THE STOLEN BANK NOTES.
The newspapers of 1810 contain a few brief paragraphs—cold, bare, and partial as a tombstone, relative to a singular, and, to my thinking, instructive passage in the domestic annals of Great Britain, with which I happened to be very intimately acquainted. The impression it produced on me at the time was vivid and profound, and a couple of lines in a Liverpool journal the other day, curtly announcing the death of a Madame L'Estrange, recalled each incident as freshly to memory as if graven there but yesterday; and moreover induced me to pen the following narrative, in which, now that I can do so without the risk of giving pain or offense to any one, I have given the whole affair, divested of coloring, disguise, or concealment.
My father, who had influence with the late Lord Bexley, then Mr. Vansittart, procured me, three weeks after I came of age, a junior clerkship in one of the best paid of our government offices. In the same department were two young men, my seniors by about six or seven years only, of the names of Martin Travers and Edward Capel. Their salaries were the same—three hundred pounds a year—and both had an equal chance of promotion to the vacancy likely soon to occur, either by the death or superannuation of Mr. Rowdell, an aged and ailing chief-clerk. I had known them slightly before I entered the office, inasmuch as our families visited in the same society, and we were very soon especially intimate with each other. They were, I found, fast friends, though differing greatly in character and temperament. I liked Martin Travers much the best of the two. He was a handsome, well-grown, frank-spoken, generous young man; and never have I known a person so full of buoyant life as he—of a temper so constantly gay and cheerful. Capel was of a graver, more saturnine disposition, with lines about the mouth indicative of iron inflexibility of nerve and will; yet withal a hearty fellow enough, and living, it was suspected, quite up to his income, if not to something considerably over. I had not been more than about three months in the office, when a marked change was perceptible in both. Gradually they had become cold, distant, and at last utterly estranged from each other; and it was suggested by several among us, that jealousy as to who should succeed to Rowdell's snug salary of six hundred a year, might have produced the evidently bad feeling between them. This might, I thought, have generated the lowering cloud hourly darkening and thickening upon Capel's brow, but could scarcely account for the change in Martin Travers. He whose contagious gayety used to render dullness and ill-humor impossible in his presence, was now fitful, moody, irascible; his daily tasks were no longer gone through with the old cheerful alacrity; and finally—for he was morbidly impatient of being questioned—I jumped to the conclusion—partly from some half-words dropped, and partly from knowing where they both occasionally visited—that the subtle influence which from the days of Helen downward—and I suppose upward—has pleased and plagued mankind, was at the bottom of the matter. I was quite right, and proof was not long waited for. I was walking early one evening along Piccadilly with Travers—who appeared, by-the-by, to wish me further, though he was too polite to say so—when we came suddenly upon Capel. I caught his arm, and insisted that he should take a turn with us as he used to do. I thought that possibly a quiet word or two on the beauty and excellence of kindly brotherhood among men, might lead to a better feeling between them. I was deucedly mistaken. My efforts in that line—awkwardly enough made, I dare say—proved utterly abortive. Capel indeed turned back, rather than, as I supposed, fussily persist in going on; but both he and Travers strode on as stiffly as grenadiers on parade—their cheeks flushed, their eyes alight with angry emotion, and altogether sullen and savage as bears. What seemed odd too, when Travers turned sharply round within a short distance of Hyde Park Corner, with a scarcely-disguised intention of shaking us off, Capel whirled round as quickly, as if quite as resolutely determined not to be shaken off; while I, considerably alarmed by the result of the pacific overture I had ventured upon, did, of course, the same. We stalked on in silence, till just as we reached Hoby's, and a Mr. Hervey, with his daughter Constance, turned suddenly out of St. James's-street. I was fiery hot to the tips of my ears in an instant. Travers and Capel stopped abruptly, stared fiercely at each other, and barely recovered presence of mind in sufficient time to lift their hats in acknowledgment of Mr. Hervey's brief greeting, and the lady's slight bow, as, after half-pausing, they passed on. It was all clear enough now. My two gentlemen had come to Piccadilly in the hope of meeting with Constance Hervey, and accompanying her home; frustrated in this, they had determined not to lose sight of each other; nor did they for three mortal hours, during which, anxiety lest their rancorous ill-humor should break out into open quarrel, kept me banging about from post to pillar with them—a sullen companionship, so utterly wearisome that I had several times half a mind to propose that they should fight it out at once, or toss up which should jump for the other's benefit into the Thames. At length ten o'clock struck, and it appearing to be mutually concluded that a visit to Kensington was no longer possible, a sour expression of relief escaped them, and our very agreeable party separated.
