The Jessamy Bride

by Frank Frankfort Moore

The moment that he touched the first button, however, the man shifted his position, and awoke, putting his hand, as if mechanically, to his breast to feel that the wallet was still there. Then he straightened himself in some measure and began to mumble, apparently being quite unaware of the fact that some one was seated beside him.

“Dear madam, you do me great honour,” he said, and then gave a little hiccupping laugh. “Great honour, I swear; but if you were to offer me all the guineas in the treasure chest of the regiment I would not give you the plan of the fort. No, madam, I am a man of honour, and I hold the documents for Colonel Washington. Oh, the fools that girls are to put pen to paper! But if she was a fool she did not write the letters to a fool. Oh, no, no! I would accept no price for them—no price whatever except your own fair self. Come to me, my charmer, at sunset, and they shall be yours; yes, with a hundred guineas, or I print them. Oh, Ned, my lad, there's no honester way of living than by selling a wench her own letters. No, no; Ned, I'll not leave 'em behind me in the drawer, in case of accidents. I'll carry 'em about with me in case of accidents, for I know how sharp you are, dear Ned; and so when I had 'em in the pocket of my cloak I thought it as well to transfer 'em—in case of accidents, Ned—to my waistcoat, sir. Ay, they're here! here, my friend! and here they'll stay till Colonel Washington hands me over his dollars for them.”

Then he slapped his breast, and laughed the horrible laugh of a drunken man whose hallucination is that he is the shrewdest fellow alive.

Goldsmith caught every word of his mumblings, and from the way he referred to the letters, came to the conclusion that the scoundrel had not only tried to levy blackmail on Mary Horneck, but had been endeavouring to sell the secrets of the King's forces to the American rebels. Goldsmith had, however, no doubt that the letters which he was desirous of getting into his hands were those which the man had within his waistcoat. His belief in this direction did not, however, assist him to devise a plan for transferring the letters from the place where they reposed to his own pocket.

The coach jolted over the uneven roads on its way to the notorious Whetstone Park, but all the jolting failed to prevent the operation of the brandy which the man had drank, for once again he fell asleep, his fingers remaining between the buttons of his waistcoat, so that it would be quite impossible for even the most adroit pickpocket, which Goldsmith could not claim to be, to open the garment.

He felt the vexation of the moment very keenly. The thought that the packet which he coveted was only a few inches from his hand, and yet that it was as unattainable as though it were at the summit of Mont Blanc, was maddening; but he felt that he would be foolish to make any more attempts to effect his purpose. The man would be certain to awake, and Goldsmith knew that, intoxicated though he was, he was strong enough to cope with three men of his (Goldsmith's) physique.

Gregory's Court, which led into Whetstone Park, was too narrow to admit so broad a vehicle as a hackney-coach, so the driver pulled up at the entrance in Holborn near the New Turnstile, just under an alehouse lamp. Goldsmith was wondering if his obligation to Mrs. Abington's guest did not end here, when the light of the lamp showed the man to be wide awake, and he really seemed comparatively sober. It was only when he spoke that he showed himself, by the huskiness of his voice, to be very far from sober.

“Good Lord!” he cried, “how do I come to be here? Who the devil may you be, sirrah? Oh, I remember! You're the poet. She insulted me—grossly insulted me—turned me out of the tavern. And you insulted me, too, you rascal, coming with me in my coach, as if I was drunk, and needed you to look after me. Get out, you scoundrel, or I'll crack your skull for you. Can't you see that this is Gregory's Court?”

Goldsmith eyed the ruffian for a moment. He was debating if it might not be better to spring upon him, and make at least a straightforward attempt to obtain the wallet. The result of his moment's consideration of the question was to cause him to turn away from the fellow and open the door. He was in the act of telling the driver that he would take the coach on to the Temple, when Jackson stepped out, shaking the vehicle on its leathern straps, and staggered a few yards in the direction of the turnstile. At the same instant a man hastily emerged from the entrance to the court, almost coming in collision with Jackson.

“You cursed, clumsy lout!” shouted the latter, swinging, half-way round as the man passed. In a second the stranger stopped, and faced the other.