Mohawks: A Novel. Volume 3 of 3

by M. E. Braddon

He had five shillings in his pocket, which would be more than enough for so short a journey. The coach rattled along the Strand in a series of short stages, having to pull up every now and then to make way for some heavier vehicle, and then by Leicester Fields to Soho Square, where the coachman pulled up his horses at the corner, as he had been bidden.

Here Fétis alighted—weak and tottering after the interval of rest—paid the man, and then crept off to a court at the back of the great house in the square—a court in which there was a private door of communication with Mr. Topsparkle's offices. This was the entrance and exit which Fétis had generally used in his attendance upon his master, and he had always carried a key to this door about his person. He had the key in his pocket when he was arrested, and he had it ready for use to-night.

He opened the door softly and let himself in then crept stealthily along a passage leading to the servants' staircase. This part of the house was a labyrinth of passages and small rooms, devoted to various domestic uses. He could hear the voices of the servants at supper yonder in the great stone hall, where they ate and drank to repletion at this hour, and where, Mr. Topsparkle and Lady Judith being out, they were riotous in their mirth, and indulged in many a coarse jest at the expense of master and mistress, and the company they kept.

It was the hour at which all the restraints of servitude were thrown off, and when men and maids romped and revelled without fear of interruption; since the housekeeper had her own evening engagements, and was rarely home till midnight; and the steward might be relied upon as drunk and speechless in his private apartment, snug for the night; while there was no likelihood that Mr. Topsparkle or Lady Judith and her running footmen would be home before three o'clock in the morning. Her evening was a progress from one assembly to another, with occasional intervals at Opera-house or masquerade. She came home worn out, and sighing over the weariness of life. There never were such dull parties; 'twas a tiresome world, and she wondered at her patience in bearing with it. And then, if she were in the humour, she would bring home two or three of her satellites, and sit down to cards and ratafia until the late sunrise shone redly through the cracks of the shutters, with the suggestion of a conflagration.

The passages and stairs were all in darkness; but Mr. Fétis knew every angle and every step. He crept to the back staircase, which wound itself sinuously upward between the state apartments and the offices, and then he ascended noiselessly to a narrow landing outside Mr. Topsparkle's bedroom. He opened the door of that sacred apartment, and went in. There was a fire burning on the hearth, and light enough to show that the room was empty. It was a small room, luxuriously furnished, the low narrow French bed draped with cut velvet of so dark a red that it looked black in the firelight. A great fur rug lay in front of the bed, and an immense armchair, with wings at the sides to screen off the draught, stood by the fireplace. A little spindle-legged tea-table, and an Italian coffer upon carved legs, completed the furniture.

Three choicest gems of Italian art, a Carlo Dolci, a Leonardo, and a Titian—cabinet pictures all of them—adorned the walls, and a Venetian mirror in a carved ebony and silver frame hung above the mantelpiece.

Fétis squatted in front of the fire and warmed his aching limbs. One of his shivering fits came upon him as he sat there, and his teeth chattered; but the fever was soon upon him again, and then he left the fire and lay down on his master's bed, defiling the embroidered Indian coverlet with the dust and grime of the street. It was a masterpiece chosen by Lady Judith at the India house where she spent so much money and wasted so much time; a rendezvous and gossiping place for her idlest acquaintances; a resort where reputations were murdered daily in the politest fashion, and where modish women envied and hated each other with unvarying civility.

Fétis lay on those Oriental roses and lilies, staring at the fire, wondering what Mr. Topsparkle would think were he to come in and find him there. But he did not intend to be discovered immediately. He meant to hide himself in that luxurious bower, to rise up like a spectre before his guilty master. There was a narrow space between the bed and the wall, just large enough to accommodate Fétis, and into this gully he slipped presently when he heard approaching footsteps, and lay there among the voluminous folds of the velvet curtains, warmly and even luxuriously lodged.

Here he slept the sleep of exhaustion. It was daylight when he awoke: the fire was still burning, had been tended by the slave who kept watch in the great house o' nights.

Fétis could hear the light fall of wood ashes in the grate, and the monotonous breathing of his slumbering master.