CHAPTER XXI.
THE WOLF AND THE LAMB—A SCOUNDREL OF THE FIRST WATER.
Unluckily for himself, it was an evil day when Charley Warbeck first made the acquaintance of Phillip Redgill.
Phillip, as all knew, was a great don about town, and maintained a handsome suite of rooms, to which the gayest of the gay resorted.
His father was a very wealthy man, so all the world said; a great ship owner, and “a merchant prince of the good city of London.”
To be patronized by the son of such a person poor Charley considered “a very fine thing.”
“Wasn’t Phillip Redgill one of the sparks of fashion? Did not fair dames (of doubtful virtue, perhaps) smile bewitchingly upon him? Was he not nodded to by this lord and that one? Could he not handle a sword with almost any man?” said Charley, and many others. “And was it not a ‘great thing,’ therefore, to be known to, and to be hand and glove with such a person when I am only a chief clerk in the India House, and nought to depend upon but my own advancement and old Sir Richard’s generosity?”
Yes, this was all true; but Charley Warbeck little dreamed of what a cool, conscienceless villain Phillip was, and how he gained the money he sported with so lavishly “about town,” as it was called.
It was true that Sir Richard Warbeck’s signature had been forged to a valuable bill, but how it was done no one could tell.
Suspicion had fallen upon Charley, and, in truth, he did sign his uncle’s name to the bill in question, but was unconscious of having done so, and was guiltless.
This singular affair, the first link in Charley’s after misery, but not the first in Phillip’s chain of crimes by any means, occurred in this manner.
After Charley had been some time intimate (as they should be, Phillip said, on the score of relationship) young Redgill gave a party at his lodgings, to which Charley was invited.
During the evening Phillip wrote a note to Sir Richard Warbeck, and folded it in a neat wrapper, after the manner of those days when envelopes were unknown.
“Here, Charley,” said he, “direct this for me.”
Charley, who had been drugged by Phillip, directed the note to Sir Richard Warbeck, and nothing more.
“That will do,” said Phillip, and he took up the note in a careless manner, while Charley dropped off to sleep. “That will do excellently. If old Sir Richard had written the direction himself it couldn’t have been a better facsimile of his own handwriting, for there are not any two persons under the sun who write so much alike as the old knight and Charley. Bravo! it was a clever trick of mine; an excellent thought, by Jove!”
As he said this, chuckling, he took off the covering of the letter, which proved to be nothing else than a promissory note for a thousand pounds!
“All I wanted was this signature,” said Phillip, in high glee. “How neatly I got it, too! I’ll get it discounted among the Jews to-morrow; it can never be traced to me again.”
The bill was passed among the Jews, and Phillip got the money.
In time it became due, when the trick was discovered, and Sir Richard refused to pay.
Officers had the case in hand.
It came to Charley’s ears, and although Sir Richard never breathed a suspicion of what he thought, Captain Jack long suspected him, but could not obtain any positive proof to convict him, unless, as he often did, enter the witness-box and complete his chain of evidence by deliberate false swearing.
Though many persons laughed at the loss which the Jews suffered in the transaction, the final bill-holder, a long-bearded English Israelite, Moss, by name, swore solemnly never to let the matter rest; nor did Captain Jack ever lose sight of Charles Warbeck, despite his respectable position and the powerful Sir Richard.
The very next day after Captain Jack’s visit to Phillip’s apartments, Charles Warbeck was sent out to collect various large sums on account of the India House, of which old Sir Richard was one of the managing directors.
He was watched and dogged throughout the whole of the day by a spy employed by Phillip, and the news was brought to him that Charles had then in his possession a large sum, which, as usual, he was to account for that same evening.
But on his way back to the India House, Phillip Redgill met him, and, in a careless manner, said he was very short of cash, and begged of Charley to loan him fifty pounds, until the end of the week, as he was going to a masque ball that night.
