enjoys in our
smoke-girdled city. The sky was a cloudless expanse of
deepest blue, and but a few stars twinkled with a faint and
powerless glimmer, for the broad, red moon had risen in
the heavens, and dusky, swarming London lay stretched
200 CLEMENT LOBIMER.
out supine, bathed in the coldly mellow light. Lorimer
walked thoughtfully eastwards, avoiding the noise and bustle
of the main thoroughfares, and striving with all his topo-
graphical powers to avail himself of the quietest and most
direct line of progress. Ten had struck from the steeple of
some obscure church ere Clement had extricated himself from
a labyrinth of shabby, dirty, and crowded streets, and en-
tered into the district, if we may so call it, in which Benosas
house was situated. Here all was quiet and solitary. Long
lanes, formed by high brick walls, some of the former so
narrow as to be obviously intended for foot-passengers only,
intersected each other. Inside these walls were gardens and
orchards ; projecting boughs, indeed, sometimes stretched
across and above the pathway ; and now and then you could
catch a glimpse of the upper part of the old-fashioned Queen-
Anne style of houses which were built in the midst of these
inclosures, and which were approached generally by massive
gateways, now fast locked, flanked on one side by small
postern doors for foot-passengers.
Gill Dumple, who had a good head for localities, had
given such an exact clue to the house of which he was in
search that Lorimer had no difficulty in finding it. A
clump of peculiarly tall trees grew before it, stretching up
far into the soft moonlit air, and waving with a gentle sway
as the light breaths of summer air wandered by them through
the night. The place seemed sunk in repose. Floating from
the westward came the low, faint hum of the swarming
world which Lorimer had left, but in the tranquil lanes his
own footsteps only broke the silence. He paused at length
before a gateway. It was the same at which, a few months
after his birth. Dr. Gumbey's carriage had waited while its
proprietor was communicating to a husband the puzzling
and hopeless nature of a wife's malady. It was the same
through which, a few days thereafter, that wife had been
carried to the obscure churchyard where Spiffler discovered
the tombstone, the inscription upon which had given the
clue to the investigations which were now about to lead up
to the last grand catastrophe of this history. Many
thoughts, many hopes, many fears, thronged into Lorimer's
mind as he stood before the portal. Was he about to make
some grand discovery in his history ? or was he about to be
BENOSA WEAVES TKE CROWNING WEB. 201
flung back baffled and bewildered, the air-built castles which
he had been rearing toppled over and laid in ruins by one blast
of the cold wind of prosaic reality? He paused a moment
and gazed through the little wicket which had been left open
in the postern. An old-fashioned house, similar in taste and
structure to the dwellings around, rose greyly and grimly
into the air. From one narrow window, upon the ground-
floor — and from one only — there shone a subdued red light,
the drawn blinds of the other windows seemed white and
pale in the moonshine. A massive bell-handle projected
from the door-post of the gateway ; Lorimer stretched forth
his hand to pull it, but ere the wire is touched, and the
smitten metal echoes, we must put back for an hour the
course of time, and ask our readers to be present in the
room in which shone the light from the moment at which
Lorimer left Cecil Street upon his eastern expedition.
The apartment in question was that into which Benosa
went after the visit of Dr. Gumbey, as is recorded in the third
chapter of the Prologue. It was a small library, opening
from the ground-floor parlour, and in a corner, bricked into
the wall, was a ponderous iron safe, — this safe we have already
seen Benosa open. It was open now, and disclosed, as be-
fore, a small inner safe, the door of which swung out
between two of the shelves of the outer receptacle. The
heavy, iron-clamped box, already mentioned in this history,
lay upon the floor, and a mass of papers, written in neat,
but cramped, and antique-looking penmanship, was spread
upon the table. Over these papers bent Michael Benosa. A
lamp, which gave forth a deep and intense flame, burnt
beside him, and upon a small, neighbouring table were ar-
ranged chemical instruments, such as glass tubes and retorts ;
a blow-pipe, and papers of drugs lay before the operator,
Benosa was dressed in a long grey wrapper, which added
to the apparent height of his gaunt form. Both of his hands
clutched a piece of closely-written parchment, upon which
his bright, staring eye-balls were intently fixed. Once or
twice he flung down the document, and grasped his temples
with his big, shaking hands. Then he began to read again,
in a mumbling, murmuring voice, which gradually died
away, and his eyes were lifted from the manuscript and
202 CLEMENT LORIMER.
wandered with a fierce but .nmeaning stare round the
apartment.
All at once he started up, pushed the arm-chair in M'hich
he had been sitting violently back, and paced the little room
with heavy and rapid strides.
"I cannot," he exclaimed, — "cannot — cannot — cannot!
My mind will not obey my will ; my thouglits wander out
abroad, and I would fain follow them. Oh, for motion —
violent, rapid, desperate motion ! — to be on horseback now,
and at the speed, although an unknown gulf lay before me —
to be on shipboard with the tempest sweeping us like foam
over the careering waves — to be anywhere — anything, save
where 1 am and what I am ! "
He sunk into the chair again, and hid his face in his
hands, then he resumed more calmly, —
" I am very weak when these fits come over me. When
my brain does not burn, as it does now, my will is invincible.
It rules with a rod of steel, but once let this strange feeling
haunt me — this feeling of mysterious restlessness, these in-
tolerable promptings to wandering thoughts and wandering
steps, and 1 become a more weary slave than the meanest
man who cowers before his passions and lets them order him
to do their, not his, bidding. I would I knew the cause of
these periodical attacks of incapacity for work or continuous
thought."
Alas I he could have told right well in the case of an-
other than himself. That most mysterious of nature's secrets
was working in his person, that most extraordinary, most
inexplicable link between our spiritual nature and the system
of the universe, was making itself felt in all its terrible
symptoms. That subtle disease, which was long thought to
be not a disease, but the actual presence of an evil spirit
within the very temple of the mind, was gradually, but cer-
tainly, overturning the fabric of Benosa's intelligence.
Sometimes the morbid influence lay passive and at rest —
the devil was chidden by the healthy powers of nature.
Anon it roused itself and worked busily ; then would it glare
out in flame from the victim's eyes, and toss his thoughts
wildly about within his mind, and people the empty air
about him with shapes representing to his actual vision the
BENOSA WEAVES THE CROWNING WEB. 203
personages of these long, intolerable, waking dreams. And
ever when the devil was most active and most potent, a
bright, broad moon shone above the roof, and inanimate
nature slept gently in the silvering night beams.
After sitting some time, his face buried in his hands, and
his body swayed backwards and forwards, impelled by that
restless impulse of which he complained, Benosa suddenly
appeared to make a powerful effort to regain that despotic
sway over himself of which he boasted. He drew his chair
again to the table, trimmed the lamp, took up the parchment,
and curbing his very soul down to the task, resumed his
studies.
In a few moments he murmured triumphantly, " Yes, 1
am conquering — my mind obeys me — 1 understand and
remember what I read."
Then, as if to impress the words still more strongly upon
his memory, he began to speak aloud the sentences he perused.
" These drugs being procured," so ran the document,
"and being compounded in those due proportions, which
have already been specified, produce this effect upon the
human frame, that they cause the exact appearance of death ;
the breathing ceases, the pulse stops, and the body becomes
cold and stiff. Doubtless, in the inner recesses of the body,
there still burns that spark of life which will after a time (if
proper care be used) reanimate the whole corporeal struc-
ture — but this is not known to those around; and so a
person having swallowed the drugs whereof I have spoken, it
may well chance that he or she shall be buried, and so in
the end, if they have not relief, perish miserably. It is
affirmed, too, by many skilful chemists, with I know not
what truth, that during this false or apparent death, the
faculties of the patient do not die, but that he or she shall
be sensible, with varying degrees of exactness depending
upon the nervous system, of all thqt is done around them,
although utterly unable to express by motion or look that of
which they are conscious. For the truth of this I vouch
not ; it was, however, certified to me by an Eastern man of
Heathenesse very skilful in such matters."
This strange document was signed " RenS." The lan-
guage in which it was written, and in which Benosa read it,
was Italian.
204 CLEMENT LORIMER.
As he concluded the perusal he murmured, —
" So ! — an artificial catalepsy. Rene says not when the
drugs will cease in their operation ; probably that depends
upon the strength and constitution of the patient submitted
to their operation. It would be easy to change this life-in-
death for death in reality; but, no — blood enough has been
spilt ; a short period of restraint will suffice my purpose.
The day he dies she is free, for I — I — will follow my son."
He paused, and took up a small glass saucer, in which
lay a fine powder of a dim, grey colour.
"There, wise and lofty jurisprudence," he continued,
" there, supreme and majestic justice of men, there lies a
pinch of dust which will baflBe you — there lies a grain's
weight of pulverised herbs which has yet strength to set in
motion all the crushing machinery of the law, which will
raise the sword of justice to punish murder, while there is
no murder but in the death-blow which that sword will
strike !"
His voice waxed louder and louder as he spoke. The
glare in his eyes, which the power of the will had for a time
subdued, burst forth again from his visage, and the veins
started out upon his forehead in red, rigid cords. He
grasped the arms of his chair, with fingers which bound the
wood like cold, iron clamps, and, bearing himself backwards
like a man who confronts something horrible, he sat there,
with his teeth clenched, and the hot breath hissing through
them, his vision fixed on the vaca-nt gloom which brooded
in the corners of the dimly-lighted apartment. The devil
which lived in that warped and seethed brain was once
more busy, and the maniac saw, as in bodily presence, the
shapes which haunted his imagination.
" Yes — yes," he gasped out, " all there — every one, every
one — from Stephen Vanderstein who fell first, to Treuchden
Vanderstein who fell last. Hush ! hark I they are about to
speak ! Well, I listen — say on — say on — your eyes are more
terrible than your voices can be."
His voice failed him and he sat glaring at vacancy. All
at once the sonorous peal of a large bell rang through the
silent house. In an instant the diseased brain of Benosa iden-
tified the sound with the subject of his drearaings. He began
to speak.
BENOSA WEAVES THE CROWNING WEB. 205
"Yes, hark! they sound again: the chimes in the Ant-
werp cathedral which two hundred weary years ago rung the
Vendetta in — Hark ! they are lifting up once more their iron
voices. Listen — listen all of you — 'tis the knell of your race
— of my race. Yes, rejoice, the Avenger must be swallowed
in the gulf which himself has dug."
Large beads of perspiration began to trickle down Be-
nosa's hollow cheeks, and his damp hair bristled up from the
scalp. By a species of rigid, involuntary motion he raised
himself from his chair and staggered back, — his eye still fixed
on vacancy — towards the window. Just as he reached it, the
house-beli rang a loud and startling peal ; Benosa startefl,
clutched at the window curtain, and unconsciously twitching
it aside, a patch of white moonlight fell upon the floor.
In the excited and diseased state of the maniac's mind,
the most trivial external events gave his dreamings a fresh
impulse ; so it was with the sudden stream of moonlight which
illuminated the gloomy apartment.
" Back ! back ! " he shouted to his imaginary guests, —
" back ! and trample not in the moonlight I Leave that fair
spot fur him — for him, the best and noblest of you all — for
him in whom our mingled blood runs — for him in whose
person that mingled blood shall be spilt — the ultimate and
most terrible sacrifice of all ! "
The paroxysm of insanity had now nearly reached its
height. Benosa's face was distorted with something scarcely
human, his gaunt frame had ceased to tremble — it shook.
He pointed, with his long, skinny fingers, to the spectres of
his diseased imagination, gibbered and mouthed at them ;
and at length, after one or two convulsive gasps for breath,
uttered one of those hideous bursts of hysterical laughter
which form so terrible a symptom of acute mania.
The echoes of this infernal mirth rang for a moment up
to the very roof of the lonesome house. There was an
instant of deep silence, broken only by the hard breathing of
the madman, as he stood clutching the tapestry of the win-
dow with one hand, and pointing with the other to his
shadowy company, when, suddenly, a loud noise resounded
from the outer room, followed by a momentary trampling of
feet, and then, with a crash of splintering wood and of riven
metal, the door of the library was violently burst open, and
206 CLEMENT LORIMER.
Clement Lorimer leaped into the very centre of the stream-
ing moonlight.
Beiiosa's form appeared to dilate. He flung his hands
above his head, his face glowed as with a white heat, and
then uttering a yell — a long loud howl, which made Lori-
mer's flesh grow cold, and crawl upon his bones — the old
man fell like a log of wood upon the floor.
Inexpressibly shocked, Clement stooped over the wretch
before him, and lifting him up, placed him carefully in the
arm-chair, undoing the cravat from his thin and wasted neck,
wiping away the clammy wet from his forehead, and sprink-
ling the still convulsed and distorted face with fair water.
Then he waited in silence for signs of returning animation ;
these were not long in making themselves visible ; gradually
the demoniacal expression on Benosa's face passed away, and
Lorimer gazed with inexpressible interest upon those worn,
])at noble and intellectual features, on which he still fancied
that he saw stamped a faint impression of his own. At
length the old man opened his eyes. He started slightly
when Lorimer met his gaze, and passed his hands over his
face as if striving to remember how and when his com-
panion had appeared.
Lorimer was the first to speak.
'• I fear you have been ill, sir?" he said.
" 111 ? " repeated the other, " yes, I have been ill ; what
then ? we are all ill sometimes."
This was said with ill-concealed uneasiness; the keen
eyes of the speaker all the time fixed intently upon his com-
panion. The paroxysm over for a time, Benosa's face had
regained in a wonderfully short space all its usual expression
of astute intellect.
" We are all ill sometimes," he repeated.
" But," replied Lorimer, somewhat at a loss how to con-
tinue the conversation, " you seem alone, unattended."
" A wise man," said Benosa, " is his own best attendant.
— Sir, I presume you to be a casual passenger, attracted
thither by the cries you lately heard, and which form not
one of the least painful symptoms of my complaint ; I thank
you, but will no longer detain you on your way."
"Pardon me for a moment," replied the other; " iiave
we never met before ? "
BENOSA WEAVES THE CUOWNING WEB. 207
"No!" said Benosa, decidedly.
" Do j'ou not know who I am ? " questioned Lorimer.
" I know not," replied the other.
They eyed each other keenly.
" The Grand Stand at Epsom on the last Derby day ?"
suggested Clement Lorimer, speaking with deliberate em-
phasis.
Benosa shook his head and looked wistfully at his
questioner.
" The forged cheque upon Shiner and Maggs, drawn by
the jockey's son ? " pursued Lorimer, in the same fishing
tone.
The man he addressed again made a negative sign and
remained impassible as a statue. Lorimer felt the ground
melting away, as it were, beneath his feet. He tried again, —
" One Sir Harrowby Trumps sued one Clement Lorimer
for a vast sum — the action has been quashed — Sir Har-
rowby saw you last Sunday ? "
Still no start — not the slightest token of recognition or
intelligence. Lorimer determined to play his last card.
Drawing near to Benosa, as the latter lay stretched back
in his chair, he said slowly and with the most pointed
expression, —
" You know nought of these things, or of a tombstone in
a lone churchyard not far from hence, on which is engraved
the single word ' Treuchden?'"
With the exception of a slightly perceptible twinkle of
the eyelids, and a passing twitch which stirred Benosa's face
as a flying gust blackens for a moment the shining surface
of a deep still pool, the last question produced no more
apparent effect upon the old man than did the others.
There was a long pause. At length Benosa spoke, —
" Having now, sir, signified by my silence that the
matters upon wliich you speak are to me unknown, you will,
perhaps, accept my thanks for the services you have ren-
dered a poor old invalid ; you, sir, may have business or
pleasure elsewhere — I have need of rest."
And the old man rose and saluted his visitor courteously.
Lorimer was strangely puzzled. They looked at each other
for a moment in .silence. Then Lorimer exclaimed earnestly,
"Listen, listen but for a moment; my history is a wild, a
208 CLEMENT LORIMER.
Strange one. I never knew parents — I never knew friends.
My whole being was, and is, a mystery to nie. I have had
almost boundless wealth — I knew not whence it came.
In a moment I was smitten down to poverty — I knew not
whence that came. Now, I believe, that I am encircled in
the meshes of a dark plot spun to crush me. Sir, if you be
a gentleman, if you be a father, and you know aught of
what I tell you, speak !"
Benosa's lips moved, but only unintelligible murmurs
proceeded from them. All at once he caught Lorimer's
hands in his, and raising them with a rapid motion to his
lips, repeatedly kissed the fingers of the astonished j'oung
man, pressed them to his cheek and his bosom, and then, fix-
ing a look of unutterable tenderness on his companion, two
big tears rolled forth from his bloodshot eyes, and fell down
his face. The twain stood thus gazing at each other for
more than a minute. Then the grasp in which Benosa
held the young man's hands gradually relaxed, his face
resumed by degrees its usual impassible expression, the tears
dried upon his cheek, and letting go his hold of Clement's
hands, Benosa stood before him with the same icy gleam
in his eyes — the same stamp of cold, ruthless intellect upon
his face, which gave it its usual very remarkable character.
" Enough," he said, " now go."
" Shall we not meet again ? " said Lorimer.
" Return to-morrow," replied the old man. He waved
his hand impatiently. Lorimer retired slowly, his eyes still
fixed upon his extraordinary host. Retracing his steps
through the parlour, the door of which he had burst vio-
lently open when he heard that terrible peal of laughter,
Lorimer soon found himself again breathing the fresh air
of the summer night.
Benosa watched his departing figure from the window.
He stood a moment motionless, plunged in thought, then
n sudden idea seemed to strike him. With an activity
*hich could hardly have been anticipated in his aged and
weakened form, he swept the scattered papers and chemical
utensils into the iron-bound box, and deposited it in the
inner safe, rapidly turning every lock and shooting every
bolt necessary for its secure custody. Then twitching aside
a piece of dusty tapestry with which one side of the apart-
BENOSA WEAVES THE CROWNING WEB. ^2(^9
ment was hung, a recess was disclosed in which hung many
dresses belonging to every degree of society, and evidently
adapted for the purposes of disguise. One of these he
selected ; and in two or three minutes thereafter the light
which burned in the apartment was extinguished, and a dark
figure, which could not be recognised to be the owner of the
house, glided rapidly from it into the lane and turned west-
ward.
Meantime, Clement Lorimer sauntered slowly along on
his homeward road, his mind still in a tumult of excitement
from the extraordinary interview which he had just con-
cluded. " What would come of it ? Was the old man whom
he had seen really connected with his destiny ? Who could
he be ? What interest could he have in the part which he
was acting ?" The whole thing grew more darkly inexplicable
the more it was pondered on. " At all events," thought
Lorimer, "he bade me come to-morrow, and to-morrow I
will go — but not alone." As these thoughts passed within
his mind, a figure muffled in a dark cloak or great-coat
walked rapidly past him, in the same direction as that in
which he was proceeding. Lorimer called after this person
to know whether he had taken the right path. The indi-
vidual addressed contented himself with nodding and point-
ing onwards. In the next moment he was lost in the
obscurity.
