CHAPTER XXII. I ESCAPE—BUT MR. SLOMAN MEETS WITH AN ACCIDENT.
“Malcolm. This murderous shaft that’s shot,
Hath not yet lighted; and our safest way
Is, to avoid the aim.”
“For ‘tis the sport, to have the engineer
Hoist with his own petar.”
Shakspeare.
It was pitch dark, and the locality as much unknown as if I had been dropped into Kamschatka. What the devil was I to do? I threw my cloak off, rolled it round my left arm, and firmly grasped my sapling; then, commending myself to the especial protection of St. Patrick, I endeavoured to retrace my steps.
I blundered on for half a minute, a low rascally whistle immediately in my rear assuring me that I was in vicarious society, from which the sooner I parted company the better. Moving a pace or two forward, my steps evidently attracted the attention of the scoundrels, for a low voice inquired, “Is that you—Josh?”
I never felt less inclination to be communicative, and silently continued my retreat. The suspicions of the cut-throats were confirmed. I heard a voice desire his comrade to “Come on,” adding, with an oath, “the bird’s alarmed!”
It was idle attempting to steal a march upon an enemy already on the alert; and a dreadful conviction shot across my mind, that escape from assassination was hopeless. To be coldly butchered in the dark—to be hurried from the stage of life at the very moment of my entrance on it—and in the spring of manhood to fill a bloody grave, with every thing prospectively before me which renders human existence desirable—the thought was horrible. These feelings were but momentary, and other ideas filled my mind. To resist to the uttermost—to display, even in death, a tiger-like ferocity—this changed the current of my thoughts, and a soul-sinking despondency gave place to the terrible calmness which desperate circumstances produce. I quickened my pace—my steps fell heavily on the pavement—the murderers increased their speed—and both parties rushed forward in the dark; I at random, and they in the full expectancy of attaining their object, and gaining the recompense which was to be contingent on my destruction.
Acquainted with the locality of the dark lanes in which I found myself unfortunately involved, the scoundrels closed upon me fast, and at last I was regularly brought to bay.
“Back, villains!” I exclaimed.
“All’s right—that’s he—at him, Jim!” was responded.
In one thing the darkness favoured me. My sapling was unperceived; the ruffians closed fearlessly—and the first intimation that they had “caught a tartar” was by the bolder of the twain being sent to the ground with a crashing blow that shattered his jawbone, and rendered him hors de combat. His companion instantly fell back, and I was about to wheel round and continue my retreat, when a heavy blow from behind knocked off my hat, and a knife grazed my arm through the folds of the cloak that, fortunately for me, had formed its protection. Need I say that the fresh assailants were the bravo and hunchback? while, encouraged by their assistance, the scared ruffian resumed the offensive.
[Original]
My chances of escape appeared utterly hopeless. The ruffians, by dividing my attention on either side, had enabled the hunchback to creep in and grasp my legs within his long and bony arms. Happily the knife dropped from his hold in his first attempt to stab me, and the night was too dark to enable him to pick it up again. I strove to shake him off, but the wretch clung to me with that virulent tenacity with which a reptile coils itself around its victim. In the attempt to free myself from the cripple, I struck my foot against a stone, stumbled, and, before I could recover my footing, a blow brought me to the ground, the assassins sprang in, and my fate seemed sealed.
That brief space of exquisite agony I shall never forget. Oh, God.’ how hard it is to die! and die, as I should, by felon hands, prostrate and powerless, murdered “i’ the dark,” without the satisfaction of even in an expiring effort “stinging the wretch that stung me.” That moment’s misery was ended. Steps were heard. I hallooed “Murder!”
A voice, and, saints and angels! an Irish one, replied.
The hunchback then hastily cried, “Quick!—strike!—brain him!”
I caught the miscreant by the throat as the last word passed his lips—and next moment two figures flitted past my fading vision, as a blow fell upon my head, and laid me senseless.
Presently I awoke as from a dream. A man supported me; another put a cup of water to my lips; and a couple of crippled watchmen held their lanterns over us. I looked at my supporter; he was strange. My eye turned to his companion. In the dim light his features were not remembered—and yet the hand that held the water to my lips was my foster brother’s. By degrees consciousness returned.
“Where am I?” I muttered.
“Arrah, the Lord only knows!” responded the ratcatcher.
“Was I not attacked—stabbed—knocked down? Who were the assailants? Where are they?” I continued, as wandering recollections of the past flitted across my memory.
“Sorra one of us knows who they were; but if you searched London through, you would’nt pick out an uglier couple. One was a spider-built divil without a back, and the other a black-muzzled thief of a Jew, with whiskers you could hang your hat on. They’re off—had luck pursue them!—and among these twists and turnings, ye might as well look for a rat in a rabbit warren, as ferret them out, the ruffins of the world!”
I rose with slight assistance, but staggered like a drunken man, and, preceded by the watchmen to give us light, walked slowly on, leaning on the arms of my deliverers. We reached a public-house at no great distance; and having committed me to the care of the landlord and Shemus Rhua—guided by a Charlie, Mark Antony set out to find a surgeon, perfectly unconscious who the stranger was, whom timely assistance had so miraculously preserved from murder.
He returned; the discovery was made; and need I describe what a meeting between persons attached by the tie of fosterage, under such circumstances, would be? I heard the detail of my deliverance. The surgeon dressed my wounds, and pronounced them merely flesh ones; for the knife had only razed the skin, and, in the dark, the blow intended as a coup de grace, had missed the head, struck against the kerb-stone, and fallen on the shoulder lightly. That I had been marked out for deliberate assassination, the gipsy’s warning, the adventure in Mr. Spicer’s house, and the discovery of a clasp-knife and jemmy dropped on the field of battle, sufficiently established. We received those trophies from the venerable conservator of the city’s peace, paid him a fitting remuneration for the services of his lantern, and parted nearly at the same spot from which a woman’s wiles had so recently seduced me—to wit, St. Paul’s; I to return to my own inn by a hackney coach, and the ratcatcher and my foster brother to repair to the place from whence they came, with an arrangement to meet next morning—
“That we would all our pilgrimage dilate,
Whereof by parcels we had something heard,
But not intentively.”
I drove to Mr. Hartley’s residence. He was at home; and as Dominique had signified that I was anxious to speak with him before he retired for the night, he was waiting my return in the drawing-room. I found him leaning against the mantel-piece, buried in deep thought. His back was turned from me; and as I unclosed the door softly, for a few moments he was unconscious of my presence.
“Might he be trusted yet?” he muttered to himself. “I think so—for he loves her. Would it not be premature?” He raised his eyes—“Ha, Hector! returned! What means that patch across your forehead?”
