 Prologue to the Mysteries of London. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Corrie Samuel. The Mysteries of London by George W. M. Reynolds Volume 1 Prologue Between the 10th and 13th centuries civilization withdrew from Egypt and Syria, rested for a little space at Constantinople, and then passed sway to the western climes of Europe. From that period these climes have been the grand laboratory in which civilization has wrought out refinement in every art and every science, and whence it has diffused its benefits over the earth. It has taught commerce to plow the waves of every sea with the adventurous keel. It has enabled handfuls of disciplined warriors to subdue the mighty armaments of Oriental princes, and its daring suns have planted its banners amidst the eternal ice of the poles. It has cut down the primitive forests of America, carried trade into the interior of Africa, annihilated time and distance by the aid of steam, and now contemplates how to force a passage through Suez and Panama. The bounties of civilization are at present almost everywhere recognized. Nevertheless, for centuries has civilization established, and for centuries will it maintain its headquarters in the great cities of western Europe, and with civilization does vice go hand in hand. Amongst these cities there is one in which contrasts of a strange nature exist. The most unbounded wealth is the neighbour of the most hideous poverty. The most gorgeous pomp is placed in strong relief by the most deplorable squalor. The most seducing luxury is only separated by a narrow wall from the most appalling misery. The crumbs which fall from the tables of the rich would appear delicious vions to starving millions, and yet those millions obtain them not. In that city there are in all districts five prominent buildings, the church in which the pious pray, the gin palace to which the wretched poor resort to drown their sorrows, the pawnbrokers where miserable creatures pledge their raiment and their children's raiment, even unto the last rag to obtain the means of purchasing food and alas too often intoxicating drink, the prison where the victims of evitiated condition of society expiate the crimes to which they have been driven by starvation and despair, and the workhouse to which the destitute, the aged, and the friendless hasten to lay down their aching heads and die. Congregated together in one district of this city is an assemblage of palaces whence emanate by night the delicious sounds of music, within whose walls the foot treads upon rich carpets, whose sideboards are covered with plate, whose cellars contain the choicest nectar of the temperate and torrid zones, and whose inmates recline beneath velvet canopies, feast at each meal upon the collated produce of four worlds, and scarcely have to breathe a wish before they find it gratified. Alas! how appalling are these contrasts! And, as if to hide its infamy from the face of heaven, the city wears upon its brow an everlasting cloud, which even the fresh fan of the morning fails to disperse for a single hour each day. And in one delicious spot of that mighty city, whose thousand towers point upwards from horizon to horizon as an index of its boundless magnitude, stands the dwelling of one before whom all knees bow, and towards whose royal footstool none dares approach, save with downcast eyes and subdued voice. The entire world showers its bounties upon the head of that favoured mortal, a nation of millions does homage to the throne whereon that being is exalted. The dominion of this personage, so supremely blessed, extends over an empire on which the sun never sets, an empire greater than Genghis Khan achieved, or Muhammad conquered. This is the parent of a mighty nation. And yet, around that parent's seat, the children crave for bread. Women press their little ones to their dried-up breasts in the agonies of despair. Young, delicate creatures waste their energies in toil, from the dawn of day till long past the hour of midnight, perpetuating their unavailing labour from the hour of the brilliant sun, to that when the dim candle sheds its light around the attic's naked walls, and even the very pavement groans beneath the weight of grief which the poor are doomed to drag over the rough places of this city of sad contrasts. For in this city the daughter of the peer is nursed in enjoyments and passes through an uninterrupted avenue of felicity from the cradle to the tomb, while the daughter of poverty opens her eyes at her birth upon destitution in all its most appalling shapes, and at length sells her virtue for a loaf of bread. There are but two words known in the moral alphabet of this great city, for all virtues are summed up in the one and all vices in the other, and those words are wealth, poverty. Crime is abundant in this city. The Lazar house, the prison, the brothel, and the dark alley are rife with all kinds of enormity, in the same way as the palace, the mansion, the clubhouse, the parliament, and the parsonage are each and all characterised by their different degrees and shades of vice. But wherefore specify crime and vice by their real names, since in the city of which we speak they are absorbed in the multi-significant words wealth and poverty. Crimes borrow their comparative shade of enormity from the people who perpetrate them. Thus is it that the wealthy may commit all social offences with impunity, while the poor are cast into dungeons and coerced with chains, for only following at a humble distance in the pathway of their lordly precedents. From this city of strange contrasts branch off two roads, leading to two points totally distinct, the one from the other. One winds its tortuous way through all the noisome dens of crime, chicanery, dissipation, and voluptuousness. The other meanders, amidst rugged rocks and wearisome aclivities, it is true, but on the wayside are the resting places of rectitude and virtue. Along those two roads two youths are journeying. They have started from the same point, but one pursues the former path and one the latter. Both come from the city of fearful contrasts, and both follow the wheels of fortune in different directions. Where is that city of fearful contrasts? Who are those youths who have thus entered upon paths so opposite the one to the other? And to what destinies do those separate roads conduct them? End of Prologue. CHAPTER ONE OF THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Corrie Samuel. THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON by George W. M. Reynolds Volume 1 CHAPTER ONE THE OLD HOUSE IN SMITHFIELD Our narrative opens at the commencement of July, 1831. The night was dark and stormy. The sun had set behind huge piles of dingy purple clouds, which, after losing the golden hue with which they were for a while tinged, became somber and menacing. The blue portions of the sky that here and there had appeared before the sunset were now rapidly covered over with those murky clouds which are the hiding places of the storm and which seem to roll themselves together in dense and compact masses, ere they commenced the elemental war. In the same manner do the earthly squadrons of cavalry and mighty columns of infantry form themselves into one collected armament that the power of their onslaught may be the more terrific and irresistible. That canopy of dark and threatening clouds was formed over London and a stifling heat which there was not a breath of wind to allay or mitigate pervaded the streets of the great metropolis. Everything portended an awful storm. In the palace of the pier and the hovel of the artisan the windows were thrown up and at many both men and women stood to contemplate the scene, to image children crowding behind them. The heat became more and more oppressive. At length large drops of rain fell at intervals of two or three inches apart upon the pavement and then a flash of lightning like the forked tongue of one of those fiery serpents of which we read in Oriental tales of magic and enchantment headed forth from the black clouds overhead. At an interval of a few seconds the roar of thunder reverberating through the arches of heaven now sinking, now exalting its fearful tone like the iron wheels of a chariot rolled over a road with patches of uneven pavement here and there stunned every ear and struck terror into many a heart, the innocent as well as the guilty. In a way like the chariot in the distance and then all was solemnly still the interval of silence which succeeds the protracted thunderclap is appalling in the extreme. A little while and again the lightning illuminated the entire vault above and again the thunder in unequal tames of which was one resembling the rattling of many vast iron bars together awoke every echo of the metropolis from north to south and from east to west. This time the dread interval of silence was suddenly interrupted by the torrents of rain that now deluged the streets. There was not a breath of air and the rain fell as perpendicularly straight as a line, but with it came a sense of freshness and of a pure atmosphere which formed an agreeable and cheering contrast to the previously suffocating heat. It was like the spring of the oasis to the wanderer in the burning desert. But still the lightning played and the thunder rolled above at the first explosion of the storm amidst the thousands of men and women and children who were seen hastening hither and thither in all directions as if they were flying from the plague was one person on whose exterior none could gaze without being inspired by a mingled sentiment of admiration and interest. He was a youth, apparently not more than sixteen years of age, although taller than boys usually are at that period of life. But the tenderness of his years was divined by the extreme effeminacy and juvenile loveliness of his countenance, which was as fair and delicate as that of a young girl. His long luxuriant hair of a beautiful light chestnut colour, here and there borrowing dark shades from the frequent undulations in which it rolled, flowed not only over the collar of his closely buttoned blue frock coat, but also upon his shoulders. Its extreme profusion and the singular manner in which he wore it were, however, partially concealed by the breadth of the brim of his hat that was placed, as it were, entirely upon the back of his head and, being thus thrown off his countenance, revealed the high, intelligent and polished forehead above which that rich hair was carefully parted. His frock coat, which was single-breasted, and buttoned up to the throat set off his symmetrical and elegant figure to the greatest advantage. His shoulders were broad, but were characterised by that fine fall or slope which is so much