Penny Dreadful Multipack Vol. 1 (Illustrated. Annotated. 'Wagner The Wehr-Wolf,' 'Varney The Vampire,' 'The Mysteries of London Vol. 1' + Bonus Features) (Penny Dreadful Multipacks) (275 page)

 
on the following morning, hurried
up to the drawing-room where Lady Cecilia awaited him.
    "My dear Cecilia," he exclaimed, as he entered the
room, "a thousand pardons for keeping you; but the fact is that the
position in which an intelligent and independent constituency has placed me,
entails upon me duties —"
    "A truce to that absurdity with me," interrupted
the baronet's wife, in a more peremptory tone than Mr. Greenwood had ever yet
heard her use. "I am come according to appointment to settle a most
unpleasant business. Here is my husband's acknowledgment, drawn up as you
desired: please to deliver up to me the bill."
    Mr. Greenwood ran his eye over the document, and appeared
satisfied. He then drew forth the bill from his pocket-book, and handed it to
Lady Cecilia.
    There was a flush upon the lady's delicately pale
countenance; and her eyes sparkled with unusual vivacity. She was dressed in a
very neat, but plain and simple manner; and Mr. Greenwood fancied that she had
never seemed so interesting before.
    As he delivered the bill into her keeping he took her hand
and endeavoured to convey it to his lips.
    She drew back with an air of offended dignity, which would
have well become a lady that had never surrendered herself to the pleasures of
an illicit love.
    "No, Mr. Greenwood," she said, in a firm, and even
haughty tone: "all that is ended between you and me. You are a heartless
man, who cannot appreciate the warmth with which a confiding woman yields
herself up to you ;- you have treated me - the daughter of a peer - like a
pensioned mistress. But I let that now pass :- I have made you acquainted with
the nature of my thoughts - and I am satisfied."
    "I am at a loss to understand how I should have
deserved these harsh words, Cecilia," replied Greenwood, with a somewhat
supercilious smile; "but perhaps my inability to supply you with the means
of gratifying your extravagances has given you offence."
    "Your cool indifference of late has indeed given me a
bitter lesson," said Lady Cecilia. 
    "And yet I manifested every disposition to serve you,
madam," rejoined Greenwood haughtily, "when I consented to compromise
your husband's felony."
    "Yes - you generously abandoned your claim to a
thousand pounds," exclaimed Cecilia, with cutting irony, "in order to
hush up an intrigue with the wife of the man whom you had inveigled into your
net. But think not, Mr. Greenwood, that I attempt to justify my husband's
conduct: I know him to be a heartless - a bad - an unprincipled man; and yet
Mr. Greenwood, I do not conceive that
 
you
 
would shine the more
resplendently by being placed in contrast with
 
him.
 
One word more. Had you refused to
deliver up that bill, I was prepared to pay it. Some unknown friend had heard
of this transaction - heaven alone knows how; and that friend forwarded last
evening the means wherewith to liquidate this debt. Here is the letter which
contained a Bank note for a thousand pounds: it fell into my hands, and my
husband knows naught concerning it; can you say whose writing that is?"
    Greenwood glanced hastily at the letter, and exclaimed,
"Yes - I know that writing well Mrs. Arlington is your husband's generous
friend!"
    "Mrs. Arlington!" exclaimed Cecilia: "Oh! -
now I recollect that rumour points to that woman as having once been my
husband's mistress."
    "The same," said Greenwood, struck by this noble
act on the part of the fair one whom be himself had first seduced from the
paths of virtue.
    "it would now be difficult to decide," observed
Cecilia, in a tone of profound contempt. "which has acted the more noble
part - the late mistress of his Rupert Harborough, or the late lover of his
wife."
    Greenwood only answered with a satirical curl of the
lip. 
    Lady Cecilia rose from her seat, bowed coldly to the
capitalist, and withdrew.
    Thus terminated the amours of the man of the world and the
lady of fashion - ending, as such illicit loves usually do, in a quarrel.
    But the reader must not suppose that the same sentiments of
pride which had thus induced Lady Cecilia to break off abruptly a connexion
which her paramour had been for some time dissolving by degrees, influenced her
in the use to which she appropriated the handsome sum supplied for an especial
purpose by Mrs. Arlington. The lady knew no compunction in this respect, and
she therefore devoted the thousand pounds so generously forwarded by her
husband's late mistress, to her own wants!

* * * * * * *

    The Italian valet had overheard the entire
conversation between Lady Cecilia Harborough and Mr. Greenwood, which we have
just described.
    In the course of the day the whole details of that interview
were communicated to Mrs. Arlington, who thus learnt that Lady Cecilia had
intercepted the money intended for Sir Rupert Harborough and had settled the
forged bill without being compelled to disburse it.

