Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
THE PROPOSAL. — UNEXPECTED MEETINGS.
RETURN we once more to Markham Place.
Mr. Monroe had so far recovered from the malady into
which the dread discovery of his daughter's dishonour had plunged him, as to be
enabled to rise from his bed and sit by the fire in his chamber.
Ellen was constant in her attentions to the old man;
and, with her child in her arms, did she keep him company.
By a strange idiosyncrasy of our nature, Mr. Monroe,
instead of abhorring the sight of the infant which proclaimed his well-beloved
daughter's shame, entertained the most ardent affection for the innocent cause
of that disgrace; and he rapidly recovered health and spirits, as he sate
contemplating that young unwedded mother nursing her sin-begotten babe.
Richard Markham pursued his studies, though rather for
amusement than with any desire of gain, inasmuch as the money repaid him by
Count Alteroni had once more restored him to a condition of comfort, although
not of affluence.
His mind was far more easy and tranquil than it had
wont to be; for he knew that he was beloved by Isabella; and, although she was
a high-born princess of Europe, he felt convinced that no circumstances could
alienate her affections from him.
One evening, when the year 1840 was about three weeks
old, Whittingham introduced Mr. Gregory into our hero's library.
The countenance of that gentleman wore a melancholy
expression; — his pace was sedate and solemn; — his voice
was low and mournful. Markham was shocked when he beheld his altered appearance.
"Mr. Markham," said the visitor, as he seated
himself at Richard's request, "you are, perhaps
surprised to see me here,
especially after the manner in which we parted. I am come to demand a favour,
and not to reproach you: — indeed, I have no right to use the word
reproach towards you at all. You conducted yourself like an honourable man in
respect to me: you taught my sons no lessons save those by which they have
profited. If you erred in early life, you have no doubt repented; — and
shall men dare to withhold that pardon which the Lord vouchsafes to all who
implore it? I beheld your triumph at the theatre — would to God that
nothing had sullied it! I beheld your fall — and I commiserated you.
But before that there were reasons — cogent reasons which forbade me
to continue the cultivation of your friendship; and as a man of honour and of
good taste, you have not sought mine since we parted."
"Before you proceed farther," said
Richard, — "for I see that you have some business of more or
less importance to discuss with me, — allow me to inform you that I
was not overpowered by guilt on that fatal night when I was so cruelly
denounced at the theatre. The consciousness of crime did not strike me level
with the dust. I fell beneath a reaction of feelings too powerful for human
nature to struggle with. The proofs of my innocence — "
"Your innocence!" cried Mr. Gregory, now
strangely agitated; "your innocence, say you?"
"Yes — my innocence," repeated
Markham, his cheeks flushed with a noble pride; "for I can glory in that
innocence, and assert it boldly and without fear of contradiction."
"In the name of God, explain your meaning!"
exclaimed Mr. Gregory, so excited that he could scarcely draw his breath.
"I mean that I was the victim of the most infernal
treachery ever planned," cried our hero; and he then related the whole
particulars at his early misfortunes to Mr. Gregory.
"Oh! now, indeed, I can make my proposal to you
with joy and honour!" cried this gentleman; "for you must know, Mr.
Markham, that my daughter loves you, and has for some time loved you with the
most pure, the most holy, and the most ardent affection! But you saw that she
loved you — you were not blind to that passion which her ingenuous
nature would not allow her to conceal: you knew that her heart was fondly
devoted to you."
"And most solemnly I declare," cried Markham,
"that neither by word nor deed did I ever encourage that feeling in Miss
Gregory's heart."
"I believe you," said the father of that young
lady; "for I noticed that you were often reserved when she was gay and
friendly towards you. And it was to separate her from the object of her
affection that I parted with you as the tutor of my sons; for it was not until
the disclosure at the theatre that I learnt the sad accusation under which you
had laboured in your early youth."