admired in the opposite sex. He wore spurs upon the heels of his diminutive polished boots and in his hand he carried a light riding-whip, but he was on foot and alone, and when the first flash of lightning dazzled his expressive hazel eyes, he was hastily traversing the fowl and filthy arena of Smithfield Market. An imagination poetically inspired would suppose a similitude of a beautiful flower upon a fetid manure heap. He cast a glance, which may almost be termed one of a fright around, and his cheek became flushed. He had evidently lost his way, and was uncertain where to obtain an asylum against the coming storm. The thunder burst above his head, and a momentary shudder passed over his frame. He accosted a man to inquire his way, but the answer he received was rude and associated with a ribald joke. He had not courage to demand a second time the information he sought, but with a species of haughty disdain at the threatening storm and a proud reliance upon himself, proceeded onwards at random. He even slackened his pace. A contemptuous smile curled his lips, and the glittering white teeth appeared as it were between two rose-leaves. His chest, which was very prominent, rose up and down almost convulsively, for it was evident that he endeavoured to master conflicting feelings of vexation, alarm, and disgust, all produced by the position in which he found himself. To one so young, so delicate, and so frank in appearance, the mere fact of losing his way by night in a disgusting neighbourhood during an impending storm and insulted by a low-life ruffian was not the mere trifle which he would have been considered by the hardy and experienced man of the world. Not a public conveyance was to be seen, and the doors of all the houses around appeared inhospitably closed, and every moment it seemed to grow darker. Accident conducted the interesting young stranger into that labyrinth of dirty and narrow streets, which lies in the immediate vicinity of the north-western angle of Smithfield Market. It was in this horrible neighbourhood that the youth was now wandering. He was evidently shocked at the idea that human beings could dwell in such fetid and unwholesome dens, for he gazed with wonder, disgust, and alarm upon the houses on either side. It seemed as if he had never beheld till now a labyrinth of dwellings whose very aspect appeared to speak of hideous poverty and fearful crime. Meantime the lightning flashed, and the thunder rolled, and at length the rain poured down in torrents. Obeying a mechanical impulse the youth rushed up the steps of a house at the end of one of those dark, narrow, and dirty streets, the ominous appearance of which was, every now and then, revealed to him by a light streaming from a narrow window or the glare of the lightning. The framework of the door projected somewhat, and appeared to offer a partial protection from the rain. The youth threw as closely up to it as possible, but to his surprise it yielded behind him and burst open. With difficulty he saved himself from falling backwards into the passage with which the door communicated. Having recovered from the sudden alarm with which this incident had inspired him, his next sentiment was one of pleasure to think that he had thus found a more secure asylum against the tempest. He, however, felt wearied, desperately wearied, and his was not a frame calculated to bear up against the oppressive and crushing feeling of fatigue. He determined to penetrate, amidst the profound darkness by which he was surrounded, into the dwelling, thinking that if there were any inmates they would not refuse him the accommodation of a chair, and if there were none he might find a seat upon the staircase. He advanced along the passage and groped about. His hand encountered the lock of a door. He opened it and entered a room. All was dark as pitch. At that moment a flash of lightning, more than usually vivid and prolonged, illuminated the entire scene. The glance which he cast around was as rapid as the glare which made objects visible to him for a few moments. He was in a room entirely empty, but in the middle of the floor, only three feet from the spot where he stood, there was a large square of jet blackness. The lightning passed away. Utter darkness again surrounded him, and he was unable to ascertain what that black square, so well-defined and apparent upon the dirty floor, could be. An indescribable sensation of fear crept over him, and the perspiration broke out upon his forehead in large drops. His knees bent beneath him, and retreating a few steps, he leaned against the doorposts for support. He was alone, in an uninhabited house, in the midst of a horrible neighbourhood, and all the fearful tales of midnight murders which he had ever heard or read rushed to his memory. Then, by a strange but natural freak of the fancy, those appalling deeds of blood and crime were suddenly associated with that incomprehensible but ominous black square upon the floor. He was in the midst of this terrible waking dream, this more than ideal nightmare, when hasty steps approached the front door from the street, and without stopping entered the passage. The youth crept silently towards the farther end, the perspiration oozing from every pore. He felt the staircase with his hands, the footsteps advanced, and, light as the fawn, he hurried up the stairs. So noiseless were his motions that his presence was not noticed by the newcomers, who in their turns also ascended the staircase. The youth reached a landing, and hastily felt for the doors of the rooms with which it communicated. In another moment he was in a chamber at the back part of the house. He closed the door, and placed himself against it with all his strength. Forgetful, poor youth, that his fragile form was unavailing with all its power against even the single arm of a man of only ordinary strength. Meantime the newcomers ascended the stairs. End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of The Mysteries of London This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Corey Samuel The Mysteries of London by George W. M. Reynolds Volume 1 Chapter 2 The Mysteries of the Old House Fortunately for the interesting young stranger, the individuals who had just entered the house did not attempt the door of the room in which he had taken refuge. They proceeded straight, and with a steadiness which seemed to indicate that they knew the locality well, to the front chamber upon the same floor. In a few moments there was a sharp grating noise along the wall, and then a light suddenly shone into the room where the young stranger was concealed. He cast a terrified glance around and beheld a small square window in the wall which separated the two apartments. It was about five feet from the floor, a height which permitted the youth to avail himself of it in order to reconnoiter the proceedings in the next room. By means of a candle which had been lighted by the aid of a Lucifer match and which stood on a dirty deal-table, the young stranger beheld two men whose outward appearance did not serve to banish his alarm. They were dressed like operatives of the most humble class. One wore a gabardine and coarse leather-gaters with laced-up boots. The other had on the fustian shooting-jacket and long corduroy trousers. They were both dirty and unshaven. The one with a shooting-jacket had a profusion of hair about his face, but which was evidently not well acquainted with a comb. The other wore no whiskers, but his beard was of three or four days' growth. Both were powerful, thick set, and muscular men, and the expression of their countenances was dogged, determined, and ferocious. The room to which they had betaken themselves was cold, gloomy, and dilapidated. It was furnished with a deal-table before mentioned, and three old, crazy chairs, upon two of which the men now seated themselves. But they were so placed that they commanded, their door being open, a full view of the landing-place, and thus the youthful stranger deemed it in politic to attempt to take his departure for the moment. "'Now, Bill, out with the bingo,' said the man in the gabardine to his companion. "'Well, you're always for the last you are, Dick,' answered the latter, in a surly tone, producing at the same time a bottle of liquor from the capacious pocket of his fustian coat. But I wonder how the devil it is that Cranky Jem ain't come yet, who the Jews could have left that infernal door open.' Jem or some of the other blades must have been here and left it so. It don't matter, it lulls suspicion. "'Well, let's make the regulars all square,' resumed the man, called Bill, after a moment's pause. "'We'll then booze a bit, and talk over this here new job of arne.' "'Look alive, then,' said Dick, and he forthwith took from beneath his gabardine several small parcels done up in round paper. The other man likewise divested the pockets of his fustian coat of diverse packages, and all these were piled upon the table. A strange and mysterious proceeding then took place. The person in the fustian coat approached the chimney and applied a small turn-screw which he took from his pocket to a screw in the iron framework of the rusty grate. In a few moments he was enabled to remove the entire grate with his hands. A square aperture of considerable dimensions was then revealed. Into this place the two men thrust the parcels which they had taken from their pockets. The grate was replaced, the screws were fastened once more, and the work of concealment was complete. The one in the gabardine then advanced towards that portion of the wall which was between the two windows, and the youth in the adjoining-room now observed for the first time that the shutters of those windows were closed and that coarse brown paper had been pasted over all the chinks and joints. Dick applied his hand in a peculiar manner to the part of the wall just alluded to, and a sliding panel immediately revealed a capacious cupboard. Thence the two men took food of by no means a coarse description, glasses, pipes, and tobacco, and having hermetically closed the recess once more, seated themselves at the table to partake of the good cheer thus mysteriously supplied. The alarm of the poor youth in a next chamber, as he contemplated these extraordinary proceedings, may be better conceived than depicted. His common sense told him that he was in the den of lawless thieves, perhaps murderous, in a house abounding with the secret means of concealing every kind of infamy. His eyes wandered away from the little window that had enabled him to observe the above-described proceedings, and glanced fearfully around the room in which he was concealed. He almost expected to see the very floor open beneath his feet. He