“An attempt,” I answered, “has been made upon my life, and failed.”
“Indeed! Where—and by whom?” he asked eagerly.
Here was I again in trouble. To recount the evening’s “moving accidents” without a formal introduction of the soldier’s daughter, would, as a narrative, prove lame and inconclusive, as to enact Hamlet with the omission of the Prince of Denmark. I doubted whether Mr. Hartley would approve of my advocating the young lady’s claims upon the government; and, from his starched notions respecting female propriety, it was most probable he would consider a nocturnal interview not exactly a regular procedure. I commenced accordingly, “in fear and terror,” as the lawyers say; told a confused story of meeting a girl in a fog; blundered at bringing her into a tavern; and totally broke down when we met in St. Paul’s churchyard, on our way to the domicile of her respectable relative. As we proceeded in the dark, no doubt I stammered more.
“Come, Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, “out with the whole truth; I hate half confidence.”
On I went. With the acute auditor I had to deal with, it would be useless to attempt concealment; and he listened with deep interest, and, as I fancied, no trifling mixture of displeasure, until I brought my story to a close.
“You have had a marvellous deliverance, Mr. O’Halloran”—(He mistered me, and that looked squally)—“and you seem a man born to be the dupe of villains, through the agency of that worst of curses, a vicious woman. One would have thought that your recent escape from spoliation and disgrace by that amiable coterie in Jermyn Street, would have made you rather cautious in forming acquaintanceships with strangers, and believing every fabricated tale you heard. I am a candid man, and pardon me, while I give you a proof of my sincerity.
“I credit your tale, and totally disbelieve your motives. You could not be fool enough to remain for a second, in ignorance of the true character of this lady of the fog; for none but the profligate of her sex would accede to the request of a young gentleman of twenty-one, and, at first sight, grant him a nocturnal interview. This may seem impertinence in me, who, apparently, have no right or interest in inquiring into your love affairs—although I must confess, that in the selection of your female acquaintances you have not been particularly fortunate.”
“However imprudent, or, indeed, improbable my conduct may appear, I assure you, sir, upon the unblemished honour of a gentleman, that my motives were precisely what I described them,” I replied, with a firmness of voice and manner, that at once guaranteed my truth.
Mr. Hartley looked at me for a moment. He saw that his suspicions had hurt me; and, convinced of my sincerity, he held out his hand, which I accepted.
“Hector, I believe you, and acquit you of every thing but concealment. Did you know the deep interest I feel in all that concerns your character and future fortunes, you would forgive me in testing your motives and actions so rigidly as I do, and have done. No more of this at present. Where is that scrawl you received this evening from the woman whom you encountered with my daughter in the park? Your hand is feverish. Although you may not feel it at present, you could not have passed through the deadly struggle you have described uninjured. To bed, friend Hector; Dominique, a second time, shall look to your wounds, and I for once play gallant, and keep your appointment with the lady of the bridge. Hark! the clock chimes. Half-past eleven. The ‘trysted hour’ is twelve.”
I assured Mr. Hartley that I neither required leechcraft nor repose, but was most willing he should bear me company. The negro was summoned; his master gave orders in a whisper; I filled a glass of wine and water; Mr. Hartley unlocked a mahogany case, presented me with a brace of beautiful pistols, and put another brace into his own pockets; told me they were loaded; and next moment the sable functionary appeared with a dark lantern in one hand, and a bludgeon in the other. All we required was the companionship of the ratcatcher and Mark Antony, to enable us to take, regularly to the road, and rob every coach within sound of Bow bell; at least, so said Mr. Hartley.
Were it possible, the night was darker than when I kept my assignation with the soldier’s orphan. Three quarters chimed; and ere the hour of meeting struck, we were punctually at the place appointed.
The bridge was wrapped in fog; and the two or three lamps that still burned, flared such a dull and yellow light, as merely rendered “darkness visible.” The night was raw and chilly, and, save a few passing citizens, “few and far between,” the causeway of Blackfriars was deserted. It was an hour when none but the unfortunate are abroad; a night when only the houseless are encountered. All that was orderly were in-doors; and the elderly gentlemen, to whom watch and ward were entrusted, properly declined to exhibit a bad example of being found upon the streets, and ensconced themselves in comfortable corners of the night-houses most contiguous to their respective beats, leaving the dreary pavement to persons of indifferent reputation. No wonder, then, that we found ourselves in unmolested possession of the bridge. I took a position at that extremity which the gipsy’s billet had pointed out; while Mr. Hartley and his attendant occupied the recess immediately opposite my post.
A quarter chimed—another—and another. At last, dull as a muffled drum, one heavy stroke boomed from the clock-tower of St. Paul’s, and announced the first hour of morning.
“Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, as he crossed the bridge, “it is useless to remain longer here. Your prophetic friend for once has broken her promise.”
“‘Tis false!” replied a voice within half-a-dozen paces—“she is here!” and a figure too much concealed for recognition flitted from the centre of the bridge, and boldly joined us.
Again the scene must change; and once more we shall carry the indulgent reader into the close alley where Mr. Brown’s domicile was situated, and, at half-past eleven, introduce him to old acquaintances—the worthy owner of the mansion, and Mr. Sloman, his respected friend.
They were seated at the table, with all the appurtenances that rendered their former interview so pleasant; but the present mood of the worthy couple was very different from the former one. The countenances of both betrayed anxiety and impatience. To plot is one thing—to perpetrate another; and a deed of blood propounded and agreed to on their first meeting, was now in course of execution. No wonder that the scoundrels felt ill at ease; not that either felt the slightest compunction for hurrying a fellow-creature into eternity; the failure of the attempt was what they dreaded, with a fear, if the deed were done, that some circumstances should attend it which ultimately might compromise their safety. They drank, but the wine had no flavour; or if it had, it failed to call forth their approbation. They spoke but little; the sentences that passed were brief and in an under tone; and at the slightest noise without both started; each appearing impatient for intelligence, and yet half afraid to hear what the result had been.
“What the devil can delay them?” observed Mr. Brown. “The thing should have come off an hour ago.”
“They may have failed,” replied Mr. Sloman; “or have done it, and been detected; or—but, thank God, I know nothing of the matter.”
“Pish! as much as I do,” returned the owner of the mansion.
“How can you say so, Mr. Brown?” returned Mr. Sloman, angrily.
The host directed a meaning look at his visitor.
“Slowey, how soft you are! Well, don’t fear; in England there’s not a better hand at cracking a skull than Josh Levi; and at the knife—the creature’s too weak for anything but light work—I’ll back Frank for a hundred.”