Mr. Gregory paused for a moment, and then continued
thus: —
"I hoped that my daughter's happiness was not
altogether compromised by her love for you; — I removed her to a
change of scene; and there an accident threw her into the society of a charming
family, with whom she passed about ten days. At the beginning of this week I
fetched her home to my house in Kentish Town; but I found that she was more
melancholy than ever. Her naturally joyous and lively disposition has changed
to mourning and sorrow. I have not, however, told her that I am acquainted with
her secret: I know not whether she even suspects that I have penetrated it. I
have studiously avoided all mention of your name; and she never alludes to you
by word. But she thinks of you always! She nourishes a flame which consumes
her! Now I am come, Mr. Markham, to propose to you the hand of my
daughter, — to propose it to you with frankness and candour! I know that
the step which I am taking is an unusual one — perhaps an improper
one; — but the safety — the happiness — the life
of my daughter compels me thus to depart from the usages of society. If your
heart be not otherwise engaged — and I never heard you hint that such
was the case, — and if you think that the charms and accomplishments
of Mary-Anne are worthy of your notice, — in addition to the handsome
fortune which my means enable me to settle upon her, — in that
case — "
"My dear sir," interrupted Richard, pressing
Mr. Gregory's hands warmly in his own, — "you have honoured me
with this proposal; — and, under other circumstances, I should have
been no doubt gratified; — but — it is impossible!"
"Impossible!" repeated Mr. Gregory, a cloud
coming over his countenance.
"Yes — impossible! I appreciate your
daughter's great merits — I admire her personal beauty — I
respect her excellent qualities, — and I could have loved her dearly
as a sister; — but my heart — that is not mine to
give!"
"What? You love another!" ejaculated Mr.
Gregory.
"For some time my affections have been devoted
young lady, who has confessed a reciprocal attachment to me — "
"Enough — enough!" cried the
unhappy father: "for my poor daughter there is now no hope! But you, Mr.
Markham, will forget that this proposal was over made; — you will
bury the particulars of this visit of mine in oblivion?"
"With me the secret of your daughter's heart is
sacred."
Mr. Gregory wrung the hand of our hero, and took his
leave.
It is scarcely necessary to observe that Mary-Anne had
not communicated to her father one word of the conversation which had taken
place a few days previously between herself and Isabella, relative to Richard
Markham, and which has duly been narrated in a recent chapter; neither was
Richard aware that Mr. Gregory and his daughter had accidentally formed the
acquaintance of Count Alteroni's family.
So affected was Richard by the interview which had just
taken place, that he sought the fresh air in order to calm his mind, and divert
his thoughts from the contemplation of the unhappy condition of a lovely young
creature whose heart was so disinterestedly devoted to him.
He walked towards London: the night was fine, and
moonlight; and he was induced to prolong his ramble. He recollected that he
required a particular work which was published by a book-seller in Great
Russell Street, Bloomsbury; and thither did he proceed.
He entered the shop, made the purchase which he needed,
and then repaired to the bottom of Tottenham Court Road, where it joins Oxford
Street, in order to obtain a conveyance to take him home.
But as he turned the corner of Great Russell Street, an
individual coming in the opposite direction knocked somewhat violently against
him.
"Why the devil don't you use your eyes?"
exclaimed the fellow brutally.
Richard started back and uttered a cry of mingled
astonishment and horror; for the tone of the voice which had just addressed him
was familiar — oh! too familiar — to his ears.
"Wretch!" he ejaculated, almost instantly
recovering his presence of mind, and precipitating himself upon the other;
"we have met at last where you shall not escape me!"
"Damnation! Richard Markham!" growled the
Resurrection Man — for it was he; then, with a sudden jerk, rather
characterised by a particular knack than by any extraordinary degree of
strength, he disengaged himself from the grasp of our hero, and turning on his
heels, darted off at full speed towards Saint Giles's.
All this was only the work of a single instant, but as
soon as the Resurrection Man thus escaped, Richard gave the alarm, and in a
moment a police man and several persons who had witnessed the encounter (for it
was but a little past nine o'clock in the evening) joined in the pursuit.
The Resurrection Man rushed along with desperate
speed, — took the first turning to the left, and plunged into the
dark and narrow streets lying between Great Russell Street and High Street.
London was as well-known to the miscreant as if it were
a mere village, whose topography may be learnt in an hour. This knowledge stood
him in good stead on the present occasion: he dived down one
street — merged into another — dodged down courts, and up
alleys — and at length rushed into a sort of lobby, the front door of
which stood open but the inner door of which was shut.
At that inner door ho knocked violently. A trap was
opened above, and a light streamed down upon him.
"What do you want?" cried a gruff voice,
speaking through the trap-door in the ceiling.
"Open — open!" exclaimed the
Resurrection Man; "let me in, and I will reward you well."
The trap was closed; the lobby was again pitch-dark, as
it was before the light streamed down into it and in a few moments the house-door
was opened.
The Resurrection Man rushed in: the door warn closed
once more; and the villain exclaimed, "I have done them, by God!"
"Who are you?" asked the man who had opened
the door, and who had the appearance of a gipsy.
