Читать книгу Bertha Shelley - Aubrey Burnage - Страница 9

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Can these things be? Can fortune stoop so low

As aid the arm that deals the secret blow,

And crushes human hearts in fiendish glee?

Dwell, justice, still on earth, that we should see

The vile triumphant and their victims, they—

The best and noblest of the sons of clay!

—Author's M.S.

Look here, Bow, I'm hanged if I'm going to be gulled like this! The money we got for the horse is all we have yet had for the job, and we was to get fifty pounds cash down, and another the day he was lagged.' The speaker was Mr. Darby Gregson, his hearer, Mr. Bow. The latter was much changed since the midnight rendezvous, at the Black Diamond Tavern, in Harper's Lane, and he looked more like a subject for dissection, strayed from the hospital hard by, than a living man dunning for payment. They were standing on the pavement on the opposite side of the street to Mr. Hubert Clayton's lodgings, and were watching for the appearance of that gentleman. He had failed in keeping his part of the infamous contract, and they were tired of the delay. Darby Gregson was determined to wait no longer, and Bow———Well, let him speak for himself. 'I'd give a good deal more 'an my share, Darby, to get the poor young feller off agin! I can't sleep for thinking of him. It sits on me like a nightmare!'

'Come, drop that wining, Bow, I'll not listen to none o' that foolery. Suppose you was to go and inform agin yourself; you'd only get sentenced to life for your pains; for you see, you'd be up for wilful and corrupt perjury!'

'All I know, Darby, is, I'd like to forget it. I never goes to sleep, now, but I'm swearing away young Mr. Sinclair's life.'

Darby Gregson did not like the turn their conversation had taken, and wishing to get Bow out of the way before Mr. Clayton should appear, he thought it prudent to send him away on other business. 'I say, Bow, just go down to the Black Diamond, and see if costermonger Ned is knocking about. We must manage to take the measure of Arkright's plate before the new moon. I will stay and see Clayton.'

'All right, Darby; how long'll you be?'

'I don't know. I saw him go in half an hour ago; and he has'nt come out again since. It's no use going to the door; they'd only swear me out he wasn't in.'

'Mr. Arkright went to Leeds to-day!' said Bow, after a few moments' reflection. 'Would'nt to-night suit well? It'll be dark enough.'

With all Bow's scruples, and remorse for the horse-stealing villainy, here he was, ready and eager to 'take the measure' of Mr. Arkright's plate, as Gregson called it; or, in other words, to commit burglary. Shall we blame him, or attribute his depravity to accident of birth, and force of education?

'Capital thought of yours, Bow! Tell Ned not to blab it to the other coves. Three on us is enough for this job. The fewer on us, the more each'll get.'

'I hope we'll make a tidy lift this time, Darby! What time shall I tell Ned Shaw?'

'I'll see him at the Black Diamond in an hour. We must crack the nut about half-past two o'clock in the morning. Everybody's dead asleep between two and three.'

Bow started on his mission of diplomacy to costermonger Ned; and Darby Gregson sat down upon the kerbstone to wait for his vile employer. Darby had either been mistaken in supposing Mr. Clayton had recently entered his lodgings, or that gentleman had slipped out again the back way; for while he and Bow were unfolding their intentions upon Mr. Arkright's plate, Mr. Clayton was standing close behind them, concealed by a loaded brewer's dray. What he heard appeared to please him, for a smile flitted over his handsome features; 'Ah,' he muttered, 'the very thing I wanted. Now, instead of paying you the price of your knavery, I will send you after Sinclair. I'm not quite fool enough to leave you here to turn on me the first time that you may take offence!'

As soon as Bow was out of sight, Mr. Clayton walked a short distance down the street, still keeping the dray between him and Mr. Darby Gregson, and then turned round and approached him. Darby was so intent upon watching the entrance door of the Belgravia Private Boarding Establishment, that he did not hear his steps. Mr. Clayton stood for a moment with a peculiar smile upon his thin lips, and then startled Mr. Darby by giving him a heavy slap upon the shoulder, and saying 'Where the dickens have you been all the morning, Darby?'

Darby turned round with a wondering stare. 'O, is it you, Mr. Clayton! I was just waiting here for a friend!'

'One you hadn't much faith in, eh?' asked Clayton, with a low, grating laugh. 'Well, to tell you the truth, he has as little in you! Where's that chicken-hearted mate, of yours?'