“Damn it, don’t tell me particulars,” exclaimed the lawyer. “I wish all was over; I safe in Mary Axe; and you with your four hundred snug in pocket.”
“Is the cash right?” inquired Mr. Brown.
Mr. Sloman deigned no reply; but, producing a leather case from his side-pocket, he reckoned over nine bank notes.
“I don’t know a nicer thing to look at, than a clean hundred-pound flimsey fresh from the Bank,” observed Mr. Sloman, playfully.
Suddenly the street-bell rang, and a low and peculiar whistle followed the sound. Mr. Brown started.
“By Heaven! that’s not Frank’s signal,” lie exclaimed. “Something is wrong, or the hunchback would be the first to bring intelligence.”
Another, and a louder ring, told the impatience of the midnight visitor; and Mr. Brown descended to the lower story to ascertain who it was that at this late hour required admission. The answers from without satisfied him that the stranger might be let in. The chains rattled; the bolts were drawn; again the door was carefully secured; and Mr. Brown returned to his state apartment, accompanied by a very repulsive-looking gentleman, namely, the swarthy Israelite, who earlier in the evening had been reconnoitred by the captain and his companion while lying perdu in Mr. Spicer’s lumber-room.
The ruffian’s face was flushed, one eye was swollen and discoloured, the collar was torn from his coat, and blood-stains were visible on his hands and linen. His whole appearance was that of a man recently engaged in some sanguinary affray.
A pause ensued. Mr. Brown filled a glass of brandy, which the Jew drained to the bottom.
“What news, Josh?” said the host, in an under tone. “Is the job done?”
“No mistake about it,” returned the bravo.
“You had a tussle for it,” remarked the host, as he threw a careless look over the outer man of the dew, which gave ample indication that the affair he had been recently employed in, to him had proved no sinecure.
“I tell you what, Mr. Brown, I have been in the general line of bisness these fifteen year; lifted three stiff’uns of a night; been shot at half-a-dozen times; got lagged; escaped transportation; and gone through as much rough work as any man in the trade; and in the course of my practice, 1 never had a tougher trial than to-night. Another drop of the brandy, if ye please.”
“But is the thing right, Josh?” inquired Mr. Brown, who always came to business.
“Safe as a trivet! I’ll tell you all.”
“No, no—curse particulars!” exclaimed Mr. Sloman. “You may mention the thing in confidence to Mr. Brown. I know nothing of what you are alluding to, remember that.”
“‘Well, no matter, Slowey; Josh and I will talk it over presently. But where is Frank? No harm done him, I hope. I wouldn’t lose that hunchback for a hundred.”
“Is he not here?” was the Jew’s unsatisfactory reply.
“Here? No! We have expected him an hour ago,” returned his master.
“Then I’m blowed if I know any thing of him.”
“But out with it. Tell us how matters went,” said Mr. Brown.
“Not in my presence,” exclaimed Mr. Sloman, springing from his chair.
“Well, if you’re so devilish leary, you may go into that there closet,” and he rose and opened a door, through which Mr. Sloman immediately retreated; “and Slowey,” continued Mr. Brown, in a lower voice, “you’ll find a slit in the door, and hear as much through it as will suit your purpose.”
“I don’t like that’ere chap, he’s so etarnal cautious,” observed the Jew to Mr. Brown, when he returned. “If men mean wots right—as they ought—why be afeard to talk on bisniss?”
“Hush!” returned the host, as he applied his finger to his nose; “and now about the job, old boy. Drink slow, Josh; a third glass will smother ye.”
The Israelite replaced the brandy he was about to bolt, and then continued his narration, which, though delivered in a low voice, was perfectly audible in Mr. Sloman’s concealment—the fissure in the wood having been cunningly constructed for the purposes of professional espionage.
“Well, ye see,” said the bravo, commencing his murderous narration, “Frank and I—and he’s a handy little creature for a thing of legs and arms—were true to time at St. Paul’s; and there we spied our man reg’lar in tow with Julia. Away they goes together, and we follows close behind. When we comes to the place, the girl had mizzled, and Jim and ‘the smasher’ gone too soon to work; and, my eyes—if they hadn’t cotched it heavy! At him we goes from behind; Frank with his gully, and I with this here preserver;” and the scoundrel exhibited the murderous implement he used. “I niver, nowhere, saw a chap more wide awake. He fought like a good-un; and he was so knowin’, that it was almost impossible to draw him. At last Bill and I divides his attention, while Frank gripped him round the legs. He stumbled, fell, and the game was up; for I fetched him a blow across the skull that would have shattered a horse’s head, and left him dead upon the kerb-stones. Before I could strike again—for one likes to make things safe, ye know, Mr. Brown—two chaps jumps in as if they had riz out of the paving-stones. ‘The smasher’ was grassed in a moment—and I knocked clean away. I nivir got sich a nasty one in my life! I was all astray after it—and I know nothing more whatsomever, only lights came up, and fresh ones joined the others. I sneaked off as well as I could, reeling like a drunken man, and leaving our customer dead as a mackarel.”
“You’re sure he’s done for?” inquired Mr. Brown.
“Done for!” and a second time the scoundrel produced his implement of murder. “Is there a skull in England that would require a second blow of that small article?”
“The man is safe enough, no doubt,” returned Mr. Brown; “but what can have happened to Frank? Hark—by Heaven! he’s at the door!—All’s right!”
The signal was a curious imitation of angry cats, accompanied by a low sound upon the house-bell. Mr. Brown at once hurried down, and gave admission to his hunchbacked favourite, who followed him to the upper-chamber, accompanied by the ruffian called “the smasher.”
To the joint inquiries of the Jew and Mr. Brown, the deformed one gave satisfactory replies. It appeared that in the act of falling, I had kicked the weak wretch from me with such violence as drove him across the narrow lane; and before he could gather himself up again, the fosterer and his friend achieved my rescue. Self-preservation was now the hunchback’s care; and, crawling away unperceived in the confusion, he coiled himself in an obscure corner, from which, though concealed himself, all that passed subsequently was visible. Thence, he witnessed my recovery, and saw me, with slight assistance, leave the scene of the attempt upon my life. In several efforts to get off, the scoundrel had been nearly detected; and when he did succeed, he and his confederate were delayed by the removal of their disabled comrade; and hence, an hour elapsed before he could reach the dwelling of his worthy master.
“Where’s Bill?” was Mr. Brown’s first inquiry.
“Stretched with a broken jawbone in the Fortune of War,” was the reply.