looked down mechanically as this idea flitted through his imagination, and to his horror and dismay he beheld a trap-door in the floor. There was no mistaking it, there it was, about three feet long and too broad, and a little sunken beneath the level of its framework. Near the edge of the trap-door lay an object which also attracted the youth's attention and added to his fears. It was a knife with a long blade pointed like a dagger. About three inches of this blade was covered with a peculiar rust. The youth shuddered. The human blood that had stained the instrument of death. Every circumstance, however trivial, aided in such a place as that, to arouse or confirm the worst fears, the most horrible suspicions. The voices of the two men in the next room fell upon the youth's ear, and, perceiving that escape was still impracticable, he determined to gratify that curiosity which was commingled with his fears. "'Well, now, about this other job, Dick,' said Bill. "'Its gem has started it,' was the reply, but he told me all about it, and so we may as well talk it over. It's up his LinkedIn way, up there between Kentish Town and Lower Holloway. Whose crib is it?' A swell of the name of Markham. He's an old fellow, and has two sons. One, the eldest, is with his regiment. Tother, the youngest, is only about fifteen or so, a mere kid. Well, there's no danger to be expected from him. But what about the flunkies? Only two man-servants and three women. One of the man-servants is the old butler, too fat to do any good, and Tother is a young tiger. And that's all? Now, you and I and Jem is quite enough to crack that their crib. When is it to be done? Let's say to-morrow night. There is no moon now to speak on, and business in other quarters is slack. So be it. Here goes then to the success of our new job at Old Markham's. And as the burglar uttered these words, he tossed off a bumper of brandy. This example was followed by his worthy companion, and their conversation then turned upon other topics. I say, Bill, this old house has seen some jolly games, hasn't it? I should think it had, too. It was Jonathan Wilde's favourite crib, and he was no fool at keeping things dark. No, surely. I dare say the well staircase in the next room there, that's covered over the trap-door, has had many a dead body flung down it into the fleet. Ah! Without telling no tales, too. But the trap-door has been nailed over for some years now. The unfortunate youth in the adjacent chamber was riveted in silent horror to the spot, as these fearful details fell upon his ears. Why was the trap-door nailed down? Cos there's no use for that now, since the house is uninhabited, and no more travellers comes to lodge here. Besides, if we wanted to make use of such convenience there's another one. A loud clap of thunder prevented the remainder of this sentence from reaching the youth's ears. I've heard it said that the city's going to make great alterations in this quarter, observed to Dick, after a pause. If so be, they come near as we must shift our quarters. Well, and don't we know other cribs as good as this, and just under the very nose of the authorities, too? The nearer you get to them the safer you find yourself. Who'd think now that here, and in Peter Street, and on Saffron Hill, too, there was such cribs as this? Lord, how such coves as you and me does laugh when them chaps in the Common Council, and the House of Commons, gets on their legs and praises the blue-bottles up to the skies as the most acutest police in the world, while they vote so well as they can. Well, they vote the way the people's money to maintain them. Now, as for alterations, I don't suppose there'll be any for the next twenty years to come. They always talk for improvements longer before they begin them. But when they do commence, they won't spare this lovely old crib. It'd go to my heart to see them pull it about. I'd much sooner take and shove a dozen stiffens myself down the trap than see a single rafter of the place ill-treated, that I would. Ah, if so be as the Masons does come to pull its old carcass about, there'll be some fine things made known to the world, them cellars downstairs in which a man might hide for fifty years and never be smelt out by the police. They'll turn up a bone or two, I rather suspect, and not of a sheep, nor a pig, nor a bull, neither. Why, half the silly folks in this neighbourhood are afraid to come here even in a day-time because they say it's haunted. Observed, Bill, after a brief pause. But, for my part, I shouldn't be frightened to come here at all hours of the night, and sit here alone, too, even if every fella as was scragged at Tyburn or Newgate, and every one what was being tumbled down these holes into the fleet, was to start up and— The man stopped short, turned gushly pale, and fell back stupefied and speechless in his chair. His pipe dropped from between his fingers and broke to pieces on the floor. What the devil's the matter now? demanded his companion, casting an anxious glance around. There, there, don't you see? gasped the terrified Ruffian, pointing towards the little window looking into the next room. It's only some damn gammon of cranky gym, ejaculated Dick, who was more courageous in such matters than his companion. I'll juce soon put that to rights. Seizing the candle, he was hurrying towards the door, when his comrade rushed after him, crying, No, I won't be left in the dark. I can't bear it. Damn, if you go, I'll go with you. The two villains accordingly proceeded together into the next room. End of Chapter 2 Chapter 3 of The Mysteries of London This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Read by Corrie Samuel. The Mysteries of London by George W. M. Reynolds Volume 1, Chapter 3 The Trap Door The youthful stranger had listened with ineffable surprise and horror to the conversation of the two Ruffians. His nerves had been worked up by all the circumstances of the evening to a tone bordering on madness, to that pitch indeed where it appeared as if there were no alternative left, saved to fall upon the floor and yield to the delirium tremens of violent emotions. He had restrained his feelings while he heard the burglary at Mr. Markham's dwelling coolly planned and settled. But when the discourse of those two monsters of human shape developed to his imagination all the horrors of the fearful place in which he had sought an asylum when he heard that he was actually standing upon the very verge of that staircase down which innumerable victims had been hurled through the depths of the slimy ditch beneath and when he thought how probable it was that his bones were doomed to whiten in the dark and hidden caverns below along with the remains of other human beings who had been barbarously murdered in cold blood reason appeared to forsake him. A cold sweat broke forth all over him and he seemed about to faint under the impression of a hideous nightmare. He threw his hat upon the floor for he felt the want of air. That proud forehead, that beautiful countenance were distorted with indescribable horror and an ashy pallor spread itself over his features. Death in all its most hideous forms appeared to follow, to surround, to hem him in. There was no escape. A trap door here, a well communicating with the ditch there or else the dagger. No matter in what shape still death was before him, behind him, above him, below him, on every side of him. It was horrible, most horrible. Then was it that a sudden thought flashes across his brain. He resolved to attempt a desperate effort to escape. He summoned all his courage to his aid and opened the door so cautiously that though the hinges were old and rusted they did not creak. The crisis was now at hand. If he could clear the landing unperceived, he was safe. It was true that, seen or unseen, he might succeed in escaping from the house by means of his superior agility and nimbleness. But he reflected that these men would capture him again in a few minutes in the midst of a labyrinth of streets with which he was utterly unacquainted but which they knew so well. He remembered that he had overheard their secrets and witnessed their mysterious modes of concealment and that, should he fall into their power death must inevitably await him. These ideas crossed his brain in a moment and convinced him of the necessity of prudence and extreme caution. He must leave the house unperceived and dare the pitiless storm and pelting rain for the tempest still raged without. He once more approached the window to ascertain if there were any chance of stealing across the landing-place unseen. Unfortunately, he drew too near the window. The light of the candle fell full upon his countenance which horror and alarm had rendered deadly pale and fearfully convulsed. It was at this moment that the Ruffian, in the midst of his unholy vaunts, had caught sight of that human face, light as a sheet, and with eyes fixed upon him with a glare which his imagination rendered stony and unearthly. The youth saw that he was discovered and a full sense of the desperate peril which hung over him rushed to his mind. He turned and endeavoured to fly away from the fatal spot. But as imagination frequently fetters the limbs in a nightmare and involves the sleeper in danger in which he vainly attempts to run. So did his legs now refuse to perform their office. His brain wild. His eyes grew dim. He grasped at the wall to save himself from falling. But his senses were deserting him. And he sank, fainting upon the floor. He awoke from the trance into which he had fallen and became aware that he was being moved along. Almost at the same instant his eyes fell upon the sinister countenance of Dick who was carrying him by the feet. The other Ruffian was supporting his head. They were lifting him down the staircase upon the top step of which the candle was standing. All the incidents of the evening immediately returned to the memory of the wretched boy who now only too well comprehended the desperate perils that surrounded him. The bottom of the staircase was reached. The villains deposited their burden for a moment in the passage while Dick retraced his steps to fetch down the candle. And then a horrible conflict of feelings and inclinations took place in the bosom of the unhappy youth. He shut his eyes and for an instant debating within himself whether he should remain silent or cry out. He dreamt of immediate, instantaneous death and yet he thought that he was young to die, oh so young, and that men could not be such barbarians. But when the two Ruffians stooped down to take him up again fear surmounted all other sentiments, feelings and inclinations and his deep, his profound, his heartfelt agony was expressed in one long, loud