'Bow? I haven't set eyes on him since yesterday.'

'Hem! That's rather transparent, Darby! Well, I wanted, to talk to you both upon money matters. I shall not be able to settle with you for about ten days. The twenty-five pounds each, you have already had, will keep you going till then.'

'Ten days! That'll be Wednesday week. All right, Mr. Clayton; I've no doubt you'll be as good as your word. You see, if you aren't, we can easily bring you to reason by——'

'Come, Darby, my boy, none of your threats. I know what you mean: but I reckoned all that, before I engaged you. I'm not afraid of anything you can do. If you swear that you perjured yourself at Sinclair's trial, what value could a jury set to anything you might swear against me? So, you see, you have nothing but my acknowledged generosity to induce me to settle with you.'

Darby Gregson was quite taken aback by this view of the case. Cunning as he was, he had been completely overreached by Clayton; and for a moment he was speechless from rage and surprise; but, recovering himself, and seeing the only chance of getting his infamous wages was submission, he replied, meekly, 'You quite misunderstand me, Mr. Clayton! Neither me nor my mate doubts your word. You will settle with us on Wednesday week?'

'Yes; at Joe Turner's. You and your mate may meet me there after the theatres are out. Till then, adieu!'

'So long!' answered Darby, clumsily lifting his hat, in response to the other's elegant bow.

Mr. Hubert Clayton took the shortest way to the office of Mr. Inspector Barlow; and the discomfited Darby bent his steps to the Black Diamond, to hold counsel with Ned Shaw, the costermonger and housebreaker. He found Ned and Bow in the private parlor hatching their plans over a bottle of cognac. On the circle of rogues being completed by the arrival of their ringleader, it was definitely settled that they should take advantage of Mr. Arkwright's absence, and "crack the nut" during the small hours of the following morning. Costermonger Ned, in his double character of vendor of vegetables and general spy for the housebreaking community of York, had visited the house, and noticed that a back window on the ground floor was unprotected by shutters. He proposed cutting the glass away with his diamond chisel; and then unfastening the bolt by inserting his arm through the aperture, raising the sash. This would admit them; and the work of securing the valuables would then be easy.

When the villains had settled their plans to their satisfaction, they separated to avoid suspicion, arranging to meet by the Haymarket at two o'clock in the morning.

While the burglars were arranging their plot, the arch-villain Clayton was quietly circumventing them, and saving (though from no motive of benevolence) the family of Mr. Arkwright from the loss and danger of the midnight visit of the desperate wretches.

'Ah! Mr. Clayton, you here!' said Mr. Inspector Barlow, looking up from his books—books in which the criminal class of York were registered like so many beasts of prey, and their dark deeds chronicled.

'Yes, I have called to see you upon a little matter of business.'

'Indeed! Well, take a seat,' returned the Inspector, shutting his journal and turning his scrutinizing gaze upon his visitor.

Mr. Clayton did as he was bidden, his ever restless eyes taking stock of all within view without appearing to be looking at anything.

'By-the-way, Mr. Clayton, I have wanted to speak to you for some time past, but I have been too busy to spare time.'

Mr. Clayton fidgeted in his seat. 'Has that white-livered tool, Bow, been here?' he asked himself, anxiously.

'Have you any idea what I enter in this book?' asked the Inspector, trying to catch his visitor's eyes.

'Not the slightest,' replied Clayton, at that moment studying that pattern of the floorcloth.

'The names of all who cause, or are likely to cause trouble to society.'

'Indeed!' said Clayton, much alarmed by the ominous information.

'Your name is not here yet, Mr. Clayton.'

'I am most happy to hear it,' Clayton replied, with a feeble attempt at a laugh.

'Take my advice, young man, and drop your present acquaintances and mode of life at once, or you may find yourself registered here before long. I knew and respected your father, and, for his sake, would be sorry to see you in trouble. It was only last night that you were seen in company with a known gambler to leave the lowest house in the city. Recollect, I caution you to give up that man's company and live the honourable life your lamented father did, or you will soon have cause to repent your folly.'

'Truly, I ought to be grateful for your polite attention,' said Clayton, with a ghastly smile.

'And you are not? Well, as you will, and now about the business.'

'If I put you on the trail of a pack of burglars, will it be necessary for me to appear against them?'

'That depends upon the circumstances of the case.'

