Ten Thousand a-Year. Volume 3

But there was another discovery, which occasioned him not a little excitement, as his flushed cheek and suspended breath testified—alas! poor Aubrey's BOND for £2,000, with interest at five per cent!—an instrument which poor Lady Stratton, having always intended to destroy, latterly imagined that she had actually done so. It had, however, got accidentally mingled with other papers, which had found their way, in the ordinary course, to Mr. Parkinson, and who was himself ignorant of its existence, since it lay folded in a letter addressed to Lady Stratton, till it turned up while he was sorting the papers, in obedience to the request of Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap. He turned pale and red by turns as he held the accursed document in his fingers; probably, thought he, no one on earth but himself knew of its existence; and—and—he knew what the deceased would have done—but his sense of duty prevailed! Of course the party entitled to sue for the principal money secured by it, together with all arrears of interest which might be due upon it, was now Mr. Tittlebat Titmouse!

–Surely it is hard to imagine a more dismal and wanton freak of fortune than this—as far, at least, as concerned poor Kate Aubrey.

CHAPTER V

"Fly! Fly!—For God's sake fly! Lose not one moment of the precious respite which, by incredible efforts, I have contrived to secure you—a respite of but a few hours—and wrung from heartlessness and rapacity. In justice, much injured man! to yourself—to all you hold dear upon earth—to the precious interests intrusted to your keeping, and involved in your destruction—again I say Fly! Quit the country, if it be but for never so short a time, till you or your friends shall have succeeded in arranging your disordered affairs. Regard this hasty and perhaps incoherent note, in what light you please—but I tell you it comes, in sacred confidence, from a firm and inalienable friend, whose present desperate exertions in your behalf you will one day perhaps be able to appreciate. Once more I conjure you to fly!—From other and greater dangers than you at present apprehend. I see the rack preparing for you!—Will you stay to be tortured?—and in the presence of the incomparable beings who—but my feelings overpower me! Indeed, Mr. Aubrey, if you disregard this intimation through weak fears as to its writer's sincerity, or a far weaker, and a wild, notion of Quixotic honor and heroism—remember, in the moment of being overwhelmed, this note—and then do justice to its writer.—Your faithful, unhappy, distrusted friend,

"O. G.

"P.S.—For God's sake burn, or otherwise destroy, this letter, as soon as you shall have read it."

Such was the letter which got into Mr. Aubrey's hands just as the time which had been fixed by Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap, for payment of their bill, was expiring, and which occasioned him, as may be easily imagined, dreadful disquietude. It had found him in a state of the deepest depression—but yet vigorously striving to preserve, in the presence of his wife and sister, a semblance of composure and cheerfulness. More to pacify them than to satisfy himself, he had walked about town during the two preceding days till nearly dropping with exhaustion, in fruitless quest of those who might be disposed to advance him a thousand pounds on his own personal security, and on terms he scarce cared how exorbitant, to free him, at all events for a while, from his present exigency. All had been, however, in vain—indeed he had had no hopes from the first. And what was then to be done? His soul seemed dying away within him. At times he almost lost all consciousness of his situation, and of what was passing around him. It appeared to be the will of Heaven that his misfortunes should press him down, as it were, by inches into the dust, and crush him. Those there were, he well knew, who needed but to be apprised of his circumstances, to step forward and generously relieve him from his difficulties. But where was all that to end? What real good could it serve? Awfully involved as he was already—one, alone, of his friends being at that moment under a liability which must be discharged within a few months, of nearly eleven thousand pounds—was he to place others in a similar situation? What earthly prospect had he of ever repaying them? Lamentable as was his position, his soul recoiled from the bare thought. But then came before his anguished eye, his wife—his sister—his children; and he flung himself, in an ecstasy, on his knees, remaining long prostrate—and, for a while, the heaven that was over his head seemed to be brass, and the earth that was under him, iron. His heart might be wrung, however, and his spirit heavy and darkened; but no extent or depth of misery could cause him to forget those principles of honor and integrity by which all his life had been regulated. He resolved, therefore, to submit to the stroke apparently impending over him, with calmness, as to inevitable ruin; nor would he hear of any further applications to his friends, which, indeed, he felt would be only encouragement to those who held him in thraldom, to renew their exactions, when they found each succeeding pressure successful. Poor Kate had told him, as soon as her letter had been put into the post, with trembling apprehension as to the consequences, of her application to Lady Stratton; but did she think her fond broken-hearted brother could chide her? He looked at her for a moment, with quivering lip and eyes blinded with tears—and then wrung her hand, simply expressing a hope, that, since the step had been taken, it might be, in some measure at least, successful.