A very dangerous person in such a crisis was, I knew, this Constance Hervey, though by no means a catch in a pecuniary sense for well-connected young men with present salaries of three hundred a year, and twice as much in near expectancy. Her father, who had once held his head pretty high in the commercial world, had not long since become bankrupt, and they were now living upon an annuity of little more, I understood, than a hundred pounds, so secured to Mr. Hervey that his creditors could not touch it. This consideration, however, is one that weighs very little with men in the condition of mind of Capel and Travers, and I felt that once enthralled by Constance Hervey's singular beauty, escape, or resignation to disappointment was very difficult and hard to bear. She was no favorite of mine, just then, by the way. I had first seen her about three years previously—and even then, while yet the light, the simplicity, the candor, of young girlhood lingered over, and softened the rising graces of the woman, I read in the full depths of her dark eyes an exultant consciousness of beauty, and the secret instinct of its power. Let me, however, in fairness state that I had myself—moon-calf that I must have been—made sundry booby, blushing advances to the youthful beauty, and the half-amused, half-derisive merriment with which they were received, gave a twist, no doubt, to my opinion of the merits of a person so provokingly blind to mine. Be this, however, as it may, there could be no question that Constance Hervey was now a very charming woman, and I was grieved only, not surprised, at the bitter rivalry that had sprung up between Travers and Capel—a rivalry which each successive day but fed and strengthened!
Capel appeared to be fast losing all control over his temper and mode of life. He drank freely—that was quite clear; gambled, it was said, and rumors of debt, protested bills, ready money raised at exorbitant interest on the faith of his succeeding to Rowdell's post, flew thick as hail about the office. Should he obtain the coveted six hundred a year, Constance Hervey would, I doubted not—first favorite as Travers now seemed to be—condescend to be Mrs. Capel. This, not very complimentary opinion, I had been mentally repeating some dozen times with more than ordinary bitterness as I sat alone one evening after dinner in our little dining-room in Golden-square, when the decision came. The governor being out, I had perhaps taken a few extra glasses of wine, and nothing, in my experience, so lights up and inflames tender or exasperating reminiscences as fine old port.
"Rat-tat-tat-tat." It was unmistakably Travers's knock, and boisterously hilarious, too, as in the old time, before any Constance Herveys had emerged from pinafores and tuckers to distract and torment mankind, and more especially well-to-do government clerks. The startled maid-servant hastened to the door, and I had barely gained my feet and stretched myself, when in bounced Travers—radiant—a-blaze with triumph.
"Hollo, Travers! Why, where the deuce do you spring from, eh?"
"From Heaven! Paradise!—the presence of an angel at all events!"
"There, there, that will do; I quite understand."
"No, you don't Ned. Nobody but myself can understand, imagine, guess, dream of the extent the vastness of the change that has come over my life. Firstly, then—but this is nothing—Rowdell is at length superannuated, and I am to have his place."
He paused a moment; and I, with certainly a more than half-envious sneer, said—"And upon the strength of that piece of luck, you have proposed to Constance Hervey, and been accepted—of course."
"Jubilate—yes! Feel how my pulse throbs! It is four hours since, and still my brain lightens and my eyes dazzle with the tumultuous joy. Do not light the candles; I shall grow calmer in the twilight."
"Confound his raptures," was my internal ejaculation. "Why the mischief couldn't he take them somewhere else?" I, however, said nothing, and he presently resumed the grateful theme. "You will be at the wedding, of course. And by-the-by, now I think of it, haven't I heard Constance say she especially remembers you for something—I forget exactly what—but something pleasant and amusing—very!"
My face kindled to flame, and I savagely whirled the easy chair in which I sat two or three yards back from the fire-light before speaking. "I am extremely obliged to the lady, and so I dare say is poor Capel, who, it seems, has been so carelessly thrown over."
"Carelessly thrown over!" rejoined Travers, sharply. "That is a very improper expression. If he has, as I fear, indulged in illusions, he has been only self-deceived. Still, his double disappointment grieves me. It seems to cast—though there is no valid reason that it should do so—a shadow on my conscience."
We were both silent for some time. I was in no mood for talking, and he sat gazing dreamily at the fire. I knew very well whose face he saw there. I have seen it myself in the same place a hundred times.
"There is another drawback, Ned," he at length resumed. "Our marriage must be deferred six months at the least. I have but about two hundred pounds in ready money, and the lease and furniture of the house we shall require, would cost at least double that."