" There goes a man who walks well," thought Lorimer ;
and then he thought no more about the matter. The
chimes from the same church which he had heard ring ten
as he passed it earlier in the evening were proclaiming half-
past eleven as Lorimer again approached the place. The
streets were pretty well deserted ; but it was a poor neigh-
bourhood, and here and there flaring gas-jets still burned in
the open shops, or rather stalls, of cheap butchers. The
public-houses, too, were brilliantly lighted, and the gaily-
])ainted and gilded casks or vats, seen through the plate-glass
windows, raised wild ideas of the vast oceans of " Cordial
Jamaica" and " Cream of the Valley" which they must
contain, in the weak minds of thirsty wayfarers. One shop
of another kind was still open. Above the door shone the
green light which marks the abode of the dispenser of drugs.
The shutters had been put up, but the door still remained
P
210 CLEMENT LORIMER.
open, and beside it lurked a man, who as Lorimer was pass-
ing exclaimed, —
" Sir, sir, a word with you !"
The individual who spoke was an elderly man, dressed in
worn and tattered clothes. A threadbare old dress-coat was
fastened tightly around him, principally by the friendly aid
of pins ; and above it there hung loosely from his shoulders
a tattered great-coat. His hair was long, bushy, and black,
and upon his head he wore an old hat, napless and shining
with many brushings.
Lorimer's first idea was, that the man was imploring
charity, and he put his hand into his pocket.
" No, no, sir," said the stranger, hurriedly ; " not that, it
has not come to that yet."
" Well, my man," said Lorimer, " what am I to do for
you?"
" I think you are a gentleman," replied the unknown,
" that is why I spoke to you ; I was a gentleman once
myself."
" You did not stop me, I suppose, to tell me that ? '
answered Lorimer.
"Pardon me," said the other: "but I stopped you to
ask whether you will render me a slight service?"
" Speak it out then," cried Lorimer; " what is it?"
" You will think me a liar or a fool," returned the other;
" I am neither; what I am about to tell you is true; I am a
friendless, outcast man, there is but one thing which loves
me, and it is dying !"
" What do you mean?" said Lorimer.
" It is a dog, sir," replied the other, his voice faltering;
"the creature is writhing in agony on my bed — it is a
mercy to put it out of its pain ; the poor dumb beast has
been my friend for years, I cannot see it in its long, long
agony."
He spoke in a tone of such real feeling that Lorimer
could not help being moved. Following the glance of the
stranger to the druggist's shop, Clement divined what tlie
other would say.
" You want a poison, then, for the poor creature?"
" A painless poison," said the other.
Lorimer's hand again stole to his pocket.
BENOSA WEAVES THE CROWNING WEB. 211
" \o, no," interrupted the other, " I want you not to give
it me, but to buy it for me ;" and he held out money.
" Buy it for you ! " exclaimed Lorimer, in great amaze-
ment. " Why do you not buy it yourself? "
'• Look at me, sir," said the other, meekly ; " would they
not think it was for myself?"
Lorimer could not help acknowledging in his mind that
such a suspicion might well cross the chemist's mind.
" Sir," continued the stranger, " they would not under-
stand my feelings, or believe my word. They would tell
me to let my cur die at its leisure. You are a gentle-
man, you can conceive my motives, can appreciate them : you
will do me this service? they will not refuse one of your
appearance."
Lorimer still hesitated.
" You cannot think," said the other, " that I intend to
take the poison myself; God help us, if I wished to lay down
the life, which, though often weary, has still its sweets for
me, there flows within a mile of us the cold black Thames,
which has received many an outcast like myself. But I am
not yet hopeless, and, further, I have a whim, a childish
whim perhaps — but I wish to bury my poor old faithful
dog."
Lorimer hesitated no longer. He entered the shop,
asked — using the scientific term — for a small portion of the
strongest poison known, and received, in a small and well-
corked phial, a few drops of colourless fluid.
"Thank you, sir — thank you," said the stranger, as
Clement gave him the potion. " My poor old dog will now
be soon out of its pain."
With these words he turned suddenly away, and in an
instant disappeared in the gloom of a narrow lane. Lorimer,
who had been unprepared for this sudden movement, called
after him to stay, but his summons was unheeded. Re-
proaching himself for the rash readiness with which he had
complied with what now appeared every moment to be a
more and more dangerous request, Lorimer hurried after
the unknown. A few minutes, however, convinced him that
all pursuit would be utterly in vain.
" Easy, accommodating fool, that I was !" he thought to
himself; " I may have unwittingly aided the schemes of a
212 CLEMENT LORIMER.
murderer. That story about the dog may be a perfect fic-
tion. How could I have been so weak, so rash? "
There was nothing, however, for it but to urge his way
homewards. Long ere he arrived at Cecil Street Benosa
re-entered his house with the same quick, stealthy step with
which he had left it ; and, after re-lighting the lamp in the
library, tore off a large black wig, threw aside a tattered
suit, and placing upon the table a small phial of colourless
fluid, muttered, —
" So ! one of the links in the chain of circumstantial
evidence."
The next day, and the next, and the next, Lorimer
revisited the old house in the lane ; it was shut up and
deserted.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE EDITORIAL SANCTUM.
When Sir Harrowby Trumps called at the "Flail"
office and sent up his card to the editor previous to his
introduction to that personage, Mr. Spiffler and Mr. Con
O'Keene were in the act of dining in the sanctum, where the
leaders, or, as their concoctors loved to call them, " the blows
of the Flail," were manufactured. This system of dining, or
at all events lunching, in the office, was affected by Mr.
Spiffler as one which tended to give the neighbours, who saw
the tray carried in from the neighbouring tavern, a great
idea of the tremendously onerous and responsible nature of
the duties of the functionaries connected with the " Flail,"
who thus appeared to be unable to leave the scene of their
labours even for such an important operation as that of
dining. Upon the occasion in question the tray vva« placed
upon a vast chaos of opened and crumpled newspapers,
letters, and proofs, which were massed upon a green cloth-
covered table, with the most perfect contempt of method and
order. The room was a dingy, wainscoted apartment, and
the floor was diversified with curious hills and dales, pro-
duced by the gradual sinking and settling of portions of the
THE EDITORIAL SANCTUM. 213
mouldy old house, part of which did duty as the "Flail"
office. Behind the editorial chair — a throne of worm-eaten
mahogany and greasy leather — were ranged shelves crowded
with those books of reference the contents of which fre-
quently enabled the editor of the " Flail" to cause credulous
subscribers to wonder greatly at his immense and minute
knowledge of names, dates, and amounts of exports and im-
ports. In one corner of the room a smaller table was covered
with heaps of book for review, and everywhere, on tables,
chairs, the littered chimney-piece, and the floor, were scat-
tered cards of admission to exhibitions, invitations to public
dinners, and all the ordinary paraphernalia connected with
the " privileges of the press."
Mr. Spiffler and Mr. O'Keene, the acting editor and the
fighting editor, were severally commencing their third chop,
when Gill Dumple, in his paper cap and shirt-sleeves,
brought up Sir Harrowby Trumps' card. First ordering the
juvenile printer to retire and amuse himself on the stair-
case for a short period, an interval which he employed in
spitting over the bannisters at a gas-jet which burned be-
neath, the two gentlemen discussed, in rapid whispers, the
manner in which the visitor ought to be received.
" He's coome about that leader of yours — there's no
doubt of it," exclaimed Mr. O'Keene. " Hooray ! — powder
and ball, or an action for loibel ! — either will do good to
the property ! Deedn't I tell ye we would get on and make
a noise in the world?"
" Hush, you fool 1" said the editor ; " we're not sure
enough of our ground to take a strong position. The article
was only a feeler — we must be guided by circumstances.
He must come up — you had better see him — I shall be in
the closet," indicating an adjoining apartment, *' and, in case
of need, of course I'm with you in a moment."
" Had Oi not better begin the interview boy horse-
whipping him?" inquired O'Keene; "it would bring things
to a point."
" Horsewhipping I — stuff!" repeated the other. " Listen 1
here are your instructions in three words: — Admit no-
thing — deny nothing — promise nothing. Pretend to know
most when you know least ; pretend to wish to say least when
214 CLEMENT LORIMER.
you can say most, and, above all, remember a newspaper is
like the sovereign ; the 'We' can do no wrong."
In a moment Mr. SpifBer vanished into the closet, and,
in the next Sir Harrowby Trumps entered the apartment.
Mr. O'Keene received him with suitable editorial dignity,
first flinging a number of the Journal des Debats over the
remains of the feast, because, as he remarked to himself,
there was no use in letting the oi polloi know that the
mystic " We" ate vulgar mutton-chops and drunk vulgar
beer, and also with intent to let Sir Harrowby perceive that
the " Flail" was no home-made article, but an enlightened
organ on foreign as well as domestic politics.
Sir Harrowby looked by no means at his ease as he took
the seat indicated by Mr. O'Keene. Had he been acting by
himself and for himself, he would doubtless have broken the
ice by performing upon the editor the operation which Mr.
O'Keene had signified his willingness to undertake with re-
ference to his visitor. But Sir Harrowby Trumps had his
instructions from Benosa in his pocket, and it is needless to
say, that the bully had been as thoroughly tamed down by
his ruthless master as ever was vicious hound by the lash of
the whipper-in.
" You're the editor?" said the baronet, bluntly.
Mr. O'Keene had the honour to be that very humble in-
dividual. Sir Harrowby put his hand into his pocket, and
produced a crumpled copy of the last week's " Flail."
" You're accountable for all that goes in here then, eh ?"
" Gerant responsible" replied Mr. Q'Keene, quoting a
line from the French journal before him.
" There's a paragraph here," said the other, " about me,
and a lot of things : what do you mtan by it? "
Mr. O'Keene took the newspaper which the other
handed to him, and affected to search a long time for the
article in question.
" It's headed ' Truth stranger than Fiction,' " said Sir
Harrowby, impatiently.
" Ah, dear — yes — Oi remember," replied Mr. O'Keene ;
" well, sir, and what of that paragraph ?"
" What of it ? — I came to ask that ! What do you mean
by it? — what is it all about?"
THE EDITORIAL SANCTUM. 215
" Sir Harrowby Trumps," said the Irishman, " Oi am a
gentleman ; as such, I was instructed in the art of reading
by a private tutor at me father's castle of Carrig-na-Hoolan ;
as an English gentleman Oi venture to presume that ye also
are not totally ineducated. If, therefore, ye wish to know
what the paragraph manes, Oi would suggest to ye to read it."
Sir Harrowby 's cheeks flushed. " I'll stand no non-
sense, mind you !" he exclaimed.
" No more will Oi," cried O'Keene, starting up. " If
ye want to be taught yer letters, there's a proimer in that
box — that's very much at yer service."
So saying, Mr. O'Keene pointed to a long mahogany
ease bound with brass, which lay in a corner of the room.
As he did so, however, his eye encountered the apparition
of Mr. Spiffler, who was going through a violent pantomime
scene behind the baronet's back, with the evident view of
checking the fighting propensities of the fighting editor.
Sir Harrowby had involuntarily risen as O'Keene pointed fo
the pistol-case, but he was also restrained by the positive
instructions of Benosa to manage the matter with as little
to-do as possible; and so both the intending belligerents sank
into their chairs, and stared fiercely at each other.
" You're very quick with the pistols," said Trumps, with
something of a sneer, for of course he was unconscious of
the cause which had so promptly subdued the rising passion
of the Celt.
" The divil a man quicker between Colraine and Cape
Clear," promptly returned the Milesian.
" Well, well," said Sir Harrowby, " we'll talk about
fighting when we're done talking about business. And now,
again, about that paragraph ?"
" Well, then, about that paragraph. Of coorse it's true,
if that's what yer wanting to know"
" But how is it true 'of course?'" inquired Sir Har-
rowby.
" Bekase it's printed in the ' Flail,' " replied Mr. O'Keene,
conclusively.
" Come, come, this won't do," said Trumps. " You say
here, that I'm connected with some d — -d mys what
d'ye call it — mysterious events. What events? — what do
you know about them? — how am I connected with them?
216 CLEMENT LORIMER.
What business have you to talk of me, or of my wife, or any
thing else in your paper, eh ?"
Mr. O'Keene was about to return a defiant answer, pro-
claiming the perfect right of the " Flail " to say anything it
chose about anybody it chose, when the warning attitude
of Mr. Spiffler, as he peeped anxiously from the closet,
prevented him ; and so assuming an air of ineffable supe-
riority, he swung himself back easily in his chair, and playing
with a scissors which dangled by a steel chain from the desk,
he said, —
" Ah — so — yes — very good — very good, Sir Harrowby
— quite roight in you to troy to pump, but eet's no go, me
dear boy, I assure ye — eet's not the sloightest go."
" So you pretend to know all ?"
" Everoy thing, me boy — everoy thing," replied Mr.
O'Keene, acting upon Mr. Spiffler's instructions, and giving
force to his assertion by playfully laying his forefinger along
his nose.
" There is a secret in the wind," thought Spiffler ; " he
would not be so calm if there were not. He's afraid of us —
the ' Flail ' is made !"
Sir Harrowby shifted uneasily in his chair. Benosa had
for once made a terrible blunder when he despatched such an
emissary. O'Keene continued, —
" The last Derby — curious doings, eh. Sir Harrowby ?
Queer place the turt^ — and yet there's queerer places than
that. Secrets there, and secrets in the churchyard — the
churchyard, eh ?" He looked to Spiffler, and seeing that he
nodded, went on with deliberation and emphasis, — " Secrets
between jockeys and owners — secrets between fathers and
sons — secrets between husbands and wives."
Sir Harrowby started up, uttered a loud execration, and
shook his clenched fist in the Irishman's face. But the latter
was not a bit backward in replying to the hostile demonstra-
tion, and Spiffler rubbed his hands as he whispered to himself
that the plot grew thicker — that there was great game on
foot, ami that the " Flail " w(juld assuredly be in at the death.
An instant's reflection, however, seemed to cause Trumps
to fee! that if he lost his coolness he lost everything. So
he motioned O'Keene to resume his chair, and set him the
example.
THE EDITORIAL SANCTUM. 217
" After all," said Sir Harrowby, in a hoarse, oppressed
voice, " we're men of the world, and men of the world can
understand each other ; it's no use bullying — let's come to
terms. Suppose you admit that the paragraph was a hoax ?"
" Oi admeet nothing," was the discouraging reply.
" But anybody may be wrong, d — n it!" urged "Trumps.
" We're not wrong," said O'Keene.
" Then what use do you intend to make of the — the con-
founded gossip, that you've been printing?"
Mr. O'Keene smiled a bland and elaborate smile which
was worthy of Dr. Gumbey. There were libraries of mean-
ing in that smile. It spoke of the extraordinary stores of
information patent to the smiler, the wonderful results which
that information properly made use of would effect, and it
hinted, in the gentlest manner, at the power — the abso-
lute power, of the editor of the " Flail " either to convulse
the world with the tidings, and thus ruin and annihilate poor
Sir Harrowby Trumps, or to consign them to eternal obli-
vion, and thus relieve all parties from the doom which hung
above them. Although Sir Harrowby was not very good at
reading unwritten and unspoken language, he seemed, in
part at least, to comprehend Mr. O'Keene's silent budget of
hints, for he drew close to him, and said in a loud whisper, —
" Of course, in these matters, the best way is the shortest :
— how much ?"
This question appeared to take the responsible editor by
surprise, for he made no reply and glanced uneasily at
Spiffler, upon whose countenance there fell a deep shade of
perplexity and embarrassment. Meantime Sir Harrowby
Trumps produced a pocket-book, which he opened, and from
which he took several cheques.
" Put in a paragraph in your next number, saying you've
been mistaken ; three words will do, and take this cheque
for " he whispered the amount.
Mr. Spiffler made an eager motion, implying that he
wished for information upon the whispered point ; and
O'Keene, having managed for a moment to elude Trumps'
attention, held up five fingers, and then formed two circles
in the air with the feather end of a pen.
" Well," said Sir Harrowby, " come — what d'ye say?"
O'Keene threw a doubtful glance over his visitor's
218 CLEMENT LORIMER.
shoulder towards his principal ; but there was no guiding
information in the puzzled and downcast looks of Mr. Spiffler.
He, therefore, glanced first at the cheque and then at Trumps,
and muttered some unintelligible words to himself. The
baronet appeared to be fully prepared for this hesitation, and
to have a prompt remedy at hand. Without more ado he
drew back, the precious slip of coloured paper which lay upon
the desk, and quietly substituted another in its place. When
O'Keene looked upon it he slightly elevated his eyebrows,
and immediately replied to the eager pantomime question of
Spiffler, by raising one finger and then drawing three airy
circles with the pen. This information appeared at once to
decide Mr. Spiffler, though not in the way in which O'Keene
fully expected it would operate. The editor shook his head
decidedly, and significantly pointed to Trumps and then to
the door, accompanying the motion with those violent con-
tortions of the mouth by which a man tries to speak visibly
instead of audibly, so that O'Keene guessed rightly that his
principal had decided against taking any bribe whatever, and
wished the conference to be put an end to as soon as possi-
ble. All this time Trumps had looked discreetly in the
direction of the window, so as to allow his companion to
debate the matter in his own mind without let or hindrance.
Con, while telegraphing to Spiffler, held the cheque in his
hand, gazed with sparkling eyes upon every one of its golden
letters, and rubbed it fondly between his fingers, as though
the thin paper were a luscious velvet, pleasant and grateful
to the touch. And this continued after he had fully com-
prehended Spiffler's instructions. Poor Con's fingers seemed
unable to unclasp themselves from the magic paper. What
enjoyment was there not comprehended in that little scrap of
transmuted rag ! — what days of pleasure and nights of re-
velry I How the very soul of the poor fellow yearned and
longed to grasp that morsel of paper, and hug it to his heart !
But Fate and Mr. Spiffler had decreed otherwise. O'Keene
made a violent effort, and fiung the cheque into Sir Har-
rowby's lap.
" There!" he shouted, "take back yer dross, and don't
think to bribe me, or any honest man, from the discharge of
his duty to his employers and to socoiety."
Sir Harrowby stared with all his eyes. He could com-
THE EDITORIAL SANCTUM. 219
prehend a bribe being rejected because it Mas too small, but
the idea that it could be refused because it was a bribe, as
Mr. O'Keene's language would seem to imply, was a phe-
nomenon which even the romance of his nature could hardly
conceive. He had trusted this dernier ressort from the be-
ginning, and the spring being now fairly broken, nothing re-
mained for him to say. So he stared a moment at O'Keene,
took up the cheque, and replaced it in his pocket-book, and
then muttering something about informing the gentleman on
whose part he acted, rose to go. Mr. O'Keene marshalled
him ceremoniously to the door.
" And so you intend to goon printing these things?"
said the disappointed emissary, gruffly.
Mr. O'Keene replied by performing another of his Lord
Burleigh smiles, and Sir Harrowby Trumps descended the
staircase as ill at ease as people generally are who have come
off without flying colours in a delicate and dangerous mission.
" Perhaps you'll hear more of this," he said, as he de-
scended the creaking old stair.
" Oi shall be always happy to meet a gentleman of Sir
Harrowby Trumps' consideration," replied the Milesian,
" or any of hees friends."