Mr. Gammon's letter, as I have already intimated, filled Mr. Aubrey with inexpressible alarm. Again and again he read it over with increasing agitation, and at the same time uncertain as to its true character and import—as to the real motive and object of its writer. Was he guilty of the duplicity which Mrs. Aubrey and Kate so vehemently imputed to him? Was he actuated by revenge? Or was he, as represented by Mr. Quirk's letter, overpowered by his partners, and still sincere in his wishes to shield Mr. Aubrey from their rapacity? Or was Mr. Gammon suggesting flight only as a snare? Was Mr. Aubrey to be seduced into an act warranting them in proceeding to instant extremities against him? What could be the other matters so darkly alluded to in the letter? Were they the two promissory notes of five thousand pounds each, which he had deposited with Mr. Gammon, who at length was peremptorily required by Mr. Titmouse to surrender them up, and permit them to be put in suit? They were payable on demand—he shuddered! Might it be, that Titmouse was desperately in want of money, and had therefore overpowered the scruples of Gammon, and disregarded the sacred pledge under which he assured Titmouse the notes had been given? Mr. Aubrey rejoiced that Mr. Gammon's letter had been placed in his hands by the servant when alone in his study, whither he had gone to write a note to Mr. Runnington; and resolved not to apprise Mrs. Aubrey and Kate of its arrival. The fourth day after the receipt of Messrs. Quirk and Snap's letter had now elapsed. Mr. Aubrey did not venture to quit the house. All of them were, as may well be imagined, in a state of pitiable distress, and agitation, and suspense. Thus also passed the fifth day—still the blow descended not. Was the arm extended to inflict it, held back, still, by Mr. Gammon continuing thus the "incredible efforts" spoken of in his note?

The sixth morning dawned on the wretched family. They all rose at a somewhat earlier hour than usual. They could scarce touch the spare and simple breakfast spread before them, nor enjoy—nay, they could hardly bear—the prattle and gambols of the lively little ones, Charles and Agnes, whom at length they despatched back again to the nursery; for they were, in the highest possible state of excitement and anxiety, awaiting the arrival of the postman—this being the first morning on which they could, in the ordinary course, receive a letter from Lady Stratton in answer to that of Kate. 'T was now a little past ten. The breakfast things had been removed; and on hearing the agitating though long-expected rat-tat of the postman a few doors down the street, Mrs. Aubrey and Kate started to the window. Their hearts beat violently when their eye at length caught sight of him, with his arm full of letters, knocking at the door opposite. Oh, had he a letter for them? How long were their opposite neighbors in answering his summons, and in paying the postage! Then he stood for nearly a minute laughing with a servant in the adjoining area—intolerable indeed was all this, to the agitated beings who were thus panting for his arrival! Presently he glanced at the packet in his hand, and taking one of the letters from it, crossed the street, making for their door.

"Heavens! He has a letter!" cried Miss Aubrey, excitedly—"I sha'n't wait for Fanny!" and, flying to the front door, plucked it open the instant after the postman had knocked. He touched his hat on seeing, instead of a servant, the beautiful but agitated lady, who stretched forth her hand and took the letter, exclaiming, "Fanny will pay you"—but in an instant her cheek was blanched, and she nearly fell to the floor, at sight of the black border, the black seal, and the handwriting, which she did not at the instant recognize. For a moment or two she seemed to have lost the power of speech or motion; but presently her trembling limbs bore her into the parlor. "Oh! Charles—Agnes—I feel as if I were going to die—look"—she faltered, sinking into the nearest chair, while Mr. Aubrey, with much agitation, took the ominous-looking letter which she extended towards him. 'T was from Mr. Parkinson; and told the news of Lady Stratton's death, and the lamentable circumstances attending it; that—as the reader has heard—she had died intestate—and that Mr. Titmouse had, as next of kin, become entitled to administration to her effects. All this disastrous intelligence was conveyed in a very few hurried lines. "Oh, my God!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, on having glanced over them. His color fled, and he pressed his hand against his forehead. "She is dead!" said he, in a low tone, at the same time giving Kate the letter, and hastening to Mrs. Aubrey, who seemed nearly fainting. Each had uttered a faint scream on hearing his words. Mrs. Aubrey swooned in his arms —and Kate sat like a statue, without even glancing at the fatal letter which she held in her hand, but gazing in a sort of stupor at her brother. She was unable to rise to Mrs. Aubrey's assistance—of whose state, indeed, she appeared, from her vacant eye, to be hardly aware. At length a slight sigh announced the returning consciousness of Mrs. Aubrey; and at the same time Miss Aubrey, with a manifestly desperate effort, regained her consciousness, and with a cheek white as the paper at which she was looking, read it over.

