|
Chapter 65
It was well for the small servant that she was of a sharp, quick
nature, or the consequence of sending her out alone, from the very
neighbourhood in which it was most dangerous for her to appear,
would probably have been the restoration of Miss Sally Brass to the
supreme authority over her person. Not unmindful of the risk she
ran, however, the Marchioness no sooner left the house than she
dived into the first dark by-way that presented itself, and,
without any present reference to the point to which her journey
tended, made it her first business to put two good miles of brick
and mortar between herself and Bevis Marks.
When she had accomplished this object, she began to shape her
course for the notary's office, to which--shrewdly inquiring of
apple-women and oyster-sellers at street-corners, rather than
in lighted shops or of well-dressed people, at the hazard of
attracting notice--she easily procured a direction. As carrier-
pigeons, on being first let loose in a strange place, beat the air
at random for a short time before darting off towards the spot for
which they are designed, so did the Marchioness flutter round and
round until she believed herself in safety, and then bear swiftly
down upon the port for which she was bound.
She had no bonnet--nothing on her head but a great cap which, in
some old time, had been worn by Sally Brass, whose taste in
head-dresses was, as we have seen, peculiar--and her speed was
rather retarded than assisted by her shoes, which, being extremely
large and slipshod, flew off every now and then, and were difficult
to find again, among the crowd of passengers. Indeed, the poor
little creature experienced so much trouble and delay from having
to grope for these articles of dress in mud and kennel, and
suffered in these researches so much jostling, pushing, squeezing
and bandying from hand to hand, that by the time she reached the
street in which the notary lived, she was fairly worn out and
exhausted, and could not refrain from tears.
But to have got there at last was a great comfort, especially as
there were lights still burning in the office window, and therefore
some hope that she was not too late. So the Marchioness dried her
eyes with the backs of her hands, and, stealing softly up the
steps, peeped in through the glass door.
Mr Chuckster was standing behind the lid of his desk, making such
preparations towards finishing off for the night, as pulling down
his wristbands and pulling up his shirt-collar, settling his neck
more gracefully in his stock, and secretly arranging his whiskers
by the aid of a little triangular bit of looking glass. Before the
ashes of the fire stood two gentlemen, one of whom she rightly
judged to be the notary, and the other (who was buttoning his
great-coat and was evidently about to depart immediately) Mr Abel
Garland.
Having made these observations, the small spy took counsel with
herself, and resolved to wait in the street until Mr Abel came out,
as there would be then no fear of having to speak before Mr
Chuckster, and less difficulty in delivering her message. With
this purpose she slipped out again, and crossing the road, sat down
upon a door-step just opposite.
She had hardly taken this position, when there came dancing up the
street, with his legs all wrong, and his head everywhere by turns,
a pony. This pony had a little phaeton behind him, and a man in
it; but neither man nor phaeton seemed to embarrass him in the
least, as he reared up on his hind legs, or stopped, or went on, or
stood still again, or backed, or went side-ways, without the
smallest reference to them--just as the fancy seized him, and as
if he were the freest animal in creation. When they came to the
notary's door, the man called out in a very respectful manner, 'Woa
then'--intimating that if he might venture to express a wish, it
would be that they stopped there. The pony made a moment's pause;
but, as if it occurred to him that to stop when he was required
might be to establish an inconvenient and dangerous precedent, he
immediately started off again, rattled at a fast trot to the street
corner, wheeled round, came back, and then stopped of his own
accord.
'Oh! you're a precious creatur!' said the man--who didn't venture
by the bye to come out in his true colours until he was safe on the
pavement. 'I wish I had the rewarding of you--I do.'
'What has he been doing?' said Mr Abel, tying a shawl round his
neck as he came down the steps.
'He's enough to fret a man's heart out,' replied the hostler. 'He
is the most wicious rascal--Woa then, will you?'
'He'll never stand still, if you call him names,' said Mr Abel,
getting in, and taking the reins. 'He's a very good fellow if you
know how to manage him. This is the first time he has been out,
this long while, for he has lost his old driver and wouldn't stir
for anybody else, till this morning. The lamps are right, are
they? That's well. Be here to take him to-morrow, if you please.
Good night!'
And, after one or two strange plunges, quite of his own invention,
the pony yielded to Mr Abel's mildness, and trotted gently off.
All this time Mr Chuckster had been standing at the door, and the
small servant had been afraid to approach. She had nothing for it
now, therefore, but to run after the chaise, and to call to Mr Abel
to stop. Being out of breath when she came up with it, she was
unable to make him hear. The case was desperate; for the pony was
quickening his pace. The Marchioness hung on behind for a few
moments, and, feeling that she could go no farther, and must soon
yield, clambered by a vigorous effort into the hinder seat, and in
so doing lost one of the shoes for ever.
