The Mysteries of London. George W. M. Reynolds
I shall find out why he never would allow me to set foot in the rooms of the lower storey."
The Resurrection Man passed half-way up the alley, and taking a key from his pocket, proceeded to open a door that communicated with the ground-floor of his singularly-built house.
He entered, and the Rattlesnake hurried up to the door. She applied her ear to the key-hole—listened—and heard his footsteps echoing upon the boarded floor of the back-room. In a few moments the grating of a lucifer-match upon the wall met her ear; and applying her eye for a moment to the key-hole, she saw that there was now a light within.
Impelled by an invincible curiosity, or other motives of a powerful nature—if not both—the Rattlesnake cautiously raised the latch, and opened the door to the distance of nearly a foot.
With the utmost care, she now ventured to look into the interior of that part of the house, in respect to which a species of Blue-beard restriction had existed for her ever since she first became the companion of the Resurrection Man in that mysterious abode.
Glancing cautiously in, we say, she saw a small passage communicating with two rooms—one at each end, front and back. The door of the front room was closed: that of the back one was open. She accordingly directed all her attention to the back-room.
Against the wall facing the door was a candle, burning in a bright tin shade or reflector; and in the middle of the room, between the door and the light, stood the Resurrection Man. He had his back towards the Rattlesnake; but she could watch all his proceedings with the greatest facility.
And how strange were those proceedings!—The Resurrection Man enveloped himself in a large dark cloak, and fixed a black cloth mask over his countenance. He then advanced towards a cupboard, which he opened, and whence he took several articles, the precise nature of which the Rattlesnake could not ascertain, in consequence of the position in which her paramour was then standing. She however observed that he placed those articles in a basket at his feet; and when this task was accomplished, he lifted the basket in his hand, and turned so abruptly round to leave the room, that the Rattlesnake trembled from head to foot lest he should have caught a glimpse of her head protruded through the opening of the door.
She drew herself back and pulled the door towards her. For a moment she felt inclined to beat a precipitate retreat to her own quarters; but curiosity compelled her to remain.
What could mean that strange disguise?—Why that cloak?—Wherefore that mask?—And what were the objects which the Resurrection Man had consigned to his basket?—Lastly, whither was he going?
With the most extreme caution she again pushed the door partly open, and again did she glance into the interior of that mysterious division of the house.
But all was now dark; the light had disappeared, or was extinguished, and the place was involved in total obscurity.
Nevertheless, all was not silent. The measured tread of receding footsteps fell upon the woman's ear: those sounds seemed to come from heavy feet descending stone stairs.
Fainter and fainter became the sounds, until at length they merged into the low wind, which whistled gloomily and monotonously through the lower part of the house.
Margaret Flathers felt alarmed: she scarcely knew why.
Was it that being aware of the diabolical character of the Resurrection Man, she naturally associated his present strange proceedings with some deed of darkness whose very mystery made her shudder?
Was it that she trembled at the idea of being in the power of a miscreant whose ability to work evil seemed as unbounded as his inclination?
Suddenly her thoughts received an interruption which was by no means calculated to tranquillize her mind.
A scream, apparently coming from the very bowels of the earth, echoed through the lower part of that house—a scream expressive of an agony so intense, an anguish so acute, that it smote even her hardened and ruthless heart!
That scream was not repeated; but its echoes rang long throughout the place, and vibrated in a strange and terrible manner on the ears of the Rattlesnake.
Then followed low mutterings, in a hoarse and subdued tone; but as they gradually grew louder, she could recognise the menacing voice of the Resurrection Man.
Fear now completely triumphed over the motives which had induced the woman to seek to penetrate into the secrets of her paramour. The dark cloak—the black mask—the basket—the piercing scream—and the threatening voice, all combined to bewilder her imagination, and fill her with vague but not less terrible alarms.
Hastily closing the door, she retreated with precipitate speed from the dark alley, and ascended the steep staircase leading to the upper rooms of the house.
To throw off her clothes and betake herself to rest was the occupation of but a few minutes: nevertheless, as she laid aside her garments, she cast timid and furtive glances behind her—as if she were afraid that her eyes would encounter some horrible spectre—or some masked figure of appalling aspect.
In a quarter of an hour after she had returned from the contemplation of those mysterious proceedings that had filled her mind with such ineffable horror, the Resurrection Man entered the bed-room.
A light was burning upon the table, and when the door opened the Rattlesnake glanced with profound terror in that direction—for she feared lest he should appear in his long dark cloak and black mask. She was inured to crime;—but it was that crime which she could contemplate face to face; and thus the idea that she was in a house where deeds of unknown horror and machinations of an undefined degree of blackness were the business of the terrible man with whom her fortunes were now linked, prostrated all her courage, and filled her with alarms the more profound, because so ominously vague.
In order to avoid the risk of betraying her trepidation to the Resurrection Man, she soon affected to fall asleep; and, when at length slumber really overtook her, her dreams were filled with gaunt forms clad in long black cloaks, and wearing upon their countenances dark masks, through the holes of which their eyes glared with fearful brightness.
CHAPTER CI.
THE WIDOW.
THE cold January morning struggled into existence, amidst rain and sleet, and seemed cradled in dense masses of clouds of tempestuous blackness.
It appeared as if the sun had taken leave of the earth for ever; and it would not have been surprising had the ignorant inquired whence came the gloomy light that just seemed to guide them to their toil.
Miserable indeed was the aspect of the eastern district of the metropolis. Emaciated women, wrapt in thin and scanty shawls, crept along the streets, through the pouring rain, to purchase at the chandlers' shops the morsel that was to serve for the morning's meal—or, perhaps, to pledge some trifling article in their way, ere they could obtain that meal! Half-starved men—poor wretches who never made a hearty meal, and who were yet compelled to work like horses—unhappy beings, who flew to the public houses in despair, and then were reproached by the illiberal and intolerant for their immorality—black sheep of Fortune's flock, to whom verdant pastures were unknown—friendless outcasts, who in sickness knew no other consolation than that of the hospital, and in destitution, no asylum save the workhouse—luckless mortals, who cursed the day they knew the power of love, and execrated that on which they pronounced the marriage vows, because therefrom had sprung children who pined for want before their face—such men as these were seen dragging themselves along to their labours on the railroad, the canal, or at the docks.
It was about eight o'clock on this miserable morning, when a man, dressed in a shabby suit of black, and wearing a very dirty white neckcloth, the long ends of which hung, damp and lanky, over the front of his closely-buttoned body-coat, walked slowly along Smart Street—a thoroughfare in the eastern part of Globe Town.