And so they parted. When O'Keene returned to the
editorial sanctum, he found Spiffler writing with vast ra-
pidity.
" Me dear boy," he exclaimed, bursting into the room,
" are ye sure ye understood me ? 'Twas a thousand — a cool
thousand, begar ! Oi niver saw so much thrown away so
cool before — niver !"
" Hush!" said Spiffler, earnestly, "let no one know of
this ; nothing venture, nothing have. A secret that's worth
a thousand to them may be worth five thousand to us, if we
only play our cards well."
" Yes, but we don't know the secret," replied OKeene.
" We have the clue, man — we have the clue," said
Spiffler, who was flushed and excited ; "it is a thing of this
sort which tries the nozis in a man. Here is a great oppor-
tunity. It will be our own fault if the 'Flail' do not now
become a property to all of us."
His pen never stopped as he spoke, and Con. lo king
over his shoulder, read as follows : —
220 CLEMEST LORIMER.
" TRUTH STRANGER THAN FICTION.
" Under this head we last week hinted at some secret
proceedings of a nature which is likely to render them of
European celebrity. These transactions are more extraor-
dinary than even we, knowing what we did, dared then to
hint. Nor as yet can we speak out. We only assure the
public that 'extraordinary' is not the only, though it is the
most favourable, epithet, which the transactions in question
will probably receive. As for ourselves, the most enormous
bribes have been freely offered to purchase our silence. We
deem it our duty to proclaim this fact ; and that all may know
it to be a fact, and not a fiction, we hereby state that the
individual who, in our own office, offered us money to betray
our public duty was Sir Harrowby Trumps, Baronet.
" In a week or two we expect to have laid bare a tissue
of iniquity which will appal society."
"Are — are you not going a little too far?" hinted
O'Keene, whose courage was rather physical than moral.
" Not a whit — we have thrown aside the scabbard, and
we must not look back. In a month the 'Flail' will either
be famous or floored."
And in effect, ere the paragraph saw the light, the rapid
march of events iiad brought about an incident which, coupled
with the mysterious announcement of the journalist, produced
for the " Flail " a notoriety and an instantaneous circulation
which electrified its proprietors. The office was crowded
with eager purchasers. Huge placards were surrounded by
pushing, staring crowds. Mr. Jorvey sat at the receipt of
custom, and was happy ; while the editor and his coadjutors,
flushed with triumph, revelled luxuriously in a West-end
hotel.
The event in question must, however, be reserved for the
next chapter.
THE FLY IN THE WEB. 221
CHAPTER XXV.
THE FLY IN THE WEB.
We have to change the scene to the little heavily- wain-
scoted room in the house in Abingdon Street, which we have
described as being apportioned to the peculiar use of Miss
Eske. Its present occupants are the General, his ma,)estic
lady, and her fair companion. The evening is rapidly closing
in, while, from the fragments of dessert upon the table, it is to
be safely inferred that so popular is " Miss Eske's room " in the
household, that the potentates of the neighbouring apartments
do not scruple to invade her realms, even to the extent of
dining in her little kingdom.
On the present occasion both the General and Mrs.
Pomeroy were magnificent in full evening costume. Although
the American warrior had long maintained — and that with
incredible gallantry, even to the very teeth of West-end tai-
lors — that New York set the fashion in dress to Paris and
London, he had at length been persuaded to lay aside his
Transatlantic vestments for garments of a more Christian cut,
and perfectly undistinguished by that air of slangy, esfaminet
gentility which characterises the creations of Broadway artists.
As for Mrs. General, she was gorgeous in black velvet ajid
bugles. Indeed to look at her majestic form arrayed in
tliose flowing robes, an imaginative spectator would have
been apt to pronounce the lady a species of cross between an
ordinary fat female of fifty and the Tragic Muse. Miss Eske
alone was dressed in plain, stay-at-home fashion ; the General
and his wife being evidently bound on some grand expe-
dition.
" Ten minutes to eight, and no word of Mr. Lorimer ;
he promised to be here by half-past seven at latest," said
Mrs. Pomeroy, consulting her New York Geneva.
" Something particular must have occurred to detain
him," said Miss Eske, bending over her work.
The General slowly sipped the last drops of champagne
from a long glass, and pushed it away with a sigh. It is
astonishing how Americans, at all hours and at all seasons,
222 CLEMENT LORIMER.
will swill champagne. The favourite dinner of a certain gen-
tleman, late!}' deceased, who was held in high estimation in
that particular circle of society which is bounded by the
ropes of the prize-ring, was bread-and-cheese and champagne.
Transatlantic epicures manifest a kindred taste — at all events
so far as liquids go.
" Ah," said General Pomeroy, " I guess he'd a kept better
time if you were going to the Opera with us, Miss Eske."
Marion hastened to say that Mr. Lorimer could not have
been aware of the slight indisposition which would prevent
her to-night from hearing her favourite Matrimonio Segreto.
There was a pause. The General fidgeted to the win-
dow, watched the lights beginning to twinkle in Lambeth
Palace through the gloom, and observed that he thought
Deacon Barl as good as any archbishop of them all. The
Yankee Tragic Muse put a finishing touch to her array of
bugles, and then opined that they must go — Mr. Lorimer
must follow. And as Mrs. General Pomeroy had said, so it
was done.
" Remember, now, when he comes, Marion, tell him
No. 23, on the first tier. We'll leave his name." And with
these parting instructions, the General and the Tragic Muse
stepped into the carriage which was in waiting to convey
then), and departed.
Miss Eske was left alone. The evening was deepening
fast, and a servant lighted the lamp. Despite of its gay fur-
niture, the room looked gloomy and sad in the night-time;
and Miss Eske had more than once fancied, when she was
alone, and all was still that low creaking noises pro-
ceeded from the walls, and that heavy footsteps sounded
from behind the pannels. On the present occasion, she felt
ill and depressed. Every moment she caught herself listening,
with suspended breath, for the smothered noises from the
walls ; and then, with an emotion of impatience at her own
childishness, she would rise, shake off the gathering feeling
of lonesome awe which she knew would fast deepen into
fear, and smiling at her own weakness, would go stoutly on
with her work. Still she could not disguise from herself that
she was more than usually tmiid and nervous. Sometimes
she almost regretted that she had not accompanied the
Pomeroys to the Opera, despite of the sickly languor which
THE FLY IN THE WEB. 223
had depressed her all the afternoon. She thought of the gay
house, the glitter of the lights, the peal of the music, and
wished she was submitted to their inspiring influence. Every
thing round her appeared to be more dark and louring than
usual. The lamp burned dimly, — shadows were piled within
the corners of the room ; and as the curtains were waved by
an occasional breath of wind from the half-opened window,
she would shrink within herself, aghast and trembling, at the
light rustle of the damask.
At length these nervous feelings were dissipated by the
arrival of Lorimer. He had been detained by some trivial
accident, and used all his eloquence to persuade Miss Eske
to accompany him to join the Pomeroys. At one time she
felt inclined to yield, but then, remembering the ordeal of
quizzing which she would assuredly undergo fium the General
upon her headache having so miraculously disappeared before
Clement's persuasions, she absolutely refused either to go
herself to No. '25, in the first tier, or to allow Lorimer to stay
with her — a plan which he supported by a great many argu-
ments of much cogency. We need not linger over such ques-
tions as they are generally argued between two lovers ; the
result was, that Lorimer, having promised to accompany the
General and his lady home to supper, tore himself away from
Abingdon Street, and Miss Eske was again left alone.
An hour or more went slowly by. Now and again the
low rumble of a passing vehicle struck with a dull force upon
the ear. Anon the slight noises of the night floated into tlie
room from the river. There was the occasional heavy splash
of the one huge oar by which floating barges are steered, or
a loud, shrill hail from boat to bank, or from bank to boat;
and then again silence within the chamber and without.
Long and stoutly did Marion Eske struggle against the
absorbing sensation of mingled fear and melancholy which
seemed to encompass her as with a dim, dark halo. She had
never before experienced so crushing, so overmastering a
sensation, as that which now laid, as it were, a strong, cold
hand upon her spirit. Dim forebodings — a restless, aching,
indefinite sensation of dread, took possession of her. Every
moment she expected something awful or startling to happen,
and yet what that something was to be she could not imagine
224 CLEMENT LORIMER.
or define. In vain she racked her memory with vain efforts
to recollect any similar attack of low spirits. She could nei-
ther call to mind having ever before experienced her present
sensations, or trace them to any reasonable cause. She had
frequently sat alone by night where she sat now. She had
sometimes felt nervous and flustered, but on this particular
occasion everything like mental and physical energy seemed to
have left her. After a fruitless struggle, she surrendered to
the overmastering spell which bound her. The vvork upon
which she had been engaged fell from her hands upon her
lap. Her eyes became dilated and fixed upon the wainscot-
ing opposite to where she sat, rigid and motionless, as the
lady in Comus, in her chair. The evil spell which bound her
seemed to have attained the height of its power.
There was deep silence in the room. The lamp appeared
to burn yet dimmer and dimmer. The shadows seemed to
leave their nooks and to brood all through the air. Marion
Eske felt as though she sat in the darkness of the Valley of
the Shadow of Death !
All at once a low rumbling noise — faint, yet distinct —
rolled through the room. The lady heard it — for a slight
start shot through her frame. Her hands were clasped toge-
ther with a convulsive energy. Her eyes were glazed and
dilated — her forehead damp, and her cheeks ashen pale.
A minute passed away and the noise was heard again, a
well-oiled but heavy bolt was apparently shot back, and then
Marion Eske saw, without any outward m'anifestation of
terror, a slight longitudinal opening appear in the wainscot.
It gradually seemed to enlarge, and then the pannel slid
quickly aside, shewing a dark space behind in which could
be faintly discerned the forms of two men ; the foremost wa.**
tall and thin, his face was partially concealed by a black
handkerchief twisted round his neck; his companion carried
a dark lantern which flung a bright spot of liirlit upon the
opposite wall.
Miss Eske tried to scream, but her voice died in her
throat. The progress of fascination was completed by the
intensity of the gaze which the foremost intruder flung on
her fi'om out his large glittering eyes. Step by step he
advanced into the room.
THE FLY IN THE WEB. 225
*' The preparatory potion has worked well," he muttered.
" The system is in the state recommended for the success of
the drug."
Meanwhile the man with the lantern remained motionless
in the recess disclosed by the sliding pannel.
Marion Eske followed the intruder with her eyes. At
length he stood opposite to her, then she essayed to speak ;
her white lips moved, and her bosom heaved, and her nos-
trils dilated, as she struggled madly against the torpor of
fascination which was on her. The effort was fruitless — the
muscles relaxed, and she sank back staring at the man before
her. Without removing his eyes from hers, he slowly pro-
duced a phial from an inner breast-coat pocket, and re-
moving the ground-glass stopper, poured the colourless con-
tents into the champagne glass which the General had used,
and taking it up, said, in those low, musical tones which we
have so often referred to, —
" You must drink this."
Then, for the first time, the intensity of fear combating
successfully for a moment the effects of the potion which
Miss Eske now knew had been administered to her — though
how or when she was not aware — she gasped, —
"It is poison — it is death !"
"No," said Benosa; "it is but sleep — a wondrous sleep
— which is both life and death."
Miss Eske,^by the effort of speaking, had partially broken
the spell which clung around her. She waved her hand
impatiently and murmured, —
" No ; I will not — I can not ! Begone I "
Benosa crossed his arms upon his bosom, still holding
the glass in his left hand, and then, drawing himself up to his
full height, he flashed his glaring eyes down into those of his
victim, while, at the same moment, following a slight move-
ment of his right hand, Marion Eske saw the glitter of a
blade of steel shine out against his dark clothing. It was
either the tacit threat of violence, or the influence of the
man's baneful presence acting upon a nervous system arti-
ficially wrought into a state of conjoined excitement and
weakness, which again crushed the rallying energies of the
hapless girl. She shrunk back, at the same time extending
her liand for the glass by a mechanical motion ; slowly, but
a
226 CLEMENT LORIMER,
with perfect steadiness, she conveyed it to her lips, her eyes
fixed upon those of Benosa. His livid visage never stirred
as she raised the draught to her lips, it shewed not a trace of
emotion or passion as she slowly drained the glass ; but all
the while the dreadful stare of his fierce eyes was never
remitted, until, in about a minute after Marion had swallowed
the last drops of the potion, her face began to grow livid
and to change its expression, and the muscles of the fingers
gradually relaxed, so that the glass first slipped into a hori-
zontal position, and then fell, and was shivered upon the floor.
At the same moment the head of the sufferer dropped upon her
chest, and her limbs fell by their own gravity into positions
in which they either rested upon other portions of her body
or upon the chair.
Then Benosa uttered a low, groaning sigh, and gazed
with a look of passionate grief upon his victim. All this
time the accomplice within the recess stood motionless.
Suddenly Benosa signed to him, and he flashed the lantern
over Miss Eske's face. Benosa raised her head, and placed
it so as to be supported by the back of the chair. He felt
her pulse, it had ceased to beat — he placed a particle of
down upon her lips, not a feathery atom moved — he passed
his hand over her forehead, it was cold and damp. Then he
carefully replaced the phial, the contents of M-hich Miss
Eske had swallowed, and produced another and a smaller
one — it was the same which Lorimer had purchased at the
chemist's in Spitalfields. Glancing over the table, he se-
lected a wine-glass and half filled it with sherry ; into the
wine he poured about half-a-dozen drops of the colourless
fluid contained in the phial ; presently an acrid flavour, as
of bitter almonds, rose into the room. Benosa again looked
round, until his eye caught an inkstand with paper and pens.
He took one of the latter, and dipping the feathered end in
the medicated wine, touched the lips of the lifeless woman
with the fluid.
" In such a complete state of trance," he muttered,
" there is no danger ; ere the absorbents can act evapora-
tion will have done their office."
Then he again glanced round the room, and his eyes
flashed as he saw, flung carelessly upon a chair, a light sum-
mer overcoat which Lorimer had left when he departed for
.... ..iF.'.ai^W
t^^v,w.v,y,^^J^^^iiK21^
THE FLY IN THE WEB. 227
the Opera. Catching it up, he deposited the half-empty
phial in one of the pockets, and then carefully replaced the
garment in its former position.
"More circumstantial evidence," he muttered. "The
chain grows longer, and thicker, and firmer."
Then he turned to the entranced woman ; she was still,
motionless, still to all appearance, and by all ordinary tests
dead, and before her stood a glass, half full of wine,
mingled with the most quick and fatal poison known to exist.
Benosa turned to his accomplice.
" Now, Blane," he said, " now commences your part.
To the police-office !"
The ex-steward bowed. Benosa threw one last, long
glance at his victim, and then stepped into the recess in the
wall. Immediately the pannel rolled into its place, and the
heavy bolt was again shot.
The sparkling finale of the Matrimonio, with its rapid
intermingling choruses of female voices and its brilliant
showers of orchestral harmony, was at its quickest and its most
fascinating point when a loud, impatient knock shook the
door of the box No. 25, on the first tier, while a gruff voice
without loudly summoned the attendant. The occupants of
the box started up from their cliairs in some surprise, aiid
Lorimer rose and undid the fastenings of the door.
A common-looking man, whom none of the party knew,
walked into the box, leaving the door open, so that two or
three flustered-looking boxkeepers could be discerned flit-
ting about in the corridor in an evident state of uncertainty
as to the proceedings of the new-comer. And, in truth, thi'?
man was not quite in Opera trim — he was unwashed and
unshaven. A coarse, old, frayed great-coat was buttoned
tightly up to his chin, and his large, red, ungloved hands
were marvels of dirty muscularity. Doffing a somewhat
battered old hat, the new-comer said gruffly, but civilly
enough, —
"Sorry to disturb you, mum — and you, gents — but
there's a bad job been and took place."
The poor Tragic Muse grew flushed and pale in a moment.
At first she thought that war might have suddenly been de-
clared between England and America, and that a sanguinarsy
SSfO CLEMENT LORIMER.
and unscrupulous enemy might be now taking the first hostile
step by consigning two distinguished citizens of the States to
a dungeon in the Tower, probably with the view of putting
them ultimately upon the rack.
The General, although he might not have the same fore-
bodings, was just as pale and frightened as his wife. They
sat staring in stupid silence at the intruder, while Lorimer
hurriedly asked what was wrong.
"The young lady," replied the man — " the young lady
as you left well and hearty in Abingdon Street three hours
ago "
Clement Lorimer almost bounded from the floor. The
man with the great-coat eyed him coolly and keenly.
"Great God I" he exclaimed, "Miss Eske — Marion
Eske — my Marion ! What of her ? — is she ill — is she
What of her ? What of her ? — for God's sake "
" Dead," replied the man.
" Dead ! " Mrs. Pomeroy sunk backwards, and was only
preserved by the ledge of the box from falling to the floor.
The poor little General shook like an aspen leaf. Lorimer
stood, pale as marble, confronting the messenger of heavy
tidings.
" Dead ! " he repeated — " dead 1 When ? — how ? —
how ? "
" Murdered," replied the other, with the same laconic but
not intentionally uncivil gruff'ness.
Clement Lorimer stood rooted to the ground, his face
working and his hands clasped.
" Merciful God ! " he at length burst out, " murdered I
And when ? — how ?— by whom ? Is no one taken — no one
suspected ? "
" There is one suspected," said the man in the great-coat,
measuring Lorimer from head to foot with his eyes, and ap-
parently preparing himself for the event of a struggle —
" there is one suspected. Information was given at our
office not half-an-hour ago."
" And who — who ? — for God sake ! "
The police agent cast a look to the door of the box,
and placed himself between Lorimer and the corridor.
Then, lowering his yoice, he said, in cool but respectful
tones,-^
THE FLY IN THE WEB. 229
" I am sorry to say, sir, that you are the party implicated.
You must consider yourself ray prisoner."
" Me ! — me ! — murder my — Marion-^-my love — my . "
He stammered out these words, and then sunk back against
the wall.
" It's my duty, sir, to caution you," said the officer, " that
any thing you say may be taken down and used against you.
I don't mean to say you're in the job, sir, but information has
been laid, and we must do our duty. I have a warrant about
me, if you wish to see it."
But Lorimer replied not; he continued to lean against
the wall, his lips still moving — still repeating the ejaculation,
" Murdered her — my Marion !"
" Now, sir," said the agent of police, " perhaps we had
better slip away quietly."
But at this moment Mrs. Pomeroy rose all trembling, —
" Take me — home — let us go home," she whispered to
her husband hysterically.
A mist came over Lorimer's eyes, and he remembered
nothing distinctly of what passed for the next few moments.
He had an indistinct vision of people moving rapidly about
him — of one grim face which was always close to his — of
iong lighted corridors — of whisperings and rushings of
groups round him — of the cool air of the great staircase — of
staggering, and being supported as he descended the steps,
then of a bustling and pulling up of carriages in the street —
of horses plunging hither and thither — of faces which stared
into his and then disappeared — of shouts, and loud calls, and
the hustling of a crowd upon the pavement — of being lifted
into a vehicle, and of hearing two voices which rose up above
the tumult, although they did not appear to speak so loud
as did many around. The first said,- —
" Coachman, to Abingdon Street ! "
The second, and at almost the same moment, said, —
" Coachman, to Bow Street ! "
230 CLEMENT LORIMEB.
CHAPTER XXVI.