"This is very—very—dreadful—Heaven is forsaking us!" at length she murmured, gazing wofully at her brother and sister.

"Say not so—but rather God's will be done," faltered Mr. Aubrey, his voice and his countenance evincing the depth of his affliction. "God help us!" he added in a tone which at length, thrilling through the overcharged heart of his sister, caused her to weep bitterly; and if ever there was a mournful scene, it was that which ensued, ere this doomed family, slowly recovering from the first stunning effects of the shock which they had just received, had become aware of the full extent of their misery. They had ever felt towards Lady Stratton—who, as has been already said, had been poor Kate's godmother—as towards a parent; and their affection had been doubled after the death of Mrs. Aubrey. Now she was gone; she who would have stood for a little while at least between them and ruin, was gone! And by an inscrutable and awful Providence, that which she had sacredly destined to them, and made great sacrifices to secure to them—and which would have effectually shielded them from the cruelty and rapacity of their enemies—had been diverted from them, into the coffers of the most selfish and worthless of mankind—who seemed, indeed, as if he had been called into existence only to effect their ruin; even, as it were, the messenger of Satan to buffet them! At length, however, the first natural transports of their grief having subsided, their stricken hearts returned to their allegiance towards Heaven; and Mr. Aubrey, whose constancy at once strengthened and encouraged his partners in affliction, with many expressions of sincere and confident piety and resignation reminded them that they were in the hands of God, who intended all earthly suffering—however unaccountable—however harsh and apparently undeserved its infliction—to contribute infallibly to the ultimate benefit of His children. And he reminded them, on that melancholy occasion, of the example afforded by one whose griefs had far transcended theirs—the patriarch Job; on whom were suddenly—and to him apparently without any reason or motive, except the infliction of evil—accumulated almost every species of misfortune which could befall humanity. The sudden and total loss of his substance, and of all his servants, he appears to have borne with fortitude. At length, however, was announced to him the loss of all his sons and daughters–

"Then Job arose and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground and worshipped,

"And said, Naked came I out of my mother's womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away: blessed be the name of the Lord.

"In all this Job sinned not, nor charged God foolishly."

Out of respect to the memory of their dear, venerable, departed friend, they drew down all the blinds of their little house, thereby spreading around them a gloom similar to that within. A sad, a mournful little group they looked! This last sorrow seemed for a while to divert their thoughts from the peril which momentarily menaced them. They talked with frequent emotion, and with many tears, of their late friend—recalling, fondly, innumerable little traits of her gentle and benignant character. Towards the close of the day their souls were subdued into resignation to the will of the all-wise Disposer of events: they had, in some measure, realized the consolations of an enlightened and scriptural piety.

They met the next morning, at breakfast, with a melancholy composure. The blinds being drawn down, prevented the bright sunshine out of doors from entering into the little room where their frugal breakfast was spread, and where prevailed a gloom more in unison with their saddened feelings. To all who sat round the table, except little Charles, the repast was slight indeed: he had shortly before begun to breakfast down-stairs, instead of in the nursery; and, merry little thing!—all unconscious of the destitution to which, in all human probability, he was destined—and of the misery which oppressed and was crushing his parents—he was rattling away cheerfully, as if nothing could disturb or interrupt the light-heartedness of childhood. They all started on hearing the unexpected knock of the general postman. He had brought them a letter from Dr. Tatham; who, it seemed, was aware of that which had been the day before despatched to them by Mr. Parkinson. The little doctor's letter was exceedingly touching and beautiful; and it was a good while before they could complete its perusal, owing to the emotion which it occasioned them. 'T was indeed full of tender sympathy—of instructive incentives to resignation to the will of God.

