The Mysteries of London (Vol. 1-4). George W. M. Reynolds
was determined how to act.
Turning towards Walter Sydney, he exclaimed, "You are decided not to forgive me?"
"I have made known to you my resolution—that we should now part, for ever."
"How can we part for ever, when your friend and benefactor, Mr. Stephens, requires my services?"
"Mr. Stephens informed me 'that a third person was necessary to the complete success of his designs, and that he had fixed upon you.' Consequently, another friend may fill the place which he intended you to occupy."
"You seem to have well weighed the results of your resolution to see me no more," said Montague bitterly.
"There is time for thought throughout the live-long night, when sleep is banished from the pillow," returned the lady proudly.
"I can scarcely comprehend your conduct," said Montague, after another pause. "You do not choose that your servants should know what occurred last night: is it your intention to acquaint Mr. Stephens with the real truth?"
"That depends entirely upon yourself. To speak candidly, I do not wish to come to any explanation with Mr. Stephens upon the subject. He will blame me for having concealed from him the attachment which has subsisted between us; and he will imagine that some levity on my part must have encouraged you to violate the sanctity of my chamber. If you, sir, are a man of honour," added the lady emphatically—"and if you have a spark of feeling and generosity left, you will take measures with Mr. Stephens to spare me that last mortification."
"I will do as you require," returned Montague, well pleased with this arrangement. "This very day will I communicate to Mr. Stephens my desire to withdraw from any further interference in his affairs; and I will allege the pressing nature of my own concerns as an excuse."
"Act as you will," said the lady; "but let there remain behind no motive which can lead you to repeat your visits to this house. You comprehend me?"
"Perfectly," replied Montague. "But once more let me implore you—"
"Enough—enough!" exclaimed Walter. "You know not the firmness of the female mind: perhaps I have this morning taught you a lesson in that respect. We must now part, Mr. Montague; and believe me—believe me, that, although no power on earth can alter the resolution to which I came during the long and painful vigil of the past night, I still wish you well;—and, remember, my gratitude accompanies you!"
Walter hesitated for a moment, as if another observation were trembling upon her tongue: then stifling her emotions with a powerful effort, she waved her hand to the delinquent, and abruptly left the room.
"Is this a loftiness of mind of which not even the greatest of men often afford example? or is it the miserable caprice of a vacillating woman?" said Montague to himself, as he prepared to take his departure from the villa in which he had spent some happy hours. "I must candidly admit that this time I am at fault. All appears to be lost in this quarter—and that, too, through my own confounded folly. But Stephens's secret still remains to me; and that secret shall be as good as an annuity for years to come. Let me see—I must have money now to insure my silence, upon breaking off all further connexion with the business. Then I must keep an eye upon him; and should he succeed on the 26th of this month—and he must succeed, if this punctilious lady does not see through his designs in the meantime—then can I step forward and demand another sum under a threat of exposing the entire scheme. And then, too," he added, while his countenance wore an expression of mingled revenge and triumph—"then, too, can I appear before this vain, this scrupulous, this haughty woman, and with one word send her on her knees before me! Then will she stoop her proud brow, and her prayers and intercessions upon that occasion shall be expressed as humbly as her reproaches and her taunts were tyrannically levelled at me to-day! Yes—I will keep my eye upon Walter Sydney and her benefactor Stephens," he said, with an ironical chuckle: "they may obtain their princely fortune, but a due share shall find its way into my pocket!"
These or similar reflections continued to occupy the mind of George Montague, after he had left the villa, and while he was on his way to the nearest point where he could obtain a conveyance to take him into the City.
CHAPTER XXIII.
THE OLD HOUSE IN SMITHFIELD AGAIN.
THE visitor to the Polytechnic Institution or the Adelaide Gallery, has doubtless seen the exhibition of the microscope. A drop of the purest water, magnified by that instrument some thousands of times, appears filled with horrible reptiles and monsters of revolting forms.
Such is London.
Fair and attractive as the mighty metropolis may appear to the superficial observer, it swarms with disgusting, loathsome, and venomous objects, wearing human shapes.
Oh! London is a city of strange contrasts!
The bustle of business, and the smile of pleasure—the peaceful citizen, and the gay soldier—the splendid shop, and the itinerant pastry-stall—the gorgeous equipage, and the humble market-cart—the palaces of nobles, and the hovels of the poor—the psalm from the chapel, and the shout of laughter from the tavern—the dandies lounging in the west-end streets, and the paupers cleansing away the mud—the funeral procession, and the bridal cavalcade—the wealthy and high-born lady whose reputation is above all cavil, and the lost girl whose shame is below all notice—the adventurer who defends his honour with a duel, and the poor tradesman whom unavoidable bankruptcy has branded as a rogue—the elegantly-clad banker whose insolvency must soon transpire, and the ragged old miser whose wealth is not suspected—the monuments of glory, and the hospitals of the poor—the temples where men adore a God with affectation, and the shrines at which they lose their gold to a deity whom they adore without affectation—in a word, grandeur and squalor, wealth and misery, virtue and vice—honesty which has never been tried, and crime which yielded to the force of irresistible circumstances—all the features, all the characteristics, all the morals, of a great city, must occupy the attention of him who surveys London with microscopic eye.
And what a splendid subject for the contemplation of the moralist is a mighty city which, at every succeeding hour, presents a new phase of interest to the view;—in the morning, when only the industrious and the thrifty are abroad, and while the wealthy and the great are sleeping off the night's pleasure and dissipation:—at noon, when the streets are swarming with life, as if some secret source without the walls poured at that hour myriads of animated streams into the countless avenues and thoroughfares;—in the evening, when the men of pleasure again venture forth, and music, and dancing, and revelry prevail around;—and at night, when every lazar-house vomits forth its filth, every den lets loose its horrors, and every foul court and alley echoes to the footsteps of crime!
It was about two o'clock in the morning, (three hours after the burglarious attempt upon the villa,) that a man, drenched by the rain which continued to pour in torrents, with his hat drawn over his eyes, and his hands thrust in his pockets to protect them against the cold, crept cautiously down West Street, from Smithfield, dodged past the policeman, and entered the old house which we have described at the opening of our narrative.
Having closed and carefully bolted the front door, he hastily ascended to the room on the first floor where Walter Sydney had seen him and his companion conceal their plunder four years and four months previously.
This man—so wet, so cold, and so miserable—was Bill Bolter, the murderer.
Having groped about for a few moments, he found a match, struck it, and obtained a light. One of the secret recesses furnished a candle; and the flickering glare fell upon the haggard, unshaven, and dirty countenance of the ruffian.
Scarcely had he lighted the candle, when a peculiar whistle was heard in the street, just under the window. The features of