"I must here pause for a few moments to give a word or two of necessary explanation. The Marshal had found Mr. Walkden at his office in the evening, and had begged him to grant Alexander's release. But the miscreant was inexorable, alleging that he had received at the prisoner's hands insults of a nature which rendered mercy impossible. The Marshal, hoping to touch the man's heart by a recital of all the interesting circumstances of Alexander's life, began to tell his story; but scarcely had he explained how Alexander had been found by the late Mr. Craddock in the neighbourhood of Doctors' Commons, when Walkden's whole manner suddenly underwent an appalling change: he turned ghastly pale—trembled like an aspen-leaf—and then, in another minute, covered his face with his hands, exclaiming in a tone of the deepest anguish, 'Merciful God! it is my own son whom I have plundered and persecuted thus vilely! Oh! wretch that I am—miscreant, demon that I have been!'—The Marshal was naturally overwhelmed with astonishment at these terrific self-accusations, which nevertheless appeared to be too well founded; for it was indeed the only child of the miserable lawyer who had been lost by a neglectful servant years ago in the neighbourhood of Doctors' Commons; and the sudden death of the beadle happening the very next day, had destroyed the only clue to the infant. Mrs. Walkden died of a broken heart; and it was most probably these misfortunes which, acting upon a morbid mind, rendered the attorney the harsh, severe, merciless man which he had so effectually proved himself to be.
"And what miseries had he piled up, to fall on his own head! He had ruined his son—rendered him a murderer—and also endeavoured to seduce that son's wife. Oh! it was a fearful scene, which took place on the parade-ground on that eventful evening. Scudimore lay a corpse at the feet of the man whom he had injured; and senseless by the side of the corpse, fell Walkden who had made Scudimore his instrument and accomplice in the iniquitous transaction which paved the way for this accumulation of horrors. Alexander understood nothing that took place. He saw it all—but comprehended it not. His reason had fled; and it is most probable that he was already a maniac when he rushed from his room armed with the fatal knife—and perhaps even when I observed the strange change come over him on his learning from my lips that Scudimore was an inmate of the Bench. As for Lucy—poor, crushed, heart-broken Lucy—she had fainted when Walkden proclaimed himself her husband's father! But I must hasten and bring my story to a conclusion. The Marshal speedily gave the orders necessary under the circumstances which had occurred; and, on Lucy being recovered from her swoon, she found that she had not been the prey of a hideous dream, as she at first supposed—but that her husband had been taken from her, and lodged in the strong-room—a maniac and a murderer! Oh! what a heart-rending duty it was for me to implore her to take courage for her children's sake! Walkden, who had in the meantime been restored to his senses, begged her to make his house her home in future, and look on him as a father;—but she shrieked forth a negative in so wild a tone and accompanied by such a shudder, that the wretched man could not be otherwise than deeply convinced how ineffable was the abhorrence that she entertained for him. The Marshal kindly took charge of the stricken woman and her young children; and the corpse of Scudimore was conveyed to a room there to await the attendance of the Coroner on the following day.
"But little more remains to be told. During the night that followed the deplorable events which I have just related, Alexander Craddock grew furious with excitement, and became raving mad. A brain-fever supervened; and in less than twelve hours from the moment when his hand avenged his wrongs on the villain Scudimore, he himself was no longer a denizen of this world! Ten days afterwards the Marshal received a letter from Walkden, which he subsequently showed to me, and the contents of which ran thus as nearly as I can recollect them:—'I am about to quit England, and shall never be again heard of by one who has to much reason to shudder at the mere mention of my name. I allude to my deeply-injured daughter-in-law. My share of the ten thousand pounds, of which Scudimore plundered her husband, was precisely one half. This amount, with compound interest, I have placed in the funds in her name; and I implore her to forgive a man who is crushed and heart-broken, and who loathes himself!'—Lucy, who had only for her children's sake been able to sustain anything like the adequate amount of courage necessary to support her afflictions, was somewhat solaced—if solace there could be in the midst of such bitter, bitter woe—by the certainty that those children were now secure against want. She accordingly removed with them into a small but comfortable dwelling near Norwood—but not before she had called on me, to express all her gratitude for the kindnesses which I had been enabled to show the family. She moreover endeavoured to compel me to receive a sum of money, as she said in repayment for the amounts I had at various times lent them; but that sum was a hundred times greater than any I had ever been able to assist them with. I would not receive a fraction; and I wept on parting with her, as if she had been my own daughter. During the year which she survived the loss of her husband—for she only did survive it a year—she came frequently to visit me, always accompanied by her children; and on every occasion she brought me some touching and delicate memorial of her esteem. But her health had been undermined by the long vigils—the deep anxieties—the corroding cares—the serious toils—and the frightful shocks, which had characterised her existence in this accursed prison; and she died in the arms of an affectionate female friend, who dwelt in her neighbourhood, and whose bosom her misfortunes had deeply touched. This friend promised to be a second mother to the poor children; and she has fulfilled her word. Two respectable gentlemen accepted the guardianship of the orphans, so far as their pecuniary interests are concerned; and those orphans will be rich when they become of age,—for Walkden died a short time ago, leaving them all his fortune. Poor Lucy sleeps in the same grave with her husband; and thus ends my Tale of Sorrow."
The old man wiped away the tears from his eyes: and Frank Curtis was not only deeply interested in the narrative which he had just heard, but even affected by its lamentable details, on which he was about to make some remark, when, happening to glance from the window, he espied the captain on the parade staring about him in all possible directions. Curtis therefore took leave of Mr. Prout, after thanking him for the recital of the melancholy tale, and hastened to join his friend.
Captain O'Blunderbuss had no good news to relate. The officers in possession in Baker Street had positively refused to allow Mrs. Curtis to take any thing, beyond wearing apparel, away with her; and the excellent lady had accordingly moved, with her two trunks and her five children, to a lodging in Belvidere Place.
The captain had likewise been unsuccessful in his visit to Sir Christopher Blunt. He had seen the knight, it is true; but neither menaces nor coaxings had proved potent enough to induce that gentleman to draw forth his purse or sign his autograph to a cheque.
"What the devil, then, must I do?" demanded Frank Curtis, shuddering as he thought of the Poor-Side.
"Be Jasus! and go dacently and genteelly through the Insolvents' Court," exclaimed the captain; "and I'll skin the Commissioners alive if they dar-r to turn you back, my frind!"
"I really think there is no other alternative left but to petition the Court," observed Frank Curtis; "and therefore I'll make up my mind at once to do so."