“It seems the job was any thing but an easy one. But it’s done—and that’s a satisfaction.”
“It would have been,” returned the hunchback, “if I had not dropped the gully.”
“What the devil do ye mean?—Isn’t he finished?”
“No more than you are,” was the answer.
The Jew broke in with a coarse contradiction, and swore lustily that I was regularly defunct.
“Well, all I can say,” continued the being of legs and arms, “that for a dead gentleman he spoke as plain as I do. He was a little groggy when he got up, but in a few minutes he walked away as steadily as I can.”
“Damnation! Speak low—but all is overheard—and the reward is lost, I fear,” muttered Mr. Brown.
“The worst of it is,” continued the hunchback, “that my name is on the knife, and Bill has dropped his jemmy.”
“Ay, and the least clue will send the Bow-street villains after us immediately.”
“I won’t remain another moment,” exclaimed Mr. Sloman, hurrying from the closet, and catching up his hat.
“Stop, my dear friend; all may be yet put right. Frank, bring these gentlemen to the parlour. They will require a bit of bread and cheese after their exercise; and when I have spoken a few words to Mr. Sloman”——
“That an’t my name!” exclaimed the alarmed lawyer, as the scoundrels left the room. “Damn it, Mr. Brown,” he continued, “how can you be so stupid? I thought I was dealing with a safe man of business. What the devil do ye call men by their right names for?”
“It was an oversight,” returned the host. “Don’t mind, Slovey—all’s safe here—and we’ll do the job better the next time we get an opportunity. Do we touch upon account to-night?”
“Not a rap!” exclaimed Mr.. Sloman, peevishly; “but won’t you return the hundred?”
Mr. Brown answered only by a look, but that look was an expressive one. It said, or seemed to say, in the elegant parlance ol the present time, “Don’t you wish you may get it?”
“I want to be off,” observed the lawyer, seeing that all chance of restitution was hopeless, “and I don’t like to be stared at by those body-snatchers in the parlour. The scoundrels never forget a man; and, as I attend the Old Bailey professionally, they might remember me on their trial, and call upon me to speak to character.”
“Stop, my dear friend, a minute where you are, and I’ll do the business effectually. Do take a little brandy and water before you start. It’s not to every body I give that Cognac,” and the host left Mr. Sloman to refresh himself before he should set out upon his return homewards.
The hunchback and his companions were seated at a table in the lower room, when Mr. Brown glided softly in. They had drunk freely, for the failure of the night seemed to have occasioned a general annoyance.
“By Heaven!” said the larger of the Jews, “I never, in the ring itself, received such punishment. And then the risk—and nothing for it. The attempt at murder is now a hanging matter. There’s law for ye! Well, I suppose that chap Sloman will make us some amends, and come down handsome, as he should do, for our being regularly served out in trying to oblige him.”
“You’ll never find grace or gratitude in a lawyer,” returned the hunchback.
“If he does not stump up, why I say he has no conscience,” observed the smasher, “but here is Mister Brown.”
“What are we to have for this night’s trouble?” inquired the stouter Jew.
“Sloman won’t stand a rap, because the thing’s a failure. I tried him hard; but he won’t bleed, nor come down with a single flimsey; and yet I’d give a hundred for what he has in the side-pocket of his coat; ay, and gain another by the bargain.”
“You would, would ye?” inquired “the smasher.”
“Ay, and drop a pony over and above. Come here, Frank;” and Mr. Brown retired with the hunchback, and left the ruffians to commune with themselves.
What passed between the owner of the mansion and his favourite is wrapt in mystery. The former returned to the apartment overhead, “to do the civil thing” to Mr. Sloman; the latter, to arrange some pressing business with his confederates in the parlour. In ten minutes Frank announced that “the gentlemen below” were gone; and Mr. Sloman, having expressed his satisfaction at the intelligence, buttoned his coat closely over the side-pocket where his note-case was deposited, put on his wrap-rascal, wound a shawl around his throat to secure it against the night air, was conducted to the churchyard door by the host, and respectfully lighted out by the hunchback.
“No failure, I hope, next time, Mr. Brown,” was the lawyer’s valediction.
“It’s all made safe already. God bless you, Mr. Sloman!”
And these excellent gentlemen parted with a hearty “Good night.” Frank closed the door, Mr. Brown returned to his great chamber, and Mr. Sloman hurried away in the direction of his own residence.
An unbuilt piece of ground, not a hundred yards from the small cemetery we have described as the place on which Mr. Brown’s house abutted, was early next morning the scene of public curiosity. There, a man had been discovered dead; his skull fractured by the blow of some blunt instrument, and his pockets rifled of every thing they had contained. Within an hour the body was duly recognised. The deceased was Mr. Sloman.
Who were the murderers? Gentle, reader, I think you have a shrewd suspicion already. But “time tells many secrets,”—so says the Gaelic adage; and as none have doubted its accuracy, we’ll wait for further information on the subject.
CHAPTER XXIII. SUNDRY OCCURRENCES NARRATED-MR. BROWN AND HIS FRIENDS IN TROUBLE.
Murderer. Safe in a ditch he bides,
With twenty trenched pashes on his head;
The least a death to nature.”
“Yolk-fellows in arms,
Let us to France!”
Shakspeare.
Y ou are late, my friend,” I said, as the gipsy stopped beside me and Mr. Hartley.
“I am too late to warn you against the attempt, but in good time to apprise you of the extent of the danger you have eseaped, and implore you, as you value life, to profit by it,” was the reply.
“You are then aware that I have been assailed, and providentially rescued?”
“I am.”
“Did you witness the attempt upon my young friend’s life?” asked Mr. Hartley.
“No; had I been near enough, the attempt would never have been made.”
“Then you must have obtained a knowledge of it in a marvellously short time after the occurrence.”
“I have,” replied the gipsy; “and, as time is precious, I shall at once tell the means by which I gained that information. I had received an intimation that certain agents would be employed, and, anxious to learn the plans that would be adopted, I repaired to a place where I was well aware the ruffians could be met with. Earlier it would have been useless to have sought them—crime and darkness are companions—and the boldest ruffian of the party dared not venture from his skulking-place in the broad light of day. I went and found them, not preparing for their murderous essay, but foiled in the attempt, and venting, in impotent execrations, their rage at disappointment. From one maimed wretch I heard the particulars of their night adventure, after his companions, leaving him to my charge, had gone to report their failure to the scoundrels who had employed them.”
“And after the danger’s past, you come to congratulate my young friend on his deliverance! Methinks, it would have been doing better service to have apprised him of his peril, and not entrusted his escape from the murderer’s knife to the accidental assistance rendered by some passing strangers.”