Charley had not any such sum, but promised to see what he could do by borrowing, and would see Phillip that night.
This was agreed to.
But ere they parted, wine was called for, and the hours flew by rapidly.
Quicker than he imagined the time passed at which he was expected at the India House, and, after cursing his bad luck, he drank again and again with Redgill, until at last he became very much the worse for liquor, and had to be carried to his lodgings by two chairmen, yet all the while, and through all his drunkenness, taking great care of the bundle of notes, which he had secreted in his breast, next to his skin, for fear of theft or accident.
It was now nine o’clock at night, and the two chairmen, being paid, left the young man at his own door.
With all his ingenuity he was unable to use his night-key, and stood fumbling at the door a considerable time, and swearing not a little.
Charles was in a fog. The keyhole seemed to be removed from its accustomed place for he could not find it from the unsteady motion of his hand; the latch-key dropped many, many times, and it was doubtful how long he might have remained there, shivering in the cold, had not the oft apostrophized and obstinate key fallen into the area, and raised his anger to the highest pitch.
“I’ll bring some one down to the door,” said he, and commenced knocking at it with great vigour and noise.
In a few moments Dame Worthington, the good old gentlewoman his landlady, appeared at the door attired in undress, and could scarcely recognise her lodger ere that unsteady gentleman, who, swaying to and fro, but holding the area railings, stumbled into the passage and tumbled over the astonished housekeeper, who, gasping and groaning, could scarcely be extricated by a female servant, who, candle in hand, rushed to the rescue, and bore off her mistress to the back parlour bed-room.
Charley tumbled upstairs as noisily as a young elephant might be expected to do, knocking down the flowers and flower-stand on the landing, the globe of gold fish on the window-sill, and raised the whole house by his laughter, swearing, and heavy tread.
“Just to think of that young man serving me so!” said Dame Worthington, when sufficiently recovered from her state of collapse to articulate coherently. “Just to think of him who’s been more than a mother, to knock over my flowers and the gold fish, to tumble over me in the passage and go to sleep lying in my room, without word of apology, in a state of senselessness; laughing with the lodgers on the stairs, and to go to bed with Mistress Haylark in a delicate state of health on the landing! Oh, Mary, Mary! that I should have lived to see him with my own eyes in bed in the parlour, laughing, making fun, and tumbling over me before you and Mistress Haylark’s daughter, which is old enough to be his mother! Deary me, Mary, my dear, deary me! Such is the way, my dear, that the black bottle in the cupboard which lodgers marked ‘poison’ operates at the dead of night upon a poor defenceless housekeeper and widow who’s been quiet and kind to him in the passage, but not old enough or forgetful enough to disremember the young man in her night-clothes named Warbeck, who has lost her lawful consoler, which smells, on the top shelf behind the pickles, for ten long years, like gin!”
It is difficult to imagine, perhaps, the dreadful state of feeling in which the garrulous dame found herself after the consolations of her lawful consoler which smells—on the top shelf behind the pickles, for ten long years—like gin; but of this we are fully assured, that when Charles Warbeck had had a pleasant nap in his cosy room, and concluded a long consultation with the water-pitcher, he discovered, unmistakably, that several hundred fairies, or demons rather, were busily engaged at wood-chopping under the canopy of his cranium, and threatening every moment to split his invaluable head into halves.
Pale, penitent, and full of pious intentions for the future, Charley Warbeck lay on the sofa before his fire, buried in thought.
The church clock struck the hour of eleven, and, as he heard it, he sighed,
“What a fool I have been to-day in not taking that packet of notes to the India House. I shake like a leaf, and I know not why; and haunted by every imaginable terror. I cannot gaze firmly at any one; the sound of every voice seems like a demon bawling in my ears, and every step that approaches appears to be that of some officer ready to tap me on the shoulder, and march me off to prison. I’d give anything in the world to have had this cursed money delivered to-day, and should not have dreamed of such a thing as to absent myself, but for Redgill. He has continually bored me to lend him money and lend him money, until my own poverty almost tempted me to steal. D—n the money!” said Warbeck, in a rage, slamming the packet of notes upon the table, and tossing about in his chair. “It burns my very pocket, and my brain even seems on fire since I’ve had that wine.”