and piercing shriek. And then a fearful scene took place. The two villains carried the youth into the front room upon the ground floor and laid him down for a moment. It was the sane room to which he had first found his way upon entering that house. It was the room in which, by the glare of the evanescent lighting, he had seen that black square upon the dirty floor. For a few instance all was dark. At length the candle was brought by the man in the fustian coat. The youth glanced wildly around him and speedily recognised that room. He remembered how deeper sensation of horror seized him when that black square upon the floor first caught his eyes. He raised himself upon his left arm and once more looked around. Great God! Was it possible? That ominous blackness, that sinister square, was the mouth of a yawning gulf, the trapdoor of which was raised. A fetid smell rose from the depths below and the gurgling of a current was faintly heard. The dread truth was in a moment made apparent to that unhappy boy, much more quickly than it occupies to relate or read. He started from his supine posture and fell upon his knees at the feet of those merciless villains who had borne him thither. Mercy! I implore you! Oh! Do not devote me to so horrible a death! Do not! Do not murder me! Hold your noisy tongue, you fool! ejaculated Bill brutally. You have heard and seen too much for our safety. We can't do otherwise. No, certainly not, added Dick. You are now as fly to the fakement as any one of us. Spare me, spare me, and I will never betray you. Oh! Do not send me out of this world so young, so very young! I have money, I have wealth, I am rich, and I will give you all I possess!" ejaculated the agonised youth, his countenance wearing an expression of horrible despair. Come, here's enough, Bill, lend a hand, and Dick seized the boy by one arm while his companion took a firm hold of the other. Mercy! Mercy! shrieked the youth, struggling violently, but struggling vainly. You will repent when you know I am not what I— he said no more. His last words were uttered over the mouth of the chasm. Air the ruffians loosened their hold, and then he fell. The trap-door was closed violently over the aperture and drowned the scream of agony which burst from his lips. The two murderers then retraced their steps to the apartment on the first floor. On the following day, about one o'clock, Mr. Markham, a gentleman of fortune residing in the northern environs of London, received the following letter. The inscrutable decree of Providence have enabled the undersigned to warn you that this night a burglarous attempt will be made upon your dwelling. The wretches who contemplate this infamy are capable of a crime of much blacker dye. Beware! An Unknown Friend This letter was written in a beautiful feminine hand. Due precaution was adopted at Mr. Markham's mansion, but the attempt alluded to in the warning epistle was, for some reason or another, not made. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of the Mysteries of London This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Corrie Samuel The Mysteries of London by George W. M. Reynolds Volume 1 Chapter 4 The Two Trees It was between eight and nine o'clock, on a delicious evening, about a week after the events related in the preceding chapters, the two youths issued from Mr. Markham's handsome but somewhat secluded dwelling in the northern part of the environs of London, and slowly ascended the adjacent hill. There was an interval of about four years between the ages of these youths, the elder being upwards of nineteen and the younger about fifteen, but it was easy to perceive by the resemblance which existed between them, that they were brothers. They walked at a short distance from each other and exchanged not a word as they ascended the somewhat steep path which conducted them to the summit of the eminence that overlooked the mansion they had just left. The elder proceeded first, and from time to time he clenched his fists and knit his brows and gave other silent but expressive indications of the angry passions which were concentrated in his breast. His brother followed him with downcast eyes and with accountants denoting the deep anguish that oppressed him. In this manner they arrived at the top of the hill, where they seated themselves upon a bench which stood between two young ash saplings. For a long time the brothers remained silent, but at length the younger of the two suddenly burst into tears and exclaimed, oh, why, dearest Eugene, did we choose this spot to say farewell, perhaps for ever? We could not select a more appropriate one, Richard, returned the elder brother. Four years ago those trees were planted by our hands and we have ever since called them by our own names. When we were wanted to separate, to repair to our respective schools, we came hither to talk over our plans, to arrange the periods of our correspondence, and to anticipate the pursuits that should engage us during the vacations, and when we returned from our seminaries we hastened hither, hand in hand, to see how our trees flourished, and he was most joyous and proud whose sapling appeared to expand the more luxuriously. If ever we quarrelled, Richard, it was here that we made our peace again, and seated upon this bench we have concocted plans for the future, which happily will never now be realized. You were right, my dear brother, said Richard, after a pause, during which he appeared to reflect profoundly upon Eugene's words. We could not have selected a better spot, still it is all those happy days to which you allude, that now render this moment the more bitter. Tell me, must you depart? Is there no alternative? Can I not intercede with our father? Surely, surely he will not discard one so young as you, and whom he has loved must still love so tenderly. Intercede with my father? repeated Eugene, with an irony which seemed extraordinary in one of his tender age. No, never. He has signified his desire. He has commanded me no longer to pollute his dwelling. Those were his very words, and he shall be obeyed. Our father was incensed, deeply incensed, when he spoke, urged Richard, whose voice was rendered almost inaudible by his sobs, and to-morrow he will repent of his harshness towards you. Our father had no right to blame me. said Eugene violently. All that has occurred originated in his own conduct towards me. The behaviour of a parent to his son is the element of that son's ruin or success in afterlife. I know not how you can reproach our father, Eugene, said Richard, somewhat reproachfully, for he has ever conducted himself with tenderness towards us, and since the death of our dear mother. You are yet too young, Richard," interrupted Eugene impatiently, to comprehend the nature of the accusation which I bring against my father. I will, however, attempt to enable you to understand my meaning, so that you may not imagine that I am acting with duplicity when I endeavour to find a means of extinuation if not of justification for my own conduct. My father lavished his gold upon my education, as he also did upon yours, and he taught us from childhood to consider ourselves the sons of wealthy parents who would enable their children to move with eclair in an elevated sphere of life. It was just this day a year that I joined my regiment at Night's Bridge. I suddenly found myself thrown amongst gay, dissipated and wealthy young men, my brother officers. Many of them were old acquaintances and had been my companions at the Royal Military College at Sandhurst. They speedily enlisted me in all their pleasures and debaucheries, and my expenditure soon exceeded my pay and my allowance. I became involved in debts, and was compelled to apply to my father to relieve me from my embarrassments. I wrote a humble and submissive letter, expressing contrition for my faults and promising to avoid similar pursuits in future. Indeed, I was worried of the dissipation into which I had plunged and should have profited well by the experience my short career of pleasure and folly had enabled me to acquire. I trembled upon that verge when my father could either ruin or save me. He did not reply to my letter, and I had not courage to seek an interview with him. Again did I write to him no answer. I had lost money at private play and had contracted debts in the same manner. Those, Richard, are called debts of honour and must be paid in full to your creditor, however wealthy he may be, even though your servants and tradesmen should be cheated out of their hard-earned and perhaps much-needed money altogether. I wrote a third time to our father, and still no notice was taken of my appeal. The officers to whom I owed the money lost at play began to look coldly upon me, and I was reduced to a state of desperation. Still I waited for a few days, and for a fourth time wrote to my father. It appears that he was resolved to make me feel the inconvenience of the position in which I had placed myself by my follies, and he sent me no answer. I then called at the house, and he refused to see me. This you know, Richard. What could I do? Driven mad by constant demands for money which I could not pay, and smarting under the chilling glances and taunting allusions of my brother officers, I sold my commission. You are acquainted with the rest. I came home through myself at my father's feet, and he spurned me away from him. Richard, was my crime so very great, and has not the unjust, the extreme severity of my father being the cause of all my afflictions? I dare not judge between you," said Richard mildly. But what does common sense suggest, demanded Eugene. Doubtless our father knows best, returned the younger brother. Old men are often wrong in spite of their experience, in spite of their years, persisted Eugene. My dear brother, said Richard, I am afraid to exercise my judgment in a case where I stand the chance of rebelling against my father, or questioning his wisdom. And, at the same time, I am anxious to believe everything in your justification. I knew that you would not comprehend me," exclaimed Eugene impatiently. It is ridiculous not to dare to have an opinion of one's own. My dear brother," he added, turning suddenly round, you have been to Eaton to little purpose. I thought that nearly as much of the world was to be seen there as at Sandhurst. I find that I was mistaken. And Eugene felt and looked annoyed at the turn which the conversation had taken. Richard was unhappy and remained silent. In the meantime the sun had set, and the darkness was gradually becoming more intense. Suddenly Eugene grasped his brother's hand and exclaimed, Richard, I shall now depart. Impossible," cried the warm-hearted youth, you will not leave me thus, you will