CHAPTER XCVII.

ANOTHER NEW YEAR'S DAY

IT was the 1st of January, 1840.
    The tide of Time rolls on with the same unvarying steadiness
of motion, wearing off the asperities of barbarism, as the great flood of ocean
smooths the sharp edges of rugged rocks.
    But as the seasons glide away, vainly may we endeavour to
throw a veil upon the past ;- vainly do we lament, when Winter comes, that our
Spring dreams should be faded and gone, too beautiful to endure ;- vainly,
vainly do we pray that the waves of a Lethean sea may overwhelm the memories of
those years when Time cast flowers from his brow and diamonds from his wing!
    Time looks down upon the world from the heights of the
Pyramids of Egypt ; and, as he surveys the myriad cities of the universe
swarming with life, -  marks the mighty armies of all states, ready to
exterminate and kill, - views the navies of great powers riding over every sea,
- as he beholds all these, Time chuckles, for he knows that they are his own!
    For the day must come when the Pyramids themselves, the all
but immortal children of antiquity, shall totter and fall; and Time shall
triumph over even these.
    The strongest edifices crumble into dust, and the power of
the mightiest nations fritters into shreds, beneath the hand of Time.
    The glories of Sesostris are now a vague dream - the
domination of Greece and Rome has become an uncertain vision: the heroes of the
Crusades have long since mouldered in the earth;- the crescent of the Ottomans
menaces Christendom no more: the armadas of Spain are extinct; - the thrones
that Napoleon raised are cast down: of the millions that he led to conquest,
during his meteor-like career what numbers have left this busy scene for ever
 
and how varied are the climes in
which they have found their graves!
    Oh, Time! what is there that can strive with thee - thou
that art the expression of the infinite existence of God himself!
    Alas! if Time were a spirit endowed with intellect to
comprehend, and feelings to sympathise, how would he sorrow over the woes of
that human existence, which has now occupied nearly sixty centuries!
    Year after year rolls away; and yet how slowly does
civilization accomplish its task of improving the condition of the sons and
daughters of toil.
    For in the present day, as it was in the olden time, the
millions labour to support the few, and the few continue to monopolize the
choicest fruits of the earth.
    The rights of labour are denied; and the privileges of birth
and wealth are dominant.
    And ever, when the millions, bowed down by care., and
crushed with incessant hardships, raise the voice of anguish to their
taskmasters, the cry is, "'
Toil! Toil!
"
    And when the poor labourer, with the sweat standing in sharp
drops upon his brow, points to his  half-starved wife and little ones, and
demands that increase of his wages which will enable him to feed them
adequately, and clothe them comfortably, the only response that meets his ears
is still, "'
Toil! Toil!
"
    And when the mechanic, pale and emaciated droops over his
loom, and in a faint tone beseeches that his miserable pittance may be turned
into a fair remuneration for that hard and unceasing work which builds up the
fortunes of his employer, the answer to his pathetic prayer is, "'
Toil!
Toil!
"
    And when the miner, who spends his best days in the bowels
of the earth, hewing the hard mineral in dark subterranean caves at the peril
of his life, and in positions which cramp his limbs, contract his chest, and
early prostrate his energies beyond relief -  when he exalts his voice
from those hideous depths, and demands the settlement of labour's rights upon a
just basis, the only echo to his petition is, "'
Toil! Toil!
"
    Yes - it is ever "'
Toil! Toil!
" for the
millions. while the few repose on downy couches, feed upon the luxuries of the
land and water, and move from place to place in sumptuous equipages!
    It was the 1st of January, 1840.
    Another New Year's Day - commemorated with feasting by those who had no
reason to repine, but marked as the opening of another weary epoch of care and
sorrow by those who had nothing for which to be grateful, either to heaven or
to man!
    The first day of January, 1840, was inclement and severe. The
air was piercing cold, and the rain fell in torrents. The streets of the great
metropolis were swept by a wintery wind that chased the poor houseless
wanderers beneath the coverings of arches and doorways, and sent the shivering
mendicants to implore an asylum at the workhouse.
    It was evening; and the lamps diffused but an uncertain
light in the great thoroughfares. The courts and alleys of the poor
neighbourhoods were enveloped in almost total darkness; for every shutter was
dosed, and where there were no shutters, blinds were drawn down, or rags were
stretched across the windows, to expel the bitter cold.
    We must now request our readers to accompany us to a
district of London, which is most probably altogether unknown to the
aristocrat, even by name, and with which many of that class whose occupations
lead them into an intimate acquaintance with the metropolis, are by no means
familiar.
    Situate to the east of Bethnal Green, - bounded on the north
by Bonner's Fields, on the south by the Mile End Road, and on the east by the
Regent's Canal, - and intersected by the line of the Eastern Counties Railway,
is an assemblage of narrow streets and filthy lanes, bearing the denomination
of
 