'I overheard a plot to break into a house to night. If you promise that my name shall not transpire, I will give you information that will enable you to take the burglars in the act.'

'I promise you,' said the Inspector, as he opened his note-book, and, pencil in hand, waited for the information.

'Mr. Arkwright's house is to be entered and robbed between midnight and three o'clock to-morrow morning.'

'Do you know the men?'

'No. I have a suspicion; but, as it is so easy to implicate the innocent, I decline to say whom I suspect. I would not, for the wealth of the Indies, have the sin upon me of assisting to condemn the innocent.'

'How tall were these men? Can you give me any particulars that may assist in identifying them?'

'I can give you no further information. Catch them in the act, and you will not need to identify.'

'You are right; we will catch them in the act; and give them a free passage to His Majesty's colony of New South Wales.'

'And now, having told you all I have to tell, I will wish you good-day,' said Clayton, rising.

'Good day, Mr. Clayton, and thank you! And don't forget my hint. I assure you, on my honor, your name is in every body's mouth.'

Mr. Inspector Barlow returned to his books, and Mr. Clayton left the office in deep thought. York must indeed be getting too warm for him, when such a hint was necessary.

As he was walking slowly back to his lodgings, a companion in many a midnight revel met him. The gentleman was on horseback, and returning from parade, where, he had, for the last time, done duty as lieutenant in one of the regiments of light cavalry. He was a man barely thirty years old, yet he wore upon his dissipated features the unmistakable traits of premature age; and it needed but a glance to perceive that he had ruined his constitution, as well as his reputation, by 'fast living,' as a career of vice is fashionably called. 'What is in a name?' asks the poet. More than is usually suspected! 'Mr. Smith is a very wild fellow, a fast young man, industriously engaged in sowing his wild oats.' Society smiles upon him, and receives him with open arms. Tear away the mask; speak in honest, plain English, and say 'He is a heart-less and debauched scoundrel, scattering misery and destruction in his path,' and society turns from him in loathing and contempt! 'What is in a name?' A great deal! Would the world but call every act by its proper name, and more would be done towards purifying the moral atmosphere than by a score of repressive laws!

'Holloa, Clayton, what's up? Why you're looking as glum as a cat in a showerbath!' said the horseman, reining in.

Mr. Clayton looked up with a start. He had been so engrossed with his thoughts, that he had not heard the approach of the other. 'What, Harrison, is it a fact you're sold out? Renwick told me this morning that you had.'

'Yes, Clayton. My uncle had an heir born a week ago; and so my creditors have come down upon me like a flock of harpies. Cursed nuisance, isn't it? and so I've had to sell out; and I'm off to Botany Bay, or New South Wales, or whatever they call it.'

'Out of the frying-pan into the fire. No one ever thinks of going to Botany Bay, unless a considerate Government provides him with a free passage; and then I expect he'd rather choose his own location, and stay at home.'

'I've tried often enough, Clayton, to teach you to judge rationally, instead of jumping at conclusions. Now, you just know nothing about the matter!'

'What are the peculiar advantages offered by the Antipodes? I have just been thinking of a trip to Italy.'

'The advantages are free grants of land and servants, and Government assistance. A few years there, growing wool and tallow, and we shall be able to return to civilization millionaires—a pleasanter prospect than the present of being sent to the Marshalsea!' (debtor's prison).

'By Plutus, I'm more than half inclined to go with you!'

'Can you find the wherewithal? I've none to spare, and you're usually pretty short.'

'I made a good haul at the two last race meetings, and I fleeced a couple of greenhorns at Kenford's last night, so I'm pretty well in for a while,' replied Clayton, unguardedly.

'You'll lend me a couple of hundred?'

'I'll not lend you a couple of hundred, or any other sum, larger or smaller; so don't expect it, Harrison. But if you're ballasted with cash enough for the venture meet me at my lodgings this afternoon, and I may arrange to go with you. I should like the excitement of shooting blackfellows and chasing mad cows amazingly.'

'Holloa, here comes Hollowboy, the sheriff's bailiff! He has a strong attachment for me, so I'm away down this lane. Put him off the scent, Clayton, and oblige yours, etcetera, Ralph Harrison, Esq., late lieutenant in his Majesty's eighth regiment of Hussars,' said the ex-lieutenant, with forced gaiety, as he trotted off down the lane.

'That Botany Bay idea is not a bad one,' said Mr Clayton, as he watched the retiring figure of the intending emigrant.