not abandon your father also for a hasty word that he has spoken and which he will gladly recall tomorrow. Oh, no, Eugene, you will not leave the dwelling in which you were born and where you have passed so many happy hours. What will become of you? What do you purpose? What plan have you in view? I have a few guineas in my pocket," returned Eugene, and many a princely fortune has been based upon a more slender foundation. Yes," said Richard hastily, you read of fortunes being easily acquired in novels and romances, and in past times persons may have enriched themselves suddenly. But in the great world of the present day, Eugene, I am afraid that such occurrences are rare and seldom seen. You know nothing of the world, Richard," said Eugene, almost contemptuously. There are thousands of persons in London who live well and keep up splendid establishments without any apparent resources, and I am man of the world enough to be well aware that those always thrive the best in the long run, who have the least to lose at starting. At all events I shall try my fortune. I will not, cannot, succumb to a parent who has caused my ruin at my very first entrance into life. May God prosper your pursuits and send you the fortune at which you appear to aim at," ejaculated Richard fervently. But once again, and for the last time, let me implore you, let me entreat you not to push this rash and hasty resolve into execution. Do stay. Do not leave me, my dearest, dearest brother. Richard, not all the powers of human persuasion shall induce me to abandon my present determination," cried Eugene emphatically, and rising from the bench as he spoke. It is growing late and I must depart. Now listen, my dear boy, to what I have to say to you. Speak, speak," murmured Richard, sobbing as if his heart would break. All will yet be well," said Eugene, slightly touched by his brother's profound affliction. I am resolved not to set foot in my father's house again. You must return thither and pack me up my papers and my necessaries. And you will not leave this spot until my return," said Richard. Solemnly I promised that, answered Eugene, but stay, on your part you must faithfully pledge yourself not to seek my father, nor in any way interfere between him and me. Nay, do not remonstrate, you must promise. I promise you all anything you require," said Richard mournfully, and after affectionately embracing his brother, he hurried down the hill towards the mansion, turning back from time to time to catch a glimpse of Eugene's figure through the increasing gloom to satisfy himself that he was still there between the two saplings. Richard entered the house and stole softly up to the bedroom, which his brother usually occupied when at home. He began his mournful task of putting together the few things which Eugene has desired him to select, and while he was thus employed, the tears rolled down his cheeks in torrents. At one moment he was inclined to hurry to his father and implore him to interfere in time to prevent Eugene's departure, but he remembered his solemn promise and he would not break it. Assuredly this was a sense of honour so extreme that it might be denominated false, but it was, nevertheless, the sentiment which controlled all the actions of him who cherished it. Tenderly, dearly as he loved his brother, bitterly as he deplored his intended departure, he still would not forfeit his word and take the simple step which would probably have averted the much-dreaded evil. Richard's sense of honour and inflexible integrity triumphed on all occasions over every other consideration, feeling and desire, and of this characteristic of his brother's nature, Eugene was well aware. Richard had made a small package of the articles which he had selected and was about to leave the room to return to his brother when the sound of a footstep in the passage, communicating with a chamber, suddenly fell upon his ear. Scarcely had he time to recover from the alarm which the circumstance had thrown him when the door slowly opened and the butler entered the apartment. He was a man of about fifty years of age, with a jolly red face, a somewhat bulbous nose, small laughing eyes, short grey hair standing upright in front, whiskers terminating an inch above his white cravat, and in person considerably inclined to corpulency. In height he was about five feet seven inches and had a peculiar shuffling rapid walk which he had learnt by some twenty-five years' practice in little journeys from the sideboard to the dining-room to his own pantry and back again. He was possessed of an excellent heart and was a good-humoured companion, but pompous and swelling with importance in the presence of those whom he considered his inferiors. He was particularly addicted to hard words and as, to use his own expression, he was self-taught. It is not to be wondered if he occasionally gave those aforesaid hard words a pronunciation and a meaning which militated a little against received rules. In attire he was unequaled for the whiteness of his cravat, the exuberance of his shirt-frill, the elegance of his waistcoat, the set of his cursemer tights, and the punctilious neatness of his black silk stockings and his well-polished shoes. "'Well, Master Richard?' said the butler, as he shuffled into the room with a white napkin and his left arm. "'What in the name of everything indivisible is the matter now?' "'Nothing, nothing, Whittingham,' replied the youth. "'You had better go downstairs. My father may want you.' "'If so be your father wants in, I think. Tom will despond to the summons as usual,' said the butler, leisurely sitting himself upon a chair close to the table where un-Richard had placed his package. "'But might I be so familiar as to inquire into the insignification of that bundle of shirts and anchors?' "'Whittingham, I employ you to beg me no questions. I am in a hurry and—' "'Master Richard, Master Richard,' cried the butler, shaking his head gravely. "'I am very much afraid that something preposterous is about to incur. I could not remain an entire stranger to all that has transpirated this day, and now I know what it is,' he added, slapping his right hand smartly upon his thigh. "'Your brothers are going to amputate it.'" "'To what?' "'To cut it, then, if you reprehend that better. But it shan't be done, Master Richard. It shan't be done.' "'Whittingham!' "'That's my nomenclature, Master Richard,' said the old man doggedly. "'And it was one of the first you ever learned to pronounce. "'Behold you, Master Richard, I have a right to speak, for I have known you both from your cradles, and loved you too. Who was it, when you came into the subluminary spear? Who was it as nust you, and—' "'Good Whittingham, I know all that, and—' "'I have no overdue curiosity to satisfy, Master Richard,' observed the butler, but my soul's inflicted to think that you and Master Eugene couldn't make a friend of old Whittingham. "'I feel it here, Master Richard, here in my bosom.' And the worthy old domestic dealt himself a tremendous blow upon the chest as he uttered these words. "'I must leave you now, Whittingham, and I desire you to remain here until my return,' said Richard. "'Do you hear, Whittingham?' "'Yes, Master Richard, but I don't choose to do as you would wish in this here instance. I shall follow you.' "'What, Whittingham?' "'I shall follow you, sir.' "'Well, you can do that,' said Richard. Suddenly remembering that his brother had in any wise cautioned him against such an intervention as this, and pray God it may lead to some good. "'Ah, now I see that I am rarely wanted,' said the butler, a smile of satisfaction playing upon his rubricant countenance. Richard now led the way from the apartment, the butler following him in a stately manner. They descended the stairs, crossed the garden, and entered the path which led to the top of the hill. "'Two trees, I suppose,' said the old domestic inquiringly. "'Yes, he is there,' answered Richard. "'But the reminiscence of the times, when we planted those saplings, has failed to induce him to abandon a desperate resolution.' "'Ah, he ain't got Master Richard's heart. I always know that,' used the old man half-orderly as he trudged along. "'There are them two lads, fine tall youths, both black hair and intelligible black eyes, admirably formed, straight as arrows, and yet so diversified in disposition.' Richard and the butler now reached the top of the hill. Eugene was seated upon the bench in a deep reverie, and it was not until his brother and the faithful old domestic stood before him that he awoke from that fit of abstraction. "'What? Is that you, Whittingham?' he exclaimed, the moment he recognized the butler. Richard, I did not think you would have done this.' "'It wasn't Master Richard's fault, sir,' said Whittingham. "'I was rave the two wide awake, not to smell what was going on by virtue of my factory-nerves, and so—' "'My dear Whittingham,' hastily interrupted Eugene, "'I know that you are a faithful servant to my father, and very much attached to us. On that very account, pray, do not interfere.' "'Interfere,' ejaculated Whittingham, thoroughly amazed at being thus addressed, while a tear started into his eye. "'Not interfere, Master Eugene. Well, I—I—I'm regularly flabbergasted.' "'My mind is made up,' said Eugene, and no persuasion shall alter its decision. "'I am my own master. My father's conduct has emancipated me from all deference to parental authority. "'Richard, you have brought my things. We must now say adieu.' "'My dearest brother. Master Eugene. Where are you going?' "'I am on the road to fame and fortune.' "'Alas!' said Richard mournfully. "'You may perhaps find that this world is not so fruitful in resources as you now imagine.' "'All remonstrances, all objections of Aen,' interrupted Eugene impatiently. "'We must say adieu.' "'One word more,' he added, after an instant's pause, as a sudden thought seemed to strike him. "'You doubt the possibility of my success in life, and I feel confident of it. "'Do you pursue your career under the auspices of that parent in whose wisdom you so blindly repose? "'I will follow mine, dependent only on my own resources.' "'This is the tenth of July, 1831. "'Twelve years hence, on the tenth of July, 1843, we will meet again upon this very spot between the two trees, if they be still standing. "'Remember the appointment. We will then compare notes relative to our success in life.' The moment he had uttered these words, Eugene hastily embraced his brother, who now struggled in vain to retain him, and, having wrung the hand of the old butler, who was now sobbing like a child, the discarded son threw his little bundle over his shoulder, and hurried away from the spot. So precipitately did