“I say, sir”—
He turned his head quickly enough then, and stopping the pony, cried, with some trepidation, “God bless me, what is this!”
“Don’t be frightened, sir,” replied the still panting messenger. “Oh I’ve run such a way after you!”
“What do you want with me?” said Mr. Abel. “How did you come here?”
“I got in behind,” replied the Marchioness. “Oh please drive on, sir—don’t stop—and go towards the city, will you? And oh do please make haste, because it’s of consequence. There’s somebody wants to see you there. He sent me to say would you come directly, and that he knowed all about Kit, and could save him yet, and prove his innocence.”
“What do you tell me, child?”
“The truth, upon my word and honour I do. But please do drive on—quick, please. I’ve been such a time gone, he’ll think I’m lost.”
Mr. Abel involuntarily urged the pony forward. The pony, impelled by some secret sympathy or some new caprice, burst into a great pace, and neither slackened it, nor indulged in any eccentric performances, until they arrived at the door of Mr. Swiveller’s lodging, where, marvellous to relate, he consented to stop when Mr. Abel checked him.
“See! It’s that room up there,” said the Marchioness, pointing to one where there was a faint light. “Come!”
Mr. Abel, who was one of the simplest and most retiring creatures in existence, and naturally timid withal, hesitated; for he had heard of people being decoyed into strange places to be robbed and murdered, under circumstances very like the present, and for anything he knew to the contrary, by guides very like the Marchioness. His regard for Kit, however, overcame every other consideration. So entrusting Whisker to the charge of a man who was lingering hard by in expectation of the job, he suffered his companion to take his hand, and to lead him up the dark and narrow stairs.
He was not a little surprised to find himself conducted into a dimly-lighted sick chamber, where a man was sleeping tranquilly in bed.
“An’t it nice to see him lying there so quiet?” said his guide, in an earnest whisper. “Oh! you’d say it was, if you had only seen him two or three days ago.”
Mr. Abel made no answer, and to say the truth, kept a long way from the bed and very near the door. His guide, who appeared to understand his reluctance, trimmed the candle, and taking it in her hand, approached the bed. As she did so, the sleeper started up, and he recognised in the wasted face the features of Richard Swiveller.
“Why, how is this?” said Mr. Abel kindly, as he hurried towards him. “You have been ill?”
“Very,” replied Dick. “Nearly dead. You might have chanced to hear of your Richard on his bier, but for the friend I sent to fetch you. Another shake of the hand, Marchioness, if you please. Sit down, sir.”
Mr. Abel seemed rather astonished to hear of the quality of his guide, and took a chair by the bedside.
“I have sent for you, sir,” said Dick—“but she told you on what account?”
“She did. I am quite bewildered by all this. I really don’t know what to say or think,” replied Mr. Abel.
“You’ll say that presently,” retorted Dick. “Marchioness, take a seat on the bed, will you? Now, tell this gentleman all that you told me; and be particular. Don’t you speak another word, sir.”
The story was repeated; it was, in effect, exactly the same as before, without any deviation or omission. Richard Swiveller kept his eyes fixed on his visitor during its narration, and directly it was concluded, took the word again.
“You have heard it all, and you’ll not forget it. I’m too giddy and too queer to suggest anything; but you and your friends will know what to do. After this long delay, every minute is an age. If ever you went home fast in your life, go home fast tonight. Don’t stop to say one word to me, but go. She will be found here, whenever she’s wanted; and as to me, you’re pretty sure to find me at home, for a week or two. There are more reasons than one for that. Marchioness, a light. If you lose another minute in looking at me, sir, I’ll never forgive you!”
Mr. Abel needed no further remonstrance or persuasion. He was gone in an instant; and the Marchioness, returning from lighting him downstairs, reported that the pony, without any preliminary objection whatever, had dashed away at full gallop.
“That’s right!” said Dick; “and hearty of him; and I honour him from this time. But get some supper and a mug of beer, for I am sure you must be tired. Do have a mug of beer. It will do me as much good to see you take it as if I might drink it myself.”
Nothing but this assurance could have prevailed upon the small nurse to indulge in such a luxury. Having eaten and drunk to Mr. Swiveller’s extreme contentment, given him his drink, and put everything in neat order, she wrapped herself in an old coverlet and lay down upon the rug before the fire.
Mr. Swiveller was by that time murmuring in his sleep. “Strew then, oh strew, a bed of rushes. Here will we stay, till morning blushes. Good night, Marchioness.”
LXVI
On awaking in the morning, Richard Swiveller became conscious by slow degrees of whispering voices in his room. Looking out between the curtains, he espied Mr. Garland, Mr. Abel, the notary, and the single gentleman, gathered round the Marchioness, and talking to her with great earnestness but in
