Ten Thousand a-Year. Volume 3

"It is so, indeed!" exclaimed Mr. Aubrey, with a profound sigh—and endeavored for some time by all the means in his power to soothe and pacify his wretched companions.

"Can I speak a word with you alone, before I go?" he presently inquired of the officer.

"In course, sir," replied Grab; and promising to return within a minute or two's time, Mr. Aubrey quitted the room with Grab close at his heels; and presently they were both standing in his little study.

"Betwixt ourselves, sir," quoth Grab, in a confidential tone, "you've rather keen hands to deal with;" here he laid his finger along his nose, and winked his eye—"and you'll lose no time in turning yourself about. You understand, sir?"

"Perfectly," replied Mr. Aubrey, with a sigh. "Who gave you your instructions in this matter?"

"Mr. Snap—the junior partner—it was him that brought this here warrant to me"–

"Are you sure? Was it not Mr. Gammon?"

"No, sir—Snap—Snap; that little cockatoo of a chap. Mr. Gammon called at my office half an hour afterwards, to be sure"–

"I thought so," interrupted Mr. Aubrey, quickly, his face flushing, and feeling relieved from a vast pressure.

"Ay," continued Grab, phlegmatically, "he'll see you don't come to much harm in this matter"–

"What do you mean?" inquired Mr. Aubrey, with surprise.

"Lord! I could tell by his way. He called to say that, since they had resolved to go agin you, he hoped, we 'd show you every attention, and deal easy by you"–

"Indeed!"

"Ay—indeed! And I think he said it was a cruel business—nay, I'm sure he did; and that, as for him, he washed his hands on 't!" Mr. Aubrey seemed confounded.

"I don't somehow think him and his partners are on the best of terms together—but that's no business o' mine, you know, sir! And now, sir, excuse me, but we must be jogging."

"But, my friend, is there really no way," inquired Mr. Aubrey, with manifest perturbation, "by which I can delay accompanying you for a few hours"–

"Oh can't, sir—unpossible!"

"You can remain in possession here—I will be in your custody—I have a little plate, books, and furniture, which would surely stand sufficient security"–

"It 's no use, sir; go you must—and that without much longer shilly-shallying. It's no use!"

Aubrey seemed for a moment overpowered by his emotions.

"I fear, myself, that there is no alternative," said he; "but it will almost break the hearts of those ladies—one of whom is my wife"–His voice faltered.

"You take my advice, sir! Let my man start off for a coach—you have a shirt or two put up, and an amusing book—or a bit of a cribbage-board, or a pack of cards, if they're at hand—and give 'em the slip; if you'll believe me, sir, it 's much the best way; and when you're once out o' the house, they'll come to, and make up their minds to it—never fear 'em."

"Send, then, for a coach—delay, I see, is worse than useless," said he, hastily, hearing steps approaching the study door, which was thrust open, and Mrs. Aubrey and Miss Aubrey entered, unable any longer to endure his absence—and as if fearful lest, in mercy to them, he should be contriving to leave them secretly. Grab, having despatched his follower for a coach, at Mr. Aubrey's earnest request to be left alone for a few minutes, withdrew—but first cast a keen scrutinizing eye at the window—and then the chimney—and then, having closed the door, stood outside, in a position which commanded both door and window.

"Now, my own Agnes! my sweet Kate!" commenced Aubrey, in a low, earnest tone, having bolted the door to secure themselves from interruption during the few precious moments which remained to them before the arrival of the coach—"I must, within a very few minutes, leave you! Remember—remember, loves!—I am unfortunate, but, I am not disgraced!—I look on this as a dispensation of Providence—an infinitely wise, and good Providence; let us all learn submission, and resignation! Whether or not we are really the victims of treachery and hypocrisy, I am unable at present to tell; but let us learn to bear this last crowning indignity with the fortitude of Christians!—relying on it, that God will overrule the most trying and disastrous events for our eventual good! Kneel down! Let us bow before the throne of Heaven, and supplicate its blessing and support, in this our greatest extremity!" He said this calmly; but his face was deadly pale, and his voice faltered—while they clung round him and heaved convulsive sobs, as, half unconsciously, they sank on their knees with him. Then they rose—and certainly a gracious Providence had not listened in vain to the earnest, heartfelt cries uttered by those persecuted and heart-broken beings; for they felt a sense of composure stealing over their troubled bosoms—as if they had seen for a moment a bright light glancing through the gloom of their sorrows. Yet poor nature was wrung—wrung indeed! Mr. Aubrey proceeded to make some little preparations for his departure—putting a five-pound note into his pocket—and leaving but little more behind him; and the servant being summoned into the room, was despatched to put up a change of linen for him. He then implored and conjured them, as they loved him, to struggle against their feelings;—and to rely upon his pledge to send them, within two hours at the furthest, intelligence of his movements—assuring them of his confident belief, that in less than twenty-four hours he should have returned to them. While he was speaking in this strain, Mrs. Aubrey suddenly quitted the room, and after a moment's absence returned, her pallid, agitated countenance overspread with a wild smile of delight, as she exclaimed breathlessly—"There, love! Dearest Charles! He says there is no harm in the world in my going with you in the coach—and, indeed, we may have rooms to ourselves!"