Globe Town.
    When compared with even the worst districts at the
metropolis, - when placed in contrast with Saint Giles's or Saffron Hill , -
Globe Town still appears a sink of human misery which civilization, in its
progress, has forgotten to visit.
    The majority of the streets are unpaved, rugged, and broken.
The individual who traverses them in the summer is blinded by the dust, or
disgusted by heaps of putrescent offal, the rotting remains of vegetables and
filth of every description, which meet the eye at short intervals; and, in
winter, he wallows, knee-deep, in black mud and stagnant water, But even in the
summer itself, and in the very midst of the dog-days, there are swamps of mire
in many of the streets of Globe Town, which exhale a nauseating and sickly
odour, like that of decomposing dead bodies.
    In the winter time Globe Town is a complete marsh. Lying
low, in the vicinity of the canal, and on a naturally swampy soil, the district
is unhealthy in the extreme. Nor do its inhabitants endeavour, by any efforts
of their own, to mitigate the consequences of these local disadvantages. They
seem, for the most part, to cling with a sort of natural tenacity, to their
rags and filth. Perhaps it is the bitterness of their poverty which makes them
thus neglectful of the first duties of cleanliness: perhaps their pinching
indigence reduces them to a state of despair that allows them no spirit and no
heart to do any thing that may conduce to their comfort. Whatever be the cause,
it is nevertheless a fact that, with the exception of one or two streets, Globe
Town is a district which necessity alone could compel a person of cleanly
habits and domestic propriety to reside in.
     And yet Globe Town contains streets delighting in
aristocratic names. There is Grosvenor Place, in which a carriage and pair
would have some trouble to turn; there is Parade Street, where a corporal's
guard could not find space to manoeuvre; there is Park Street, whose most
gorgeous establishment is the sign of a mangle; there is Chester Place, formed
by two rows of miserable shops; and, there are Essex Street and Digby Street,
where single men may obtain lodgings at the rate of three-pence a night.
    How strange is this affection for fine names to distinguish
horrible neighbourhoods! In the lowest parts of Whitechapel we final Pleasant
Row, Queen Street, Flower Street, Duke Street, and Rose Lane. In Bethnal Green,
a place inhabited by the poorest of the poor is denominated Silver Street; and,
in the same district, a filthy thoroughfare is christened Pleasant Street.
    Globe Town and its immediate vicinity abound in cemeteries,
to the north there is the Eastern London Cemetery; and to the south there are
two Jews' burial grounds, and two other places of sepulture.  With the
exception of the first-mentioned one, which has only been recently opened, and
is a large airy space neatly planted with shrubs, those cemeteries are so
crowded with the remains of mortality, that it is impossible to drive a spade
into the ground without striking against human bones.
    When you once merge from the Cambridge Road, pass the new
church in Bethnal Green, and plunge into Globe Town, it seems as if you had
left London altogether, - as if you were no longer within the limits of the
metropolis, but had suddenly dropped from the clouds into a strange village
strangely peopled. You encounter but few persons in the streets ; and those
whom you do meet are, for the most part, squalid, emaciated, pale, and
drooping. The only sounds of mirth which meet your ear, emanate from the
casements of the public-houses, or from the urchins that play half-naked in the
mud. With these exceptions, Globe Town is silent, gloomy, and sombre.
    The shop-windows are indicative of the poverty of the
inhabitants. The butchers shed displays a few slices of liver stretched upon a
board, sheep's heads of no very inviting appearance, and hearts, lungs and
lights, all hanging together, like a Dutch clock with its weights against a
wall. The poor ·make stews of this offal. The fish-stalls present "for
public competition," as George Robins would say, nothing but the most
coarse and the cheapest articles - such as huge Dutch plaice, haddocks, &c.
In the season the itinerant venders of fresh- herrings and sprats drive a good
trade in Globe Town. In a word, every thing in that district denotes poverty -
poverty - nothing but pinching poverty.
    The inhabitants of Globe Town are of two kinds; being
weavers, and persons who earn their livelihood by working at the docks or, on
the canal, on the one hand; and thieves, prostitutes, and vagrants, on the other.
When a burglar or a pick-pocket finds St. Giles's, Clerkenwell, the Mint, or
Bethnal Green too hot to hold him, he betakes himself to Globe Town, where he
buries himself in some obscure garret until the storms that menaced him be
blown over. Globe Town has thus acquired amongst the fraternity of rogues of
all classes, the expressive denomination of the "Happy Valley."
    In one of the narrowest, dirtiest, and most lonely streets
at the eastern extremity of Globe Town, there was a house of an appearance more
dilapidated than the rest. It was only two storeys high, and was built in a
very singular manner. From the very threshold of the front door a precipitate
staircase, more nearly resembling a ladder, led to the apartments; so that when
any one entered that house from the street. he had to thread no passage nor
corridor, but immediately began to ascend those steep steps. The staircase led
to a landing, from which two doors opened into small, dirty, and dark chambers.
These rooms had a door of communication pierced in the wall that separated
them; but there were no stairs leading down into the lower apartments of the
house. The only way of obtaining access to the rooms on the ground-floor, was
by means of a door up an alley leading from the street, and running along one
side of the house into a court formed by other dwellings. Thus the upper and
lower parts of this strange building might be said to constitute two distinct
tenements. The windows of the ground-floor rooms were darkened with shutters,
at the upper part of which holes in the shape of hearts had been cut to admit a
few straggling rays of light.
    The rooms on the upper floor were furnished in a tolerably
comfortable manner; but every article was wretchedly begrimed with dirt. The
front apartment served as a sitting-room for the inmates of this
strangely-built house; and the back chamber was fitted up as a bed-room. 
    It was evening, as we before said; and thick curtains were
drawn over the two windows of the front-room to which we have alluded. A candle
with a s long flaring wick, stood upon the table. On a good fire a kettle was
just beginning to boil. The table was set out with glasses, bottles, sugar,
lemons, pipes, and tobacco. The inmates of that room were evidently preparing
for a carouse, while the rain beat in torrents, against the windows, and the
wind swept down the street like a hurricane.
    But who
 