LIFE-IN-DEATH.
To be dead in body — to be dead to all the usual tests of
life — to be powerless, passive, cold, and yet to be alive to
oneself — dimly and faintly to be sure — but to be conscious
of a torpid, yet still existing life, of a single spark of animat-
ing spirit, still glimmering, but unseen, unrecognised from
without, glowing silently in the verj^ depths of the physical
nature, — such were the horrible symptoms of the artificial state
of catalepsy into which the potion swallowed at Benosa's
bidding had flung Marion Eske.
Outwardly, and to others, she presented all the phenomena
of death. Of all in the chamber only she herself knew that
death was not yet there. The nerves of sensation still acted
feebly and wearily, conveying dim, and as it were distant,
impressions to the as feebly and wearily acting brain ; but
the nerves of motion were utterly paralysed and dead. One
of the tearful attendants by chance lost her hold ot the dead
arm she was lifting. It fell as so much wood upon the table,
and only the seeming corpse knew that that arm fell against
a will which still feebly existed in the inner tissues of the
brain. But that living spark of soul was like a wounded
general without an army. It could think and feel feebly and
languidly, out it could not act. It could not by its operation
signify its presence. There were none to obey it. It could
only recognise itself — know itself — feel itself. Outwardly
all was blank, cold, dead ; and those who stood terrified and
weeping around could see before them but the moveless thing
from which the breath of life had gone out !
And yet, by the wise rule of a good and consistent Pro-
vidence, awful as were the phenomena of this life-in-death, it
was mentally almost painless to the suiferer. To feel acutely
oue must feel strongly; to realise in all their forbidding horror
the probable consequences of such a situation, the mind
must be thoroughly able to perform its ordinary functions.
It was not so in the case before us. The very influences which
put a temporary stop to the physical manifestations of mind,
LIFE-IN-DEATH. 231
acted so as to weaken, to dim, and to confuse the perceptions
of that mind. Thus, the perfect and complete bodily torpor
produced partial mental torpor. The blow which annihilated
the power of matter, weakened and disordered the power of
mind. It discerned dimly and judged feebly. No impression
lasted long — no impression left a trace which could be re-
called — no impression gave rise to a distinct idea of what
would in necessary sequence follow. The mind had no force
to fling itself backwards or forwards. It only took cognisance
of the actual present, and that dimly, painfully, and partially;
its stubborn inertness blunting the keen edge of every sharp
emotion, and remaining alive, as it were, only to the stun,
never to the smart, of deadly, stabbing thoughts.
All outward sounds, all outward physical things, were
presented colourless and phantom-like in thf same cloudy
mirror ; words were partially heard, and when heard only par-
tially understood. A thick but not impervious veil hung in
drear folds between the palsied brain and outer things.
Through that veil distinct shapes appeared shadows — through
that veil sounds of grief and sympathy came fitfully, like low,
boding, indefinite voices — through that veil those things
which cause emotions and ideas floated in, diminished and
misshapen, at once uncouth and indefinite. That veil was
like the crape on muffled drums, through which only steals
one long, low, melancholy roll !
For some time after the administration of the drug Marioa
was utterly insensible — dead to the world — dead to herself.
A faint sound, like a distant scream, was the first sensation
to cleave and stir the depths of her trance. The cry appeared
low, indistinct, raised by some one far, far away. And yet
it was loud, startling, piercing, uttered at her elbow — in her
ear. Then she was conscious of dark shapes rapidly moving
around her, raising her from her chair, and placing her in
a recumbent position. Soon the dimly seen shapes became
more distinct, for her eyes were yet open and staring. They
appeared men — strangers. They hurried to and fro. They
mingled with female forms who thronged around. There
was a confused sound of whispering, and ejaculations, and
sobs. Hands were placed upon her forehead and her mouth.
A dim form bent long over her. It seemed to place its head
to hers. It raised her hands, and then replaced them re-
232 CLEMENT LORIMER.
verently by her side. Meantime the other shapes stood
around. Then they turned to the table and looked and lifted
up glasses, which glimmered faintly, and the whispering arose
again. Presently the patient began to discern words and
broken sentences. At tirst they were but sounds distinctly
heard. Then a black shadow of meaning began to diffuse
itself over her brain. She began to comprehend that she was
dead — gone away out of the world — that there was a gulf
between her and the whispering and the shapes. These ideas
rose up, all shadowy, all incoherently, all dimly looming in
spectral wreaths of thought. But soon they began to take a
certain order, a certain consistency, and she felt — she knew not
how — that she was dead, yet alive. It was a dark, indefinite,
mysterious idea. She could not understand it — she could
could not reconcile it; but there it was, overshadowing her
as with a rent and disordered pall, through the holes in which
she saw the v/orld.
Then there was suddenly a movement in the now crowded
chamber, and a shape she knew and a face she knew were
over her. She felt hot tears upon her face — she heard
loud, mournful sounds — she saw a circle of pale, woe-worn
faces. Then the hand of the shape she knew gently closed
her eyes, and all was darkness. After this the sounds and
the whispering died away for a space, and there was
silence.
It was during this silence that the idea of her being dead
and yet alive began to fade away, and at last to let in a dim
image of the truth — that she was alive, but that she was
deemed dead. For awhile the weakened mind could not
comprehend the one idea more than the other. But gradually
the true and coherent notion was recognised and faintly un-
derstood. Yet no emotion was excited by the attainment of
this degree of mental consciousness. No recollections Avere
excited of the past — no fears evoked for the future; oidy a
black, boding sentiment of evil came down and encompassed
the soul, like the darkness which was upon the face of the
deep.
Then came a half-understood consciousness that people
were again around her. She felt herself again raised and
moved. Busy hands lifted her limbs, and low voices sounded
in her ears. She could feel that some unaccustomed covering
LIFE-IN-DEATH. 233
was being folded around her. Then something soft and
yielding rose on each side of her head. After a long interval
of darkness and silence the jaded and slumbering mind was
aware that the passive form in which it dwelt was laid upon
its bed.
Then came a space — it might have been long, it might
have been short — of undisturbed calm; for it was one of
the inexplicable features of Marion's fearful state that the
sense of time was utterly gone. She felt no tedium — she
had no idea of living slowly and continuously on. The out-
ward events, which were conveyed by the half-torpid nerves
to the more than half-torpid brain, might have happened
closely after each other or at long intervals. The mind took
no cognisance of the pauses between. They were utterly
blank; only during them the dreaming soul Mould feebly
commune with itself. It would be sensible that it existed —
it would think wanderingly and dimly. Thoughts would
form, and rise, and pass away ; and all these thoughts were
distorted, dislocated visions of things past — they were
empty, indefinite, dreamy shadows ; but all were darkened,
all made black, and boding, and bitter, by one unrealised
yet ever-present consciousness of evil, and desolation, and
death !
Outward sounds, as we have said, soon attracted a feeble
and disturbed attention ; and at intervals the overthrown
mind struggled faintly to hear them, and then to comprehend
their meaning. Sometimes it was low voices which would
chime around the bed, and there would be a soft rustling, as
though the curtains were gently drawn aside, and then the
voices would sound more mournfully and more near. Marion
often distinguished particular words as sounds familiar to her
ears ; but the more subtle meaning eluded the feebly grasping
brain. It was only occasionally that the mind was conscious
of a general understanding produced by these voices after
they had long beaten, as it were, with a faint, muffled noise
at the portals of hearing. Then she was conscious that those
who spoke, spoke pitifully, sorrowfully, tearfully. But some-
times they would change their tone, and the idea would arise
in the patient's mind that then they spoke of some other
object — spoke of it with anger, and indignation, and strong
abhorrence.
234 ' CLEMENT LORIMER.
And when the voices spoke thus, there was often some-
thing suggested by a word they pronounced which made
the sick mind thrill feebly — which lighted up, as it were,
for a moment into a more intense glow the hidden spark of
life — which seemed as if it would evoke sensations, indefinite
and incoherent, yet sad, and dear, and sweet; but which in a
moment faded away and were gone. That word was —
Lorinier !
And after these periods of comparative activity, would
come the intervals of drear blankness — darkness within and
darkness without. Once that dim interval was interrupted
by a muttered sound of deep, low voices. Heavy footsteps
sounded about. Then Marion felt herself gently lifted and
again laid down, the low, deep voices still sounding over her,
and this time without the rustle of drawn curtains. Why,
she knew not — how, she knew not, but there was a sensation
of tightness round her which had not formerly been. She
thought she was in some narrow place. Presently came a
soft sobbing voice, which she knew ; presently tears fell again
over her face, and she thought that hot lips touched her forehead.
Then there was a brief silence. It was broken by a grating
sound, which seemed to be renewed at short intervals all
round her. Then suddenly the sense of tightness, of restric-
tion, and of darkness, at once increased tenfold. The air
got thick and heavy. No puffs of summer wind passed by —
no sound of the world stole into the soul. The chain which
bound its faculties seemed all at once stronger — heavier —
firmer. The sufferer's limbs could almost, feel the thick
darkness. The veil which had hung between her and o-uter
things grew impervious, and thick, and hopeless, in its grim
intensity !
Time passed on. She began to feel that it did, by an
overmastering impression of evil, in which for the first time
there was blended a shade of dim, indefinite horror, which
remained ever present to her, and thus served, as it were, for
a mark past which the leaden hours crawled one by one.
This shadow of horror grew gradually greater, and blacker,
and more defined, until at last, and by slow degrees, it resolved
itself into a ghastly, spectral consciousness, which scared away
all other thoughts, and ruled, horrible and supreme, like the
awful shape called Demi-Gorgon !
THE NIGHT VOYAGE ON THE RIVER. 235
Then Marion Eske knew that she was thought to be
dead, and that she laj' supine in her coffin.
CHAPTER XXVII.
THE NIGHT VOYAGE ON THE RIVER.
The day had been close and sultry. Great dusky masses
of cloud had since morning overshadowed London. Some-
times a violent gust of wind, bearing a pattering shower of
rain, whistled fast through the streets, lashing the sloping
roofs, and rattling the streaming windows. Then the deep,
torpid calm would resume its sway ; the cloads which had
been partially rent and scattered, would rebuild their vapor-
ous masses, and that close, choky sensation, which pro-
claims the brewing of a summer's storm, would again descend
with all its lounng influence, to weaken and depress the
energies of everj^ living and breathing thing.
Evening came, and the storm had not yet burst. Even-
ing darkened into pitchy night. From time to time a
hollow, moaning gust would sigh through the air, and the
dampened flag-stones would be spotted with the great
splashes of huge rain-drops ; but the tempest still hung aloof
and above. People looked up into the thick night, and
wished for the lightning, the rain, and the wind, which were
soon to clear and wash the air, and make it cool, and fresh,
and pleasant to all who breathed it.
As the night approached its zenith, the flood-tide, which
was running fast up the river, began to slacken its speed and
to slip by anchored barges and wharves, and the slimy piers
of bridges, with a stealthy, gliding motion. Although the
night was murkily dark, there was no fog upon the river ;
and the twinkling lights upon either hand, and the double
line of red sparks which marked the span of the bridges,
shone out all the clearer for the depth of the surrounding
blackness.
The tide was at its full, and the dark river brimming,
when a wherry slowly approached the Middlesex bank,
making for the gravelly beach which sloped into the water in
236 CLEMENT LORIMER.
the rear of Betiosa's house in Abingdon Street. The boat
was one built for great speed, but yet not without regard to
the comfortable accommodation of those who might be con-
veyed on board. A low, broad seat stretched across the
stern-sheets, railed at the back and sides ; and on the seat
and on the bottom of the boat, before it, tvas piled a mass of
soft, dark cushions. The boat was pulled by two men, who
worked noiselessly and talked in whispers. As the wherry
approached the beach, they lay upon their oars, and one of
them took a small lantern from beneath the thaft on which he
sat, and, turning round, held it up towards the shore. In-
stantly a round star of light danced upon the ripples
which stirred the gravel, upon half-a-dozen slimy old piles
which formed part of an embankment, the greater part of
which had been long washed away ; and then upon the river
end of that long, low out-building w^hich, as we have seen,
extended at right angles from the house down to the Thames.
Having by means of the dark lantern ascertained their exact
position, the boatmen turned the stern of the skiff towards
the shore, and backed her almost to the beach. Before land-
ing, however, he who pulled the stroke-oar — a tall, gaunt
man — stood up, and gazed eagerly upon the dwelling before
them. Notwithstanding the darkness, he was near enough to
perceive the white squares formed by the drawn window-
blinds.
" There — that is the room," he said, in a hoarse whisper ;
" in the left-hand corner — just above the out-house."
Then the oars were resumed, and in a moment the boat's
stern touched the wall of the building alluded to, which,
when the tide was at its full, rose from the water. He
who pulled the bow oar dexterously shipped it, and catching
up a short boat-hook, struck it into the bottom, so as to
anchor the wherry in the position which it occupied. At the
same moment the tall man flashed the lantern upon the wall,
and the glare shewed a small door, apparently long disused,
and green and slimy from the action of the water, which in
very high tides rose a foot or more above the threshold,
which in its turn was several feet above the level of the
beach. While the bowman held his boat-hook so as to steady
the skiff, his companion, without a moment's pause, applied
a small key to the door, which at once yielded, shewing a
THE NIGHT VOYAGE ON THE RIVER. 237
space of pitchiest darkness beyond. Making a sign, which
was promptly acknowledged by the other, he who had opened
the door stepped from the skiff upon the threshold. The
gleam of his lantern shot before him and shewed a cellar-
like passage, the walls and roof formed of unplastered brick.
Then the door closed behind him. The man left in the
boat gazed eagerly up to the window which had been pointed
out by his companion.
" This is the most ticklish job of all," he muttered, " but
it is to be the last ; and then ho for America, with none alive
to tell tales about my riches !"
As he spoke, a light gleamed from the window on which
his eyes were fixed, '* He's about it," he muriiiured.
Meantime the air appeared to become more and more
stifling. Not a breath of wind stirred, and the ripples which
the surging of the boat had produced died away upon the
dark waters.
Thus ten minutes passed. Suddenly the light from the
window was partially obscured, as if the lamp or candle had
been moved to a corner of the room.
" He's done it — he's coming!" said the boatman. Anr
other minute elapsed, the door opened, and the tall, gaunt
man appeared on the threshold, bearing a burden — some-
thing large, heavy, and dark.
" You have got it," whispered the man with the boat-
hook.
" I have got Aer," was the reply.
And he who spoke deposited his burthen reverently upon
the piled-up cushions. His companion eagerly gazed at it;
he could distinguish but a mass of dark drapery. Only
once, for a moment, he saw something oval and white,
and knew that it was the dead-like face of the entranced
woman.
Meantime, Benosa — our readers have doubtless recog-
nised him — piled round the unmoving form of his victim
thick wreaths of shawls and cloaks, caught up, as it seemed,
in the room from whence he had borne her. Then he lifted
from the bottom of the boat, what appeared to be a long bar
of a heavy substance, enveloped in some fleecy material, so
as to be nearly a foot in diameter.
238 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" 'Tis about the same weight," he muttered. " At any
rate there can be no perceptible difference."
Then he disappeared again by the little door.
Blane — for he it was who held the boat-hook — gazed
with a sort of gloomy fascination upon the dark mass in the
stern sheets. It lay as still as the metal bar which was to
supply its place beneath the coffin-lid. In a moment the
light again streamed from the window.
" He is using the screwdriver, and shutting down all
close again," said the ex-steward. A long, long quarter of
an hour elapsed ; then the light was extinguished. " Thank
the stars," said the watcher, " he has done it."
As he spoke, Benosa stepped into the boat. In a mo-
ment the door was swung to, and locked ; in the next, the
wherry shot down the stream as fast as the muscles of those
who plied the oars could urge her. The tide had turned,
and as the boat Hew beneath Westminster Bridge, Benosa
marked the white frothy ripple gliding downwards along the
roughened masonry.
Meantime the storm so long brewing gave indications
that at length it was about to descend in its fury. The air
became absolutely thick and sulphurous. Tiny particles of
smut and soot, unable to arise in the loaded atmosphere,
settled in showers upon the water and the earth. A dim
foreboding of impending danger took possession of those wlio
watched the approaching conflict of the elements. The
silence was as profound as the darkness was intense. All at
once there fell a few scattered drops of rain, great plashing
globules of water, such as seldom descend upon the earth.
Then there was a momentary pause.
Suddenly a stream of blue lightning tore across the dark-
ness, and in an instant — and for an insiant — the gleaming
river, the piles of confused buildings rising upon its banks,
the stately bridges, stretching their granite bulwarks from
shore to shore, the pale, spectral steeples, shooting up into
the darkness — all appeared and all vanished.
" Pull — pull hard and fast !" shouted Benosa. His voice
was drowned in the thunder-peal which accompanied, rather
than followed, the flash. It was not the usual hoarse roar
of thunder ; it was rather a sharp, ringing, crackling uproar,
THE NIGHT VOYAGE ON THE KIVEE. 239
like the discharge of a volley of brass artillery. In the midst
of the tumult the ashen staves bent, and the wherry flevv
fast and faster through the buzzing, foaming water. Another
flash, as bright — as blue as the first. Two great portions of
the sky appeared masses of lurid flame, and between them
leaped a forked, jagged stream. Again the river, with its
black waters, shone and glared — again the thousand build-
ings of the great city stood out, more clear than by brightest
sunlight in that universal blaze, and again the thunder
seemed to smite into the very brains of the listeners.
" Pull harder and faster — harder and faster!" shouted
Benosa. " We shall have it in a moment."
And as the last rattle of the thunder died iway, a loud,
rushing sound came hurtling through the air.
" The squall I " said Benosa. " Keep her right before it,
or we shall be over in a moment."
And as he spoke the rushing sound waxed louder. They
heard the scream of the wind through the arches of Black-
friars Bridge which they had just passed. A moment more,
and spots of white foam, gleaming all across the river,
shewed where the piers of the bridge stood stoutly out against
the angry waters, as they flew headlong before the wind. Then
at last — driving before it a thick, sharp, whistling shower of
mingled rain and spray, the gust caught the boat. But it was
ably manned. Shouting to Blane to sit steadily and keep
his oar in the stream, Benosa partially rose as the wherry was
borne on in the centre of a rushing ridge of foaming water.
The fury of the squall momentarily increased. The fierce
wind tore up the troubled river, and scattered it in blinding
showers through the air. The whole tideway was a mass of
foam, glistening as though the stream had been beaten with
rods — while, howling above the water — shrieking through the
vast arches of bridges — grasping and shaking piles of chim-
neys and high gavels upon the banks, and bearing on in
horizontal lines the pour of fast falling rain, the tempest
swept the weak wherry before it — its crew deafened with
the din, and blinded with the drift of flying water.
The black mass of Southwark Bridge, with its crowning
tiara of lights, loomed a moment ahead, and then appeared
in the gloom behind. Almost at the same time instant, as it
240 CLEMENT LORIMER.
appeared to Benosa, the granite arches of London Bridge
stood out in their colossal dimensions over the foaming
flood.