"My sweet Agnes"–

"I will—I will go with you, Charles! Nothing shall prevent me—even if I leave you at the door of the place you are going to!" It was in vain for Mr. Aubrey to protest—as he did, both earnestly and vehemently;—her impassioned importunities were irresistible, and she rushed breathlessly up-stairs to prepare her dress to accompany him on his brief but melancholy journey. Within a very few minutes she had returned, just as the sound of the coach-wheels approaching the door was heard. Mr. Aubrey and Kate perceived the dangerous excitement under which she was laboring, and dreaded its effects: yet what could be done? He could not prolong his stay—and it would be infinitely more dangerous to leave her behind, now that she had set her heart upon accompanying him, than to permit her to do so. She carried down little Agnes in her arms—and had been almost suffocating her and Charles, who walked after her, with kisses and convulsive embraces. Both the children were crying bitterly; and as soon as Mrs. Aubrey had reached the parlor door, and heard the coach-steps letting down, she fell into violent hysterics.

"I'll tell you what, sir," whispered Grab, as he stood close beside Mr. Aubrey, who was supporting Mrs. Aubrey—"it wouldn't be amiss if I was to say you should come along with me at once, while this poor lady's insensible—and then when she 'd have come to herself, and know'd you was gone, and no mistake—why—she'd in course think no more of it "–

"Oh! for God's sake—for God's sake! Remember your promise!" cried Aubrey, and in a voice which nearly reached the officer's heart: as it was, he simply shrugged his shoulders, and awaited the issue with no little impatience, but in silence. 'T was in the midst of this heart-rending scene, which ensued during the next half-hour, that Kate displayed the strength of character which so remarkably distinguished her; and, completely mastering her own agitated feelings, she essentially contributed towards Mrs. Aubrey's restoration to a state which would admit of her at length setting off. The children had been removed—Mr. Aubrey having bid them an agonizing adieu; for he knew not what accident or contrivance might occur to prevent his return to them—and after embracing his weeping sister, he supported Mrs. Aubrey, Grab closely following them, into the coach. All three having got in, "Jem," as he was called, shut up the door, jumped up on to the coach-box, and then they drove away. Poor Mrs. Aubrey, on taking her seat, drew from before her agitated yet beautiful countenance the long dark veil which she had drawn down while passing from the house into the coach, and gazed at Mr. Aubrey with such an expression of mingled tenderness and agony, as was almost sufficient to have broken even the stony heart of Grab. She also held her husband's hand convulsively grasped within her own—as though fearful of their being even yet violently separated from each other. As they went along, in answer to Aubrey's anxious inquiries concerning the nature of the scenes which awaited him, Mr. Grab told him that his—Grab's—lock-up was in Chancery-Lane, and would be found as comfortable a place as need be. He informed his prisoner, further, that he might have his choice,—whether to occupy a private room, with a bedroom opening into it—or go into the public room, where would be also some dozen other debtors,—and in which case, of course, Mrs. Aubrey must return home alone. Mr. Aubrey inquired what would be the expense of the private room, and was horrified on hearing—two guineas and a half a-day, paid in advance!—exclusive of board and attendance, which doubtless would be charged for on a commensurate scale. The prisoner and his wife gazed at each other in silence, and felt sick at heart.

