"The Duke of Tantallan presents his compliments to Mr. Gammon, and most earnestly begs that he will, without a moment's delay, favor the duke with a call in Portman Square, on business of the last importance.
"Portman Square,
Wednesday Evening, 9 o'clock."
A huge servant of the duke's—with powdered hair, silver epaulettes, dark crimson coat, and white breeches, having altogether a most splendid appearance—created something like a sensation in the immediate neighborhood of Thavies' Inn, by inquiring, with a very impatient and excited air, for "Thavies' Inn," and a "gentleman of the name of Gammon" who was very naturally supposed to be honored by some special and direct communication from the king, or at least some member of the royal family. Gammon himself, who was in the act of opening his door to go out and make his promised call of inquiry in Grosvenor Square—was flustered for a moment, on finding himself stepping into the arms of such an imposing personage; who said, as he gave him the letter, on finding him to be Mr. Gammon—"From the Duke of Tantallan, sir. His Grace, I believe, expects you immediately, sir."
Mr. Gammon hastily opened the letter, and having glanced at the contents—"Give my compliments to his Grace, and say I will attend him immediately," said he. The man withdrew, and Gammon returned into his chamber, and sat for a few moments in the darkness—he having just before put out his lamp. He burst into a cold sweat—"What's in the wind now!" said he to himself. "Ah, why did I not ask the fellow?"—and starting from his seat, he rushed down-stairs, and succeeded in calling back the duke's servant just as he was turning out of the inn—"Do you happen to have been into Grosvenor Square to-day?—And do you know how the Earl of Dreddlington is?" inquired Gammon, anxiously.
"Yes, sir; his Lordship, and the Lady Cecilia Titmouse, are both dangerously ill. I believe his Lordship, sir, has had a stroke—they say it's the second he's had to-day—and her Ladyship is taken in labor, and is in a shocking bad way, sir. The duke and duchess were sent for in a dreadful hurry about an hour ago."
"Dear! I'm sorry to hear it! Thank you," replied Gammon, hastily turning away a face which he felt must have gone of a ghastly paleness.
"It may be only to inquire about the Artificial Rain Company"—said Gammon to himself, as, having procured a light, he poured himself out a large glassful of brandy, and drank it off, to overcome a little sense of faintness which he felt coming rapidly over him. "The duke is a shareholder, I think. Not at all unlikely!—And as for Lady Cecilia's illness—nothing so extraordinary about it—when one considers her situation—and the shock occasioned by the earl's sudden and alarming illness. But I must take a decided course, one way or another, with the duke!—Suppose the earl has disclosed the affair to Lady Cecilia—and it has got to the duke's ears?—Good heavens! how is one to deal with it? Suppose I were to affect total ignorance about the matter—and swear that it is altogether a delusion on the part of the earl?—That would be rather a bold stroke, too!—Suppose the earl to die of this bout—ah! then there 's an end of the thing, and all's well, provided I can manage Titmouse!—A second fit of apoplexy within twelve hours—that looks well—humph!—If the earl have mentioned the affair—and distinctly and intelligibly—how far has he gone?—Did he name the rent-charge?—Ah!—well, and suppose he did? What's easier than also to deny that altogether? But suppose Titmouse should be tampered with, and pressed about the business? Perdition!—all is lost!—Yet they would hardly like to defy me, and trumpet the thing abroad!—Then there's the other course—to own that I am in possession of the fatal secret—that I became so only recently; avow the reason of my taking the rent-charge; and insist upon retaining it, as the condition of my secrecy? That also is a bold stroke: both are bold!—Yet one of them I must choose!—Then, suppose the earl to recover: he will never be the same man he was—that I find is always the case—his mind, such as it is, will go nearly altogether!—But if he recover only a glimmering even of sense—egad! 't will require a little nerve, too, to deny the thing to his face, and swear that the whole thing is the delusion of a brain disordered by previous fright!—And suppose Lady Cecilia dies?—and leaves no issue?—and then Lord Dreddlington follows her—by Heaven, this hideous little devil becomes Lord Drelincourt at once!!"
This was the way in which Mr. Gammon turned the thing over in his disturbed mind, as he walked rapidly towards Portman Square; and by the time that he had reached the duke's house, he had finally determined on the course he should pursue. Though his face was rather pale, he was perfectly self-possessed and firm, at the moment of his being shown into the library, where the duke was walking about, impatient for his arrival.
"Gracious God, sir!"—commenced the duke, in a low tone, with much agitation of manner, the moment that the servant had closed the door behind him—"what is all this horrible news we hear about Mr. Titmouse?"
"Horrible news—about Mr. Titmouse?" echoed Gammon, amazedly—"pardon me—I don't understand your Grace! If you allude to the two executions, which I'm sorry to hear"——
"Pho, sir! you are trifling! Believe me, this is a very awful moment to all persons involved in what has taken place!" replied the duke, his voice quivering with emotion.