The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 201: what you’re looking at

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

By nine o’elock in the evening the outlines of a ayenly face had been sketched on that canvass; c the young artist worked unweariedly until the d female domestic called him to supper. This eal was served in the kitchen; and on the present casion it was somewhat more bounteous in quan- y and inviting in quality than usual—for the pic- re-dealer was slightly moved to liberality by the iod business he had done that day. After supper Mr. Shrubsole despatched the ser- mt to the nearest tavern for two bottles of wine; id the party—consisting of the picture-dealer him- lf, the artist, the domestic, and the boy — sate inking and conversing until the booming bell of - Sepulchre’s Church proclaimed the hour of sven, “ Now, then—to-bed [” exclaimed Mr. Shrubsole, sing from his seat with a partial degree of difficulty, n— gleams of a wretched candle played upon it, was hideous with the workings of excessive terror. His limbs trembled convulsively—his ips, white and blood. less, quivered like aspens—and his eyes glared wildly in the direction of the door leading to the dark stazre case, as if he every moment expected that some grialy spectre would come forth from the obscurity. Suddenly he started up: his fears goaded him te desperation ;—and desperation gave him courage Thieves might be plundering his house, while he was sitting helplessly and pusillanimously in the kitchen. Taking up the light, he ascended the stairs, hold- ing the candle high above his head so as to throw its rays forward. But scarcely had he mounted half-a- dozen steps, when something whizzed through the air—apparently coming from the : and in @ moment the candle was struck from the old man’s id staggering somewhat as he extended his hand to | hand. asp the chamber-candle. At this moment there was a loud and imperious iuble-knock at the street door ;—and the domestic stened to respond to the summons. Those who mained behind in the kitchen heard her ascend the uirs—open the door—answer a few questions put her by several vaices both male and female—and en admit the visitors into the passage, the door im- ediately afterwards closing behind them. All this d Mr. Shrubsole, George Woodfall, and the boy xm hear as plainly as possible in the kitchen below: ut suddenly a dead silence succeeded —and not other sound reached them after the echoes raised ‘the shutting of the street-door had died away. “This is very ex—tri—traordinary,” murmured *. Shrubsole, glancing with a kind of vacant uneasi- es at the artist. “I could swear—hic—that—I—I ard people come—hic—into the—hic— hic — ruse,” “TI will go and eee,” said Woodfall ;—and, hasten- g out of the kitchen, he ascended the stairs, It struck both the picture-dealer and Tom that ey heard something like a short ecufile in the asage over-head: bat if it were so, the conflict ased almost instantaneously and was unmarked by dngle cry forassistance. A solemn silence again pre- iled ;—and uselessly did Shrubsole hold his breath the hope of catching the sounds of George Wood- ll’s returning footsteps. It appeared as if both the rvant and the artist had been spirited away by eome pernatural agency: for not a sound was beard-— , not even the rustling of a dress ! “ Tom—Tom—the devil's in the house,” whispered ® picture-dealer, pretty well sobered by the terror ising from the mysterious occurrences of the last W minutes. “Lord bless ye, sir!” returned the boy: “I'll be rund it’s only a bit of fun of same kind or another. m not afraid.” And away he rushed up the staircase, purposely aking his hob-nailed shoes clatter as heavily as he uld upon the steps, The picture-dealer listened th suspended breath: he could tell when the boy ached the passage—and there he suddenly stopped. tthe same instant a sharp noise, like thatof a man’s nd slapping a face or striking with the flat of the 1m against. wall, fell on Shrubsale’s ear. A short Pid scuffle followed;—and then all waa sill reughout the house, and silent as the grave. The old man sank down upon a chair, gasping for eath; while his countenance, as the flickeri Uttering a loud cry, he fell back senseless ;—and ‘when consciousness slowly returned, he found him- self seated by the kitchen fire, on which more coals had evidently been heaped. At the same instant he became aware that he was fastened by a strong cord, which bound him hand and foot, to the arm-chair wherein he had been so considerately placed. A candle—the very one which had been dashed from his grasp by the well-aimed missile—was burn- ing on the table ;—and around the kitchen did Mr. Shrubsole now glance hastily. His fears—if his selfishness allowed him to entertain any apart from those which concerned his property and his gold— were immediately relieved in respect to the artist, the old female dependant, and the boy Tom ;—for these three individuals were his companions—but each bound, like himself, to a chair. “ What—how—when——” stammered the bewil dered picture-dealer, anxious to ask questions bat unable to find words to frame them. * Silence!” exclaimed a sharp imperious female voice close behind Mr. Shrubsole’s chair; and at the same instant he felt something cold touch the back of his neck,° Throwing his body forward as far as the cords would permit, he hastily tarned his head and beheld @ woman, with a black crape mask over her counte- mance and a pair of horse-pistols in ber hands, evi- dently mounting guard upon the four prisoners. “ Hold your toogue—and no harm shal? happen to you, sir,” continued the woman. “ No robbery is intended—and it will be your fault if violence ox bloodshed should ensue. Raise but your voice one note higher than you have already spoken, and I wiil send a bullet thropgh your head without an instant’s hesitation.” : And again she placed the cold muszsle of a pistol behind his ear: for this woman appeared to play with the murderous weapons as if they had been familiar toys from her very birth. “In fact, the shortest plan and the best,” she con- tinued, “isnot to speak at all. This I have recom- mended to your three fellow-prisoners; and they are wisely following my counsel.” “Think not, woman,” obeerved the young artist, irritated by this observation, “that my silence is occasioned by fear of you or your pistols. Bat, bound as I am to the chair, you may well suppose that I have little inclination to open my Mipe in discourse.” “TI will give you credit, air, for any motive you COMIC OO© ee F