“Had I not already cautioned him sufficiently?” returned the gipsy. “If he allowed himself to be made the dupe of an artful woman—one with the semblance of purity and innocence veiling a heart that from infancy has been familiarized with crime—and whose beauty seems to be given so lavishly, only to render her a greater curse to the community—was I to blame? All that a woman’s art could do was done. Were he the offspring of first love, his safety eould not be dearer to a mother. Once more, Hector O’Halloran, I come to warn you. Danger is averted, but not passed; and I repeat my former admonition: regard every stranger who approaches you as an enemy!”
“But, woman, with the knowledge you possess, why not end this state of insecurity? Tell us whence danger is to come—denounce his assassins—and the laws of England are quite sufficient to protect my young friend from those who seek his life.”
“To save is one thing, to betray another; and I would preserve his life, if possible, without compromising that of one whom I know to be his deadliest enemy. But of one thing rest assured—should no other means succeed—the guilty shall be sacrificed and the innocent preserved. Farewell. Trust implicitly in me. Early to-morrow expect to hear from me; and stir not from home until my letter shall be delivered.”
She turned away; we heard her steps receding in the darkness. Presently the sounds became fainter until they died away, and we returned to our own hotel, very little wiser than when we left it.
“I cannot even fancy who our foemen are,” said Mr. Hartley, as he leaned thoughtfully against the mantel-pieee. “At times a vague suspicion crosses my mind. That monk, and his associate, who have enthralled your grandfather, and estranged the dotard from the child who should have been the solace of his age, they look no doubt upon you as a dangerous rival. But were their fears greater, and did they wish, even by violence, to rid themselves of one who might mar their schemes, still the villany would require some time ere it could be sufficiently matured for execution. The secret motives which actuate that mysterious woman are also impenetrable, but her fidelity is beyond a doubt. Well, Hector, we must needs be ever on the alert until time developes more than we know at present. And now, to bed.”
We separated for the night; and never did the slumbers of a private gentleman prove less refreshing than mine. I dreamed eternally of every thing abominable. One time, the gipsy was sounding into my attentive ear her mystic warnings; the next, with smiles, sweet enough to bother any saint in the whole calendar, that demon-girl was beckoning me along dark and dreary passages,—and I mechanically following, although perfectly conscious that she lured me to the grave. No wonder that next morning I rose with an aching head; and then, for the first time, ascertained the extent of the injury I had sustained. It is true the hurts were superficial; but from the number of bruises my arms and back exhibited, many blows had fallen on both, although at the time they were unfelt by me.
I was the last personage to present myself at the breakfast table. I found Isidora there, pale and agitated; for Mr. Hartley had just acquainted her with my narrow escape from assassination. To do him justice, he omitted every particular of my having undertaken to arrange Miss Julia Travers’ claims upon the government; and, as “good men blush at the record of a virtuous act,” I was delighted to find that my beneficent intentions regarding the soldier’s orphan were silently passed over. When I took her hand in mine, I felt it tremble; and, from the manner of both, had Mr. Hartley been ignorant of our attachment before, that morning’s meeting would have betrayed the secret to one far less discerning than he was.
As breakfast ended, the postman’s knock was heard; and presently Dominique presented several letters to Mr. Hartley and myself. His appeared to be full of interest, from the attention with which he perused their contents; and mine, to me, were equally important. One was from my father, and it apprised me that he expected to get me placed on the staff of one of his old friends, a general officer, commanding a brigade of the army now advancing towards the Pyrenees; and the other, a formal notification of my appointment, with an order for my departure forthwith for the Peninsula, by a sloop-of-war, which was to sail on the third day from Portsmouth for Passages, laden with money and military stores.
While I was reading my despatches, Mr. Hartley rose suddenly and left the room, to reply to one of his that required an immediate answer. More unwelcome intelligence never met the eye of a soldier of fortune, than the unexpected order to leave England now appeared to me. How differently the route for the Peninsula would have been regarded a fortnight since! Involuntarily I raised my eyes—and they encountered those of my gentle mistress. She had perceived that the letters I had just received contained news of no ordinary interest. I rose, and seated myself beside her, and gradually announced that the hour of parting was at hand.
I need not describe the scene that followed. Those who have loved as we did, can guess it well; and fancy what the “cold in blood” could never know nor feel. Isidora’s hand was locked in mine; and my flushed cheeks, and her tearful eyes, told too well, how agonizing the first severance of love is. Suddenly the door opened—Mr. Hartley entered—he paused a moment in surprise; and, while she was covered with blushes, and I astonished beyond the power of free agency, he advanced and stood before us.
“Soh!—what means this folly, may I ask?”
The tears flowed faster down his daughter’s cheeks, while I, unconsciously, still held her hand in mine, and merely pointed to the letters that were lying on the table.
Mr. Hartley read them hastily, and, without evincing any mark of displeasure at the discovery he had made, he beckoned gently to his daughter, and next moment she was seated on her father’s knee, her arms clasped fondly round his neck, and her head rested on his bosom.
“Isidora,” he said, in that soft tone of voice with which he always addressed his favourite, “I have been already prepared for this discovery; and had I been unfriendly to the growth of an attachment which I have witnessed with satisfaction, I would have discouraged the unrestricted intimacy which has existed between you and my young friend, and which in youth is ever too dangerous to be permitted. I think I have known the world too long, to have any doubt upon my mind respecting this gentleman’s feelings towards you, my child; but, nevertheless, I will inquire of him whether I have correctly formed this opinion.”
My reply was a florid declaration of youthful passion, whose ardour elicited from my gentle mistress a look which told me that my love was faithfully reciprocated.
“‘Well, I believe you, Hector. Circumstances have hurried matters on more rapidly than I had expected. I have watched you suspiciously; for he who would trust his earthly treasure to the keeping of another, will be guarded ere he parts with it. I am satisfied that all which I value will be safe. Continue to deserve it; and when events, now in slow progress, shall have come round, and prudence justifies the step, this hand, Hector,”—and he placed Isidora’s in mine—“the dearest gift a father can bestow, is yours.”
Young love is eloquent, and I warmly expressed my gratitude.
