University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

“Ingratitude” is said to be a “marble-hearted
fiend,” and though we shall not venture to maintain
the converse of the proposition, we still contend that
there are imps, its “next-o'-kin,” whose bad eminence
is equally conspicuous. Among these children
of darkness, superstition, that nightmare of
the soul, exhibits demoniac attributes of equal power,
and is more justly dreaded; its influence being
active, while that of ingratitude is passive.

To exhibit the highest evidence, we might adduce
the circumstance that there are certain periods when
it wields a resistless power over our own intellect,
albeit the reader has no doubt assigned us a station
high above the reach of all malign influences. To
reveal a secret which, until now, has been treasured in
our heart of hearts, we do love the silver moon with an

intensity of affection passing the love of woman: there
is not a wandering ray that dances joyously on its
bright course through the transparent ether, but
is precious in our eyes as the jewel on a sultan's turban—but
if her virgin-beams first dance over our
left shoulder, to hold soft dalliance with our glowing
cheek, the coy advance meets a cool return; our
cheerful spirits lose their wonted elasticity, and
coming events cast their shadows gloomily before
us. Does the world do us wrong, and despitefully
entreat us? Even our warm regard cannot prevent
the imputation that it isthe work of the luckless moonbeam.
Have we no visible sorrows to mourn over?
There were doubtless unknown joys in full career
along our path, but the prophetic ray has diverted
them to more fortunate bosoms. If, therefore, we
are not exempt from the dominion of such untoward
sprites, it is not surprising that Clifton was at all
times their unwilling victim. Indeed it is capable
of the most palpable demonstration that those who,
like him, are rudely tossed on the billows of fate,
and subject to sudden and unexpected vicissitudes,
are ever prone to cast their horoscopes, and link,
in imagination, their capricious destinies with the
stars.

That Napoleon, in all the phases of his extraordinary
career, was the sport and foot-ball of this
shadowy influence, is a matter of history. When
in the zenith of his power, it was his constant practice
to watch the aspect of his natal star, whose

steady effulgence lighted him to victory; and when
his fortunes experienced that decline which is the
legitimate offspring of unbounded success, he viewed
in its shorn beams, the herald of defeat.

On one of those cheerless nights, whose prototypes
have at times denied the solace of slumber to
the most equable of our species, Clifton lay tossing
from side to side on his lonely couch, wooing the
drowsy god with genuine devotion, but receiving no
answering sign to his prayers for repose. The
night was clear, but there was that oppressive feeling
in the atmosphere which creates lassitude and
despondency, without precisely indicating the cause
of such a phenomenon. Finding the attempt to
sleep impracticable, his truant thoughts began to
wander, and like other rebellious rovers, were not
content, until the broad Atlantic separated them
from their liege lord. Onward and still onward
they continued their flight, nor rested their unwearied
wing until the antique outline of Mr. Borrowdale's
mansion was recognized and reached.
After hovering timidly over the hospitable mansion,
they made bold to enter the sleeping apartment of
the fair Julia, gently lifting the curtain that shrouded
her virgin couch, and peering most curiously into
her face.

But horror of horrors! what a sight presented itself!
Instead of the glowing cheek and swan-like
throat of his beloved, there lay her attenuated and
emaciated form, robbed of its matchless charms, and

struggling to retain a feeble existence. In vain he
attempted to persuade himself that it was an illusion,
a mockery of the brain—the whole scene, with all
its terrible accessaries, was as palpable to his sense
as the sun at noon-day.

After repeated efforts to withdraw from the enchanted
chamber, he at length succeeded, but not
until the finger of his mistress pointed to a new made
grave, seen distinctly in the distance, which he shuddered
to think was prepared for her reception. The
morning light brought relief and calm to his excited
feelings, but superstition still clung to the recollection
of the vision, declaring it a fatal omen, whose
fulfilment was not more terrible than sure. Moody
and abstracted, he found the usual solace in the employment
of his pen impracticable, and after an
early dinner entered an omnibus and proceeded to
the remotest suburbs, hoping to calm his ruffled spirit
by a resort to the excitement of motion and the
presence of new objects.

On the vehicle reaching its destination he alighted,
and proceeded, without aim or purpose, in a
direction leading from the city. While thus rambling
along, he at length observed that clouds were
gathering over the western horizon, which warned
him of the propriety of retracing his steps.

Darker and more gloomy rolled the sable clouds
along as the day declined, dimming the glories of
the setting sun, and robbing twilight of its shadowy
and evanescent beauties. As the evening wore

apace, a thick fog, such as often occurs in London,
overspread the vicinity of the metropolis, enveloping
the city and its environs in impenetrable darkness.
The stars were totally obscured, and the city lamps,
with flickering and unsteady light, appeared like
faithless sentinels, whose eyes were rendered dim by
the effects of a midnight revel. Untoward and
cheerless as was the prospect at the close of day, the
rapid transition from light to darkness was as unexpected
as unwelcome to those whom business or pleasure
had benighted on their journey to or from the
busy mart.