"Any respectable establishment would credit you for the furniture upon the strength of your greatly-increased salary."
"So I urged; but Constance has such a perfect horror of debt—arising no doubt from her father's misfortunes—that she positively insists we must wait till every thing required in our new establishment can be paid for when purchased. I could, I think, raise the money upon my own acceptance, but should Constance hear that I had done so, she would, I fear, withdraw her promise."
"Stuff and nonsense! Six hundred a year can not be picked up every day."
"You do not know Constance Hervey. But come; I must have patience! Six—nine months are not a lifetime. Good-by. I knew you would be rejoiced to hear of my good fortune."
"Oh, of course—particularly delighted, in fact! Good-evening." I have slept better than I did that night.
It was Sunday evening when Travers called on me, and Capel did not make his appearance at the office till the Friday following, his excuse being urgent private business. Harassing business, if that were so, it must have been, for a sharp fever could scarcely have produced a greater change for the worse in his personal appearance. He was mentally changed as greatly. He very heartily congratulated Travers on his promotion, and took, moreover, the first opportunity of privately assuring him that his (Capel's) transient fancy for Miss Hervey had entirely passed away, and he cordially complimented his former rival on having succeeded in that quarter also. This was all remarkably queer, I thought; but Travers, from whose mind a great load seemed taken, willingly believed him, and they were better friends than ever; Capel, the more thoroughly, it seemed, to mark his acquiescent indifference, accompanying Travers once or twice to the Herveys'. So did I; though I would have given something the first time to have been any where else; for if a certain kneeling down, garden-arbor scene did not play about the lady's coral lips, and gleam for a moment from the corners of her bewildering eyes, my pulse was as steady and temperate just then, as it is now, after the frosts of more than sixty winters have chilled its beatings. She was, however, very kind and courteous, a shade too considerately gentle and patronizing, perhaps, and I became a rather frequent visitor. An ancient aunt, and very worthy soul, lived with them, with whom I now and then took a turn at backgammon, while the affianced couple amused themselves with chess—such chess! Travers was, I knew, a superior player, but on these occasions he hardly appeared to know a queen from a rook, or a bishop from a pawn. They were thus absurdly engaged one evening, when I made a discovery which, if it did not much surprise, greatly pained and somewhat alarmed me. Aunt Jane had left the room on some household intent, and I, partly concealed in the recess where I sat, by the window-curtain, silently contemplated the queer chess-playing, the entranced delight of the lover, and the calm, smiling graciousness of the lady. I have felt in a more enviable frame of mind—more composed, more comfortable than I did just then, but, good lord! what was my innocent little pit-pat compared with the storm of hate, and fury, and despair, which found terrific expression in the countenance that, as attracted by a slight noise, I hastily looked up, met my view! It was Capel's. He had entered the room, the door being ajar, unobserved, and was gazing, as he supposed, unmarked, at the chess-players. I was so startled that I, mechanically, as it were, sprang to my feet, and as I did so, Capel's features, by a strong effort of will, resumed their ordinary expression, save for the deathly pallor that remained, and a nervous quivering of the upper lip which could not be instantly mastered. I was more than satisfied as to the true nature of smooth-seeming Mr. Capel's sentiments toward the contracted couple, but as they had observed nothing, I thought it wisest to hold my peace. I could not, however, help smiling at the confiding simplicity with which Travers, as we all three walked homeward together, sought counsel of Capel as to the readiest means of raising—unknown to Miss Hervey—the funds necessary to be obtained before Prudence, as interpreted by that lady, would permit his marriage. Slight help, thought I, for such a purpose, will be afforded by the owner of the amiable countenance I saw just now.
It was just a week after this that thunder fell upon our office by the discovery that sixteen hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, sent in by different parties, late on the previous day, had disappeared, together with a memorandum-book containing the numbers and dates. Great, it may be imagined, was the consternation among us all, and a rigorous investigation, which, however, led to nothing, was immediately instituted. Capel, who showed extraordinary zeal in the matter, went, accompanied by one of the chief clerks, to the parties from whom the notes had been received, for fresh lists, in order that payment might be stopped. On their return, it was given out that no accurate, reliable list could be obtained. This, it was afterward found, was a ruse adopted in order to induce the thief or thieves to more readily attempt getting the notes into circulation.