"The smallest room—at the very top of the house—would suffice for both a sitting-room and bedroom," said Aubrey—"and we do not care a straw for furniture"–

"The room I told you of, or the public room, is all I've to offer you," replied Grab, somewhat doggedly—"and you needn't cry out before you're hurt; for it may be your friends will bail you out before the night—before much harm's done!" His wretched companions continued silent for the remainder of the journey, till the coach drew up opposite the door of the house of which they had been speaking. It was about half-way up Chancery-Lane, on the right-hand side as you entered from the Strand. 'T was a small, narrow, dingy-looking house, at the corner of a miserable court. The solitary window, level with the door, was strongly secured within by thick perpendicular iron bars. The outer door, at the top of a flight of about a dozen well-worn steps, stood open, leaving exposed to view an inner door, at about a couple of yards' distance from the outer one; and on this inner door was a brass plate bearing the terrifying name—

"G R A B."

The upper part of the door was of glass, and secured on the inside, like the window, by strong iron bars. Aubrey's soul sank within him as his eye took in these various points of the dismal building—the very first which he had ever been compelled to enter. The follower, immediately on the coach drawing up, jumped down, and running up the steps of the house, knocked at the inner door, and hurrying back, opened the coach-door, and let down the steps.

"Now, Jarvey—what's the damage?" inquired Grab, before any of them got out.

"Six shillings, your honor."

"You must tip, sir," quoth Grab to Mr. Aubrey—who thereupon counted out all the silver he had except one solitary sixpence, and they descended, followed up the steps of the house closely by Grab. Their hearts failed them, as they heard the sound of heavy jingling keys from within opening the door; and the next moment they stood within a short, narrow, and dark passage—the sallow ill-looking man who had opened the door instantly closing, barring, and locking it upon them.

"This here's the public room," quoth Grab, with the confident air of a man who feels in his own house; and, half opening a door on his left—they caught a glimpse of a number of men—some smoking; others sitting with their feet on the table, reading the newspapers; others playing at cards; and almost all of them drinking, and either laughing, talking, or singing.

"Now, sir—does this here suit your fancy?" inquired Grab, rather sharply. Mr. Aubrey felt his wife leaning heavily on his arm. "Mercy! I shall faint! I feel choked!"—she whispered.

"Show us instantly upstairs, to your private room—cost what it may," said Mr. Aubrey, hastily.

"It's only fair to tell you, sir, you pay in advance—and for the whole day, though you should be out again in a quarter of an hour's time—it's the rule of the house."

"Show us upstairs, sir, without delay," said Mr. Aubrey, peremptorily.

"Jemmy—show 'em up!" exclaimed Grab, briskly—on which Jem went forward, followed by Mr. Aubrey, almost entirely supporting Mrs. Aubrey—who appeared very faint—Grab bringing up the rear—up the narrow and angular staircase. This led them into a tolerably well-furnished room; and Mrs. Aubrey, on entering it, sank exhausted on the sofa. Here, again, the two windows were strongly secured with iron bars, which gave a peculiarly miserable appearance to the room. The unhappy couple gazed around them for a moment, in silence.

"Beg your pardon, sir," said Grab, entering the room, "but must trouble you for two, twelve, six; always pay in advance, as I told you a-coming."

Aubrey involuntarily shuddering, took out his pocket-book—Mrs. Aubrey bursting into tears—and handed to Grab the only money he had—his five-pound note, requesting change.

"The lady would, perhaps, like a glass of negus?" inquired Grab.

"Certainly—bring up immediately a glass of cold sherry and water," replied Aubrey.

"That will be just two, five, six to bring back—shall have it directly, sir—change and all. Here's your bedroom, sir," he added—opening a small door opposite the window—and then withdrew by that through which they had entered. The moment that they were left alone, Aubrey folded his arms tenderly around his wife, and kissed her cold pale cheek; and then helped her to remove her bonnet, which, with its heavy black veil, evidently oppressed her. Her rich dark hair fell disordered over her tippet; and with her flushed cheek and restless eye, would have given the beholder a vivid picture of beauty and virtue in distress.

"Do promise me, Charles!" said she, looking fondly at him, "that I may go with you wherever they will allow you to take me!"

"I trust, Agnes, that I shall be released before long. This is really a comfortable room, considering!" he added, evading her question.

"If only Kate and the children were here," she replied tremulously. "Poor things! I wonder what they are doing just now—Kate will break her heart, poor girl, if we don't return soon!"