Mr Abel being in a thoughtful frame of mind, and having quite
enough to do to keep the pony going, went jogging on without
looking round: little dreaming of the strange figure that was close
behind him, until the Marchioness, having in some degree recovered
her breath, and the loss of her shoe, and the novelty of her
position, uttered close into his ear, the words--'I say, Sir'--
He turned his head quickly enough then, and stopping the pony,
cried, with some trepidation, 'God bless me, what is this!'
'Don't be frightened, Sir,' replied the still panting messenger.
'Oh I've run such a way after you!'
'What do you want with me?' said Mr Abel. 'How did you come here?'
'I got in behind,' replied the Marchioness. 'Oh please drive on,
sir--don't stop--and go towards the City, will you? And oh do
please make haste, because it's of consequence. There's somebody
wants to see you there. He sent me to say would you come directly,
and that he knowed all about Kit, and could save him yet, and prove
his innocence.'
'What do you tell me, child?'
'The truth, upon my word and honour I do. But please to drive on--
quick, please! I've been such a time gone, he'll think I'm
lost.'
Mr Abel involuntarily urged the pony forward. The pony, impelled
by some secret sympathy or some new caprice, burst into a great
pace, and neither slackened it, nor indulged in any eccentric
performances, until they arrived at the door of Mr Swiveller's
lodging, where, marvellous to relate, he consented to stop when Mr
Abel checked him.
'See! It's the room up there,' said the Marchioness, pointing to
one where there was a faint light. 'Come!'
Mr Abel, who was one of the simplest and most retiring creatures in
existence, and naturally timid withal, hesitated; for he had heard
of people being decoyed into strange places to be robbed and
murdered, under circumstances very like the present, and, for
anything he knew to the contrary, by guides very like the
Marchioness. His regard for Kit, however, overcame every other
consideration. So, entrusting Whisker to the charge of a man who
was lingering hard by in expectation of the Job, he suffered his
companion to take his hand, and to lead him up the dark and narrow
stairs.
He was not a little surprised to find himself conducted into a
dimly-lighted sick chamber, where a man was sleeping tranquilly in
bed.
'An't it nice to see him lying there so quiet?' said his guide, in
an earnest whisper. 'Oh! you'd say it was, if you had only seen
him two or three days ago.'
Mr Abel made no answer, and, to say the truth, kept a long way from
the bed and very near the door. His guide, who appeared to
understand his reluctance, trimmed the candle, and taking it in her
hand, approached the bed. As she did so, the sleeper started up,
and he recognised in the wasted face the features of Richard
Swiveller.
'Why, how is this?' said Mr Abel kindly, as he hurried towards him.
'You have been ill?'
'Very,' replied Dick. 'Nearly dead. You might have chanced to
hear of your Richard on his bier, but for the friend I sent to
fetch you. Another shake of the hand, Marchioness, if you please.
Sit down, Sir.'
Mr Abel seemed rather astonished to hear of the quality of his
guide, and took a chair by the bedside.
'I have sent for you, Sir,' said Dick--'but she told you on what
account?'
'She did. I am quite bewildered by all this. I really don't know
what to say or think,' replied Mr Abel.
'You'll say that presently,' retorted Dick. 'Marchioness, take a
seat on the bed, will you? Now, tell this gentleman all that you
told me; and be particular. Don't you speak another word, Sir.'
The story was repeated; it was, in effect, exactly the same as
before, without any deviation or omission. Richard Swiveller kept
his eyes fixed on his visitor during its narration, and directly it
was concluded, took the word again.
'You have heard it all, and you'll not forget it. I'm too giddy
and too queer to suggest anything; but you and your friends will
know what to do. After this long delay, every minute is an age.
If ever you went home fast in your life, go home fast to-night.
Don't stop to say one word to me, but go. She will be found here,
whenever she's wanted; and as to me, you're pretty sure to find me
at home, for a week or two. There are more reasons than one for
that. Marchioness, a light! If you lose another minute in looking
at me, sir, I'll never forgive you!'
Mr Abel needed no more remonstrance or persuasion. He was gone in
an instant; and the Marchioness, returning from lighting him
down-stairs, reported that the pony, without any preliminary
objection whatever, had dashed away at full gallop.
'That's right!' said Dick; 'and hearty of him; and I honour him
from this time. But get some supper and a mug of beer, for I am
sure you must be tired. Do have a mug of beer. It will do me as
much good to see you take it as if I might drink it myself.'
Nothing but this assurance could have prevailed upon the small
nurse to indulge in such a luxury. Having eaten and drunk to Mr
Swiveller's extreme contentment, given him his drink, and put
everything in neat order, she wrapped herself in an old coverlet
and lay down upon the rug before the fire.
Mr Swiveller was by that time murmuring in his sleep, 'Strew then,
oh strew, a bed of rushes. Here will we stay, till morning
blushes. Good night, Marchioness!'
< BackForward >
|