This occurred in the beginning of September, and about the middle of October, Travers suddenly informed me that he was to be married on the following Monday—this was Tuesday. The lease of a house at Hammersmith had, he said, been agreed for, the furniture ordered, and every thing was to be completed and paid for by the end of the present week. "And the money—the extra two hundred and odd pounds required—how has that been obtained?" "Of my uncle Woolridge, a marriage-gift, though he won't, I believe, be present at the wedding," returned the bridegroom-elect, with a joyous chuckle. I was quite sure from his manner, as well as from my knowledge of his uncle's penurious character, that this was a deception. Constance Hervey's scruples, I had always thought, now that it was certain his next quarter's salary would be one hundred and fifty pounds were somewhat over strained and unreasonable—still I was vexed that he had stooped to deceive her by such a subterfuge. It was, however, no especial affair of mine, and I reluctantly accepted his invitation to dine at the Herveys' with him on the last day of his bachelorhood, that is, on the following Sunday. Capel was invited, but he refused. I also, declined, and resolutely, to attend the wedding. That would, I felt, be un peu trop fort just then.
A very pleasant party assembled at Mr. Hervey's on the afternoon of that terrible Sunday, and we were cheerfully chatting over the dessert, when the servant-girl announced that four gentlemen were at the door who said they must see Mr. Travers instantly.
"Must see me!" exclaimed Travers. "Very peremptory, upon my word. With your leave, sir—and yours, Constance, I will see these very determined gentlemen here. Bid them walk in, Susan."
Before Susan could do so, the door opened, and in walked the strangers without invitation. One of them, a square, thick-set, bullet-headed man it instantly struck me I had been in company with before. Oh! to be sure! he was the officer who conducted the investigation in the matter of the stolen notes. What on earth could he want there—or with Travers?
"You paid, Mr. Travers," said he, bluntly, "something over four hundred pounds to these two gentlemen, yesterday."
"Yes, certainly I did; no doubt about it."
"Will you tell us, then, if you please, where you obtained the notes in which you made those payments?"
"Obtained them—where I obtained them?" said Travers, who did not, I think, immediately recognize the officer. "To be sure. Four of them—four fifties—I have had by me for some time; and—and—"
"The two one-hundred pound notes—how about them?" quietly suggested the man, seeing Travers hesitate.
Travers, more confused than alarmed, perhaps, but white as the paper on which I am writing, glanced hurriedly round—we had all impulsively risen to our feet—till his eye rested upon Constance Hervey's eagerly-attentive countenance. "I received them," he stammered, repeating, I was sure, a falsehood, "from my uncle, Mr. Woolridge, of Tottenham."
"Then, of course, you will have no objection to accompany us to your uncle, Mr. Woolridge, of Tottenham?"
"Certainly not; but not now. To-morrow—you see I am engaged now."
"I am sorry to say, Mr. Travers, that you must go with us. Those two notes were among those stolen from the office to which you belong."
There was a half-stifled scream—a broken sob, and, but for me, Constance Hervey would have fallen senseless on the floor. Travers was in the merciless grasp of the officers, who needlessly hurried him off, spite of his frantic entreaties for a brief delay. The confusion and terror of such a scene may be imagined, not described. Although at first somewhat staggered, five minutes had not passed before I felt thoroughly satisfied that Travers was the victim of some diabolical plot; and I pretty well guessed of whose concoction. An untruth he had no doubt been guilty of, through fear of displeasing his betrothed—but guilty of stealing money—of plundering the office!—bah!—the bare supposition was an absurdity.
As soon as Miss Hervey was sufficiently recovered to listen, I endeavored to reason with her in this sense, but she could not sufficiently command her attention. "My brain is dizzy and confused as yet," she said; "do you follow, and ascertain, as far as possible, all the truth—the worst truth. I shall be calmer when you return."
"I did so, and in less than two hours I was again at Kensington. Travers was locked up, after confessing that his statement of having received the hundred-pound notes of his uncle Woolridge, was untrue. He would probably be examined at Bow-street the next day—his wedding-day, as he had fondly dreamed!"
I found Constance Hervey—unlike her father and aunt, who were moaning and lamenting about the place like distracted creatures—perfectly calm and self-possessed, though pale as Parian marble. I told her all—all I had heard and seen, and all that I suspected. Her eyes kindled to intensest lustre as I spoke. "I have no doubt," she said, "that your suspicions point the right way, but proof, confronted as we shall be by that wretched falsehood, will, I fear, be difficult. But I will not despair; the truth will, I trust, ultimately prevail. And remember, Thornton," she added, "that we count entirely upon you." She gave me her hand on saying this; I clutched it with ridiculous enthusiasm, and blurted out—as if I had been a warlike knight instead of a peaceable clerk—"You may, Miss Hervey, to the death!" In fact, at that particular moment, although by no means naturally pugnacious, and, moreover, of a somewhat delicate constitution, I think I should have proved an ugly customer had there been any body in the way to fight with. This, however, not being the case, I consulted with Mr. Hervey as to what legal assistance ought to be secured, and it was finally determined that I should request Mr. Elkins, a solicitor residing in Lothbury, to take Travers's instructions, and that Mr. Alley, the barrister, should be retained to attend at Bow-street. This matter settled, I took my leave.
