The Mysteries of London; or, Lights and Shadows of London Life — page 109: what you’re looking at

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

ee aud she was on the point of giving up her task as fruitless, when the two suddenly stopped short at the top of Portland Place, and afraid of her object having been suspected, she passed under the projecting por- tico of a mansion close by, and receding unobserved behind one of the pillars, she there awaited their separation and departure. She had hardly taken this pt before one of the men turned round to notice whether there was any person near them, and then said to his companion “Vell, I tell yer, Tony isn’t playing fair with us, and I mean, for one, to get quit of him altogether. That boy Jacky, as I calls him—him that he sends Outas kis spy—told me this wery arternoon that there ‘was a plant going on that same crib belonging to Lord W that we talked about afore, and that we are to know nuffin about it, becos he has got “a new pal of his own that he wants to shove into the same line of business.” “Ah! I never did care about trusting them fur- riners,” responded the other, “ and it vould have been better for all of us if that precious artful chap, that “Tony Borelli, had never been let into so many dodges. The old ’un, who was in the same line afore, was all right enough, and he could be depended upon; but the cove that has got into his quarters is one for us and two for himself.” “And vhot do you say, then, to managing this affair on the sly, and giving him the slip?” said the first speaker, who, under the name of Gubbins, is ‘already familiar to the reader as one of the coiner’s gang; “since it’s all up vith the smashing game, yer might as vell do vhot ve’ve been talkin’ about as ve _ “Well, I don’t mind,” replied Slogger, for it was no other than that individual, ‘“‘but I’m mixed up in a queer sort of caper already. You recollect that fellow we used to call the Phantom ?” ** And vhot of him?” asked-Gubbins, impatiently. “ Why he is paying me to—but stop, I forgot ; that’s a secret I mustn't let any body know just yet; though, eas eT et OPI Tom age Mary about “Vell, I haven't time to hear it now, if you could,” rejoined his assuciate, abruptly, “for I ought to be ‘up at the crib in Agar Town by this time; but meet- ay down the road here, I thought ve might have about this matter, if so be you likes to do it vith me.” “ And when do you mean to begin the business?” “Vhy that I haven’t fixed upon, for I must try and pump some more out of that crafty imp that Tony has got, and know vhen the others mean to set out; but I shall see you up at the new roosting-place to-morrow night I suppose, and then ve can settle.” “T’ll be there,” was the reply; and after a few more words had been exchanged, uttered in too low a tone to be distinctly heard by the breathless listener, a parting salutation was given, and Gubbins hastened away down the New Road in one direction, whilst pursued his way in another. @ from her involuntary concealment, Celes- tine darted across the street, and too much absorbed in her reflections on the dialogue she had overheard to feel any fatigue from the distance, she walked back to her residence; and it was with no little pleasure that she arrived once again at home, The reaction from the excitement of her interview with the Italian, and the incident that Lad followed, proved almost more than she could support. All that she had learned LIGHTS AND 38 WS OF LONDON LIFE. ution to elude their. _ — . - —— ae —- —e- F a 60 from the conversation of the two ruffians, interlarded as it had been with the jargon of their craft, sufficed but to impress her with a vague idea that the property of Lord Walsingham was endangered by an attempt at burglary that would soon be made; and it was in the belief that she could prevent its consummation that she now rejoiced over the precautionary measure she had taken. But there was another evil impending that it remained for her to avert. To endure the presence of that man who had arro- gated the position of one having so strong a claim upon her as her father, was beyond her power. The instinctive hatred with which she viewed him would be doubly painful if those proofs that he had spoken of were indeed forthcoming, and she recoiled from the prospect of such a meeting in horror. Even eonsider- ing him only as the mendicant who could reyeal the fact of her having been fostered by the hand of charity, and brought by him to the level of a street outcast, she shuddered at the risk of a second en- counter. Her pride was wounded by the idea of ac- knowledging such a being for a parent, and she deter- mined to fly from the consequences of a discovery that in either way would expose her, as she fancied, to the scorn and ridicule of her friends and companions. That night, before she retired to rest, Celestine wrote a letter to Lord Walsingham, in which, without dar- ing to explain the motives by which she was influ- enced, she formally accepted the proposal he had made, and consented to become the inmate of his villa. It was her wish, she said, after making her last appear- ance at the opera on the following evening, to imme- diately seclude herself from the public gaze, and she would therefore avail herself of the means of retire. ment he had so generously offered. To the vontem- plated robbery, of which she had accidentally acquired the knowledge, no further allusion was made than that conveyed in an intimation that there was another subject of a less agreeable nature upon which she wished toe confer with him when they met. “To- morrow,” wrote Celestine, in concluding her epistle, “to-morrow I belong to the world; the next day, my dear Walsingham, I belong only to yourself.” The following morning she acquainted Madame Romani, who was, as usual, her first visitor, with all that had transpired, and from her she received such solace and sympathy as her peculiar position de- manded. Ina kindly tone of encouragement, how- ever, the vocalist urged her to accept the offer of Lord Walsingham as the only hope of eluding the future persecution which might follow; and great was her joy when she learned that her wishes had been anticipated. That evening there was again a trium- phant call for her at the termination of her perform- ance, and, being the close of the season, tempting offers were made by the manager for a renewal of the engagement, but these she firmly declined, and the next day witnessed the arrival of the opera-dancer at the magnificent villa that had been prepared for her reception, CHAPTER XXII. THE SEMPSTRESS In the upper room of a small house, situated in one of those quiet streets in the Borough that link the broad and busy thoroughfare of Newington Causeway with the dreary vicinity of the Borough Road, there might have been seen—on the same evening when these events that have been just recorded took place— OMG DOOKSHE