The squall had reached its height ; and almost at the
culminating moment, as tiie wherry was shooting towards the
centre arch, a wild flaw of wind took her on the broadside.
What followed seemed the catastrophe of a wild dream. There
was a moment's violent tossing amid the white, sparkling
ri Iges of water — a moment when every sound was lost in the
siiriek of the hurtling wind ; then a vision of a vast pile of
niassive masonry — an uncontrollable lurch of the tempest-
beaten boat — a crash — a collision — a wild attempt to fend oiF
from the slimy, slippery piers ; and almost at the same
instant the wherry, leaking and half stove in, was swept
downwards from the bridge between the crowded tiers of
shipping in the Pool.
The storm was at its wildest as they shot the bridge.
Minute by minute it lulled from the full burst of its fury,
settling nto a blustering gale, which drove volleys of
drenching rain before it, and urged to furious speed the
race of the ebbing tide. Not more than three quarters of an
hour had elapsed from the time when the wherry quitted
Bankside until it had swept up to a green and slimy stairs,
which descended to the margin of a little creek in Lime-
house Reach.
In the adjoining street stood a close cabriolet. Thanks
to the weather and the hour, the place was perfectly deserted.
Not a being but his accomplice witnessed Benosa as he
carefully placed the lifeless form of Marion Eske within
the vehicle. Not a being but that accomplice — who be-
longed to Benosa body and soul — witnessed his master as,
with a strange reverence, he laid the unmoving, unbreathing,
yet still existing form upon the bed on which died the
mother of Clement Lorimer.
Ku.. ir^ke c^^^^^^,_^ ^,n^WT
T^irLC^ ,
FALSE WITNESS. 241
CHAPTER XXVIII.
" THOU SHALT NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS AGAINST THY
NEIGHBOUR."
Sir Harrowby Trumps sat in a gaudily-furnished
chamber looking out upon a bustling West-end street. The
walls were hung with flashy pictures in brilliant frames ; and
a variety of couches and easy chairs, some of them stained
and mudded, as though their occupants had been in the habit
of lolling about with little thought of dirty boots, were dis-
persed over the rich Brussels carpets. On thft table was a
brilliant breakfast-service of silver and china, ana beside the
chased and massive urn was placed a stand of crystal liqueur
decanters, with a couple of curious old Dutch dram-glasses,
having long stalks, quaintly cut into sparkling squares and
cubes, and ornamented in the cup part with rude emblazonries
of gold.
Plunged deeply in an easy chair Sir Harrowby sat mus-
ing, while the untouched meal smoked beside him. At length
he grasped a decanter and poured a bumper of golden liquor
out into one of the old-fashioned glasses, swallowed the dram
at a gulp, and then lay back and pondered. Sir Harrowby
looked like a man stricken with a ghastly distemper. His
face was not pale ; the discoloration of the coarse, pimply
skin prevented such a change ; but its hue was a sort of
faded, ghastly green. The baronet's eyes were sunk and
terribly bloodshot, and on a close inspection the beat of the
pulse in the temples could be seen. He had fallen off in
tlesh, too; his clothes hung loosely about him, and his brown
fingers were emaciated and skinny.
"It is the devil himself," he muttered, "that has me in
his clutches ! No man could make me do what he has done.
O God! how I hate him! But he has me — he has me —
every way ! He's dragging me to the edge of the rock —
I'm coming nearer and nearer to the gulf! God ! if I could
push him over without going down myself! Oh, would I not ?
— Over — over — down — down — down !"
His hair bristled up, his eyes flashed, and his fingers
B
242 CLEMENT LORIMER.
closing, like iron bars, upon the glass which he had in his
hand, the crystal smashed, and broken fragments fell upon
the carpet, while streaks of blood oozed from between the
strained fingers of the excited man. He paused and went on, —
" I know I shall break down in that cursed trial, — I can't
meet his eye I I've got the story glib enough now, but 111
fail when it comes to the push. I would cut and run for it
now, but I know that devil has his spies around me — I know
I'm followed, dogged everywhere ; I can't move but there's
eyes on me. God ! I'm as much a prisoner as him in
Newgate."
He was gradually working himself up into a fury of
passion. " I did what I liked till I took his money : I led
that boy by the nose — I had all I wanted. There wasn't a
luxury or a pleasure in Europe I didn't have my swing of,
and now " He paused and drew a long breath.
"What if I was to end it all? — to peach, to save Lorimer,
and damn myself and him? Lord! to see that devil face,
those devil eyes, all quivering, all flashing, when the plant
was blown on ! By ! " and he swore an oath too terrible
to be set on paper, — "by ! the baffled spite in the old
man's throat would choke him then and there, and save the
hangman's labour."
He spoke these last words in a loud, excited tone. As
they died away the door partially opened, and the dark visage
of Henosa appeared. Sir Harrowby sunk backwards in his
chair.
" Finish your soliloquy, never mind me," said the new-
comer.
Sir Harrowby glared at him and breathed hard and loud
through his clenched teeth.
" You are not disconcerted," said Benosa, calmly ad-
vancing into the room. " As I know what you must think,
it matters little what you may say. Go on 1"
He seated himself opposite to Sir Harrowby. Benosa
was dressed in his usual fashion, and bore himself with his
usual sarcastic imperturbability. Sir Harrowby was the first
to break the silence.
" I suppose most men grumble that hsive much to do with
you," he said sulkily.
" On the contrary," replied Benosa, " when men serve me
FALSE WITNESS. 243
well I pay them well ; we are, therefore, mutually content.
As for you, Sir Harrowby, you really do not know when
you are well off; but the period of our connexion draws to
an end."
"It had need," replied the other; "I want to leave this
country."
" I shall leave it too," answered Benosa, in his deep
diapason tones.
"For where?" asked Trumps.
" I shall leave this land," murmured the old man, " and
I shall go to no other."
The baronet stared, shrugged his shoulders, and drummed
with his shaking fingers uneasily upon the table. At last he
spoke.
"Hark ye," he said, "you know you have me in your
meshes. I could hang you, but then I would transport my-
self. You will pay me the final sum the moment sentence
is pronounced, and that in gold — no bills or bonds?"
"In gold," repeated Beno*a, — "in ingots of virgin gold."
" And the trial comes on the third day of the session ?"
"The third."
Sir Harrowby Trumps began, sotto voce, to calculate to
himself, — " Say, start at three, or make it five, twelve miles
an hour, including changes, that makes — let me see —
Gravesend, twenty ; Rochester — say seven ; Canterbury,
about eighteen; Dover, say a dozen more; then a quick-
going lugger, or steam, as may be handiest, say three hours :
that's five for road, three, or perhaps four for water, makes
nine. So, in ten hours at farthest I'll be in Calais, and I
don't care if I never see the white cliffs again."
Benosa waited patiently until his companion had made
these rapid calculations for his sudden flight, and then
said, —
" You forget what must come before you start."
Sir Harrowby looked grimly at him, — " No," he said,
" I have it perfect now ; I'm only afraid of breaking down
before these cursed counsel."
Benosa flashed his bright eyes keenly upon the false
witness.
" A slip or a falter of that craven tongue, and it had
better been plucked from you by the roots!"
244 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" My safety is as much risked as yours," returned Sir
Harrowby, sulkily.
" Think that chair the witness-box, this room the court,
and me the examining counsel," said Benosa, keenly. " You
say you have the tale correctly — we shall see."
The old man rose, imitated, with a species of bitter,
mocking irony, the bustling manner of a counsel preparing to
examine an important witness, and then said, —
" Your name, I believe, is Trumps — Sir Harrowby
Trumps ? "
The baronet stared and hesitated. He hardly knew how
to treat this species of rehearsal. The old man repeated his
question, and Trumps muttering, " Well, have it your own
way," replied in the affirmative to the question.
" You have been for some time acquainted with the
prisoner at the bar?"
" I have."
" Intimately ? "
" Yes, we werp great friends."
" And tolerably well acquainted with each other's secrets
— on a very confidential footing, I believe?"
" Yes, we both pulled together."
" The prisoner was a man of property, eh ? "
" He was and he was not. He never knew who his
parents were, or from whence he got his money."
" But he did get it — that's the point, eh ? "
" As regularly as quarter-day came round."
" And, lightly come, lightly go, I suppose — the prisoner
was a man of pleasure — spent freely and lived merrily, eh?"
" Very merrily.*'
" He kept hunters, racers, gambled, and so forth?"
" Yes, more or less."
" And was altogether what is called a man about
town, eh?"
" Precisely."
" Well, he was generally lucky, but all at once the luck
appeared to turn ? "
" Yes, at the time of the last Derby."
" The prisoner had a horse entered for that race ? "
*' Yes, Snapdragon, he was the Favourite."
♦* The prisoqer backed this horse largely ? "
FALSE WITNESS. 245
" Yes ; so did everybody connected with his trainer's
stable."
" And you all lost heavily ? "
" Very heavily."
" Well, what followed ? "
" I was unable to meet my engagements on the turf."
*' And the prisoner ? "
" He went to sea in his yacht."
" And when he returned ?"
" He found that he was a ruined man. Whoever had
sent him his income got tired of the game and stopped it."
"It was he himself who told you all this when he
called upon you ? "
" Yes."
" Did he tell you any thing else ? "
" Yes ; that he had a scheme in view, — to rsuse money
by means of life insurance."
" Did he explain himself more fully? "
" Not then."
" Where did this interview take place ? "
" At apartments occupied by my wife in Dean Street,
Soho Square."
" You saw the prisoner again ? "
" Yes ; by appointment."
" And he recurred to the subject of raising money by
life insurance ? "
" Yes. He told me that he had made the acquaintance
of a young lady, over whom he possessed great influence ;
that he could make her do any thing ; and that he had per-
suaded her to insure in three diflferent offices. He said he
wished to introduce me to her."
"And did he?"
" Yes ; the following Sunday, in the Park."
" When did you meet again ? "
" The following day."
" You then agreed to accompany the young lady, Miss
Eske, to certain City insurance companies and to procure
the necessary medical certificates ? "
" Yes."
" And you did so ? "
" Yes.""
246 CLEMENT LOBIMKR.
" The family with whom Miss Eske lived were not aware
of the step she had taken ? "
" They were not. The day on which she accompanied
me to the City they were in the West End in search of a
house."
" The policies were afterwards assigned to the prisoner ? "
" I believe so ; but I do not know of my own know-
ledge."
" You did not, I presume, anticipate what would appear
to have been the real object of the prisoner in obtaining
these policies ? "
" No. I thought he merely meant to raise money on
them."
" Did he ever talk to you of his intentions ? "
" Never, broadly out."
"But he dropped hints?"
" I did not take them in that light until subsequent events:
made me think of them."
" Well, what was it he said ? "
" He said that Miss Eske was an orphan ; that any re-
lations she might have were in America ; and that, even in
the event of her death, no person would have any interest in
making particular inquiry."
Benosa suddenly divested himself of his assumed forensic
air.
" You are apter than I thought you," he said, with :
one of his bitter smiles. " Peijury never had a readier
pupil."
Sir Harrowby started up, clenched his hand, and stamped
his foot. Benosa stood calm and impassible, and the baro-
net, swinging himself violently round, walked to the window,
and glared into the street beneath, impatiently drumming
On the glass with his fingers. Then he returned, with a
dcowling visage, to the table, filled out another glass of
■.pirit, stared Benosa steadily in the face, and muttering be-
tween his clenched teeth, " To your destruction, here and
hereafter I " tossed off the bumper. Benosa stood looking at
him, and the cold, hard smile never flitted from his face.
* * * • #
At the moment that Sir Harrowby Trumps shewed hini-
selT at the window, two shabby-looking men were standing
QUIET AND COUNTRY AIR. 247
on the opposite pavement. One of them was the person who
had arrested Lorimer at the Opera.
" See there," he said to his companion, " in the first-
floor window."
The person addressed looked up. " I see," he said.
Trumps was beating a tattoo upon the glass.
" I expect I'll ferret out a charge of bigamy against
that man before many days are over," answered the other.
" He's not to be lost sight of night or day until he's laid up
in lavender. Who are disengaged in the staflP?"
" Medlock, Wilson, Portraan, and myself."
" Then set them on the truck. You must answer for it
that he does not get out of the country."
Sir Harrowby left the window.
" He's as safe as if he was double-ironed in Newgate,"
said the myrmidon of police.
And from that day two sets of spies encompassed Sir
Harrowby Trumps.
CHAPTER XXIX.
QUIET AND COUNTRY AIR.
On the morning of the day on which Lorimer was ar-
rested Dr. Gumbey cut himself shaving. While the blood
crimsoned the lather, the doctor held out the razor close to
the mirror. The steel rattled against the plate-glass with a
low, continuous chime.
" So," said the careful doctor, " getting shaky in the
hand. Must be stopped. The season's almost over. I'll
be off to the country at once."
And then, very slowly and carefully, as was his wont,
the doctor proceeded with his very elaborate toilet. He had
divers invitations to dinners, seats, and mansions. A few days,
and he might either dwell in a marine cottage at Broad-
stairs ; or aboard a yacht, cruising in the Solent ; or in a
Highland farmstead amid the Grampians, with miles and
miles of grouse-swarming mountains around ; or in a noble
248 CLEMENT LORIMER.
mansion-house in the centre of a fair English county, with
partridges in the yellow stubble, and pheasants in the green
coppice woods. But all these pleasant modes of life — so
thought the prudent Gumbey — are only changes of the
species of dissipation. There will be pic-nics at Broadstairs,
club-balls at Cowes, no end of whisky-toddy consumed upon
the heather, and stately dinner-parties at the English manor-
house. " No," he thought, " I will have a month's perfect quiet ;
I will go to bed every night at ten, and rise every morning
at seven ; I will forswear every stimulant stronger than a
draught of home-brewed ; I will pass every day in the open
air; I will not so much as open a letter or a newspaper; and
so in a month I shall go to the shores of Kent, or to the
Isle of Wight, or to Glen Brouachan, or to Grangely Park,
with a complexion as fresh as a ploughboy's, and nerves as
steady as steel wires." And as the doctor said, so did he.
Whoever knows aught of the environs of London, knows
that within twenty miles of St. Paul's there are not only
rural spots, tracts of fields, and wood, and meadow, but even
little hamlets and villages, as perfectly sequestered, and iso-
lated, and lonely, as though they lay amid the hills of De-
vonshire or in the valleys of Westmoreland. One of these
quiet little nooks we have now to sketch. It is an old-
fashioned, sleepy village. The one street follows a bend or
elbow in the road. The houses have a quaint irregularity.
Prim three-story dwellings, with trees in front, jostle with
old-fashioned cottages, all garrets and chimneys, supported
by irregular clusters of out-houses. The summer sun shines
hot into that lonely street, and the shopkeepers lounge idly
and lean upon their half-doors. As you pass on, you every-
where catch glimpses, through lanes and openings in the
red brick house s, of the fields behind, and of hedge-rows,
and orchards, and gardens. Just in the centre of the vil-
lage is the principal inn. A great white beam stretches
across the street, and upon it, over the passengers' heads,
swings the sign. Not far off is the church, grey and time-
worn, with buttresses and arched windows carved by Norman
chisels. And all around, for miles and miles, lies a great
range of fair landscape, woodland, and cornfield, and mea-
dow. You can climb hills and sit amongst the fern under
tlie shade of dark, rough firs, and look for leagues on that
QUIET AND COUNTRY AIR. 249
great panorama, tracing by the mile the wanderings of the
broad shining river beneath, which flows ripplingly on
through alder-sivirted meadows, and up which long teams of
horses labour to drag heavj'-laden barges. A bridge of pe-
culiar construction, or rather two bridges, as if one had been
found too short and another was tacked on to it, span the
stream. The village is upon the southern bank — to the left
as you cross the bridge from Middlesex — while to the right
lies a fair domain of park and greenwood. It once belonged
to a duke of the blood, and during one of the revels of our
Regency was staked, lost, and won, on the colour of a
card.
The autumn day was waning, and a pleasant west breeze
was cooling the street, heated by the afternoon sun. Dr.
Gumbey sat at the open window of a little parlour in the
quiet inn we have mentioned, and looked listlessly down the
street. There was a cat sleeping on one door-step and a dog
basking on another, and the butcher's pony whisking its tail
opposite the butcher's shop. All else was still life, and you
could hear the breeze rustling the apple-trees in the orchard
behind. Suddenly the doctor heard shouts in the distance.
They approached rapidly. Then came the rattle of wheels
and the quick trampling of horses at the speed. In a mo-
ment, people appeared running to the windows and to the
doors of shops. There was a minute of suspense — the
shouts, and the rattle of wheels, and the tramp of horses,
getting nearer and nearer, and then there shot down the
street, amid a whirlwind of dust, a run-away tandem, both
the horses at a mad gallop, and the gig, with its two occupants,
swaying wildly from side to side.
" Steady ! — easy round the corner !" shouted a dozen
voices ; but the advice was flung away upon the horses, who
had the bits between their teeth, "rhey dashed round the
corner, the gig rose upon one wheel, and the centrifugal
force prevailing, it crashed over, and its two occupants were
shot out upon the pavestones. One of the horses fell with
the vehicle, lashing out desperately with its hind-legs and
driving the unfortunate machine into splinters with every
kick. The leader reared and .struggled desperately in the
traces, but his career was sufficiently checked for a hardy
ostler to be able to seize him by the head, and after a short
250 CLEMENT LORIMER.
Struggle to master him. Meantime, the two gentlemen had
been carried into the hotel, and Dr. Gurabey, moved by a
natural impulse, hastened to their assistance. He found one
lying upon the table, the other on an old-fashioned sofa in
the public-room. They were both young men, one dressed
with a species of slangy neatness, the other with an odd
mixture of negligence and finery. They had been stunned
by the fall, which was really a severe one ; but a little cold
water was all which the doctor deemed necessary to restore
sensibility. The gentleman on the sofa recovered first. He
opened his eyes, rubbed his head, and finally sat up, gazing
round with a half-stupified, half-laughing expression on his
really handsome features.
"It's nothing," he stammered, "a thrifle — the merest
thrifle — the stones heere are soft compared to them in Oirland."
Dr. Gumbey expressed his satisfaction at hearing this
mineralogical fact, and proceeded to chafe the temples and
feel the limbs of the young man who lay upon the table.
Meanwhile his companion, with many contortions of coun-
tenance, was stretching out his arms and legs, so as to ascer-
tain that the bones were all right. A moment sufficed to set
his mind at rest on this important point, after which he
turned his attention to his fellow-sufferer, and observing that
he had studied medicine as an amateur at Trin. Coll.
Dublin, took it upon himself to prescribe a dose of Kinnahan's
L.L. whisky, in the absence of which he thought brandy
might be used with advantage. Before either of these reme-
dies could be applied, however, the patient came to himself,
went through much the same process as to his arms and legs
as his companion, and with the same satisfactory results.
Both were much bruised and shaken, but the only thing
broken by the accident was the gig.