I had a very unsatisfactory account to render on the morrow evening to the anxious family at Kensington. Travers's appearance at Bow-street had been deferred, at the request of his solicitor, to Wednesday, in order that the individual from whom the prisoner ow declared he had received the stolen notes might be communicated with. The explanation given by Travers to the solicitor was briefly this: About seven months previously he had amassed a considerable sum in guineas—then bearing a high premium, although it was an offense at law to dispose of them for more in silver or notes than their nominal value. Somebody—Mr. Capel, he was pretty sure, but would not be positive—mentioned to him the name of one Louis Brocard, of No. 18 Brewer-street, as a man who would be likely to give him a good price for his gold. Travers accordingly saw Brocard, who, after considerable haggling, paid him two hundred pounds in Bank of England notes—four fifties—for one hundred and sixty-two guineas. That lately he, Travers, had often mentioned to Capel, that he wished to raise, as secretly as possible, on his own personal security, a sum of at least two hundred pounds, and that Capel—this he was sure of, as not more than a month had since elapsed—Capel had advised him to apply to Louis Brocard for assistance. He had done so, and Brocard had given him the two one-hundred pound notes in exchange for a note of hand, at six months' date, for two hundred and twenty pounds. I had obtained temporary leave of absence from the office, and at the solicitor's request I accompanied him to Brewer-street. Brocard—a strong-featured, swarthy emigré from the south of France, Languedoc, I believe, who had been in this country since '92, and spoke English fluently—was at home, and I could not help thinking, from his manner, expecting and prepared for some such visit. There was a young woman with him, his niece, he said, Marie Deschamps, of the same cast of features as himself, but much handsomer, and with dark fiery eyes, that upon the least excitement seemed to burn like lightning. Brocard confirmed Travers's statement without hesitation as to the purchase of the gold and the discount of the bill. "In what money did you pay the two hundred pounds for which you received the acceptance?" asked the solicitor.
"I will tell you," replied Brocard, coolly. "Marie, give me the pocket-book from the desk—the red one. September 26th," he continued, after adjusting his spectacles, "Martin Travers, four fifty Bank of England notes," and he read off the dates and numbers, of which I possess no memoranda.
"Why, those are the notes," exclaimed Mr. Elkins, very much startled, and glancing at a list in his hand, "which you paid Mr. Travers for the gold, and which you and others I could name, knew he had not since parted with!"
A slight flush crossed the Frenchman's brow, and the niece's eyes gleamed with fierce expression at these words. The emotion thus displayed was but momentary.
"You are misinformed," said Brocard. "Here is a memorandum made at the time (March 3d) of the notes paid for the gold. You can read it yourself. The largest in amount, you will see, was a twenty."
"Do you mean to persist in asserting," said Mr. Elkins, after several moments of dead silence, "that you did not pay Mr. Travers for his bill of exchange in two one-hundred pound notes?"
"Persist!" exclaimed the Frenchman. "I don't understand your 'persist!' I have told you the plain truth. Persist—parbleu!"
I was dumfoundered. "Pray, Monsieur Brocard," said the solicitor, suddenly; "Do you know Mr. Capel?"
The swarthy flush was plainer now, and not so transitory. "Capel—Capel," he muttered, averting his face toward his niece. "Do we know Capel, Marie?"
"No doubt your niece does, Mr. Brocard," said the solicitor, with a sharp sneer, "or that eloquent face of hers belies her."
In truth, Marie Deschamps's features were a-flame with confused and angry consciousness; and her brilliant eyes sparkled with quick ire, as she retorted, "And if I do, what then?"
"Nothing, perhaps, young lady; but my question was addressed to your uncle."
"I have nothing more to say," rejoined Brocard. "I know nothing of the hundred pound notes; very little of Mr. Capel, whom now, however, I remember. And pray, sir," he added, with a cold, malignant smile, "did I not hear this morning, that Martin Travers informed the officers that it was a relation, an uncle, I believe, from whom he received the said notes—stolen notes, it seems? He will endeavor to inculpate some one else by-and-by, I dare say."