For some time young Warbeck sat looking at the notes, and would willingly have gone to the India House then, but it was too late.
While thus reflecting the door noiselessly opened, and Redgill entered the chamber!
Approaching the table he was much surprised at Charley’s absence of mind in not awaking from his reverie, but was pleased to see the bank package lying on the table.
Pretending not to have observed anything of the sort, he slapped his friend familiarly on the back, who, awaking to his senses, seized the package in much haste and confusion, and placed it, as he supposed, unseen, beneath the cushions of the sofa.
Redgill, cold as ice, perfectly collected, and fully resolved in purpose, observed his friend’s perturbation and confusion, but smiled good-humouredly, and conversed with animation.
“Any money on hand to-night, Charley, my boy, eh? You promised, you know. I thought I’d call, and see if you had got the £50.”
“Money!” said Charley, with affected surprise, gazing with much earnestness at his friend smoking; “money? No! How should I have any? I never have any, you know; I’m not like you fellows with rich daddies, who can give ’em a check occasionally. I wish I had, my boy, but I haven’t got a penny. Sorry I disappointed you, Phillip; I imagined I could borrow it for you, but couldn’t.”
Conversation was continued between the friends, but on the part of young Warbeck with much difficulty, for his unnatural excitement almost choked utterance.
During a pause in their conversation a single knock was heard at his door!
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THE ATTACK ON THE CASTLE.
Full of wild imaginings, Charley opened it, and old Sir Richard, one of the directors of the India House, walked across the room, and without ceremony took a seat on the sofa beside the fire, but without speaking a word.
Pulling off his gloves very slowly and solemnly, he bowed to Phillip, and said, with a frown—
“Would you be kind enough, Phillip, to allow me a few moments’ private conversation with Charles, on very important business, indeed, I can assure you—very—on India House matters, Mr. Redgill, which admits of no delay. Thank you.”
Finding he was out of place at that moment, Phillip bowed in a hurried manner, looked for his handkerchief and gloves, which were thrown about the sofa pillows, and left the room with a flushed face.
“Charles,” at length Sir Richard began, looking the young man sternly in the face, “what am I to understand by your unaccountable conduct?”
A solemn pause.
“Good heavens!” mentally ejaculated Charley, “I am discovered, disgraced, and punished, and all so soon!”
Overcome with emotion, he hung his head in shame and perspired unnaturally at every pore.
“What am I to think of you, sir? Is this the reward of all my labour, anxiety, money, and solicitude? Have I not educated you, taken you by the hand, and lifted you up step by step to what you are, eh? And do you now, when I expect to see all my labours rewarded, turn round upon me, and disgrace me?”
“Spare me! Sir Richard! spare me, for heaven’s sake! My heart is bursting, and my brain is all on fire,” said Charles, mournfully, averting his head from the old man’s gaze.
“There are very few things which occur in the India House or out of it which do not quickly reach my ears, Charles. I only heard of it just now, sir, and must confess I felt shocked. Good Dame Worthington told me.”
“Dame Worthington?” said Charley, astonished. “How could she have known it?”
“Yes, Dame Worthington knew it? Why, of course she does, and every one in the house! Isn’t it the talk of the whole neighbourhood?”
The young man’s agony was painful, and his face became more haggard in a few moments from mental suffering than age could have effected during a course of years.
“What do you think they will do with me, Sir Richard? I shall plead guilty, and save unnecessary trouble and expense.”
“Guilty? Yes, I think so, when so many were witness to it; and your sentence will be to reform, keep early hours, leave wine parties alone and gambling, and beg the old dame’s pardon for swearing at her to-night.”