"Never fear, Agnes. But let us look what kind of a bedroom they have given us. I hope we shall have no occasion, however, to occupy it. Come, let us see!"

'T was very small and close, to be sure, and had but one narrow window, secured, like all the others, by strong iron bars. It overlooked a little flagged yard, about fourteen feet square, surrounded on all sides by high walls, portions of adjoining houses. It was here that the prisoners "took the air," and their escape was effectually prevented by close and strong bars of iron passing from side to side, at about ten feet distance from the ground. They looked down, and beheld two or three men sitting and standing beneath, who looked more like animals caged in a menagerie, than human beings. 'T was to Aubrey a sickening sight; and turning from the window, they both re-entered the front room, as Grab returned with the sherry and water, and the change, which he told down on the table. He then asked what they would like to have for dinner—cutlets, steaks, or chops—as he wished to know before Mrs. Grab went out "to order the house dinner." They seemed, however, to loathe the idea of eating, not a little to the annoyance of their truly hospitable host; Aubrey earnestly begging him to send off a message instantly, with his card, to Mr. Runnington.

"A couple of shillings for the man, sir," said Grab; and, having received it, withdrew, leaving Mr. and Mrs. Aubrey to themselves for nearly an hour and a half; at the end of which period, their hearts leaped for joy to see Mr. Runnington enter the room, with a countenance full of concern and sympathy.

"Well, but you shall not be much longer in this hateful hole, at any rate," said he, after some half-hour's anxious conversation with them; and ringing the bell, directed the man to send Grab up-stairs, and to fetch pen, ink, and paper. In a few minutes Grab appeared. "You've no objection, I suppose, Grab, to discharge Mr. Aubrey on my undertaking?"

"In course not, sir," replied Grab, readily; but he was not a little disappointed at so abrupt a close to his exactions. Mr. Runnington sat down and began to write. "You had better send off to the office, and see if there's anything else there," he added, (meaning that Grab should search, as he was bound to do, for any other writs against Mr. Aubrey which might be lodged with the sheriff, before discharging his prisoner out of custody.)

"You don't apprehend anything there, do you?" inquired Mr. Runnington, rather seriously, without taking his eye from the paper on which he was writing.

"Heaven only knows! But I think not," replied Aubrey.

The following was the undertaking given by Mr. Runnington, and which operated as an instant release of his oppressed and truly persecuted client:—

"Aubrey ats. Quirk and others.

"We hereby undertake to procure the execution of a good and sufficient bail-bond herein, for the above-named defendant, in due time.

"Runnington & Co.,   Defendant's Attorneys.

        "To Mr. Grab,

Officer of the Sheriff of Middlesex."

With this document lying before them, and awaiting the messenger's return from the sheriff's office, Mr. Runnington and Mr. Aubrey conversed together anxiously on the subject of Messrs. Quirk, Gammon, and Snap's bill. Mr. Aubrey was sufficiently acquainted with the general course of practice to be aware, that beyond requiring him to put in bail to the action, (special bail, as it was called,) no effectual step could be taken against him for several months to come; i.e. till Michaelmas term in the ensuing November,7 however eager and active the plaintiffs might be: so that he had an interval of at least four months, in which, as the phrase is, "to turn himself about," and endeavor to discover some mode of extricating himself from his present serious dilemma. After reminding Mr. Aubrey that neither a peer of the realm, nor a member of Parliament, nor an attorney,8 could become bail for him, Mr. Runnington requested the names of two or three confidential friends to whom he might apply to become security for Mr. Aubrey; and as he should be at any time able to exonerate them from liability, by surrendering his person to his creditors, he felt no hesitation in applying to them to perform for him this act of kindness. "By the way," said Mr. Runnington, in the course of their conversation, and with apparent carelessness, "could I say a word or two to you on a little matter of business? And will Mrs. Aubrey excuse us for a moment?" turning towards her. She bowed, and they withdrew for a moment into the adjoining bedroom.

"Put this into your pocket," said Mr. Runnington, taking out the day's newspaper; "and when you have an opportunity, read the account of what took place yesterday in the Court of King's Bench. It startled me not a little, I can tell you; and the reason of my not having been at the office when your messenger arrived was, that I had not returned from Vivian Street, whither, and to the Temple, I had gone in search of you. For Heaven's sake, don't alarm Mrs. Aubrey, or Miss Aubrey; but, if anything occurs to you, do not lose one moment in putting yourself into communication with us. If possible, I will call at Vivian Street this evening." With this they returned to the sitting-room, nothing in their appearance calculated to alarm Mrs. Aubrey, or even attract her attention.