'Worn't that Lieutenant Harrison a talking to you jest now, governor?' asked a gruff voice, at his elbow.

'Yes, my man,' replied Mr. Clayton, turning round, and recognising Mr. Hollowboy, the terror of all the debtors of York.

'What street did he turn down? I lost sight of him through a 'bus coming betwixt us.'

'He rode down that lane to the first crossing, and then turned to the right.'

The sheriffs bailiff followed in pursuit, while the pursued, turning neither to right for left, lost no time in increasing the distance between him and the baffled instrument of justice.

Full of projects for the future, occasioned by the inspector's hints, and his own subsequent conversation with Harrison, Mr. Clayton returned home to his lodgings.

The sentence passed upon the unfortunate victim of Hubert Clayton's revenge, was "transportation for life to the penal colony of New South Wales." We must cast a veil upon the first few weeks following the day of trial, no uninspired pen being equal to the task of describing the sad effects of the verdict upon the prisoner's unhappy family.

At length arrived the day that was to drag Percy Sinclair from all he held dear on earth, and send him forth on his dreary voyage to the antipodes. The sensation in York was almost as great as on the morning of the trial. The social position of the prisoner, and the esteem that the community felt for his venerable father, in no small degree occasioned the general interest evinced; but there was a still deeper cause at work. During the weeks since the trial, the people had had time to carefully examine the evidence, and the public opinion was, well, to say the least, considerably surprised at the verdict; and more than one advanced liberal was heard to impeach the judicial institutions of the country. 'If its a matter of a few paltry pounds,' growled an old barber, who gave more time to politics than shaving, 'the cleverest men in the country are empannelled for the jury, but if it's a charge that may take a man's life or liberty, any clown is good enough, even if he don't know a big B from a bull's foot!' And the sentiment was echoed by the crowd of idlers collected in his shop.

At ten o'clock this morning, a police van drew up in front of the prison, and immediately after, half a dozen prisoners, all ironed, were hustled through the gate, and placed in the van. Percy Sinclair was one. The door was locked, the escort formed, and the command was given 'forward!' and the sad cortège started southward, en route for the depôt, from whence the prisoners were to embark on their long and dreary exile.

A sorrowful group were gathered round the fire in the drawing-room of Elmsdale House on the evening succeeding the departure of Percy. In an arm-chair, on one side of the fireplace, sat Dr. Sinclair, his little daughter Alice upon his knees. Florence, seated upon a hassock by his side, was leaning caressingly upon his shoulder, and gazing sadly and thoughtfully into the embers. On the opposite side Mrs. Sinclair was nursing the wee pet Maudie, who, too young to understand the grief that oppressed the others, yet seemed infected by its influence, and lay silent and still in her mother's arms. Miss Egerton was at a table apparently reading; but the pages were damp with tears, and her thoughts were with her unhappy cousin, whom she loved with all the tender devotion of a sister. It was a sad spectacle, this bereaved family mourning for the beloved one torn from their midst! Not a word was spoken by the sorrowing group. In silence they grieved for the lost. That morning they had parted from him who now occupied the thoughts of each; and 'should they ever see him again?' was the question that forced itself upon the minds of all. Desolate, as when the sable hearse carries off the victim of Death, seemed the cold future now! Ay! more desolate: for then there is no uncertainty to add the tortures of suspense to the pangs of parting. No need then to ask the feverish question, 'Shall we ever see him again?' For this world at least the question is settled.

That morning, as the police van rolled away with its freight of sin and shame, the broken-hearted mother of 'the forger' fainted. This new trouble distracted for the time Dr. Sinclair's attention from his grief; and after some delay she was restored. With returning consciousness came memory. 'My boy! My poor, poor boy! I have nothing left to live for now!' she wailed piteously, wringing her hands in her despair. With a strong effort her husband assumed an appearance of tranquility. 'Mary,' he whispered, 'Do you forget, we have three yet left to us! Baby Maud is perhaps crying for mamma now. Will you not return to her?'

The appeal had the desired effect. Mrs. Sinclair allowed herself to be assisted into the gig, and driven home; and here she sits pressing the darling to her heart.

We must now leave the mourners, and follow the exile across the billowy main to the far-off land of Australia. Who can tell whether we shall ever meet with them again. Perhaps in the course of our story we may, perhaps we may not! The future, in fiction as in real life, can only be read when it ceases to be 'the future.'