“An hour ago I considered that the time had not yet arrived, when you were entitled to demand my confidence,” continued Mr. Hartley; “I have now given you the strongest pledge of my personal regard; and you have a claim upon my unlimited confidence, which shall be freely admitted. We dine at six; and afterwards you shall know some particulars of the story of a man, whose very existence none, save yourself and this loved child, suspect. Little did you imagine that, in the stern monitor who blamed your follies, a kinsman was cautioning an unschooled novice against those seductions of vicious society which so often wreck the happiness of youth. None could have taught the lesson better than himself. He had erred and paid the penalty—and a life of peril, suffering, and disappointment, has scarcely redeemed the obloquy and disgrace which his earlier indiscretions had brought upon a name, which, but for his offendings, should have been second to none in Britain. Hector O’Halloran, you stand in the presence of one, who, tempted, ruined, and rejected by all, became a castaway and an exile—I am Edward Clifford.”
Was I dreaming—or was it a reality, that the man who had exercised such mysterious influence over my thoughts and actions, was closely united to me by the bond of blood—my mother’s brother—my grandsire’s heir—but, dearer tie than all—the father of Isidora! My brain was in a whirl, when Dominique unclosed the door to announce that two persons were below, and anxious to see me. I informed my uncle—for that relationship with him I shall claim for the future—that the strangers were my deliverers; and in a few minutes after Isidora had retired, my foster-brother and the honest ratcatcher were formally introduced.
Of the Irish relationship that existed between me and Mark Antony O’Toole my uncle was already apprised, and he received the fosterer accordingly as if he had been an old acquaintance; but, touching the private history of Shemus Rhua, we were both as yet in blissful ignorance. All we knew was, that in the hour of danger, he had proved himself a jewel above price; but that he had arrayed himself in arms against the house of Hanover, eased Tim Maley of his purse, bled an old woman, or ferretted a rat, were interesting passages in the captain’s life which we had yet to learn. Neither of my friends looked to the best advantage. The ratcatcher, in the rookawn of the preceding evening, had been favoured with a black eye—and the fosterer came out of action minus a skirt, with the addition of an awkward fracture in his unmentionables. Both had the appearance of gentlemen who had been recently in trouble, and from their “shuck * look,” had they presented themselves as bail, it is doubtful whether a fastidious justice of the peace would have accepted either, without instituting a slight inquiry into their “whereabouts” and general effects. I believe the meeting of last night was, on both sides, a fortunate occurrence. Never did man receive succour when he needed it more opportunely than I; while the fosterer and his friend had already experienced some difficulty in struggling against an exhausted treasury and wardrobe. A liberal present from Mr. Hartley (for that name must be for the present retained) placed the finances of the twain once more in a flourishing condition. I supplied the fosterer with an outfit for his outer man; the captain made a judicious selection from a fashionable emporium in the vicinity of Monmouth Street; and in a couple of hours, a happy change in both had been effected, and their persons were gay as their hearts.
* Anglice—shaken, or shabby.
The morning wore away. No tidings from the gipsy had arrived; and Mr. Hartley and myself had just come to a conclusion that something had changed her intention of sending me a dispatch, and that it was unnecessary to wait longer at home in expectation of the promised billet. The fosterer and captain had returned from their morning’s excursion; and Mr. Hartley, having heard their adventure at Mr. Spicer’s on the preceding evening, was considering the best method in which that information could be employed to discover who might be the conspirators against my life. He was listening a second time to a narrative of their imprisonment in the lumber-room, where Mark Antony had ensconced himself to avoid the ire of an elderly gentleman, who, like Mr. Spicer, had “not loved wisely, but too well,” when the negro entered the drawing-room, and handed me a sealed letter, whose folding and address bore evident appearance of carelessness. I unclosed it hastily—the private mark annexed announcing that the gipsy was the writer. The contents were these:
“Well may it be said that the ways of Providence are inscrutable; for vengeance so sudden as to pass belief, has fallen on those who last night endeavoured to effect your destruction. Come to the Green Man immediately.’ There you will see those who employed, and those who undertook to murder you. Notice nothing which may occur; and appear to take no more interest in passing events, than any stranger in the room. Follow me when I leave the house, and let your friend accompany you. Fail not!”
“We shall punctually attend the lady’s invitation,” said Mr. Hartley, as he perused the scroll for the second time, “and we will also take that henchman of yours and his companion with us.”
Accordingly, these useful allies were dispatched, with proper directions to find the place appointed; and in half an hour, Mr. Hartley and I started in the same direction.
On arriving at our destination, we found the street was crowded, and intense anxiety was visible in the countenances of a very numerous collection of idle people, to whom every act of atrocity gives interest. Indeed, it had been found necessary to close the tavern doors against all, excepting those who might professionally or profitably claim a right of entrance. The appearance of my uncle and myself, however, secured admission, and we were conducted into a spacious club-room, which had been selected wherein to hold the necessary inquest on a murdered man. A crown, judiciously applied, obtained convenient seats immediately beside the defunct lawyer and the persons suspected of his murder; and the fosterer and his companion had standing room assigned them, behind the chairs with which we had been graciously accommodated.
That spacious room had witnessed many an hour of revelry. With the dance, the song, the laugh, and every outbreak of “tipsy jollity,” its walls for years had been familiarized. The present was a different scene. It was an inquisition for “blood spilt” by man; and the victim and his slaughterers were placed in the immediate presence of each other.
The deceased remained in the same state as when he had been discovered in the morning, and even the position in which the body had been found was scrupulously preserved. No doubt existed as to the cause of death, for the skull was extensively fractured, and post mortem appearances evinced that unnecessary violence had been employed; for any of half-a-dozen injuries inflicted on their victim by the murderers would have proved mortal. The features were painfully distorted; and the passing agonies of the departed man had been severe. Not an article of value was found upon the corpse; the pockets were turned out, and showed that robbery had succeeded murder.
From the dead my eyes turned to the living. Five men were seated on a form, and behind each individual a man of peculiar appearance stood, whom Mr. Hartley told me in a whisper, belonged to a celebrated community long since extinct—Bow Street runners. On the persons who occupied the bench the gaze of all within the room was concentrated, and I examined them, from right to left, attentively.
The first was genteelly dressed, and his general appearance was superior to that of his companions. His exterior exhibited tokens of vulgar opulence; and watch, and brooch, and ring, all valuable, told that had he been criminal, the plea of poverty could not be used in extenuation.
Beside him a man was seated, whose dress was shabby and general appearance disgusting. His head was swathed in a bloody handkerchief; and it was announced that, in a murderous affray on the preceding night, his jaw-bone had been severely fractured.
The third was a blackguard of ordinary stamp; but the fourth and fifth, Mark Antony and his companion at once recognised as old acquaintances.
“By the hole in my coat!” said the ratcatcher, in a whisper, “I would swear to that dacent couple in a thousand. That critch * without any carcase, good nor bad, and the dark-muzzled scoundrel beside him—more betoken, I think it was himself, the murderin’ thief, that giv me the black eye.”