Clifton, in particular, was not a little chagrined at
his late abstraction, which had caused him to take
no note of time, nor was he aware of the distance he
had traced, after descending from the omnibus. To
move cautiously in the direction of the city, if the
various points of the compass could be guessed at
in this epitome of Egyptian darkness, was his only
course. That he could reach his lodgings through
the gloom was not supposed, and he therefore determined
to seek lodgings for the night in the first public-house
he should encounter. While pressing
forward with as much speed as the darkness permitted,
the footsteps of two or three individuals were
heard in advance. As he pushed onward and came
nearer, one of the party, in a rough voice, although
apparently in a subdued tone, exclaimed,

“Why, Bill, my cove, you didn't use to miss fire,

but I'm blowed if I don't begin to think the rum uns
have given us the slip.”

“I shouldn't wonder,” replied another, “if, as
they say in Kentucky, we've barked up the wrong
tree. These tarnal dooks and barrens know how
to play possum as well as us common chaps.”

“Blood and thunder, you misbelievin varmin,”
grumbled a third, “do you think I've lived to this
time of day to be bamboozled by these sprigs of nobility?
It takes an old fox to gammon me, and
I've wintered and summered these fellows too long
to fly off the track when I fairly get the scent. As
Joe Simmons says, I know them inside and outside
—top and bottom, and I could tell one of their hides
in a tan-yard.”

“Hush, hush,” said the first speaker, in a lower
key, “I think I hear a footstep. Mum's the word.
It wouldn't read well in history if the beaks nabbed
us. Only think of our last dying speech and confession
being on sale by all the principal booksellers.”

“If I catch a spy listening,” almost whispered his
associate, “I'll play Hamlet with him. `A rat, a
rat; dead for a ducat.' Wouldn't I do for the
stage?”

“If you don't quit spouting, I reckon you'll mount
a pla'form before the next grass,” was the reply,
which caused no little merriment at the expense of
Shakspeare's admirer, who retorted, “Come, come,
no professional jokes, if you please. If I catch you

at Moll Parson's you'll pay a bumper all round for
insulting a gentleman.”

Clifton inferred from this conversation that it
would be advisable to increase the distance between
these night-hawks and himself, and accordingly remained
stationary until they had proceeded onward
sufficiently to render their voices inaudible. But a
few moments elapsed before the rumbling of carriage
wheels was heard in the distance, and as the
sound approached, the shrieks of a female, and the
loud and angry tones of men's voices, attested the
danger that threatened the newly arrived party.

“Your money or your life, on the instant,” were
the first words that saluted the ears of Clifton, as he
proceeded with all possible rapidity to the rescue,
and they were followed by the discharge of a pistol,
the light from which, and the coach lamps, exhibited
a carriage and pair, with one robber standing
over the prostrate postillion, who begged most lustily
that his life might be spared. A second ruffian
grasped the reins, while the third was stationed at
the door of the coach with a dark lanthorn in his
hand and apparently in the act of rifling the inmates.
All this passed in a second, when Clifton sprang
forward, and with one blow prostrated the villain at
the door of the carriage, placing his knee on his
breast and pinning him to the earth. Observing
the condition of his prostrate comrade, the antagonist
of the postillion released his prisoner, and discharged
a pistol at Clifton, who received the ball in

his thigh. During these events the gentleman in
the coach and the rescued postillion, with shouts and
outcries so alarmed the two robbers who were at
liberty, that they wisely took to their heels, leaving
their less fortunate associate in the gripe of his
wounded, but still powerful assailant. A moment
sufficed to bring the rescued gentleman to the aid
of Clifton, and the timely arrival of two or three labourers
relieved both from the task of securing the
prisoner. Fortunate was it for all parties that the
latter auxiliaries appeared, for no sooner had they
taken possession of the robber than Clifton fainted
from the loss of blood, and falling on the earth became
totally insensible. The gentleman (who with
his daughters was indebted to Clifton's courage and
gallantry for their release from the ruffians,) with
the assistance of one of the new comers, bound up
the wound, and placed the invalid in the carriage;
and as the seat of Lord Templeton, the rescued
party, was near by, the grateful nobleman despatched
one of the labourers for a neighbouring surgeon,
while he conveyed Clifton to his residence. While
these arrangements were in progress, the arms of
the prisoner were pinioned, and he was escorted to
the nearest police station, to be dealt with as the law
directed.

A partial view of the captured robber exhibited a
short but athletic person, whose countenance was
purposely disguised by a mass of grizzled iron-grey
hair flowing over his forehead, and a slouched hat

which threw his face in shadow. Beneath the
shaggy locks twinkled a pair of dark eyes, whose
restless glances, although betraying great agitation
and excitement, did not entirely lose their natural
shrewdness and recklessness of expression. To all
inquiries he refused reply, and was conducted by his
escort in sullen silence to the place of his confinement.
A discharged pistol, which was found near
the spot where Clifton assailed him, was taken in
charge by the party, and in a brief period the scene
of so much alarm and hazard was left to its accustomed
silence and repose.