he descend the hill, in the direction leading away from the mansion, and towards the multitudinous metropolis at a little distance, that he was out of sight before his brother, or witting him, even thought of pursuing him. They lingered for some time upon the summit of the hill, without exchanging a word, and then, maintaining the same silence, slowly retraced their steps towards the mansion. End of Chapter 4 Chapter 5 of The Mysteries of London This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Corey Samuel The Mysteries of London by George W. M. Reynolds Volume 1 Chapter 5 Eligible Acquaintances Four Years Passed Away During that interval, no tidings of the discarded son reached the disconsolate father and unhappy brother, and all the exertions of the former to discover some trace of the fugitive were fruitless. Vainly did he lavish considerable sums upon that object. Uselessly did he dispatch emissaries to all the great manufacturing towns of England, as well as to the principal capitals of Europe, to endeavour to procure some information of him whom he would have received as the prodigal son, and to welcome whose return he would have killed the fatted calf. All his measures to discover his son's retreat were unavailing. At length, after a lapse of four years, he sank into the tomb, the victim of a broken heart. A few days previous to his death, he made a will in favour of his remaining son, the guardianship of whom he entrusted to a Mr. Monroe, who was an opulent city-merchant, and an old and sincere friend. Thus, at the age of nineteen, Richard found himself his own master with a handsome allowance to meet his present once, and with a large fortune in the perspective of two years more. Mr. Monroe, feeling the utmost confidence in the young man's discretion and steadiness, permitted him to reside in the old family mansion, and interfered with him and his pursuits as little as possible. The ancient abode of the family of Markham was a spacious and commodious building, but of heavy and sombre appearance. This gloomy aspect of the architecture was increased by the venerable trees that formed a dense rampart of verger around the edifice. The grounds belonging to the house were not extensive, but were tastefully laid out, and within the enclosure over which the dominion of Richard Markham extended was the green hill surmounted by the two ash trees. From the summit of that eminence the mighty metropolis might be seen in all its vastitude, that metropolis whose single heart was agitated with so many myriads of conflicting passions, warring interests, and opposite feelings. Perhaps a dozen pages of laboured description will not afford the reader a better idea of the characters and dispositions of the two brother than that which has already been conveyed by their conversation and conduct detailed in the preceding chapter. Eugene was all selfishness and egotism, Richard all generosity and frankness, the former deceitful, astute and crafty, the latter honourable even to a fault. With Eugene, for the present, we have little to do. The course of our narrative follows the fortunes of Richard Markham. The disposition of this young man was somewhat reserved, although by no means misanthropical nor melancholy. That characteristic resulted only from the domesticated nature of his habits. He was attached to literary pursuits, and frequently passed entire hours together in his study, pouring over works of a scientific and instructive nature. When he stirred abroad for the purpose of air and exercise, he preferred a long ramble upon foot, amongst the fields in the vicinity of his dwelling, to a parade of himself and his fine horse amid the busy haunts of wealth and fashion at the west end of London. It was, nevertheless, upon a beautiful afternoon in the month of August, 1835, that Richard appeared amongst the loungers in Hyde Park. He was on foot and attired in deep mourning, but his handsome countenance, symmetrical form and thoroughly gentile and unassuming air, attracted attention. Parliament had been pierogued a fortnight before, and all London was said to be out of town. Albeit it was evident that a considerable portion of London was in town, for there were many gorgeous equipages rolling along the drive, and the enclosure was pretty well sprinkled with well-dressed groups and dotted with solitary fashionable gentlemen upon foot. From the carriages that rolled past, many bright eyes were, for a moment, turned upon Richard, and in these equipages there were not wanting young female bosoms, which heaved the contrast afforded by that tall and elegant youth, so full of vigor and health, and whose countenance beamed with intelligence, and the old, emaciated and semi-childish husbands seated by their sides, and whose wealth had purchased their hands, but never succeeded in obtaining their hearts. Richard, wearied with his walk, seated himself upon a bench, and contemplated with some interest the moving pageantry before him. He was thus occupied when he was suddenly accosted by a stranger, who seated himself by his side in an easy manner, and addressed some commonplace observation to him. This individual was a man of about two and thirty, elegantly attired, agreeable in his manners, and prepossessing in appearance. Under this superficial takeument of gentility, a quicker eye than Richard Markham's would have detected a certain swagger in his gait, and a kind of dashing recklessness about him, which produced an admirable effect upon the vulgar or the inexperienced, but which were not calculated to inspire immediate confidence in the thoroughman of the world. Richard was, however, all frankness and honour himself, and he did not scruple to return such an answer to the stranger's remark, as was calculated to encourage further conversation. I see the Count as abroad again, observed the stranger, following with his eyes one of the horsemen in the drive. Poor fellow, he has been playing at hide-and-seek for a long time. Indeed, and wherefore? exclaimed Richard. What? Are you a stranger in London, sir? cried the well-dressed gentleman, transferring his eyes from the horseman to Markham's countenance, on which they were fixed with an expression of surprise and interest. Very nearly so, although a resident in its immediate vicinity all my life. And, with the natural ingenuousness of youth, Richard immediately communicated his entire history from beginning to end to his new acquaintance. Of a surety there was not much to relate, but the stranger succeeded in finding out who the young man was, under what circumstances he was now living, and the amount of his present and future resources. Of course you mean to see life, said the stranger. Certainly I have already studied the great world by the means of books. But of course you know there is nothing like experience. I can understand how experience is necessary to a man who is anxious to make a fortune, but not to him who has already got one. Oh, decidedly, it is frequently more difficult to keep a fortune than it was to obtain one. How, if I do not speculate? No, but others will speculate upon you. I really cannot comprehend you. As I do not wish to increase my means, having enough, I shall neither speculate with my own, nor allow people to speculate with it for me, and thus I can run no risk of losing what I possess. The stranger gazed, half incredulously, upon Malcolm for a minute, and then his countenance expressed a species of sneer. You have never played? Played? At? At cards, for money, I mean. Oh, never. So much the better. Never do. Less, added the stranger. It is entirely amongst friends and men of honour, but will you avail yourself of my humble vehicle and take one turn around the drive? The stranger pointed, as he spoke, to a very handsome phyton and pair at a little distance, and attended by a dapper-looking servant in light blue livery with silver lace. Might I have the honour of being acquainted with the name of a gentleman who exhibits so much kindness? My dear sir, I really must apologise for my sin of omission. You confided your own circumstances so frankly to me that I cannot do otherwise than show you equal confidence in return. Besides, amongst men of honour," he continued, laying particular stress upon a word which is only so frequently used to be abused. Such communications, you know, are necessary. I do not like that system of familiarity based on no tenable grounds, which is now becoming so prevalent in London. For instance, nothing is more common than for one gentleman to meet another in Bond Street, or the park, or in Burlington Arcade, for example's sake, and for the one to say to the other, my dear friend, how are you? Quite well, old fellow, thank you, but by the by I really forget your name. However, added the fashionable gentleman with a smile, here is my card. My town-quarter is a long's hotel, my country-seat is in Berkshire, and my shooting-box is in Scotland, at all of which I shall be most happy to see you. Richard, who was not only highly satisfied with the candour and openness of his new friend, but also very much pleased and amused with him, returned suitable acknowledgments for this kind invitation, and glancing his eyes over the card which had been placed in his hands, perceived that he was conversing with the honourable Arthur Chichester. As they were moving towards the fight on, a gentleman elegantly attired, of about the middle age, and particularly fascinating in his manners, accosted Mr. Chichester. Ah! who would have thought of meeting you here when London is actually empty and am ashamed of being yet left in it? Our mutual friend the Duke assured me that you were gone to Italy. The Duke always has some a joke at my expense," returned Mr. Chichester. He was once the cause of a very lovely girl committing suicide. She was the only one I ever loved, and he one day declared in her presence that I had just embarked for America. Poor thing! She went straight up to her room and— and echoed Richard. Took poison! added Mr. Chichester, turning away his head for a moment, and drawing an elegant Canberra canker-chief across his eyes. Good heavens! ejaculated Markham. Let me not trouble you with my private afflictions. Sir Rupert, allow me to introduce my friend Mr. Markham, Mr. Markham, Sir Rupert Harborough. The two gentlemen bowed, and the introduction was affected. Whither are you bound? inquired Sir Rupert. We were thinking of an hour's drive, leisurely replied Mr. Chichester, and then it was my intention to have asked my friend Mr. Markham to dine with me at Longs. Will you join us, Sir Rupert? Upon my honour nothing would give me greater pleasure, but I am engaged to meet the Duke at Tattersall's, and I am then under a solemn promise to dine