" Deedn't I droive beautifully till the mare bolted,
Spiffler ? " inquired Mr. O'Keene, (of course he has been
recognised). "I niver made a neater speel now — niver —
except that once, when I weent foive nioiles out of the way
with the Leemerick mail to run her against Tim Blake's
curricle, and upset the whole affair in the dyke under Castle
Geheogan."
Mr. Spiffler did not, however, appear to view the cata-
strophe with a similar admiration of its neatness, for he replied
QCIET AND COUNTRY AIR. 251
somewhat gruffly, that Mr. O'Keene was a fool for suggest-
ing a tandem, and that he, Mr. Spiffler, was a greater fool for
riding in it. "Besides," he continued, "what will old Jorvey
say about his gig ? "
"Is it the d — d shandrydan ye'r thinking of?" replied
Mr. O'Keene, contemptuously. "Me father had eighteen
like it at Carrig-na-houlan; he had them built in Dublin
for the hens to lay in."
Dr. Gumbey listened to the conversation with the accus-
tomed oily smile upon his face. Presently both gentlemen
acknowledged his prompt attention to their cases ; the doctor
disclaimed all title to praise.
" Oi don't know, Spiff, though," observed Mr. O'Keene ;
'* you were on the outsoide, and you got a tolerable whack
on the skull ; I thought at one time ye would not get to the
Old Bailey on Wednesday."
" The Old Bailey ? " said Dr. Gumbey. " Anything par-
ticular going on there that day ?"
Mr. Spiffler looked at Mr. O'Keene, and Mr. O'Keene
gave a very loud whistle.
" Take compassion on my ignorance, young gentlemen,"
said Dr. Gumbey ; " I came down here for quiet, and I have
not opened a newspaper or a letter since my arrival — a fort-
night ago."
" Why," said Spiffler, " all London is ringing with the
case."
" All London," put in Mr. O'Keene, — "all England — all
Europe — all the world — wherever the ' Flail' goes, in
fact, there's nothing talked of but the trial of Clement
Lorimer for murdering Marion Eske."
Dr. Gumbey started from his chair ; his plump cheeks
grew pale, and his very whiskers seemed to get limp and
come out of curl, with horror at the tidings.
"Clement Lorimer!" he stammered; "what — the —
the Lorimer who lived in Park Lane — who — who was a
turf man ? "
" And lost the last Derby," said O'Keene, — " the same."
Dr. Gumbey paced the room in such evident agitation
that Spiffler and O'Keene interchanged glances. Never
before in his long life had the smooth-faced doctor been so
252 CLEMENT LORIMER.
perfectly shocked out of his usual impassibility. At last he
spoke, —
" Gentlemen, you are not joking with me ? "
" Gentlemen," replied Spiffler, " do not joke about such
subjects. Mr. Lorimer is now in Newgate waiting his trial
on the charge of administering poison to a young lady."
" Poison ! — and why — what was she? — what is said to
have been the inducement?" asked Gumbey, his face getting
more and more blank as his mind realised the full force of
the catastrophe.
" The lady was a young American, named Eske, whom
he had saved at sea," replied Spiffler. " Nothing was said
before the magistrate as to motive, but it is whispered about
town, that her life was heavily insured, and the policies — for
there were several — made over to Mr. Lorimer."
"Insurance — insurance!" repeated Gumbey, vacantly,
his thoughts obviously wandering back and catching at some
half-remembered clue.
" Oi don't believe one woord of eet," exclaimed Con
O'Keene ; " Eet's a got-up case — eet's a loy — eet's a con-
spiracy ; and that fellow, Sir Harrowboy Trumps, and the
old villain, whose familiar he is, they're at the bottom of
it all."
" Sir Harrowby Trumps I" repeated Dr. Gumbey. He
paused a moment, and his mind caught the clue. He
remembered how he had signed the blank certificates of
health which had been brought to him by the baronet.
Then the doctor's breath came fast and by gasps, his cheeks got
absolutely white, and the perspiration rolled in big beads from
under his jet-black wig. For a minute or two Dr. Gumbey
stood irresolute. The good and the generous, and the bad
and the selfish, in his nature fought a hard battle. He was a
cold-hearted, worldly, wicked man ; but he recoiled from
the idea of a great crime. Perhaps he did so as much from
fear of punishment as hate of sin — but that we will not stay
to speculate upon. The inward debate terminated, he said
in his usual courteous manner, —
" Gentlemen, Mr. Lorimer is an old friend of mine ; you
will oblige me by coming up to my room, for I am staying
here, and telling me the particulars of this horrible affair."
QUIET AND COUNTRY AIR. 253
To this the twain readily assented. Dr. Gumbey led the
way up-stairs, placed wine before his guests, and then
Spiffler, who told a story clearly and well, related what the
public knew of the supposed death of Miss Eske, and of the
apprehension, examination, and committal of Lorimer, to
stand his trial for the murder.
" The evidence," he concluded, " is entirely circumstantial ;
but the chain seems strong, — the ruined circumstances of
Lorimer, the friendless circumstances of the girl, the insur-
ances on her life, the assignation of them to the accused,
the purchase by him of poison in a remote quarter of the
town, the fact of his being the last person in her company
before she was discovered dead, the certainty that she died
by the poison which the accused had purchased, and the
damning fact that the vial was found in a pocket of his cer-
coat ; all these circumstances," said Spiffler, " certainly go
to make up a strong case against Lorimer."
'* Eet's a loy — a plot— a conspiracy, from beginning to
end," cried O'Keene, who was more given to impulse than
logic. Dr. Gumbey inquired the reasons for this opinion.
Such as they were Spiffler stated them. There M'ere grounds
for believing that Lorimer had some secret, ruthless, and
powerful enemies. The jockey who was to ride his horse
had been tampered with in such a manner as to forbid the
idea that it was an ordinarj' piece of turf-swindling ; then
the income of the accused had been suddenly withdrawn ;
his debts bought up and concentrated in one hand, so as to
be more effectually used as a crushing weapon against his
liberty. To this scheme it was known that Sir Harrowby
Trumps was privy ; and it had also been discovered that he
was in communication with a person who, there was reason
to believe, had been the principal actor in the scheme, the
success of which was the cause of the Favourite's losing the
Derby. Concerning this man little was known, except
that he lived occasionally in an old-fashioned house in the
east of London, the locality and appearance of which Mr.
Spiffler was describing when Dr. Gumbey suddenly stopped
him : —
"I think — I — yes — yes — I am certain of it ; I know
that house, and I once knew its owner ; a lady died there
once — it's an old story now — twenty-three years ago — but
254 CLEMENT LORIMER.
it was — it certainly was," said Dr. Gumbey, emphatically,
" the most unaccountable case I ever came across."
"A lady died — unaccountably, you say?" exclaimed
Spiffler. " Can you tell her Christian name ? "
Dr. Gumbey paused and pondered ; his companions held
their breath for his reply. It came at last.
*' Yes, I can, I do remember her name, it was an uncom-
mon one — a foreign name, it was Treuchden."
Con O'Keene started from his chair in uproarious delight.
" The tombstone — the tombstone !" he shouted, " Murder
will out."
Hurriedly, and with a trembling voice, Spiffler then de-
tailed the accidental discovery which he had made of the
regular visitor to the curious monument in the East-end
churchyard.
" Describe the man," said Gumbey.
" Tall and very pale, with a keen, glittering black eye,
an aquiline nose, and a face marked with innumerable minute
wrinkles "
" Enough," replied Dr. Gumbey; " that is the man —
that is Werwold ! He was of foreign extraction ; so was his
wife. She died soon after her confinement."
" And the child?" said Spiffler.
" I know nothing of," replied the doctor.
There was a long pause. Mr. O'Keene interrupted it by re-
counting how the " Flail " had originally broken ground upon
the subject. But this had been in the days of the " Flail's"
obscurity, and Dr. Gumbey had heard nothing of it. Then
the Irishman narrated the visit of Sir Harrowby Trumps to
the office, and the great bribes he had offered to purchase
silence upon several points, one of which was the tombstone
story.
When O'Keene had concluded his information, there was
another pause. Then Spiffler spoke : —
" At the time of Madame Werwold's death, had you any
suspicion of foul play ?"
" I had not then," said Dr. Gumbey ; " I have now."
There was another lengthened interval of silence.
" Do you return to town to-night?" asked the doctor.
Spiffler replied in the affirmative. " Then," said Gumbey,
" I will go with you. I am not much given to putting myself
QUIET AND COUNTRY AIR. .'255
out of the way for other people's concerns, but there are
circumstances which break through all rules and overturn all
habits."
O'Keene was then despatched to look after a post-chaise.
During his absence Dr. Gumbey appeared lost in thought.
At last he took Spiffler's arm, and drew him into one of the
window recesses.
" Are you personally acquainted with Lorimer?" he
asked.
Spiffler said he had seen him casually.
" You have also seen the old man, — the person called
Werwold ?"
" Certainly," Spiffler replied.
" I said," continued Gumbey, " that it is about twenty-
three years ago since Madame Werwold died leaving an
infant. Lorimer cannot be much younger or much older.
You have seen him, do you trace any resemblance in his
features to those of "
Spiffler grasped the doctor's arm, and a flush rose in his
cheek.
" No, no," he murmured ; " it is too horrible to be true."
" Young gentleman," said Gumbey, solemnly, " there are
some things in this world too horrible to be false."
As they proceeded towards town in the cool of the even-
ing, they arranged a plan of proceedings. Dr. Gumbey re-
minded them that whatever might be the suspicions they
entertained that the whole accusation was the result of con-
spiracy, still the avowal of these suspicions would avail no-
thing without legal proofs to rest them on. For a careful
and rigid system of incjuiry to be set on foot there was no
time. It was determined, therefore, that Werwold himself
should be personally encountered. Gumbey had great hopes
of what might be the result of directly charging the old man
with the murder of his wife twenty years before, and with an
attempt to accomplish the legal murder of his son now. If
the case were as they believed it to be, it was more than
probable that the shock of the double accusation would pro-
duce some effect of which advantage might be taken. At
all events the plan seemed a feasible one. Spiffler had not
neglected to keep himself informed as to Werwold's doings,
aad it appeared that he had been lately iu the habit of
256 CLEMENT LORIMER.
passing every evening and part of every night at his East-
end house, only leaving it at an advanced hour. It was
settled, then, that he should be encountered late on the night
before the trial.
'* By the way," said Gumbey, " there is an old fellow
whom I know something of who lives just behind Werwold's
house. Indeed, I know him through Lorimer. He was the
captain of poor Clement's yacht, Blockey, — a chip of sea-
soned oak. I know he will be only too happy to do any
thing for his old master. Suppose we have a rendezvous at
his house. He calls it ' The Clipper.' It is a queer little
place enough, built of old ships, and boats, and so forth ; and
there is a high flag-statf in the garden, which he calls the
clipper's mainmast."
Spiffler and O'Keene readily acceded. They travelled for
some time in silence, and as the evening closed darkly in, the
far-extending lights of London's suburbs gleamed around them.
CHAPTER XXX.
THE BOOK WITH THE IRON CLASPS.
The solemn procession of the days went slowly by, and
Marion Eske still lay in that wondrous trance. There, upon
the bed where Benosa had placed her, her living but move-
less limbs were helplessly extended, her face turned upwards
and as white as the pillow upon which it lay. The merry
sunlight streamed into the room through the garden trees —
the sober moonlight came in its turn — the breeze rattled at
the lattice — the rain chimed and tinkled on the glass — all the
thousand phenomena of the world's life played round tiiat
moveless thing in which, by the operation of Due of Life's
great laws, the apjjearance of existence was, for a time, sus-
pended.
Yet, nevertheless, the sleeping soul began, as it were, to
sleep less sound. It stirred in the depths of existence.
Marion began to find the sensations produced by conscious-
ness sharper and better defined. The day seemed brighter
through her closed eyelids and the night darker. Sharp
THE BOOK WITH THE IKON CLASPS. 257
mental pains also ran through her spiritual being. The feeling
of a terrible evil which was upon her became more pressing
and more intolerable. She began to experience a sensation
of unutterable horror, mingled with the idea that there were
grief and misfortune to those she loved coupled with her
own woe. The consciousness of outward things also grew
more and more vivid. At intervals siie knew that there was
some one in the chamber. Very soon she began to calculate
those intervals, and compare them with the times of night
and day. Thus she ascertained that once in the twenty-four
hours, some time after dark, she was visited by a man who
appeared to draw the curtain of the bed and gaze upon her.
'Fhen, after a short space, he would withdraw, and a long
period of uninterrupted quiet would ensue.
The time of brightness had been, so thought the entranced
woman, particularly vivid, and the darkness which had fol-
lowed was proportionally dense. All day long she had felt
something like inward shudderings, which went palpitating
from her heart to her brain. After each of these, the power
of the will appeared to get stronger, and at length, after a fit
of what seemed convulsi>/e inward movements, the Will
said to the muscles of the eyelids, " Move !" and, lo ! the
muscles obeyed. A strange thrill of joy and a gush of
loosened thought overflowed the waking brain. Marion
Eske felt that the demon in whose thrall she had so long
lain was relaxing his grip. Her eyelids obeyed her will. She
could open and shut them. Then the lingual nerves stirred,
and she began to form words silently to herself. As minute
after minute passed, the brain worked more clearly and
rapidly. But this awakened faculty only threw light upon
the present and upon that portion of the past which lay
before the beginning of the trance. That interval was a
black blot upon the transparent mind. The dim ideas which
Marion had realised during its continuance faded away as
she gradually came to the full recollection of what had hap-
pened before the fatal evening of the Matrimonio Sigreto,
and at the same time to the full consciousness of what was
happening at the passing moment. Between these two periods
there was a gulf fixed.
The time for the nightly visit came. Marion Eske
wisely resolved lo shew no sign of approaching convalescence.
^58
CLEMENT LORIMER.
There were footsteps heard in the passage without, the door
opened, a light gleamed, the footsteps sounded in the room,
the curtains rustled as they were drawn, a deep, low sound
of breathing was heard, and then there was a cracking of
finger-joints as if a person were violently wringing his hands.
Then the curtains were allowed to drop. The footsteps
sounded again, the door closed, and presently there was
silence and darkness once more.
An hour passed and nothing happened. Then Marion
Eske began to be sensible of a burning heat shooting from
the head and body towards the extremities. It was the
return of the vital warmth. The pam was intense. Muscle
and nerve tingled as though exposed to glowing fire. An
analogous species of suffering consequent upon the re-entrance
of air into the lungs has been often described as being en-
dured by persons who are resuscitated after having been
apparently drowned. But with the anguish came the un-
checked exercise of muscular power. It seemed as if fire
were scathing the limbs and devouring the cramping bonds
which held them down. Gradually the sensation of heat —
hard, dry, fever heat — reached its height, and enveloped the
whole frame. Then the patient feebly moved her limbs,
writhing under the torment. The great channel of nervous
power, the spine, seemed as yet unaffected. Suddenly what
appeared a column of fire shot from the brain downwards.
With every nerve, every muscle, tingling and scorching, the
sufferer, at one bound, and uttering alow, husky cry, sprung
erect in the bed, her arms stretched out and her eyes dilated.
The natural weakness, however, produced by the long con-
finement to a lying posture, triumphed over the excitement
of the moment, and the patient sunk down again upon the
pillow.
The moment of the involuntary movement of the whole
frame had, however, been the turning-point of the crisis.
The momentary pang M'hich was as severe as the application
of the actual cautery, passed away aln)ost as soon as it
had been felt. The general sensation of heat gradually
grew less and less intense, subsiding into a rich, genial
warmth, which mantled over the whole person. Then a
feeling of enjoyable lassitude stole over the wracked muscles.
The perspiration broke forth at every pore, and in a quarter
THE BOOK WITH THE IKON" CLASPS. 259
of an hour Miss Eske arose from her bed of suffering, faint
and giddy, but in possession of both mental and physical
faculties.
At first she strove in vain to stand. The room reeled
round her, and she fell upon a chair beside the window.
The curtain was partially drawn, and she looked fortii upon
the night. It was dreamy and calm, and flooded witli bright
moonshine. Without, rose dusky trees, their higher branches
silvered in the cold light, and through what appeared to be
an avenue in the grounds, she saw a tall, white mast, as of a
ship, stretching upwards into the air. Marion Eske remained
for nearly half-an-hour motionless, her eye fixed on the
bright sky, and breathing with delight the cool, dewy air,
which floated in at the partially-opened lattice. Then she
turned suddenly, as if struck by a sudden thought. Under
the shawl which was flung across her shoulders streamed
ghastly habiliments of white. She looked hurriedly round.
The moon was shining full into the chamber, and she saw
a pile of her own dresses, which the reader will remember
were snatched up by Benosa from the room in Abingdon
Street, lying heaped up on the floor. With trembling hands
she hastily put on and adjusted the simplest and warmest,
i(nd then wrapping a shawl round her head and shoulders,
she stood in the centre of the room, trying to take counsel
with her thoughts.
"Where was she? — in whose power? — with what de-
sign had she been carried away? — how long had she lain
senseless? — where were her friends? — where was Lorimer ?"
All these mental questions flashed in a confased stream
through her aching and bewildered brain. As yet, how-
ever, she could not reason — she could only feel. Her mind
was a chaos of tumultuous motion. None of the sensations
of which she had been more or less conscious in her trance,
it will be remembered, remained to her. The period of that
mysterious sleep had now become a dreamless blank. She
only remembered what had passed before, and was conscious
only of what was passing now. Gradually as she pondered,
the sensation of fear began to gain the mastery over her.
What horrors might she not still expect at the hands of those
in whose power she was? Flight — flight, instant, and swifr,
and hidden fight, was her only resource. Flight anywhere^'
260 CLEMENT LORIMER.
— flight far away. There was no safety for her until miles
lay between her and her prison. Then she paced the room
eagerly, but with cautious footsteps. She looked from the
windotr ^ las, a black gulf of unknown ieDtJ
neath. Then she listened. There was silence alike in the
house and through the night. Stepping with noiseless foot-
steps to the door, she examined its fastenings. They were
undone. She swung the door open. A dark corridor
stretclied away from it, ending in a flight of stairs, upon
which shone the moonlight through a small passage window.