* Anglice—a hunchback.
I looked at the scoundrels, with whose appearances the reader is already familiar. Gracious God! was I so nearly hurried from existence by the bludgeon of that truculent-looking Jew, or the knife of that contemptible hunchback? But my thoughts were speedily turned into another channel. The coroner took his place; the jury were empannelled; and the inquest formally commenced.
[Original]
It would be unnecessary to trespass upon the reader’s patience, and narrate in detail every particular attendant on a mercenary murder. The money intended to procure my death, by a singular accident, caused the assassination of the guilty wretch who had been the hired agent to effect it. In the remote place, and at the untimely hour when Sloman met a doom he merited too well, it was supposed that the foul deed would have been effected in full security. Guilt plots cunningly, but a higher influence mars the best-laid schemes. An outcast, without a roof to cover her, had crept for shelter into a dilapidated building, and, unseen and undiscovered, overheard the murderers arrange their plans. She saw them waylay the devoted wretch, knock him on the head, and afterwards, by the light of a dark-lantern, plunder the dead body. When they retired, she followed unperceived, and traced them into the dwelling of their employer. She acquainted the Bow Street myrmidons of the transaction; led them first, to the place where the murdered man was found, and afterwards, to the house where she knew the ruffians had been harboured.
It is a singular fact, that the most cautious villains rarely escape surprise. The hunchback, excited by the adventures of that busy night, had drunk more deeply than was his custom. His weakly constitution soon owned the effect of liquor; and, in his confusion, he left the street-door open, although, in drunken wisdom, he fancied that he had effectually secured it. By that neglect, the officers obtained an easy entrance—and the murderers were seized “red-handed,” and in the very act of dividing the plunder of their late employer. The facts were already strong against the whole of the accused; but the hunchback’s confession rendered the guilt of his confederates past a doubt. He became king’s evidence; and the wounded bravo, whose fractured jaw had prevented him from sharing in the murder, corroborated the testimony of the thing of legs and arms. Mr. Brown, and “the ruffians twain,” whom he had employed to cause a vacancy in the twenty ———th, by ridding the world of me, were fully committed—as I heard afterwards on the Peninsula, in course of law, were tried, found guilty, and suffered a felon death.
We watched the proceedings at the inquest, which occupied several hours, with an interest that can be readily imagined.
Although the perpetration of a greater crime had thrown the attempt upon my life into the background, and steps were no longer required, either to secure my safety or bring to punishment those who had endangered it, still the cause of the assault upon me was so incomprehensible, that both my uncle and myself were anxious to trace the conspiracy to its source. Nothing during the inquiry transpired that in any way appeared to be connected with me; and, faithless to her promise, the gipsy had not attended. Although the room was crowded by a mob of the curious of either sex, had she been in the throng, from the singularity of her costume I should have easily recognised my mysterious acquaintance. The proceedings having ended, the jury were discharged, the prisoners removed, and the crowd dispersed rapidly.
“Come, Hector,” said Mr. Hartley, “the lady of the bridge, like others of her sex, is not always to be depended on. Where can that mysterious gentlewoman be?”
“At your elbow,” responded a voice.
We started, and looked round. A woman, respectably attired, but whose features were partially hidden by a close bonnet that seemed formed to conceal the face, was standing immediately beside us. Could this be that wild wanderer who had accosted me in the park, and met me on the bridge when all but the outcasts of society were at home? I had no time left for closer examination—she tapped me gently on the shoulder—and, in a low voice, desiring me to follow, she mingled in the crowd. Mr. Hartley and I quietly obeyed the signal; while Mark Antony and the ratcatcher joined the rabble in the street, who were waiting to offer some unenviable tokens of the estimation in which Mr. Brown and his associates were holden, before they took a final departure for durance vile.
We kept the gipsy well in sight, and observed her turning into another public-house at no great distance from the Green Man. We entered it, and were conducted by the barmaid to a back apartment, here we found the fair one seated.
The latter term is not used unadvisedly; for a finer woman, of a certain age, could not have been found in the metropolis. Nothing of her former wild and sybil-looking air remained—the eye had lost its keen and searching glance—the voice was softened—the very manner seemed altered with the dress; and when she laid aside her bonnet, Mr. Hartley and I freely admitted that the face disclosed to us had once been positively beautiful. When the door was shut, she turned her dark intelligent eyes on mine, and regarded me in silence for a minute.
“Yes!” she said; “how striking is the likeness between the son and sire! and what painful recollections does that singular resemblance bring back! ay, though twenty long years of exile have passed away! But no more of this. Mr. O’Halloran, you see before you one who can hardly say whether she should love or hate the name. Time chills the deadliest enmities; and even jealousy and blighted hopes will own its soothing influence; and I, who should look upon you as an enemy, felt in your recent hour of trial all the agonizing uncertainty a mother only knows, when the child of her first affections is exposed to peril. With my early story, and wayward fate, it would be idle to detain you. None have passed through greater vicissitudes of fortune; none have sinned or suffered more than Mary Halligan!”
I started. “That name’s familiar!—Were you the peasant girl—”
“Through whose mistake Knockloftie, and all within its walls, were saved from violence and murder; I am that person. Ay, fallen, as I may now appear, I was innocent, admired, wooed, won, and deserted! Pshaw!—‘tis but a common tale in woman’s history! No matter—‘tis past—it seems a dream; but, O God, it is a fearful one! I have not, however, come here to speak about myself. I come to tender my poor services to the child—for, from the bottom of the heart of her he wronged, the father is forgiven! Wild as my career has been, used as I have been to startling occurrences, still, the events of the last few days appear to me rather the coinage of a distempered brain than actual realities. Never did Heaven’s anger fall so suddenly and severely on the guilty; and never was the innocent so miraculously preserved. Strange, that the same day on which a life commenced, should have been twice chosen to end it by secret violence!—and stranger yet, that the same hand, which in infancy designed to crush you in the cradle, in the very hour of manhood, but for Heaven’s mercy, would have consigned you to a bloody grave!”
“Who was the intended murderer?” we both eagerly demanded.
“He was one whose name is perfectly familiar to you. Did you ever hear the colonel speak of a person named Hacket?”
“A hundred times. He was the villain that would have betrayed the old castle and its inmates to a band of murderers. They assailed it on the first anniversary of my birth-night, and were bloodily repulsed. I often have heard my father execrate that scoundrel’s treachery. Another perished by his hand—”
“Stop! name him not. There were in the world two beings whom I regarded with divided love. One perished. Would that it had been by any other hand. I have forgotten—no, that were impossible—but I strive to banish from memory all that occurred upon that fatal night.”