and pass the evening with Diana. Always gallant, always attentive to the ladies, exclaimed Mr. Chichester. You know, my dear fellow, that Diana is so amiable, so talented, so fascinating, so accomplished, and so bewitching that I can refuse her nothing. It is true her wants and whims are somewhat expensive at times, but— Harborough, I am surprised at you. What? Complain of the fantasies of the most beautiful woman in London? If not in England, you a man of seven thousand a year, and who at the death of an uncle? Upon my honour I begrudge her nothing, interrupted Sir Rupert, complacently stroking his chin with his elegantly gloved hand. But, by the way, if you will honour me and Diana with your company this evening, and if Mr. Markham will also condescend. With much pleasure, said Mr. Chichester, and I am sure that my friend Mr. Markham will avail himself of this opportunity of forming the acquaintance of the most beautiful and fascinating woman in England. Richard bowed. He dared not attempt an excuse. He had heard himself dubbed to the friend of the honourable Mr. Arthur Chichester. His ears had caught an intimation of a dinner at Longs, which he knew by report to be the headquarters of that section of the fashionable world that consists of single young gentlemen, and he now found himself suddenly engaged to pass the evening with Sir Rupert Harborough, and a lady of whom all he knew was that her name was Diana, and that she was the most beautiful and fascinating creature in England. Truly all this was enough to dazzle him, and he accordingly resigned himself to Mr. Arthur Chichester's goodwill and pleasure. Sir Rupert Harborough now remembered that he must not keep the Duke waiting, and having kissed the tip of his lemon-coloured glove to Mr. Chichester, and made a semi-ceremonious, semi-gracious bow to Markham, that kind of bow whose formality is tempered by the blandness of the smile accompanying it. He hastened away. It may be, however, mentioned as a singular circumstance, and as a proof of how little he cared about keeping the Duke waiting, that instead of proceeding towards Tattersles, he departed in the direction of Oxford Street. This little incident was, however, unnoticed by Richard, for the simple reason that, at this epoch of his life, he did not know where Tattersles was. What did you think of my friend the baronet? inquired Mr. Chichester, as they rolled leisurely along the drive in the elegant phyton. I am quite delighted with him, answered Richard, and if her ladyship be only as agreeable as her husband. Excuse me, but you must not call her her ladyship. Address her and speak of her simply as Mrs. Arlington. I am really at a loss to comprehend. My dear friend, said Chichester, sinking his voice, although there was no danger of being overheard. Diana is not the wife of Sir Rupert Harbour, the baronet is unmarried, and this lady is his mistress, added Malcolm Hastily. In that case I most certainly shall not accept the kind invitation I received for this evening. Nonsense, my dear friend, you must adapt your behaviour to the customs of the sphere in which you move. You belong to the aristocracy, like me, and like the baronet. In the upper class, even supposing you have a wife, she is only an encumbrance. Nothing is so characteristic of want of gentility as to marry early, and as for children, pah, they are the very essence of vulgarity. Then, of course, every man of fashion in London has his mistress, even though he keeps her only for the sake of his friends. This is quite allowable amongst the aristocracy. Remember, I am not advocating the cause of immorality. I would not have every butcher and tea-dealer and linen draper do the same, God forbid. Then it would indeed be the height of depravity. Since it is the fashion, and you assure me that there is nothing wrong in this connection between the baronet and Mrs Arlington, at least, that the usages of high life admit it, I will not advance any further scruples," said Richard, although he had a slight suspicion, like the ringing of far-distant bells in the ears, that the doctrine which his companion had just propounded was not based upon the most tenable grounds. It was now half past six o'clock in the evening, and, one after the other, the splendid equippages and gay horsemen withdrew in somewhat rapid succession. The weather was nevertheless still exquisitely fine. Indeed, it was the most enchanting portion of the entire day. The sky was of a soft and serene azure, upon which appeared here and there thin vapours of snowy white, motionless and still, for not a breath of wind stirred the leaf upon the tree. Never did Naples, nor Albano, nor Sorentum boast a more beautiful horizon. And, as the sun sank towards the western verge, he bathed all that the eye could embrace, earth and sky, dwelling and grove, garden and field, in a glorious flood of golden light. At seven o'clock, Mr Chichester and his new acquaintance sat down to dinner in the coffee-room of Long's Hotel. The turtle was unexceptionable, the iced punch faultless. Then came the succulent neck of Venison and the prime Madeira. The dinner passed off pleasantly enough, and Richard was more and more captivated with his friend. He was, however, somewhat astonished at the vast quantities of wine, which the honourable Mr Chichester swallowed, apparently without the slightest inconvenience to himself. Mr Chichester diverted him with amusing anecdotes, lively sallies, and extraordinary narratives, and Richard found that his new friend had not only travelled all over Europe, but was actually the bosom friend of some of the most powerful of its sovereigns. These statements, moreover, rather appeared to slip forth in the course of conversation than to be made purposely, and thus they were stamped with an additional air of truth and importance. At about half-past nine the honourable Mr Chichester proposed to adjourn to the lodgings of Mrs Arlington. Richard, who had been induced by the example of his friend and by the excitement of an interesting conversation to imbibe more wine than he was accustomed to take, was now delighted with the prospect of passing an agreeable evening, and he readily acceded to Mr Chichester's proposal. Mrs Arlington occupied splendidly furnished apartments on the first and second floors over a music-shop in Bond Street. Vither, therefore, did the two gentlemen repair on foot, and in a short time they were introduced into the drawing-room, where the baronet and his fair companion were seated. End of Chapter 5 Chapter 6 of The Mysteries of London This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information and to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Read by Corrie Samuel The Mysteries of London by George W. M. Reynolds Volume 1 Chapter 6 Mrs Arlington The honourable Mr Arthur Chichester had not exaggerated his description of the beauty of the enchantress, for so she was called by the male portion of her admirers. Indeed, she was of exquisite loveliness. Her dark brown hair was arranged on bandeau and parted over a forehead polished as marble. Her eyes were large, and of that soft, dark, melting blue which seems to form a heaven of promises and bliss to gladden the beholder. She was not above the middle height of woman, but her form was modelled to the most exquisite and voluptuous symmetry. Her figure reminded the spectator of the body of the wasp, so taper was the waist, and so exuberant was the swell of the bust. Her mouth was small and pouting, but when she smiled, the parting roses of the lips displayed a set of teeth white as the pearls of the east. Her hand would have made the envy of a queen. And yet, above all these charms, a certain something which could not be exactly denominated boldness or effrontery, but which was the very reverse of extreme reserve immediately struck Richard Markham. He could not define the fault he had defined with this beautiful woman, and still there was something in her manners which seemed to proclaim that she did not possess the tranquility and ease of a wife. She appeared to be constantly aiming at the display of the accomplishments of her mind or the graces of her attitudes. She seemed to court admiration by every word and every motion, and to keep alive in the mind of the baronet the passion with which she had inspired him. She possessed not that confidence and contented reliance upon the idea of unalienable affections which characterised the wife. She seemed to be well aware that no legal nor religious ties connected the baronet to her, and she therefore kept her imagination perpetually upon the rack to weave new artificial bonds to cast around him, and, as if each action or each word of the baronet severed those bonds of silk and wreathed flowers, she found, Penelope-like, that at short intervals her labours were to be achieved over again. This constant state of mental anxiety and excitement imparted a corresponding restlessness to her body and those frequent changes of attitude which were originally intended to develop the graces of her person or allow her lover's eye to catch short glimpses of her heaving bosom of snow, now became a settled habit. Nevertheless, she was a lovely and fascinating woman, and one for whom a young heart would undertake a thousand sacrifices. By accident, Richard was seated next to Mrs. Arlington upon the sofa. He soon perceived that she was, indeed, as accomplished as the baronet had represented her to be, and her critical opinions upon the current literature, dramatic novelties, and new music of the day were delivered with judgment and good taste. Richard could not help glancing from time to time in admiration at her beautiful countenance, animated as it now was, with the excitement of the topics of discourse. And whenever her large blue eyes met his, a deep blush suffused his countenance, and he knew not what he said or did. "'Well, watch we do to amuse ourselves,' said Chichester, at the expiration of about an hour, during which coffee had been handed round.' "'Upon my honour,' exclaimed the baronet. "'I am perfectly indifferent. What say you to a game of wist or ecarte?' "'Just as you choose,' said Chichester, carelessly. At this moment the door opened, and a roguish-looking little tiger, a lad of about fourteen, in a chocolate-coloured livery, with three rows of bright-crusted buttons down his Prussian jacket, entered to announce another guest. "'Hello, old chap, how are you?' he exclaimed, in a tone of most ineffable vulgarity. "'Harbour, how are you? Chichester, my tulip, how goes it?' The baronet hastened to receive this extraordinary visitor, and, as he shook hands with him, whispered something in his ear. The stranger immediately turned towards Richard, to whom he was