There was no parrying this thrust, and we came away, much disturbed and discouraged. I remained late that evening at Kensington, talking the unfortunate matter over; but hope, alas! of a safe deliverance for poor Travers appeared impossible, should Brocard persist in his statement. The prisoner's lodgings had been minutely searched, but no trace of the still missing fourteen hundred pounds had been discovered there. Constance Hervey appeared to be greatly struck with my account of Marie Deschamps's appearance and demeanor, and made me repeat each circumstance over and over again. I could not comprehend how this could so much interest her at such a time.
Brocard repeated his statement, on oath, at Bow-street, and Mr. Alley's cross-examination failed to shake his testimony. The first declaration made by Travers necessarily deprived his after protestations, vehement as they were, of all respect; but I could not help feeling surprise that the barrister's suggestion that it was absurd to suppose that a man in possession of the very large sum that had been stolen, would have borrowed two hundred pounds at an exorbitant interest, was treated with contempt. All that, it was hinted, was a mere colorable contrivance to be used in case of detection. The prisoner feared to put too many of the notes in circulation at once, and the acceptance would have been paid for in the stolen moneys, and so on. Finally, Travers was committed for trial, and bail was refused.
As the star of the unfortunate Travers sank in disastrous eclipse, that of Capel shone more brilliantly. There was no doubt that he would succeed, on his rival's conviction, to the vacated post; and some eight or nine weeks after Travers had been committed, circumstances occurred which induced me to believe that he would be equally successful in another respect. I must also say that Capel evinced from the first much sorrow for his old friend's lamentable fall; he treated the notion of his being guiltless with disdain, and taking me one day aside, he said he should endeavor to get Brocard out of the country before the day of trial either by fair means or by tipping him the Alien Act. "In fact," he added, with some confusion of manner, "I have faithfully promised Miss Hervey, that for her sake, though she can have no more doubt of his guilt than I have, that no effort shall be spared to prevent his legal conviction; albeit, life, without character will be, I should think, no great boon to him."
"For her sake! You, Edward Capel, have faithfully promised Miss Hervey to attempt this for her sake!" I exclaimed, as soon as I could speak for sheer astonishment.
"Ay, truly: does that surprise you, Thornton?" he added, with a half-bitter, half-Malvolio smile.
"Supremely; and if it be as your manner intimates, why then, Frailty, thy name in very truth is—"
"Woman!" broke in Capel, taking the word out of my mouth. "No doubt of it, from the days of Eve till ours. But come, let us return to business."
I had been for some time grievously perplexed by the behavior of Constance Hervey. Whenever I had called at Kensington, I found, that though at times she appeared to be on the point of breaking through a self-imposed restraint, all mention of Travers, as far as possible, was avoided, and that some new object engrossed the mind of Constance, to the exclusion of every other. What a light did this revelation of Capel's throw on her conduct and its motives! And it was such a woman as that, was it, that I had enshrined in the inmost recesses of my heart, and worshiped as almost a divinity! Great God!
These thoughts were trembling on my lips, when a brief note was brought me: "Miss Hervey's compliments to Mr. Edward Thornton, and she will be obliged if, late as it is, he will hasten to Kensington immediately." I had never seen a line of hers before in my life, and it was wonderful how all my anger, suspicion, scorn, vanished—exhaled, before those little fly-stroke characters; so much so that—but no, I won't expose myself. A hack soon conveyed me to Kensington; Mr. Hervey, Constance, and good Aunt Jane were all there in the parlor, evidently in expectation of my arrival. Miss Hervey proceeded to business at once.
"You have not seen Marie Deschamps lately, I believe?"
"Not I! The last time I saw her was in Bow-street, whither she accompanied her scoundrel of an uncle."
"Well, you must see her again to-morrow. She is deeply attached to Mr. Capel, and expects that he will marry her as soon as Martin Travers is convicted; and he, Capel, has secured the vacant place."
"Ha!"
"Mr. Capel," continued Miss Hervey, and a glint of sparkling sunlight shot from her charming eyes, "has been foolish enough to prefer another person—at least so I am instructed by papa, with whom the gentleman left this note, not yet opened, addressed to me, some three hours since. I can imagine its contents, but let us see."