“Then Haeket was the person who devised and attempted my murder?” I exclaimed.
“No—another sought your life. He was but the agent of that person.”
“By whom, then, was the wretch employed?”
“Of that I am utterly uninformed; and, strange as it may appear, Hacket was left in equal ignorance. If any knew the secret, it was the murdered man—and with him it rests. Have you no suspicions? Have you crossed the path of love, or barred the road to wealth? Are there any whose interests you have thwarted? Are you an object of hatred or of fear?”
I shook my head; but Mr. Hartley replied to the inquiry.
“There are, Alary—and more than one, the dearest objects of whose hearts this youth will one day overturn, as the child throws down the card edifice in a moment, which has cost him a world of pains to build.”
“Look there, Hector O’Halloran! There will your secret enemy be found.”
“Right, by heaven! You are on the sure track, my friend,” returned my uncle. “Where will deadlier feeling harbour than in the bosom of a monk, thwart but his ambition? or in that of a sordid scoundrel, who trembles for wealth acquired by knavery? Were you acquainted with recent occurrences in which our young friend has been connected, my life upon it, your conviction would be confirmed as to the quarter from which the danger came.”
“And am I not worthy of that confidence?” inquired the gipsy, in a tone that showed herself offended.
“Undoubtedly,” returned Mr. Hartley. “One day more, and I will give you ample proof of the dependence I place in your fidelity and discretion. That day I would devote to my young friend. It is the last he will pass in England for a time.”
“What! is he then leaving England?”
“He is ordered to the Peninsula, and sails on Thursday evening.”
“Heaven send him better luck than his father! God knows whether you and I shall ever meet again!” she said, addressing me. “May the best fortunes of a soldier be yours! Farewell! I saw your first and your twentieth, and may your next be a happier anniversary than either!”
She wrung my hand. I left the room, but Mr. Hartley remained, and a quarter of an hour passed before he joined me in the street. We walked to the hotel, and there the fosterer and his companion were in waiting.
“Mark, I am ordered off. What can I do for you before I leave England?” I said, addressing the former.
Mr. O’Toole merely answered with a sigh “hot as a furnace.”
“Where shall I find you on my return? and how will you dispose of yourself in the mean time?”
“Dispose of myself?” returned the fosterer, like an echo. “Why, am I not also, ready for the Peninsula: Arrah! what would they say at Killucan, if you went to the wars, Master Hector, and I remained at home? Mona-sin-dioul, if I went back, the very dogs would not acknowledge me. But, love apart, where can I put in a happier twelvemonth? Have I not listened, till my heart beat again, to the old colonel’s talking to the priest about the time when he stormed that village in the Low Countries where he lost his arm. Often have I fancied that I saw him bursting through the streets at the head of his noble grenadiers, scattering the French column like a flock of sheep, while the shout of ‘Liberty’ was answered by a thundering ‘Faugh a ballagh!’ It would be cruel, Hector, to leave me behind you—I will be no burden to you.”
He placed a little packet in my hand; and turning to the window, the poor fosterer sentimentalized in secret, while I perused a letter he had received after we had separated at the inquest. With the course of Mark Antony’s love adventures, that gentle affair with Miss Biddy O’Dwyer excepted, I was altogether ignorant—and I felt interest in the fosterer’s epistle. I read it accordingly; and, could woman rise in the estimation of one who loved as I did, that artless letter would have raised her.
“You have followed me to England. In that you have violated our agreement; but my heart offers a ready apology for the offence. I told you that twelve months must pass before we met again; and in that resolution I am confirmed. My brother has wildly ventured to the coast of Spain, on secret service connected with some of the guerilla chiefs in Arragon; and, in the mean time, I am resident in the family of the village clergyman. Mark, I am happy, because I am once more respectable. Let me remain until the year elapses under this good man’s dwelling—and then that wanderer whom you protected in her hour of destitution, will prove to you that she has not forgotten her deliverer.
“Do you remember, dear Mark, that when you rescued me from that villain Jew, you flung your purse into my lap, and pressed me to accept it? If that circumstance has eseaped your memory, it lives, and will ever live, in mine. Use prudently the small sum enclosed; and when another supply is needed, remember that the desolate female whom you generously saved from more than death, has now the means, and wish to prove her gratitude.”
The epistle contained sincere expressions of affection, and was subscribed “Julia.”
“Why, Mark, what the deuce is all this about? and who is this lady, who forks out her fifty pounds, and subscribes herself “most affectionately yours?”
“I’ll tell you again, Master Hector. But won’t you let me go with you?”
“Faith, my dear Mark, I never intended that you should remain behind. Have we not been to each other as flint to steel from child-hood? Where should I now be but for your rescue? When boys, our joys and sorrows were the same; and now, as men, Mark, upwards or downwards, our fortunes shall run together.”
“I thought you wouldn’t leave me,” said the fosterer.
“And pray,” inquired the ratcatcher, “what the divil is to become of me? You can volunteer, Mark, but I am too old; and were I younger, I wouldn’t much like to ‘list; for I fancy that the guerilla line would be more in my way of business. But let us all go together. Blessings on that outspoken elderly gentleman they call Mr. Hartley! He’s short in the grain as eat’s hair, but the heart and purse are open. Here I am, new rigged from head to foot—ay, and rich as a Jew—bad luck to the whole community of them, root and branch!” and the captain put his finger to the eye which had been damaged in the last night’s contest. “It was that long-whiskered ruffin that giv me this token of regard. Will, all’s settled, and we go together, any how.”
It would have been useless to offer any objection to the determination of the gallant captain; and, after a consultation with my unele, it was soon agreed that my fosterer should join one of the regiments of the brigade I was attached to, as a volunteer, and the ratcatcher enact valet de chambre during my absence.
Time pressed. Mr. O’Toole gratefully acknowledged, but returned the fifty pounds sent him by his mistress; swore fidelity and everlasting love anew; and by the munificence of Mr. Hartley, we all—to wit, the ratcatcher, the fosterer, and myself—were amply provided with that indispensable requisite for opening a campaign, properly designated “the sinews of war.” My future companions took their departure for the Seven Dials, to bid their loving countrymen, there dwelling, an affectionate farewell. An Irish parting is always accompanied by a heavy drink, as sorrow is proverbially dry. No doubt the symposium, like every other pleasant carouse, ended in a general engagement; for when the twain honoured me with a visit next morning, I remarked that the gallant captain had been accommodated with a second black eye, probably conferred upon him as a keepsake by one his agreeable companions.