introduced by the name of Mr. Augustus Talbot. This gentleman and the baronet then conversed together for a few moments, and Chichester, drawing near Markham, seized the opportunity of observing. Talbot is an excellent fellow, a regular John Bull, not over-polished but enormously rich and well-connected. You will see that he is not more cultivated in mind than in manners, but he would go to the devil to do any one a service, and somehow or another, you can't help liking the fellow when once you know him." "'Any friend of yours or of the baronets will be agreeable to me,' said Richard, and, provided he is a man of honour, a little roughness of manner should be readily overlooked." "'You speak like a man of the world, and as a man of honour yourself,' said Mr. Chichester." Meantime, the baronet and Mr. Talbot had seated themselves, and the honourable Mr. Chichester returned to his own chair. The conversation then became general. "'I didn't know that you were in town, Talbot,' said Mr. Chichester. "'And I forgot to mention it,' observed the baronet. "'Or rather,' said the lady, you meditated a little surprise for your friend, Mr. Chichester. "'I hope you've been well, ma'am, since I saw you last, that is the day before yesterday,' said Mr. Talbot. "'You was complaining, then, of a slight cold, and I recommended a treacle-posset and a stocking tied round the throat.' "'My dear Mr. Talbot, take some liqueur,' cried the baronet, rising hastily and purposely knocking down his chair to drown the remainder of Mr. Talbot's observation. "'But I dare say you didn't follow my advice, ma'am,' pursued Mr. Talbot, with the most imperturbable gravity. "'For my part, I am suffering dreadful with a bad foot. "'I'll tell you how it were, ma'am. "'I've got a nasty soft corn on my little toe, and so what must I do? But yesterday morning I take my razor, sharpens it upon the patent-strap, and goes forth to cut off Master Corn. "'But, instead of cutting the corn, I nearly sliced my toe off, and, by the way, Diana, has the young gentleman called yet, whom we met the other evening at the opera,' said the baronet, abruptly interrupting this valde to raid. "'Do you mean the effeminate youth whom we dubbed the handsome unknown?' said the enchantress. "'Yes, he who was so very mysterious, but who seemed so excessively anxious to form our acquaintance.' "'He promised to call some evening this week,' answered Diana, and play a game of a cart. He told me that he was invincible at a cart. "'Talking of a cart, let us play a game,' ejaculated Mr. Chichester, who was sitting on thorns, lest Mr. Talbot should commence his vulgarities again. "'Well, I'll take a hand with pleasure,' said this individual, and then turning towards Diana, he added, "'I will tell you the rest of the adventure about the soft corn another time, ma'am.' "'What a nuisance this is,' whispered Chichester to the baronet. "'The young fellow does stare so. "'You must give him some explanation or other,' hastily replied the baronet, "'or I'll tell Diana to say something presently that will smooth down matters.' The cards were produced, and Mr. Talbot and the honourable Mr. Chichester sat down to play. Rupert backed the former, and considerable sums in gold and notes were placed upon the table. Presently the lady turned towards Richard and said with a smile, "'Are you fond of a cart? I must venture a guinea upon Mr. Chichester. Sir Rupert is betting against him, and I love to oppose Sir Rupert at cards. You will see how I shall tease him presently.' With these words the entranterous rose and seated herself near Mr. Chichester. Of course Markham did the same, and in a very short time he was induced by the lady to follow her and back the same side which she supported. Mr. Chichester, however, had a continued run of ill luck, and lost every rubber. Richard was thus the loser of about thirty sovereigns, but he was somewhat consoled by having so fair a companion in his bad fortune. He would have suffered himself to be persuaded by her to persist in backing Mr. Chichester, as she positively assured him that the luck must change, had not that gentleman himself suddenly risen, thrown down the cards, and declared that he would play no more. "'Would you, ma'am, like to take Mr. Chichester's place?' said Mr. Talbot. Mr. Chichester shook his head to the baronet, and the baronet did the same to Diana, and Diana accordingly declined. The card-table was therefore abandoned, and Mrs. Arlington, at the request of Sir Rupert, seated herself at the piano. Without any affectation she sang and accompanied herself upon the instrument, in a manner that quite ravished the heart of Richard Markham. Suddenly the entire house echoed with the din of the front door-knocker, and almost simultaneously the bell was rung with violence. In a few moments the young tiger announced Mr. Walter Sidney. He was a youth, apparently not more than nineteen or twenty, of middle height and very slim. He wore a tight blue military frock-coat buttoned up to the throat, ample black cursey-mere trousers, which did not, however, conceal the fact that he was the least thing knock-need, and a hat with tolerably broad brims. His feet and hands were small to a fault. His long, light, chestnut hair flowed in luxuriant undulations over the collar of his coat, even upon his shoulders, and gave him a peculiarly feminine appearance. His delicate complexion, upon the pure red and white of which the dark dyes of no beard had yet infringed, wore a deep blush as he entered the room. Mr. Sidney, you are welcome," said Mrs. Arlington, in a manner calculated to reassure the bashful youth. It was but an hour ago that we were talking of you, and wondering why we had not received the pleasure of a visit. Madam, you are too kind," replied Mr. Sidney, in a tone which sounded upon the ear like a silver bell, so soft and beautiful was its cadence. I am afraid that I am intruding. I had hoped to find you alone. I mean, yourself and Sir Rupert Harbour, and I perceive that you have company. He stammered, became confounded with excuses, and then glanced at his attire, as much as to intimate that he was in a walking dress. Both the baronet and Diana hastened to welcome him in such a manner as to speedily place him upon comfortable terms with himself once more, and he was then introduced to Mr. Chichester, Mr. Talbot, and Mr. Markham. The moment the name of Markham was mentioned, the youthful visitor started perceptibly, and then fixed his intelligent, hazel eyes upon the countenance of Richard, with an expression of the most profound interest mingled with surprise. Mr. Chichester made an observation at the same moment, and Sidney immediately afterwards entered with ease and apparent pleasure into a conversation which turned upon the most popular topics of the day. Richard was astonished at the extreme modesty, propriety, and good sense with which that effeminate and bashful youth expressed himself, and even the baronet, who was in reality well informed, listened to his interesting visitor with attention and admiration. Still there was a species of extreme delicacy in his tastes, as evidenced by his remarks, which bordered at times upon a fastidiousness, if not an inexperience actually purile or feminine. At half-past eleven supper was served up, and the party sat down to that most welcome and sociable of all meals. It was truly diverting to behold the manner in which Mr. Talbot fell, tooth and nail, upon the delicacies which he heaped upon his plate, and his applications to the wine-bottle were to correspond. At one time he expressed his regret that it was too vulgar to drink half-and-half, and on another he vented his national prejudices against those who maintained that perigord pies were preferable to rump steaks, or that Claret was more exquisite than Port or Sherry. Once, when it would appear Mr. Chichester kicked him under the table, he roared out a request that his soft corn might be remembered, and as his friends were by no means anxious for a second edition of that interesting narrative, especially before Mr. Walter Sidney, they adopted the prudent alternative of conveying their remonstrances to him by means of winks instead of kicks. After supper Mr. Talbot insisted upon making a huge bowl of punch in his own fashion, but he found that Mr. Chichester would alone aid him in disposing of it. As for Mr. Walter Sidney, he never appeared to do more than touch the brim of the wine-glass with his lips. In a short time Mr. Talbot insisted upon practising his vocal powers by singing a hunting song, and was deeply indignant with his friends because they would not join in the very impressive, but somewhat common chorus of Faul de laul laul faul de laul laul. It is impossible to say what Mr. Talbot would have done next, but much to the horror of the baronet Mr. Chichester and Diana, and equally to the surprise of Richard Markham and Walter Sidney, he suddenly lost his balance and fell heavily upon the floor and into a sound sleep simultaneously. What a pity! said Mr. Chichester, shaking his head mournfully and glancing down upon the prostrate gentleman, as if he were pronouncing a funeral oration over his remains. This is his only fault, and as it happens every night it begins materially to disfigure his character, otherwise he is an excellent fellow and immensely rich. At this moment the eyes of Richard caught those of Walter Sidney. An ill-concealed expression of superlative contempt and ineffable disgust was visible upon the handsome countenance of the latter, and the proud curl of his lip manifested his opinion of the scene he had just witnessed. In a few moments he rose to depart. To Diana he was only coldly polite. To the baronet and Chichester, superbly distant and constrained. But towards Markham, as he took leave of him, there was a cordiality in his manner and a sincerity in the desire which he expressed that they should meet again, which formed a remarkable contrast with his behaviour towards the others. That night Slumber seemed to evade the eyes of Richard Markham. The image of Mrs. Arlington and all that she had said and the various graceful and voluptuous attitudes into which she had thrown herself occupied his imagination. At times, however, his thoughts wondered to that charming youth that mere boy who seemed to court his friendship and who was so delicate and so fragile to encounter the storms and vicissitudes of that world in whose dizzy vortex he was already found. Nor less did Richard ever and anon experience a sentiment of profound surprise for the elegant and wealthy Sir Rupert Harbour, the accomplished and lovely Diana, and the fastidious Mr. Arthur Chichester, should tolerate the society of such an unmitigated vulgarian as Mr. Talbot.