Had he been shot Charley could not have been more suddenly startled.
Starting to his feet, and looking wildly about him, he comprehended all—Sir Richard knew nothing of his having the bills; and, with a heavy sigh, which then escaped him, there was lifted an insupportable weight of doubt and pain from his soul, and he breathed more freely and rapidly as one who has been running fast, or carrying a heavy load.
Infinitely relieved, the young man even attempted to smile at the unexpected and fortunate turn his imaginings had taken, and, with as much self-command as he could bring to bear upon the conversation, laughed, and begged Sir Richard’s pardon for his wild life of late, and inebriety that night, when the kind old dame was knocked over in the passage, and his own nose had come into violent contact with the stairs.
When Sir Richard had departed, in good humour with the repentant youth, Charley drew the sofa nearer to the fire, and began to congratulate himself upon escaping an anticipated suspicion.
“I was sure, he knew all about it,” thought Charles; “and felt as if I was suspended between heaven and earth! Oh! what a relief it was. It is the first, and I will take care it shall be the last time I ever act so carelessly again, as sure as I live! If professional thieves suffer only half what I have done since evening, and for no crime whatever, I am sure they would never follow their trade very long. Let me see—I placed the package under the sofa mattress; if either had seen it lying on my table, I should have blown my brains out! But where is it? Gone!” said he, in astonishment, as he examined in every place, “gone! Who could have taken it? No one knew it to be there. Gone it is, undoubtedly. I have searched everywhere, but it can’t be found. Good Heavens! What shall I do? Which of them could have taken it? No, no, neither of them could have seen or felt it; it must be here!”
Charles searched in every imaginable nook and corner, but could not discover the missing roll of bills.
He had placed it under the sofa mattress, he was confident, and unknown to either of his visitors.
Whither or how it had disappeared was a marvel.
Distracted with countless thoughts and emotions, he put on his cloak, and, late as it then was, left the apartment, walking aimlessly up and down first one street and then another, until he found himself opposite the theatre, with its blazing links, oil-lamps, and variously-coloured lanterns.
More from habit than design, Charles passed its portals, and soon found himself among a crowd of gay acquaintances.
“Seen Redgill?” asked he of one and another, until, tired with waiting, he was about to depart, when both met at the door!
“Did you see a small paper packet lying about my room, near the sofa, to-night?” asked Charles, carelessly.
“A small paper packet? No. Why, have you lost one? What was it like?”
“Well, it didn’t look like anything particularly, but it was, you know, very much like one of our bank packets. It was a packet of long envelopes and other papers.”
“Bank packets, eh? No, my boy, I didn’t see it; I was too much taken up with thinking of money matters. If you remember, you said you hadn’t a penny, and I was racking my brain to devise means for borrowing some, for there is a grand bal masque on here to-night. Is it very valuable? You look vexed—perplexed. What’s the matter, Charley, my boy? If I can help you out of the scrape command me, you know——”
“Well, the fact is, Phillip, the package I speak of, which so much resembles a bank package, contained something very valuable, more valuable than my life, in fact. Without I recover it my existence is henceforth a blank and worthless. I am dishonoured!”
“Don’t say ‘dishonoured,’ my boy; that is impossible; you could never do anything which would reflect dishonour on yourself or your many acquaintance. Cheer up; you may find it to-morrow. If it is a hundred or two you want, you can have it in a day or two from me even.”
Charles went home almost mad.
“Lucky thing I called at Warbeck’s apartments to-night,” said Redgill, to himself, as soon as Charles had left him. “What brought that money on his table? Methinks I smell a very large-sized mouse,” said he, with a fiendish smile, drinking wine at a small wine-shop near the theatre. “I managed to abstract it rather neatly, I must confess; his head wasn’t turned more than a minute—and it contains £2,000. What care I if the fool is ruined? I only wish it were Ned Warbeck instead; how my heart would leap with joy—the young viper!”