Groping her way along the wall, Miss Eske cautiously ad-
vanced in the darkness. There was thick carpeting upon
the floor, and she moved as noiselessly as a thing of painted
air. She had almost reached the head of the staircase, when
a low, muttering sound became faintly audible. With sup-
pressed breath and a heart which beat until she sickened
with the violence of her emotions. Miss Eske paused and
listened. The noise was that of the deep bass voice of a
man reading in a muttering and monotonous tone. The
peculiar sound of that voice Miss Eske felt that she had
lieard before. She paused for a moment or two, and the
reading still continuing, she stole gently onwards, until she
could lean over the balustrade of the staircase and look
below. There, on the story beneath, she saw a faint gleam
of light, evidently proceeding from a room opening on the
stairs. Partially supporting herself by the railing, she de-
scended step by step. The staircase was old-fashioned, but
massive, and not a particle of wood either warped or creaked
beneath her feet. As she descended the monotonous tones
of the reader became more and more distinct, but as yet she
could catch no word he uttered. At length she stood upon
the landing-place at the foot of the stairs, and saw from
whence the light proceeded. It streamed from a small inner
room through an outer parlour or antechamber, and along a
small passage, until it fell upon the massive and carved bal-
ustrades of the staircase. The door of this outer parlour
stood wide open ; that of the inner room was about three
parts closed, and through the small aperture thus formed
Miss Eske saw ranges of books upon shelves, and part of a
dark opening — a safe it seemed — with massive doors, in the
furtbtir wall, prom this room came the light, and from this
THE BOOK WITH THE IRON CLASPS. 261
rooin sounded the voice of the reader. Impelled bj' a
speci^s of absorbing curiosity, which had fascination in it,
the kdy stole towards the inner room. The low musical
tones pixjceeded in what appeared to her unstrung nerves to
be a terrible, dirge-like chaunt. And she remembered the
voice. It was that which in the house in Abingdon Street
had bid herslrink the potion which had flung her into that
terrible death sleep. In another moment she had sunk upon
Iter knees, close to the partially-opened door. She was
within half-a-dozen feet of her enemy, and with strained
brain and clenched hands she listened to his voice : she
listened and understood. Although Miss Eske's knowledge
of Italian was imperfect, she was not sensible, until she after-
wards recalled every circumstance of the scene, that it was
the Italian language to which she was hearkening. Not a
word escaped her. The highly-wrought brain caused the
memory to do its bidding, and triumphed over difficulties
which would have been otherwise insurmountable. Cowering
and trembling, but fascinated to the spot, Miss Eske heard
pronounced the following words : —
" The Vendetta has been declared by Raphael Benosa
between the families of the said Raphael Benosa and Stephen
Vanderstein, and between their latest descendants, in what-
soever age they may live, and in whatsoever land they may
be, — the Supreme Vendetta, which seeks not only to kill the
body, but the soul ; and which shall exist until the last man
or woman who bear within their veins a drop of the blood
of the Vandersteins shall have ceased to exist upon the
earth."
Miss Eske leaned half fainting against the wall. As she
sought to realise the full meaning of the terrible words which
she had heard, the voice of the reader went on unheeded.
"The Vendetta I" she thought, — " that awful, and deadly, and
secret feud, pursued by southern natures with a resolute
enthusiasm to which the blood of the Saxon is a stranger.
The Vendetta! — and the name of the family destined to be
its victims the name of my maternal ancestors ! What am
I about to hoar?"
The thoughts expressed in the foregoing paragraph
passed through Miss Eske's mind, not in the words or the
order in which we have set them down, but in a confu^sed,
252 CLEMENT LORIMER,
hurrying crowd of half-formed phantom images. Then she
roused herself, and listened again. At the moment of her
catching the sense of the words uttered by the reader, he had
begun the following sentence : —
" The first of May, in the year one thousand six hundred
and ten, in the first hour of tlie day, expired Stephen Van-
derstein, the first victim of the Vendetta. He died in the
vigour of manhood ; and the hour of his death was fixed at a
crisis in his fortunes, when his loss will most probably im-
poverish the family. He was killed through the agency of
Raphael Benosa, the first executant of the Vendetta."
A sudden flash of mental light gleamed across the listener's
brain, dazzling and bewildering her understanding. She felt
that she was beginning to comprehend the secret history of
her own race — that a clue was about to be given to a dark
riddle which had been handed down unsolved from gene-
ration to generation of her own blood. In her agitation she
could not repress a slight movement, and her dress rustled.
The voice of the reader immediately stopped, — there was a
short pause, and she heard a movement as of a person turn-
ing round in a chair. Presently the reading was resumed,
but in so low a tone that, although she strained every nerve,
the listener could catch only unconnected words and frag-
ments of broken sentences. But these always told one black,
funereal tale. The volume, the contents of which were in
the act of being recited, seemed a huge collection of sentences
of death, and records of how these sentences had been car-
ried into effect. In every instance a Benosa had been the
avenger, and a Vanderstein the victim.
As the black catalogue was read. Miss Eske leaned, pale
and trembling, against the wall, exerting her weakened
powers to catch the sense of the dissevered sentences she
heard, and at the same time to control an hysterical feeling
of excitement which was gaining upon her. At length
Benosa's voice died away. There was a rustling of paper,
and the listener heard him say, —
" A century of evil and guilt — a hundred long years of
vengeance and crime ! How does the next cycle begin ?"
Then the reading recommenced as follows : —
" The twentieth day of Sei)teraber, in the year one thou-
sand seven hundred and ten, sure intelligence htvs arrived of
THE BOOK WITH THE IRONT CLASPS. 263
the death of Louise Vanderstein, a passenger on board the
ship St. Nicholas to New York. The following is the extract
relative to the affair as made in the log-book of the St. Nicho-
las, in the handwriting of Captain Schlossejib: —
"'June 12th, one o'clock, p.m., steering west. Blowing
hard from W.N. VV., with squalls and rain; heavy head sea.
Lost overboard Mademoiselle Louise Vanderstein, cabin pas-
senger, who in a sudden lee lurch of the ship fell acci-
dentally from the quarter gallery into the sea.'
" Louise Vanderstein was killed through the agency of
Hugo Benusa, the fourth executant of the Vendetta."
A strange, ghastly horror took possession of the listener's
mind, and she trembled violently. Thus then, after the lapse
of more than one hundred and twenty years, was the cause of
the extraordinary attempt upon the life of Louise Vander-
stein, or Strumfel, explained to one of her remote descendants.
What a terrible thing was that vengeance, which from gene-
ration to generation had never slept, which had always
swooped in security and in silence upon its victim — and
which, if it was once cheated out of its prey, appeared to be
now at all events upon the eve of wreaking its undying fury
upon the last representative of the Louise Vanderstein who
had fled across the Atlantic a century ago ! It was but
natural that Marion Eske's thoughts should run in this
channel — that she should, under the circumstances, deem that
she herself was destined to be the present victim, and that
the outrage which she had endured was but the prelude to
more terrible misfortunes still impending over her head. The
idea that her abduction was but the means to an end un-
connected with her personal security, could not in her
then state of knowledge arise in her mind. She believed
herself to be the object of a mystic and a fatal hate, which
pursued its victims down the stream of centuries, and which,
though once baffled, continued slowly, but surely, to track
the footsteps of the unconscious flying, until, in the fulness of
time, the moment of fruition arrived. The idea was too ter-
ril)le to be endured. Her heart sickened ; a species of de-
spairing resignation took possession of her. She bade a silent
farewell to life. Her head fell heavily upon her shoulder,
and she sunk into a species of torpor, supported in a half-
264 CLEMENT LORIMEK.
sitting, half-leaning posture by the corners of the wall, — that
terrible, dirge-like chaunt still sounding in her ear.
The moment that the monotonous accents jiaused, she was
roused by the silence. After a short pause the voice re-
sumed, and Marion listened mechanically. The person who
spoke was communing with himself.
" Twenty-three years ago," he murmured in English,
" when I made an entry in this book, I said, ' The last but
one.' The time has now come for the beginning of the last
entry of all."
Then he wrote, speaking the words aloud in Italian, the
following sentences : —
" The third day of September, in the j'ear one thousand
eight hundred and thirty-three. This day there exists in the
world only one person in whose veins flows a drop of the
blood of the Vandersteins. Mingling with that blood there
runs the blood of the Benosas. He is, therefore, the last
and greatest sacrifice. This day he lies in prison, and to-
morrow will be tried upon the accusation of having murdered
a woman named Marion Eske. The name by which he has
been known is that of Clement Lorimer."
The voice paused, and deep silence swallowed up its
echoes. Rising from the earth, as though endowed with
supernatural force, Marion stood erect, her nostrils dilated,
her eyes flashing, and her hair bristling on her head. The
feeble light shone upon her, and she wa^ as a woman inspired.
Without pause or hesitation, and as though acting under the
dictates of a species of instinct, rather than of reason, she
walked towards f' e staircase. There was a degree of noise-
less dignity in her motions. She ascended the steps slowly,
and, with a mechanical certainty of footing as persons walk in
their sleep, she passed along the corridor, re-entered the
room where she had been confined, flung open the lattice, and
stood as if about to leap out into the darkness.
At this moment a sound of whispered voices rose from
beneath. Marion paused ; all her senses were strung to the
highest pitch, and she he -d a voice say, —
" There ! — there she is again I Now, Captain Blockey, the
ladder."
There was a tree grew beneath the window, and its top-
THE BOOK WITH THE IRON CLASPS. 265
most branches, swayed by the soft night breeze, rattled
"\gainst the lower panes of tlie lattice. Through these
branches the upper part of a ladder suddenly appeared, and
was laid carefully against the window-sill. Miss Eske
paused to see the issue. In a moment the head of a man
emerged from the leaves.
" Who are you?" he said, in a low whisper.
" One who needs help," was the rejoinder, spoken in the
same tone. The man climbed up the ladder nimbly and
stepped into the room. He was a broad-shouldered, mus-
cular person, dressed like a sailor. The moonlight fell
upon his face, — it was brown and weather-worn, and bore
an eager, startled expression.
" Save him !" said Miss Eske.
" Who ?" replied the sailor.
" ('lement Lorimer," answered the lady.
" How can I do so ?"
" By saving me."
Without anotlier word he took the lady's hand and she
trod upon the ladder. The branches swayed around them
as they descended amongst the leaves. Upon the ground
played chequered patches of moonlight, as the rays streamed
down between the boughs. Round the ladder stood a group
of three persons ; they were Spiffler, Dr. Gumbey, and
O'Keene.
" Who — who is this ? " they all whispered.
Captain Blockey flashed his lantern upon Miss Eske's
face. None there knew her. She stood silent, impassible,
as a sleep-walker.
" Stay ! " exclaimed Blockey, " 1 once saw that face be-
fore."
As he spoke the brown visage of the sailor blenched.
•'Powers of heaven!" he said, "has the grave given up
its dead ? "
"Who — who is she?" exclaimed three eager, yet whis-
pering, voices.
She replied, " My name is Marion Eske. I stand here
living, and Clement Lorimer is innocent."
For a moment you could hear only the deep-drawn
inspirations of the actors in this extraordinary scene as they
stood, dumb with amazement, round the lady. Suddenly
266 CLEMENT LORIMER.
she dropped down amongst them. Over-wrought nature
could endure no more — she had fainted. Carefully and
reverently they took her up, and bore her away, keeping
under the shadow of the trees, and avoiding the sweet moon-
light which slept upon the earth.
CHAPTER XXXI.
" HOW SAY YE, GENTLEMEN GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY?"
The morning of the trial came. All around the sombre
prison was life, and eager anxiety, and expectation. Crowds
thronged the adjacent thoroughfare. All the taverns were
roaring full. Hawkers cried spurious confessions and
broadsheets of exclusive particulars, invented in printing
garrets in St. Giles'. But all were eagerly bought, and
read, and commented upon. The court opened at nine.
Legions of police with difficulty made way for the equipages
of the functionaries who came to preside over the issue. As
they passed the crowd waved and fluctuated backwards and
forwards, round the stern bulwarks of Newgate, which rose,
in Titanic masses, over these agitated human billows. The
case was one which had roused the attention of all London.
Wild rumours flew from mouth to mouth. Bets were offered
and accepted upon the verdict. Lorimer had his enthusiastic
partisans and his determined enemies. They discussed the
bearing of every point of the evidence, so far as it was
known, argued them loudly — clamorously — angrily. Men
leaned from open windows, and shouted their opinions to
friends in the street. Sometimes loud, roaring laughs arose
at rude practical jokes. Sometimes a cheer was got up as
the gaudy state carriage of some City potentate rolled slowly
by. It was a scene of wild excitement and anxiety. Nine
o'clock had just pealed from St. Sepulchre's, when there was
heard a great shout from either end of the narrow street.
Certain huge placards appeared shining over the dusky
masses of the crowd, and gradually making their way so as
to meet each other and form a line along the street. Around
each of these placards was a shouting circle of astonished
"guilty or not guilty?" 287
disputants, for upon each were traced in huge letters the
I'ollowing words: —
"THE FLAIL!
"THE VERDICT WILL BE 'NOT GUILTY I'
"a MOST EXTRAORDINARY DISCLOSURE IS AT HAND I
"■As soon as the vtrdict is pronounced a special and extraordi-
nary edition of the '■Flail' will be published, containing full
and exclusive particulars of the most unheard-of elaborate,
and diabolical schime of vengeance ever planned ! "
Again and again the bearers of these announcements
were attacked by the police, but they persisted in their right
to exhibit them. The crowd around cheered and rallied
the employes of the " Flail " by turns. The placards were
alternately pronounced hoaxes, disgraceful pieces of trickery,
and true announcements in which perfect confidence was to
be placed. At all events one great end was gained by the
coDCoctors of the scheme. The " Flail" was in every mouth,
and, therefore, would soon be in every hand.
Round the doors of access to the court, the struggling
mob fought, and tore, and raved for admission. People
fainted in the narrow stone staircases, and were trampled
on ; others, after hours of struggling, forced their way in.
The sombre hall was, of course, one mass of eager spectators,
the only vacant places on which the eye could rest were the
crimson- covered seats of the judges on the bench, and the
enclosure of the dock. A restless hum of eager anticipation
rolled through the court. The extremities of the bench were
crowded with eager spectators, potentates of the City and
the West-end. The wives of aldermen and peeresses of the
realm jostled each other. In the square space allotted for
the bar were squeezed together a greater number of gowns
and wigs than had probably ever iaefore occupied it at one
time. The reporters' desk was crammed, so that the spectators
wondered how pencils were to be used in it. Not even the
authoritative commands of the sheriffs sufficed to keep the
lobbies and passages clear, while overhead the gallery was
one mass of clustered, squeezed, weltering, human beings.
And amongst the crowd there was one man upon whom
many eyes were from time to time directed. They looked
268 CLEMENT LORIMER.
at him because of the ghastly pallor of his face, and the un-
earthly glitter of his great, dark eyes. A long surcoat
muffled him, and his loose neckcloth was tied in a large
knot which partially hid his face. But the great peculiarity
attaching to this man was the extraordinary power which he
seemed to have of wandering, as it appeared, at will, through
the crowded court. Now ne was seen in front of the bench,
staring vacantly at the empty places ; again he was beside
the jury-box, looking wistfully into the faces of the twelve ;
anon his bright eyes glittered from a dark corner of the
court, where he seemed crouching in the gloom.
Presently there was a great bustle, and a cry of " Si-
lence ! " — tlie judges were coming into court. The audience
rose as two grave, scarlet-robed men walked solemnly along
the bench, and returned the silent salutations of the bar.
Then some ordinary- formalities were gone through, during
which the murmur of anticipation rolled unchecked through
the court. It was hushed to the deepest stillness, when
there was a movement behind the dock, and the accused
stood before his judges.
Pale, very pale, but with a bright eye and a firm step,
and a hand which shook no. more than the woodwork which
it grasped, Clement Lorimer stood forth. Before — beneath
— around — glittered that terrible constellation of eyes, fixed
upon his ; but his bearing was bold and his spirit high, and,
turning deliberately and slowly round, he gave them back
look for look. A murmur of sympathy ran through the
court. When it was hushed the trial began. Then the
silence amongst that crowded auditory was something omi-
nous. The low voices of the functionaries of the court
going through the usual preliminaries, the rustle of paper,
as depositions and briefs were turned over, sounded with
unnatural distinctness. Then the accused spoke the two
words which many within and without that court, in spite
of the array of evidence, firmly and fully believed. His
voice was low, yet firm and distinct, when he uttered the
plea, and another low murmur of sympathy arose, as with
liis eyes fixed on those of his judges Lorimer said, " Not
(iuilt'y ! "
Then the counsel for the prosecution commenced his
opening statement. Without being long it was full, elabo-
" GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY?" 269
rate, and to many minds convincing. The cliain of evidence
was unrolled and displayed link by link. It was a clear
statement of consecutive facts, bound closely together by ties
of the most rigidly logical inference. Every single circum-
stance appeared naturally to grow out of another circum-
stance, and as naturally to give birth to that which followed.
As each sentence of the speaker passed his lips, his auditors
saw a great design growing up, saw the clouds rising, as it
were, from a great fabric of crime, and gradually, and step
by step, recognised the consistence and unity of the whole.
The opening statement concluded, the witnesses who
were to confirm it appeared one by one. The growing im-
pression in the court was unfavourable to tlie prisoner.
Many who had gazed on him with sympathy looked askance
with blank and lowering faces. Every path to the possi-
bility of innocence seemed one by one to be closed impass-
ably up. There was a moral gloom hung brooding over
bench and bar. One man only seemed undaunted — one eye
only lost none of its bold confidence — one hand lost none of
its firmness — Lorimer was brave, for he was innocent.
First, the court was told of the death of the lady. She
had been in her usual health on the fatal day — the slight
headach of which she complained being regarded as of no
consequence. She had been on that evening left alone.
On the accidental entry of a servant into the room she was
found in a lifeless condition ; medical assistance was sum-
moned. It was useless — she was dead. What, then, had
killed her? The mechanical agent of destruction was evi-
dent. A diluted acid of the most potent description was
hardly dry upon her lips. The odour which filled the room
— an odour as of bitter almonds, told its own story. Before
tlie victim stood a half-emptied glass of wine. Its contents
were analysed, and found to agree perfectly with the mois-
ture upon the lips. In that glass there was a liquid sufficient
to kill many strong men. The lady had died by poison.
Who, then, had last seen her in life ? The two members of
the family in which she lived had left her in health. Only
one person had subsequently seen her alive — that person was
the prisoner. He had been alone with her, and after his
departure she was found dead. No other individual could
have had access to the room — no other had access to it.
270 CLEMENT LORIMER.
Upon the prisoner devolved the onus of proving himself
innocent. But he asserted that he had also left her in good
health. Who, then, could have administered the fatal
potion ?
A vial of acid similar to that found in the glass had
been sold to an unknown customer, late at night, in a remote
and obscure part of London. That vial had been dis-
covered and identified. It was found heedlessly left in the
pocket of an overcoat in the room in w hich the tragedy bau
taken place. That overcoat belonged to Lorimer ; — he
admitted it. But could the vial have been placed there
by another? The vendor of the drug recognised from
amongst a score of men the accused as his unknown
customer.
Thus was settled what was the poison and partly who
was the poisoner. A motive was now to be sought for on
the part of the latter — that, too, was found. He had been
a dissipated man — a gambler, of no fixed or high principles.
His finances had been crippled by losses on the turf. His
ruin had been completed by the sudden stoppage of an
ii!<ome which he had from boyhood enjoyed. He cast
about for means to repair his shattered fortunes. Chance
threw in his way the deceased. She was an American and
an orphan. He gradually obtained unbounded influence
over her. He persuaded her to insure her life — keeping the
transaction a profound secret from her employers — in three
different offices. A certain quondam associate of the pri-
soner, a man of questionable or disreputable character, was
the agent in the affair, and to him the accused had thrown
out hints, which, when they came to be afterwards con-
sidered, implied the commission of the crime with which he
was charged. The policies thus obtained had been assigned
to Lorimer, In a few days thereafter, they became payable
by the death of the insured.