I can not depict in words the scorn, contempt, pride—triumph, too—that swept over that beautiful countenance. "Very impassioned and eloquent, upon my word," she said; "I only wonder such burning words did not fire the paper. Now, Mr. Thornton, you must see this forsaken damsel, Marie Deschamps, and acquaint her with Mr. Capel's inconstancy. She will require proof—it shall be afforded her. In answer to this missive, I shall appoint Mr. Capel to see me here to-morrow evening at seven o'clock. Do you bring her by half-past six, and place yourselves in yon little ante-room, where every thing done here, and every word spoken, can be distinctly seen and heard. This well managed, I am greatly deceived in those southern eyes of hers if the iniquitous plot, of which there can be no doubt she holds the clew, will not receive an unlooked-for solution."
"Charming! glorious! beautiful!" I was breaking into éclats of enthusiastic admiration, but Miss Hervey, who was too earnest and excited to listen patiently to rhapsodies, cut me short with, "My dear sir, it's getting very late, and there is, you know, much to be done to-morrow." It's not pleasant to be let down so suddenly when you are so particularly stilty, but as I was by this time pretty well used to it, I submitted with the best possible grace, and, after receiving some other explanations and directions, took leave.
I obtained an interview without difficulty, on the following morning, with Marie Deschamps, just before office hours, and in her uncle's absence. She was curious to know the object of my visit; but her manner, though free and gay, was carefully guarded and unrelenting, till I gradually and cautiously introduced the subject of Capel's infidelity. It was marvelous how, as each sentence fell upon her ear, her figure stiffened into statue-like rigidity, and her eyes kindled with fiery passion. "If this be so," she said, when I ceased speaking, "he is playing with his life! Is she the lady I passed a fortnight since, when with him in the Park?" "Describe the lady, and I will tell you." She did so; it was the exact portrait of Miss Hervey, and so I told her. "I had a misgiving at the time," she said; "if it prove true—but I will believe, after what has passed, only my own eyes and ears."
This was all we desired; a satisfactory arrangement was agreed upon, and I left her, not without hugging self-gratulation that I was not the recreant sweetheart about to be caught in flagrante delicto by such a damsel.
I watched Capel that day with keen attention. He was much excited it was evident, and withal ill at ease: there was a nervous apprehensiveness in his manner and aspect I had never before noticed, over which, however, from time to time quick flashes of exultation glimmered, sparkled, and then vanished. Is it, thought I, the shadow of a sinister catastrophe that already projects over and awes, appalls him? It might be.
Marie Deschamps and I were ensconced punctually at the hour named, in the little slip of a closet communicating with the Herveys' up-stairs sitting-room. Nobody appeared there till about five minutes to seven, when Constance, charmingly attired, and looking divinely—though much agitated, I could see through all her assumed firmness—entered, and seated herself upon a small couch, directly in front of the tiny window through which we cautiously peered. "No wonder," I mentally exclaimed, "that Capel has been beguiled of all sense or discretion!"
In reply to Marie Deschamps' look of jealous yet admiring surprise, I whispered, pointing to the neat but poor furniture, "Capel expects, you know, soon to have six hundred a year." "Ah," she rejoined, in the same tone, "and in this country gold is God!" "And all the Saints in yours, I believe; but hark! there is a knock at the door; it is he, no doubt."
Comparatively dark as the closet was, I could see the red, swarthy color come and go on the young woman's cheeks and forehead; and I fancied I could hear the violent and hurried beating of her heart. Presently Mr. Capel entered the apartment; his features were flushed as with fever, and his whole manner exhibited uncontrollable agitation. His first words were unintelligible, albeit their purport might be guessed. Miss Hervey, though much disturbed also, managed to say, after a few moment's awkward silence, and with a half-ironical yet fascinating smile, taking up as she spoke a letter which lay upon the table, "Upon my word, Mr. Capel, this abrupt proposal of yours appears to me, under the circumstances, to be singularly ill-timed and premature, besides—"
The lady's discomposure had, it struck me, dissipated a half-formed suspicion in Capel's mind that some trap or mystification was preparing for him, and, throwing himself at the feet of Constance, he gave way to a torrent of fervent, headlong protestation, which there could be no question was the utterance of genuine passion. Marie Deschamps felt this, and but that I forcibly held her back, she would have burst into the room at once: as it was she pressed her arms across her bosom with her utmost force, as if to compress, keep down, the wild rage by which she was, I saw, shaken and convulsed. Miss Hervey appeared affected by Capel's vehemence, and she insisted that he should rise and seat himself. He did so, and after a minute or so of silence, Constance again resolutely addressed herself to the task she had determined to perform.
"But the lady, Mr. Capel, whom we saw you conversing with not long since in the Park; one Marie—Marie, something?"