Shortly afterwards Grab entered the room.

"All right, sir!" said he to Mr. Runnington; and added, turning to Mr. Aubrey, "you're no longer in my custody, sir!"

"Oh, Charles! thank God!—Let us not stay another moment!" exclaimed Mrs. Aubrey, joyously starting up, and putting on her bonnet. "Oh, let us get once more into the open street!—the sweet fresh air!—Kate will go wild with joy to see us again—Oh, dear Mr. Runnington! how can we sufficiently thank you?" she added, turning towards him enthusiastically. Within a few minutes' time they had quitted that dismal scene; and were again apparently free. On first stepping into the bright cheering sunlight, and bustling noisy street, it had a wondrous sort of freshness and novelty—to them. Now they were free to go whithersoever they chose!—Oh, blessed Liberty!—let an Englishman lose thee for but an hour, to become aware of thy value!—It seemed to Mr. and Mrs. Aubrey, as if ten times the real interval had elapsed between their entering and quitting the scene of his incarceration. With what exhilarated spirits they hastened homeward! as if a millstone were no longer suspended from their necks. But Mr. Aubrey suddenly bethought himself of the newspaper given him by Mr. Runnington; and it cost him, indeed, a great effort to assume a cheerfulness so foreign to his feelings.

While, however, they are thus walking homeward, intending, in the event of Mrs. Aubrey becoming fatigued, to take a coach, let me, in order to enable the reader to appreciate the paragraph to which Mr. Runnington had called Aubrey's attention, turn for a while from this virtuous and afflicted couple, to trace the leading movements of that master-spirit of evil, Mr. Gammon; for which purpose, it will be necessary to take up our history from the evening of the day in which Mr. Aubrey had called at Mr. Gammon's chambers, to forbid him visiting any longer at Vivian Street. By that time, Mr. Gammon had thoroughly thought out his plan of operations. What had passed between him and Miss Aubrey and her brother, had satisfied him that the time for calling into action all his forces had arrived; and the exact end he proposed to himself was, to plunge Mr. Aubrey at once into apparently inextricable and hopeless difficulty—into total ruin—so as to render them all more accessible to Mr. Gammon's advances, and force Miss Aubrey into entertaining his addresses, as the sole means of effecting her brother's liberation. For this purpose, it would be necessary to make him debtor to so large an amount as would preclude the interference of even the most liberally disposed of his friends. Those might very probably go as far as fifteen hundred pounds on his behalf, who could not be brought to think of twelve thousand pounds—it being borne in mind, that one alone of Mr. Aubrey's friends, Lord De la Zouch, was already liable, on his behalf, to some eleven thousand pounds, which would become payable on the ensuing 24th of January. But the mask was not yet to be thrown off; Gammon resolved to appear the firm friend of Mr. Aubrey to the last; deprecating vehemently, and striving to avert from him, the very proceedings which he was all the while, with secret skill and vigor, urging on against him. He determined, therefore, to recall Titmouse's attention to the two promissory notes for £5,000 each; to pretend reluctance to allow them to be put in suit, and yet give him clearly to understand that he might do so, without fear of giving mortal offence to Mr. Gammon.

At the moment of the reader's being reintroduced to Mr. Gammon, that gentleman was sitting, about nine o'clock in the evening, at his chambers, beside a table, on which were placed a lamp, a number of papers, and coffee. In one hand he held the rough draft of his rent-charge, which had that day been sent to him by Mr. Frankpledge, and he was occasionally making pencil memoranda on the margin as he went along. He would sometimes pause in his task, as if his thoughts wandered to other subjects; his countenance looked harassed, his ample brow seemed laden with anxiety. Certainly, great as was his energy, clear as was his head, and accustomed as he was to the despatch of business of even the most difficult and varied description, all his powers were at that moment taxed to their very uttermost stretch, as a hasty glance round the room would have satisfied the reader. On the sofa lay several piles of loose papers. First, there were the draft briefs—and voluminous they were—which he was now preparing, or rather settling, in the following actions for bribery penalties, coming on for trial at the ensuing Yorkshire assizes:—