"Is not that indeed the language of a devout and venerable minister of God?" said Mr. Aubrey—"whose figure is daily brightening with the glory reflected from the heaven which he is so rapidly approaching? In the order of nature, a few short years must see him, also, removed from us."

"Then we shall indeed be desolate!" said Miss Aubrey, weeping bitterly.

"Heaven," continued her brother, "is speaking to us through one of its ministers in this letter! Let us listen in reverent humility!" They remained silent for some moments, Mr. Aubrey re-perusing the long and closely written letter of which he had been speaking. Presently he heard a knock at the street door—an ordinary single knock—such as was by no means unusual at that period of the morning; yet he scarce knew why—it disconcerted him. He kept, however, his eye upon the letter, while he heard Fanny opening the door—then a word or two whispered—after which the parlor door was hastily opened, and Fanny stood there, pale as death, and unable, evidently from fright, to speak—a heavy step was heard in the passage—and then there stood behind the terror-stricken girl a tall stout man in a drab great-coat, with a slouched hat, and a thick walking-stick in his hand—looking over her shoulder into the parlor, whose dismayed occupants soon shared the panic of poor Fanny.

"Beg your pardon, sir," said he, civilly advancing into the room, and removing his hat—"is your name Charles Aubrey?"

"It is, sir," said Mr. Aubrey, rising from his chair—by which time a second man was standing at the door.

"You're my prisoner, sir," said the man, stepping close up to the wretched Aubrey, and touching him on the shoulder, at the same time holding out a thin slip of paper—the warrant by virtue of which he was then acting. The moment that he advanced towards Mr. Aubrey, a dreadful shriek burst from Mrs. Aubrey and Kate, who sprang forward, and threw their arms wildly round him. He implored them to restrain their feelings—though evidently greatly agitated himself.

"Will you let me look at your warrant?" said he, mildly, to the man who had arrested him, and remained standing close beside him. Mr. Aubrey, glancing over the fatal slip of paper, saw that he was arrested for fourteen hundred pounds and upwards at the suit of Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap.6

"You see, sir, it's only my duty to do this here," said the officer, respectfully, apparently touched by the agony of the two beautiful women who still clung wildly round one about to be torn ruthlessly from their arms;—"don't take on so, ladies—there 's no great harm done yet."

"For mercy's sake, Agnes! Kate! as you love me!—Be calm! You afflict me beyond measure," said Mr. Aubrey, who, though he had grown very pale, yet preserved under the circumstances a remarkable degree of self-possession. 'T was, however, a scene which he had been endeavoring to realize to himself, and prepare for daily, if not hourly, for the last week.

"Oh, mercy! mercy!—for God's sake have mercy on him! On us!"—exclaimed Mrs. Aubrey and Kate.

"Oh, good men! kind men!—have mercy!" cried Kate, desperately—"What are you going to do with him?"

"No harm, miss, you may depend on 't—only he must go with us, seeing we 're obligated to take him."

"For Heaven's sake, don't—don't, for mercy's sake!"—cried Kate, turning her agonized face towards the man—her hair partially dishevelled, and her arms still clasping her brother with frantic energy. Mrs. Aubrey had swooned, and lay insensible in her husband's arms, supported by his knee; while Fanny, herself half-distracted, was striving to restore her by rubbing her cold hands.

"Lord, ladies! don't—don't take on in this here way—you're only a-hurting of yourselves, and you don't do the gentleman any good, you know—'cause, in course, he's all the sorrier for going," said the second man, who had by this time entered the room, and stood looking on concernedly. But Miss Aubrey repeated her inquiries with wild and frantic impetuosity, for some time not aware that Mrs. Aubrey lay insensible beside her.

"Jemmy—run and fetch the lady a sup of water from the kitchen—she's gone into a dead faint—run, my man!" said the officer to his follower, who immediately obeyed him, and presently returned with a glass of water; by which time, both Kate, and her brother, and Fanny, were endeavoring, with great agitation, to restore Mrs. Aubrey, whose prolonged swoon greatly alarmed them, and in whose sufferings, the sense of their own seemed for a while absorbed. The two men stood by, grasping their huge walking-sticks, and their hats, in silence. At length Mrs. Aubrey showed symptoms of recovery—uttering a long deep sigh.