"Judging by the way in which your house is
secured, my good friend," was the reply, "there can be no harm in
telling you that I am persecuted by blue-bottles — a race which
cannot be altogether an-known to you."
"That's enough," said the gipsy; "you
are safe here. Follow me."
The gipsy led the Resurrection Man into one of the
lower rooms, where King Zingary, Morcar, and five or six gipsy chiefs were
carousing. The Rattlesnake was up stairs with the other women, the Traveller
was not yet returned from his day's hunt after his enemy; and the greater
number of the gipsies had already taken their departure from London.
The Resurrection Man was well aware that the gipsies
had an establishment in that district of London; but he had never been
previously acquainted with its precise whereabouts. It, however, now instantly
struck him that accident had led him into that very establishment.
Advancing towards Zingary, he said, "If I am not
mistaken, this is the crib where the famous race of Bohemians and Egyptians are
accustomed to meet in London. I claim of them hospitality for a few
hours."
"As long as suits your interests, friend,"
answered the King. "Sit down, and do as we do."
The Resurrection Man needed no second invitation. He
took the seat offered him near the royal chair, and, in pursuance of another
invitation, speedily made himself comfortable with a snicker of rum-flim and
broseley.
"Booze and be merry," said the King: "we
shall have nothing to interrupt our merriment to-night; the women have all gone
to roost, that they may get up early, for we leave the Holy Land to morrow
morning. At five o'clock we depart. But you my friend," he continued,
addressing himself to the Resurrection Man, "are welcome to remain here a
day or two, if such a plan suits your safety, as I suppose it does. We leave an
intendant of our royal palace behind us."
At this moment Skilligalee entered the room, and took
his seat at the board.
"All is quiet up stairs, your majesty," said
this individual; "and so I suppose the women are gone to the downy. They
all seem glad at the idea of leaving London to-morrow morning."
"And none more so, I think, than your
Margaret," observed the King, with a laugh. "She seems dreadfully
afraid of that man who, she says, is in pursuit of her."
The Resurrection Man was immediately struck by these
remarks: he became all attention, but said nothing.
"If you knew all," cried Skilligalee, you
would not blame her. It appears that the fellow is a perfect demon. His regular
trade is in dead bodies; and so he can't be very nice."
"It is the Rattlesnake — it
must
be!" said the Resurrection
Man to himself.
But not a muscle of his countenance moved, and he sat
smoking his pipe as coolly as if he had heard nothing capable of exciting him.
Nevertheless, within him there were emotions of the most fiendish
triumph — of the most hellish delight, for his victim was
near — and the hour of vengeance approached.
Then it struck him that his purpose might be defeated,
were the Rattlesnake, who had evidently made friends of the gipsies, to meet
him in their presence. But he recollected that the women were stated to have
already retired to rest; and he felt more easy on this head. Again, he asked
himself how he was to discover the room in which she slept — and to
this question all his ingenuity could answer nothing more than that he must
trust to circumstances.
And accident did serve his infernal purpose ever in
this respect.
The gipsies, not dreaming that their conversation could
have any ulterior interest to him, continued it upon the same topic.
"Poor Meg is terribly put out because she has lost
all her companions up stairs," continued Skilligalee. "She couldn't
bear the idea of sleeping all alone in the great room just over this."
"Then she should get married, and have a husband
to take care of her," said the Resurrection Man, with a coarse
laugh; — but his remark was merely for the purpose of clearing up a
doubt.
"And so she has some one to take care of
her," cried Skilligalee; "and that's me. But there's one rule in this
place — men sleep in their rooms, and women in theirs."
"We can't split the palace into a hundred
different bed-chambers," observed Zingary.
"Certainly not," said the Resurrection Man.
"But surely the lady you are talking of can't be afraid in such a fortress
as this?"
"But she is, though," answered Skilligalee.
"The women that occupied the same room with her went away this morning,
because the court is going out of town again," he added, with a jovial
laugh. "Meg wanted to move into her majesty's room; but Aischa and Eva
told her that she must learn to get rid of her stupid fear."
"And very properly," said the Resurrection
Man.
"But never mind these matters of talk," cried
Skilligalee; " they're only domestic, after all. Come, I'll sing you a
song, as it's the last night we shall be here."
Skilligalee accordingly chanted a merry lay; and the
conversation afterwards turned upon a variety of topics, none of which
possessed sufficient interest to be recorded in our pages.
At length a clock in the passage struck eleven; and
King Zingary instantly rose from his seat.
This was a signal for the revellers to retire.
"Skilligalee," said the King, "you will
tell the trap-faker*