were
 
the inmates of that room?
    We will proceed to inform our readers.
    Lolling in an arm-chair, the covering of which was torn in
many places, and spotted all over with grease, was a female, who in reality had
scarcely numbered five-and-twenty years, but to whom the ravages of dissipation
and evil passions gave the appearance of five-and-thirty. She had once been
good-looking; and her features still retained the traces of beauty: but there
was a deep blue tint, beneath the eyes, which joined the dark thick brows, and
thus seemed to inclose the orbs themselves in a dingy circle. The faded cheeks
were coloured with rouge; but the dye had been so clumsily plastered on, that
the effect could not deceive the most ignorant in such matters. This woman wore
a faded light silk gown, cut very low in front, and disclosing a considerable
portion of a thin and shrivelled neck. In a word, she had the air of being what
she really was - a faded courtezan of a low order. Her proper name was Margaret
Flathers; but her acquaintance, for brevity's sake, called her Meg; and, in
addition to these appellations, the name of
 
The Rattlesnake
 
had been conferred upon her, from
the circumstance that she was fond of dressing in silks' or satins, which she
had a habit of rustling as much as possible when she walked. 
    On the other side of the fire-place was seated a man of
cadaverous countenance, which was over-shadowed by a quantity of tangled black
hair, and whose expression was vile and sinister to a degree. 
    "Half-past eight," said the woman, glancing
towards a huge silver-watch which hung by a. faded blue riband to a nail over
the mantel.
    "Yes - they can't be long now," returned her
companion. who was no other than the Resurrection Man. "But because they’re
late, Meg, it's no reason why we shouldn't have a drop of blue rum. The night a
precious cold; and the kettle's just on; the boil. Pour out the daffy,
Meg."
    The woman drew two tumblers towards her, and half-filled
each with gin. She then added sugar and lemon; and in a few moments the Resurrection
Man poured the boiling element upon the liquor.
    "Good, isn't it, Tony? " said the Rattlesnake.
"Capital, Meg. You're an excellent girl to judge of the proportions in a
glass of lush."
    "And I think, Tony," said the woman coaxingly,
"that you have had no reason to complain of me in other respects. Twelve
months all but a few day that we've been together, and I have done all I could
to make you comfortable."
    "And so you ought," answered the Resurrection Man.
"Didn't I take you out of the street and make an independent lady of you?
Ain't you the; mistress of this crib of mine? and don't you live upon the fat
of the land?"
    "Very true, Tony," said the Rattlesnake. "But
what would you have done without me? When that business took place down by the
Bird-cage Walk, and you was obliged to come and hide yourself in the Happy
Valley, you wanted some one you could rely upon to go out and buy your things,
take care of the place, and get information whether the blue-bottles had fallen
on any scent."
    "All right, my girl," cried the Resurrection Man.
"I