"The name of such a person as Marie Deschamps should not sully Miss Hervey's lips, even in jest, ha!—"
o wonder he stopped abruptly, and turned round with quick alarm. Till that moment I had with difficulty succeeded in holding the said Marie, but no sooner was her name thus contemptuously pronounced, than she plucked a small, glittering instrument from her bodice—the half of a pair of scissors, it seemed to me, but pointed and sharp as a dagger—and drove it into my arm with such hearty good-will, that I loosed her in a twinkling. In she burst upon the utterly astounded Capel with a cry of rage and vengeance, and struck furiously at him right and left, at the same time hurling in his face the epithets of "liar!" "traitor!" "robber!" "villain!" and so on, as thick as hail, and with maniacal fury. I had instantly followed, and at the same moment Mr. Hervey, and the officer who arrested Travers, came in by another door. I and Mr. Hervey placed ourselves before Constance, who was terribly scared, for this stabbing business was more than we had looked or bargained for. The officer seized Marie Deschamps' arm, and with some difficulty wrenched the dangerous weapon she wielded with such deadly ferocity from her grasp. It was, as I supposed, a sharpened scissors-blade, and keen, as a large scar on my arm still testifies, as a poinard. Capel, paralyzed, bewildered by so unexpected and furious an attack, and bleeding in several places, though not seriously hurt, staggered back to the wall, against which he supported himself, as he gazed with haggard fear and astonishment at the menacing scene before him.
"And so you would marry that lady, thief and villain that you are!" continued the relentless young fury; "she shall know, then, what you are; that it was you contrived the stealing of the bank notes, which—"
"Marie!" shrieked Capel, "dear Marie! for your own sake, stop! I will do any thing—"
"Dog! traitor!" she broke in, with even yet wilder passion than before, if it were possible; "it is too late. I know you now, and spit at both you and your promises? It was you, I say, who brought my uncle the one-hundred pound notes by which your friend, Martin Travers, has been entrapped!"
"'Tis false! the passionate, mad, jealous fool lies!" shouted Capel, with frantic terror.
"Lie, do I? Then there is ot a thousand pounds worth of the stolen notes concealed at this moment beneath the floor of your sitting-room, till an opportunity can be found of sending them abroad! That, unmatched villain that you are, is false, too, perhaps?"
She paused from sheer exhaustion, and for a brief space no one spoke, so suddenly had the blow fallen. Presently the officer said, "The game is up, you see, at last, Mr. Capel; you will go with me;" and he stepped toward the unhappy culprit. Capel, thoroughly desperate, turned, sprang with surprising agility over a dining-table, threw up a window-sash, and leapt into the street. The height was not so much, but his feet caught in some iron railing, and he fell head foremost on the pavement, fracturing his skull frightfully. Before an hour had passed, he was dead.
Brocard contrived to escape, but the evidence of Marie Deschamps and the finding of the stolen notes, in accordance with her statement, fully established the innocence of Travers, and he was restored to freedom and his former position in the world. He and Constance Hervey, to whom he owed so much, were married three months after his liberation, and I officiated, by particular desire, as bride's father.
I had lost sight of Marie Deschamps for some twelve or thirteen years, when I accidentally met her in Liverpool. She was a widow, having married and buried a M. L'Estrange, a well-to-do person there, who left her in decent circumstances. We spoke together of the events I have briefly but faithfully narrated, and she expressed much contrition for the share she had taken in the conspiracy against Travers. I fancied, too—it was perhaps an unjust fancy—that, knowing I had lately been promoted to four hundred a year, she wished to dazzle me with those still bright eyes of hers—a bootless effort, by whomsoever attempted. The talismanic image daguerreotyped upon my heart in the bright sunlight of young manhood, could have no rival there, and is even now as fresh and radiant as when first impressed, albeit the strong years have done their work, yet very gently, upon the original. It could scarcely be otherwise, living visibly, as she still does, in youthful grace and beauty in the person of the gay gipsy I am, please God, soon to "give away," at St. Pancras Church, as I did her grandmamma, more than forty years ago, at Kensington. Constance, this Constance is, as she well knows, to be my heiress. Travers, her grandfather, is now a silver-haired, yet hale, jocund, old man; and so tenderly, I repeat, has Time dealt with his wife—the Constance Hervey of this narrative—that I can sometimes hardly believe her to be more than about three or four and forty years of age. This is, however, perhaps only an illusion of the long and, whatever fools or skeptics may think, or say, elevating dream that has pursued me through youth and middle age, even unto confirmed old bachelorhood. Madame L'Estrange, as before stated, died a short time since at Liverpool; her death, by influenza, the paper noticed, was sudden and unexpected.