"I say—master," at length whispered the follower, "I'll tell you what it is—this here seems a bad business, don't it?"

"Jemmy, Jemmy!" replied his master, sternly, "You a'n't got half the pluck of a bum!—There's nothing in all this when one's used to it, as I am."

"P'r'aps the gemman don't rightly owe the money, after all."

"Don't he? And they've sworn he does?—Come, come, Jem, no chaffing! The sooner (I'm thinking) we have him off from all this here blubbering, the better."

"Bless'd if ever I see'd two such beautiful women afore. I don't half like it; I wish we'd nabbed him in the street—and" he lowered his whisper—"if there's much o' this here sort o' work to be done, I've had enough of being a bum already, an' 'll go back to my business again, bad as times is!"

"Kind—good men!" said Kate, approaching them, and speaking with forced calmness—pushing aside her disordered hair from her pale cheeks, "Can't you leave him here—only a day longer?"

"Can't, miss—it's quite unpossible; it's not to be done for no money short of debt and costs," said the officer, respectfully, but rather doggedly—as if he were getting tired of the scene—"one would think we were a-going to murder the gemman! Once for all, if so be as he will only go as a gemman should, to my little place in Chancery-Lane—(my name's Grab, miss, at your service, and there a'n't a better conducted lock-up nor mine in London, I assure you, nor where debtors is more comfortably looked arter)—he's no need to be there above a day or two—it may be less—and of course his friends will come and bail him out; so don't be a-going on so when it's no manner o' use!"

"Charles! My love!" murmured Mrs. Aubrey, faintly—"they surely will not separate us? Oh! let us go together; I don't care where we go to, so long as I am with you."

"Do not ask it, my darling! my heart's love!" replied Mr. Aubrey, tenderly, as he supported her in his arms, and against his knee—and a tear fell from his eye upon her cheek—"I shall be exposed to but little inconvenience, I am certain; there can be no violence or insult offered me so long as I submit myself peaceably to the laws! And I shall soon, please God, be back!"

"Oh, Charles! I shall die—I shall never survive seeing you carried away!" she replied—and her manner was becoming increasingly vehement.

"Agnes, Agnes!" said her husband, reprovingly, "the mother must not desert her children; my heart will ache every moment that I am absent, if I think that my dear little ones have not a mother's protection."

"Kate will take care of them, love!" said Mrs. Aubrey, faintly; and her husband tenderly kissed her forehead. While this hurried colloquy between the wretched couple was proceeding, Kate was talking in low but impassioned tones to the two officers, who listened to her respectfully, but shook their heads.

"No, miss—it can't be; it can't indeed."

"But you shall have everything in the house for your security—I have still a good many handsome dresses; jewels, all—all; surely they will produce something; and then there's plate, and books, and furniture—you can't think Mr. Aubrey's going basely to run away!"–

"If, as how, miss, (you see,) it was only ourselves that you had to do with—(but, Lord love you, miss! we 're only officers, and has our duty to do, and must do it!)—why, we'd go a little out of our way for to oblige a lady; but the people you must go to is the gemmen whose names is here," pointing to the warrant; "they're the people as the money's owing to—Quirk, Gamm"–

"Don't name them! They are fiends! They are villains! They are robbing, and then ruining, my wretched brother!" exclaimed Miss Aubrey, with dreadful vehemence.

"Kate, Kate!" cried Mr. Aubrey, kindly but peremptorily—"in mercy to me, be silent! Restrain your feelings, or really I must hasten my departure."

"Oh, Charles!" faltered Miss Aubrey, sinking down on a chair exhausted, and burying her face in her handkerchief.

"Now, sir—if you please," commenced Grab, turning to Mr. Aubrey, "we must be thinking of going, seeing, I expect, I've another job on hand to-day; would you prefer coaching, or walking it? Excuse me, sir—I've seen many such things as this; and I know it's only a haggrawating of your feelings to be stopping here—the longer the worse! What must be, had better be done at once, and got over with. I've been a-telling this here young lady a many times, that it's no use fretting—and that in course you'll be soon back again, when you've done what's needful; so hadn't my man here better go and get a coach?"