Joseph Wilmot, or, The Memoirs of a Man-Servant — page 119: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

JOSEPH WILMOT; £ OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A MAN-SERVANT. at one time imbibed, when at Charlton Hall, through the reading of certain books: although the incident at the village church on Midsummer’s Eve, had often and often recurred to my mind, and I had some difficulty in convincing myself that the apparition of Annabel’s countenance at the window was only the result of a fevered fancy. The hours passed on; and feeling exhausted, I partook of the sorry fare which John Robert had twice brought me. The coach-house was bitter cold: the currents of air penetrated through the crevices in the small door and the folding-ones, with the keenness of ice-shafts ;—and I remained inside the vehicle, not merely because it was the only resting-place, but likewise for the sake of warmth. As nearly as I can guess, it must have been about ten o’clock when I fell asleep; and all the circum- stances of the morning were re-enacted in my dreams, but distorted with the exaggerations as well as with the heightened horrors usually charac- teristic of such visions. IT knew not how long I had slept, when I was slowly awakened by the noise as of a door opening ; and for a few moments I remained perfectly still, scarcely even giving myself the trouble to listen with a sharper exercise of the faculty,—for I fancied I was still sleeping and still dreaming. But this state of mingled uncertainty and qui- escence did not last many moments: for T soon became convinced that I was really and truly awake, and that it was likewise a veritable sound which I heard. Yes—the coach-house door was opening: I caught the whispering of voices in the low rustling tones of male tongues ; and then I did listen with the keenest suspense. What could this mean P who could these be that were entering thus stealthily P The door closed; and then one of the individuals, speaking in a somewhat louder voice than before, said, “‘ Now, Bill, show the darkey.” Good heavens, that voice!—it was unmistak- able! The tones—the accents—the quick sharp manner in which the ruffian spoke, were beyond the possibility of doubt: it was the voice of Taddy ! The next instant there was a sudden flashing forth of a light from the close vicinage of the coach-house door; and from the interior of the vehicle my terrified looks were flung upon the countenances of Taddy and his companion: for there were only these two persons who had thus stealthily made their way into the place. I had drawn up the windows of the old carriage to keep myself as warm as possible: it was through the dingy glass that I thus caught a glimpse of those men’s faces:—one was Taddy’s, as I had felt assured—the other was totally unknown to me, but of so ruffianly an aspect as to make my blood stagnate into a still more glacial chill in my veins. Fortunate was it for me that I was not perceived by them; and in a few moments the lantern which had flung forth the light, was darkened again. “There, Tom,” Taddy’s companion immediately said, “I told you as how we should find the old rattletrap in the coachus: and so we'll just creep in and hide ourselves, that when John Robert comes to lock up as usual, if he should happen to look in, he won’t twig us: for it ain’t by no manner of means likely that he'll poke his nose into the carriage.” Such were the words which were spoke by Taddy’s companion: but before he had completed his sentence, I was extricating myself from the horrible danger in which that speech made me aware L was placed. IT had been suddenly galvanized back into the fullest and completest vitality : all the feelings of existence were excited to the keenest and most poignant sensibility. To lower the glass, thrust forth my arm, seize the handle, and open the door on the opposite side from that where they were standing, was the work of but a few moments. And noiselessly too was it done,—as if a spirit were working with mere phantom-objects. I crept forth: the old carriage was too heavy to sway much with my light weight; and whatsoever little creaking sound it might have sent forth, was lost to the two men in the noise of their own footsteps ag they approached the door on their side. At the same instant that they opened that door, I closed the one by which I had emerged from the vehicle; and I slipped whderneath it,— sinking on the cold stones, as much exhausted with the sudden return of terror as if I had just been achieving some tremendous physical labour. The two fellows entered the carriage, closing the door by which they had thus admitted them- selves into it. They did not think of putting up the window which I had let down: perhaps they did not even feel to ascertain whether it were raised or not. A couple of men, seated together inside the carriage, were by no means so likely to experience the nipping chill of the December night, as I was when alone and sleeping too. To the circumstance of that window being left down, was I indebted now took place between Thomas Taddy and his companion: for, as they spoke in somewhat hushed voices, had the glass been raised I should scarcely have caught what they said. “And so, Bill,” said Taddy, “you are certain that we shall do a good thing here ?” “T hav’n’t no manner of doubt on it,” was the fellow’s response. “As sure as my name’s Bill Blackbeard, we'll get a pretty good lot of swag to-night.” “ How long was it since you were groom here at the Lodge ?” asked Taddy. “Oh! that was a matter of three years ago,” answered Bill Blackbeard. ‘The Tivertons used to keep a couple of horses then; and precious rum uns they was, too. Half a sack of corn a week was allowed for their keep; and what with such short commons and the hay too being stinted, they was reglar skillintons. I have seed many a better pair since then, in the London hackney-coaches.” “And how was it that you left the Lodge, Bill?” inquired Taddy. “For being too indus- trious, too civil, and too sober P”’ “No—I was a decent feller enough in them times,” answered Blackbeard: “but you see, the Tivertons got meaner and stingier every day; and so they put down their horses at last, haying made a kalkilation that they could save eighteen-pence a-year by having job-horses whenever they wanted ’em. So you see, I was turned adrift; and then I fell into what’s called bad company though 1 think it precious good company, mind you!—and so I never went into sarvice no more, but took to knocking about the world and living by my vits,” “ And a precious starvation such a living would for my ability to overhear the conversation which — COmicaoolks (C(O) im