A great portion of the day had rolled by ere the case
had been brought to this stage. Step by step the investiga-
tion had been followed with the most breathless interest ;
and every now and then, as some dark point had been made
out against the prisoner, a low moan and a shudder had
run through the court; there was despondency and gloom
on every face. The few who spoke did so in hoarse., bod-
" GUILTY OR NOT GUILTY ? " 271
ing whispers. The calm faces of the judges were stern, yet
sorruwtiil. The jurymen turned to each other, and whis-
pered and shook their heads — only one man stood there
undaunted. The prisoner alone faced the threatening tri-
bunal with firmness in his bearing and his eye. Innocence
makes us very brave.
There was a momentary pause in the proceedings — a
pause such as precedes thunder. Suddenly was heard from
without a murmur, which swelled and echoed through the
court, and then rose into a loud, hoarse shout, caught up
by thousands of voices, and reverberating, nearer and nearer,
till it rolled and pealed through the air like a great organ-
swell. It was that sublimest sound of all in nature — the
lifting up of the voices of a great multitude.
Involuntarily every movement in the court was paralysed
and every whisper died away. The cheer from without
seemed rolling through the passages to the very doors.
Then loud exclamations and sharp shouts, and the sway of a
tumult and the tramp of clattering feet, rang through the
corridors. Every eye was turned to the doors of the court.
There was a sudden scuffle at one of them, and loud blows
struck against the echoing panel. The presiding judge
rose ; but, even as he spoke, the door was dashed wide open,
and a group of struggling figures for a moment blocked the
entry. There was a confused vision of extended arms and
eager eyes, and an outburst of frantic exclamations ; and
then, in an instant, disengaging herself from the arms which
had partly led her — partly borne her in — a woman, bare-
headed, with streaming hair, and her drapery torn by the
pressure through which she had been conveyed, burst full into
the centre of the floor ; and, in a voice which rose high above
the tumult, which still rang and roared without, exclaimed, —
" Justice ! — my Lords, justice I I am Marion Eske I "
Of all that assemblage one man alone stood firm and
flinched not. Amid all the loud clamour of tongues, the
sobbing, the wild exclamations, the shouts of uncontrollable
surprise, which filled the air, one man alone stood mute.
Clement Loriraer remained rooted to the ground, like a thing
of marble. All through the court the bonds of the usual
decorum were broken up. The ushers mechanically cried
272 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" Silence!" and "Order!" but no one regarded them. The
auditory had risen as one man, and there was a partial rush
made to obtain a sight of the woman, thus suddenly, and
as it seemed miraculously, appearing in life. But the group
of conductors who had led her into court fought round and
kept a clear space about her. Only one person burst into it.
8he was a lady who had made her way, — she never remem-
bered how, — from the bench, on a distant corner of which
she sat, to the side of the person whose sudden appearance
had caused the extraordinary scene.
" My Marion ! — my own poor dear ! look — look at me ;
let me see you. Is it — can it — really be ? "
And Marion Eske, with a cry of joy, fell upon the portly
form of the worthy Mrs. Pomeroy. As for the little
general, he was vainly endeavouring to fight his way through
the crowd, which his wife had cleft as though a charge of
horse had gone through it.
The remaining portion of the story of the trial need
occupy but a few sentences — not the shadow of a doubt
existed as to the identity of the Marion Eske now in court
with the Marion Eske who was alleged to have been mur-
dered by the prisoner at the bar. The voice of the counsel
tor the prosecution, as he indignantly flung down his brief,
was drowned in that of the foreman of the jury shouting
forth a triumphant " Not guilty ! " and both were lost in
that mighty, crowning huzzah, which hailed the acquittal of
the accused, and which seemed as if it had power to lift the
very roof into the air.
The tidings had flown like wild-fire to the crowd without,
and in ten minutes three-fourrhs of those who had weltered
in front of Newgate were fighting for admission to the front
office of the " Flail." Mr. Jorvey, with numerous subordi-
nates, amongst others Richard Flick, who had obtained
employment in the publishing department, were flinging wet
masses of the journal, steaming from the press, to their
struggling customers. Mr. Spifller and Messrs. Trotter and
Sharpe were hard at work preparing a new edition, with the
whole of the particulars of the scene in court. Mr. Gill
Dumpling was flying with the copy, wet from their pens, to
the compositors up-stairs ; and Mr. Cornelius O'Keene, purple
THE END OF THE BOOK WITH THE IRON CLASPS. 1^73
in tliH face with delight and excitement, was haranguing the
mob from a first-floor window, and quoting the most pathetic
of Moore's Irish melodies.
CHAPTER XXXII.
THE END OF THE BOOK WITH THE IRON CLASPS.
In the midst of the confusion which the extraordinary
apparition of Miss Eske had produced in court, Benosa dis-
appeared. People afterwards spoke of the tall man, so
ghastly in his pallor, who fixed his great eyes upon theirs
for a moment with a vacant stare, and then glided past them.
Many turned round in the crowd to watch that strange
figure, but none could follow him with their eyes. Tn
each he appeared as a flitting vision. It was gone as soon
as seen. There was for an instant tiie terrible face, and
then other countenances swept, as it were, over the spot
where it had been, and the gazer turned disappointedly
away.
Thus Benosa passed from the court and into the crowded
street. Through both he seemed to glide as a dark shadow
would shoot athwart the bustling thoroughfare. People
bore back from him, a lane was opened as he approached.
No one knew him, but he flashed his hollow eyes into theirs,
and they shrunk aside and gazed after him as he went oa
his way.
Benosa heard exclamations of wonder and eager conjec-
tures as he passed. Sometimes he would turn round and
look broadly and boldly at thase who were struck by his
appearance. Anon he would shrink and cower, and quickerj
the long regular strides which bore him towards the east.
Thus he traversed the swarming city, taking no heed of
what passed around him, but staring when he did look witli
the unintelligent fury of a wild beast. Those who met his
eye afterwards said that its mixture of bloodshot and glitter
was appalling. And all the way he kept up the same hurry-
ing stride; passing through groups who were conversing on
the pavement as though they did not stand there, and gliding,
T
274 CLEMENT LORIMER.
like a black spectre, past the crossinf^s, amid the plunging of
sharply-checked horses and the holloaing of drivers and pas-
sengers. A dozen times the cry was raised, " A man run
over!" and there were sudden rushes to the spot, but no
accident had occurred. Swearing cab-drivers explained that
the man had glided away — as it appeared from under the
horses' feet.
Thus he crossed the City, — thus he threaded the great
thoroughfare of Whitechapel, with its bearded and Eastern-
looking population, dwelling in booths and open shops by
the way, — thus he paced the labyrinth of obscure streets
where the descendants of the Huguenot silk-weavers dwell,
— thus he hurried along, never stopping, never pausing, but
holding on — on — on — in a swift and certain course, until his
footsteps echoed in a narrow lane across which hung the
boughs of orchard-trees. Here was his home, and he locked
and bolted the ponderous gate which led towards it behind
him. Then he passed into his inner library.
The afternoon was calm and bright. Benosa looked out
upon it. There were singing-birds, which fluttered amid the
branches of the trees ; and lively sparrows which hopped and
gambolled where the rich, hot sunlight fell upon the green.
It was, in truth, a bright, balmy, autumn day. Benosa sat in
a great old-fashioned chair, and glared grimly at it from the
window. He appeared paralysed and smitten down. He
only made mechanical motions. Sometimes his lips would
quiver, and muttering words would come forth, but they
were quite unintelligible. A change, too, was coming over
the appearance of the face ; the fierceness of expression was
leaving it ; but with it the look of intelligence was also
thawing away. The facial angle was changing too. All
these symptoms portended that the fibres of the brain — so
long tortured and unstrung — were relaxing and softening ;
and that the mysterious home of the thinking faculties was
being deserted for ever. The eyes grew glassy and the light
in them paled. As the hours flew by the Maniac was chang-
ing to the Idiot.
He sat at the window until the going down of the sun.
The darkening of the night appeared to be a counter-
part of the darkening of his mind — the wretch seemed to
feel this, for he shook his head slowly and mournfully, then
THE END OF THE BOOK WITH THE IRON CLASPS. 275
letting it droop upon his chest, folded his hands and sat
motionless, resigned, as it woi'ld seem, to the departure of
intellect from its shrine.
And so the darkness came silently around and encom-
passed him. But Mind, like Life, leaves not its possessor
without a struggle. Suddenly Benosa started up and groped
about in the gloom. He was searching for the lamp, and in
a few moments its kindling glow revealed the face of him
who lighted it. There was a wild eagerness of design in it,
and intelligence yet flickered in the eyes. He set himself
hastily to work, as though he feared to lose a moment.
Flinging open the swinging doors of the walled-in safe, he
tore out of it the old box with the great clamps and dashed
it on the floor. Then he heaved out great heaps of papers
and empty vials, which smashed upon the ground unheeded.
In the bottom lay the Book. He took it up and uttered the
only words he had spoken that day, —
" At least I will know the Cause ! "
There were two sets of clasps which bound the work —
the large outer ones and a couple of smaller filaments of iron,
which kept closely together some dozen of the opening
pages. There were broad seals connecting these clasps with
the paper. They bound the leaves on which was written
the secret cause of the Vendetta.
With glaring eyes, and hands which shook convulsively,
Benosa wrenched open the volume at the part wherein lay
hidden the mystery. As he did so, a subtle vapour rose from
the pages. It could hardly be seen ; but its influence, in a
moment, pervaded the room ; for a moth, which was fluttering
round the lamp, fell dead upon the table.
The Book with the Iron Clasps lay open before Benosa,
and there the secret Cause was written. What ailed him to
read it ? The lines of the writing stretched before his eyes.
But they filled with water, and the sight waned, and became
uncertain. The lines appeared to run into each other. He
saw dindj', portions of well-known words and letters, but he
could make sense of none. Suddenly he gasped for breath
and staggered. Then he appeared to rally for a moment —
pressing his hands against his eyes, and dashing from them
the water which welled over these bloodshot orbs. But the
vapour rose hut and choking from the open pages. He made
276 CLEMFNT LORIMER.
a violent effort, and dashed his head down as though to bring
his eyes almost in contact with the page. It lay there open,
but unreadable. The subtle poison, which exhaled forth in
the air, had done its work. Benosa caught up the book, let
it drop, and tumbled heavily upon it. In his fall he upset
the lamp. The flame of the wick caught the old pages, and
their flame caught the window-curtains I
******
" Fire ! " The sky is red, and people are rushing, pell-
mell, in the direction of the burning object. " Fire ! " the
lurid reflexion is quivering over all the firmament, " Where
is it?" cry hundreds. "In Fleet Street?" "No, in the
City." " Beyond that, — in Whitechapel." " Ay, even beyond
that ! " And the tramp of hurrying feet flows eastward fast.
" Fire I " There go the engines! The horses at a mad gal-
lop, — the roar and the clatter, as if heavy guns were being
dragged to battle, — lights gleaming from the hurrying
machine, — firemen with glancing helmets and belts, clus-
tering to it as it rushes headlong through the street !
" Fire ! " There is the house ! — see, the old house in
the lane I There rise the columns of red-hot sparks, and
the black smoke tinged and reddened by the flame. The
roar of the blaze is answered by the shouts of the spec-
tators. Down through them, cleaving their way like old
battle chariots, come the engines. But too late I — too late !
Red flame comes forth from all the windows. Tongues of
fire flicker out at chimney-tops. From top to bottom the
house is a glowing furnace.
All at once there is a crash and a roaring blaze, which
makes the sky lurid, and an upward driven explosion of
sparks and red-hot fragments, as though from a crater.
The roof has fallen in I
Amid the ruins, when they got cold enough to be
stirred, the firemen found the charred remains of humnn
bones, and amongst them certain pieces of iron, which
seemed to have been the clasps of a book which had been
burned away from between them.
1 r .,. c ,to< of tki.'Br, A. . .,(^'-1 flic h-^.-^tUu^J.
277
THE EPILOGUE.
The scene of the Epilogue reverts to that of the first
chapter of the Prologue — to Flanders. Our story opened
with the first hour of the first day of May, 1610; it closes
with the first day of the same month 224 years afterwards —
the first day of May, in the year 1834.
That morning was calm and bright. The mists of the
early dawn were yet sailing over a broad, smooth river,
and rolling away upon its rich, level banks. On either hand
lay a great panorama of green cornfields, and pasture-
grounds, and long rows of pollards and clumps of tall poplars.
Here and there a white sail gleamed above the waters, tower-
ing from the clumsy hull of a Dutch-built boat, but there
was not a breath of wind to swell the canvass on the river,
or to turn the vane which surmounted every trim farm-house
along the shore.
One vessel alone made rapid way. She was a noble
steamship, the same which had encountered the gale in the
Channel when the American liner was lost upon the Goodwin
Sands. You could have heard the steady beat of her paddles
for miles inland — so still was the air — as she ploughed her
way steadily up the smooth, shining stream.
As the morning brightened, two persons ascended from
below, a lady and a gentleman. The former uttered an
exclamation of delight upon exchanging the close atmosphere
of the cabin for the bright and balmy air of the May morn-
ing. Then placing her arm within that of her companion,
they began to pace the deck together, absorbed in earnest
and whispered conversation. The helmsman eyed them
sharply and curiously. They were both young, and one was
very beautiful. She leaned confidingly on her husband's arm,
and now and then, resting her head upon his shoulder, looked
lovingly up into his face.
At length they ceased their walk, and the gentleman
appeared to be pointing out to his companion the charac-
teristics of the landscape around them. The helmsman caught
slight fragments of their discourse.
278 CLEMENT LORIMER.
" And this, then, is Flanders — the famous Low Coun-
tries?" the lady murmured.
" The country of your ancestors and of mine," rejoined
her companion.
" And looking, perhaps, in all its material points, as it
did two centuries and a half ago, when that wonderful chain
of events began to run its course, which resulted in the loss
of the Derby, in the shipwreck off the Goodwins, in the
trial at the Old Bailey, and "
" And, finally, in the ceremony performed a few days
ago before the altar of a certain West-end church."
"Antwerp, sir!" said the steersman, abruptly. "You
told me to tell you when we came in sight of it."
The lady and gentleman looked ahead. Over the flat
country, into the clear air, rose several towers, but one glo-
rious steeple shot higher far than all the rest. The bride
and bridegroom gazed on it in silence. At length the latter
spoke, —
" And it was beneath its shade that, two hundred and
twenty years ago, the Vendetta was begun."
A gentleman lounged, reading an English newspaper, be-
neath the porte-cochere of the Hotel St. Antoine in Ant-
werp. The sun was hot in the Place, but there was a cool
breeze blowing through the vaulted archway, and now and
then a fragrant smell, as of a preparing dinner, was wafted
by. The gentleman wore a very shiny hat, very large and
shiny whiskers and moustachios elaborately curled and
greased. His clothes had a semi-militaire look, and were
exaggerations of the prevailing Parisian fashions. We will
read with him the paragraph in which he is interested. It
ran thus: —
" We have now, in compliance with a very generally ex-
pressed wish, given a close and connected view of all the
known events of the late Benosa tragedy. We have only, in
order to render the sketch complete, to hint at the present
fortunes or misfortunes of a few of the principal actors in that
strange drama.
" Clenient Lorimer, immediately after his marriage with
Miss Eske, started upon a Continental trip of some duration.
THE EPILOGUE. 275*
Mr. and Mrs, General Pomeroy have left England for their
American home, whither, we believe, Mr. and Mrs. Lorimer
will repair for a season on their return from their Continental
tour. Flick, the jockey, as may be seen by our sporting
intelligence, rides the Favourite for the Derby of this year.
Mr. Grogrum, the manager, as our readers are aware, is in
the full swing of an excellent season ; and we are happy to
say, that, so perfect is the understanding in the theatre, that
Dr. Gumbey has not been called upon to give one sick certi-
ficate since the opening night. Mr. John Blockey has, we
hear, been appointed to a lucrative post in the Customs; and
Mr. O'Keene, a gentleman once connected with this esta-
blishment, shortly leaves London to undertake the duties
of consul at a pleasant and healthy settlement on the African
coast. Sir Harrovvby Trumps was, our readers are aware,
sentenced to a lengthened period of transportation. His ac-
complice, Blane, managed to abscond. A letter has been
received from Mademoiselle Chateauroux, who is winning
golden opinions at St. Petersburg, stating that it was upon
her life that the assurances were effected, and that she had
agreed to the scheme under the impression that it arose from
a mere whim of a rich admirer of her professional powers.
Madame Lorton, we have reason to believe, will revisit
the scene of her former triumphs; while Lady Trumps will
continue to live in strict retirement in a distant county.
" It is, we believe, tolerably well known, that the fortune
left by Benosa was inherited by Lorimer as his heir-at-law."
The reader of this paragraph paused, mused for a mo-
ment, and then turned the paper to look at its name. It was
called the " Flail," and a note beneath the title shewed that
its weekly consumption of stamps was 60,000. Then the
reader fell into a musing fit. Some one touched his shoul-
der ; he started round, and saw a gentleman with a lady on
his arm.
" Heavens ! — Lorimer ! " he exclaimed.
" Marion," said the other to his companion, " allow me
to introduce an old acquaintance of mine — Captain De
Witz."
*****
Night sunk slowly down on Antwerp, but Clement
Lorimer and his wife sauntered round the great cathedral
280 CLEMENT LORIMER.
for long hours after all was gloom and silence. The moon
shone upon the sleeping city, as it shone when the two lights
gleamed from two old houses which still stood there, gaunt,
and solemn, and grim. The fretted and sculptured spire
rose white into the moonshine, and the Belgian sentinel
stood before the stadthouse as the Flemish hagbuteer had
done, so many generations before.
Hour after hour pealed from the spire of Antwerp Cathe-
dral, and still Clement and Marion Lorimer kept a loving
vigil near. Their talk was of the terrible Vendetta which
had at length run its course, — of the mysterious links, in
nine hundred cases out of a thousand unknown to the world,
which bind century to century, age to age, and make the
events of one cycle closely and immediatelj' dependent upon
those of another.
As they talked, an atmospheric phenomenon of rare
occurrence took place. A lunar rainbow spanned the sky ;
one of its extremities seemed to rise from the roof of a liijih
old house on one side of the Place; the other appeared to
rest upon a building of similar appearance opposite to it.
Thus the rainbow bound together the two houses, from
which on the night between the 30th of April and the 1st of
May, 1610, gleamed the two lights.
The young pair knew this, for the threads of the clue to
their mutual histories, which had been so far caught up by
Marion in the old east-end house in London, had been traced
with sufficient success to prove that Antwerp had been the
scene of the opening of the Vendetta, and some old
registers that day examined shewed them the very houses in
which the Benosas and the Vandersteins had lived.
" A happy omen," said Lorimer, as the lustre of the
Bow grew more and more brilliant; " the time when Hate
and Revenge linked these two Houses to each other is over
and gone ; and lo ! now they are bound in a glorious chain
— a chain so long the emblem of forgiveness and love — a
chain woven by Heaven itself ! "
the end.
London: — Printed by G. liai-clay, Castle St. Leinester 84.
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