During several parts of his speech, Ricardo had been frequently interrupted by outbursts of enthusiastic cheering: but when he reached this solemn and important climax, the whole assembly rose and greeted him with the most joyous shouts—the most fervent applause that ever expressed the unfeigned admiration of a generous patriotism. The ladies in the galleries absolutely wept in the excitement of their feelings: for never—never was seen so sublime a spectacle as this of a mighty Prince casting his crown, his sceptre, and his titles at the feet of the Goddess of Liberty!
“I accept with ineffable pleasure this demonstration of approval,” resumed Ricardo, after a long pause; “and it gave me unspeakable delight to behold the Peers themselves joining as enthusiastically as the rest in those evidences of assent. When all titles are abolished, save those which properly and necessarily belong to the various grades of naval and military rank, the vanity attending upon the pride of birth will perish through a deserved inanition, and emulation will point to the only true aristocracy,—namely, that of Virtue and of Mind. The Ministers will accordingly propose to you such measures as may tend effectually to establish Republican Institutions in this State. They will recommend the abolition of the Upper House, and the retention only of the Chamber of Deputies, which must be numerically strengthened. They will propose that the Chief Magistrate, to be denominated President, shall be chosen for a period of three years, and liable to re-election. The power of veto, the privilege of making peace or declaring war, and other attributes purely monarchical, will not he conceded to the President, but must exist in the Chamber itself; and instead of the effigy of the ruler upon the current coin, the arms of the Republic should be impressed. Every public act and deed must be accomplished in the name of the Sovereign People, the President serving the purpose of the executive agent, as responsible for his own conduct as the Ministers themselves are held to be for theirs. These and other reforms, all tending to the prompt and complete establishment of pure Republican Institutions, will be at once submitted to your deliberations.
“I have not the slightest doubt that the moment the news of all that is passing within these walls, shall reach the ears of the other potentates of Italy, remonstrances will be poured in by their diplomatic agents resident in Montoni;—and perhaps even menaces may be used. I however feel convinced that no argument which may be adopted in such remonstrances can possibly blind your eyes to the beauty of Freedom and the excellence of Liberty: and as for the menaces, I need only observe that a Castelcicalan army, animated by a republican spirit, would prove invincible.”
These words again elicited the most tremendous cheering: and after another long pause, Ricardo wound up his address in the following manner:—
“All of you who are here present well remember the condition of the country previously to the accession of the late Grand Duke. Poverty, and its invariable handmaids—squalor, filth and demoralisation—presided over the lot of the industrious classes. Oppression was felt everywhere—happiness existed only in the mansions of a favoured few. The people were looked upon as the serfs and slaves of the rich oligarchy; and the very vitals of a healthy state of society were thus corrupt and rotten. But a change came over the country: it was decreed that every man should have fair wages for fair work; and that all able and willing to work, should have work found for them. In order to accomplish these aims, it was necessary to set about reclaiming the waste lands in those districts where they lay; and in others, the owners of estates were by a just law compelled to throw certain portions of their parks and pleasure-grounds into a corn cultivation, and to level all their game-preserves for the same purpose. What have been the results of these measures? Labour has been abundant, and wages high: employment has extirpated mendicancy; and squalor, filth, and demoralisation exist no longer within the confines of Castelcicala. But what would I have you infer from these facts? That if the people of this country have already so largely and so admirably profited by liberal institutions,—if the reforms hitherto accomplished have so materially enhanced the general prosperity, producing abundance, happiness, and contentment,—who shall be able to divine to what point that prosperity may arrive, under the pure, simple, and truly Christian institutions of republicanism.”
Having thus spoken, with the tone, manner, and eloquence of deep conviction, General Markham—for so we must now denominate him—bowed to the assembly, and withdrew amidst applause which was prolonged for some minutes after he had quitted the spacious hall.
His wife and illustrious relatives left the platform at the same time;—and now behold this illustrious family returning to the palace, attended by the grateful and rejoicing myriads, who, having assembled round the Chamber, had already received the intelligence of the memorable proceedings that had taken place within;—proceedings which in a single hour had accomplished the most effectual and yet utterly bloodless revolution ever known in any age or in any country!
The Marquis of Delmour awoke, as it were from a deep trance; and, opening his languid eyes, he beheld a female form bending over him. He attempted to speak: but the lady placed one slender finger on her lips in token of silence;—and, closing his eyes again, the old nobleman endeavoured to collect his scattered ideas—or rather, to dispel the mist which hung over them.
It struck him that the countenance which he had just seen was not unknown to him;—and as he dwelt upon it in imagination, it gradually became more familiar,—while, by imperceptible degrees, it awoke reminiscences of the past—some of pleasure, but most of pain,—until an idea of the real truth dawned in upon the mind of the Marquis.
Then again he opened his eyes;—and though long years had elapsed since last he beheld that countenance, each feature—each lineament was immediately recognised. But so confused were his thoughts that he could not recollect why a feeling of aversion and repugnance prevented him from experiencing joy at the presence of her who was standing, in painful suspense, by his bed-side.
At last, as reason asserted her empire, a knowledge of who she was and all the incidents associated with her revived in his soul; while, at the same time and with a species of under-current of the reflections, a feeling of what had happened to himself and why he was stretched in his couch came slowly upon him. They he suddenly raised his hand to his throat; and the bandage there convinced him that the last reminiscence which had just stolen into his mind, was indeed too true!
Averting his eyes from the mournful and plaintive countenance which was still bending over him, he groaned aloud in very bitterness:—and then a deep silence ensued in the chamber.
Several minutes elapsed, during which the burning tears streamed down the lady’s face: but she subdued the sobs that almost choked her—for she would not for worlds permit any evidence of her own deep grief to disturb the meditations of the enfeebled nobleman. On his side, he was absorbed in profound thought,—the incidents of the past rapidly becoming more definite and vivid in his memory, until there were few things left in uncertainty or doubt—and nothing in oblivion.
Slowly turning towards the lady, the Marquis saw that she was overwhelmed with sorrow—although she hastily wiped away her tears;—and moved—deeply moved by this spectacle, as well as influenced by a host of tender recollections, the old man extended his hand towards her, murmuring, “My wife! is it indeed she who is now watching by my side?”
“O heaven! he recollects me—he will forgive me!” she exclaimed, in a tone of the liveliest joy; and carrying her husband’s emaciated hand to her lips, she covered it with kisses.
“Sophia,” said the old man, in a low voice and speaking with difficulty, “we meet after a long—long separation. But let us forget the past——”
“Is it possible that you can forget it?” asked Mrs. Sefton—or rather the Marchioness of Delmour; and bending her burning face over his hand which she still retained in both her own, she added in a tone so low that it seemed as if she feared even to hear her own words, “You have so much to pardon! But I never viewed my conduct in this light until I came and beheld you stretched upon the bed of—of——”
“Of death,” said the Marquis, his pale countenance becoming, if possible, more ghastly pallid still.
“No—no,” exclaimed the Marchioness, with the excitement of voice and the gesture of despair; “you must not talk nor think thus despondingly! But tell me, my husband—tell me—oh! say, can you forgive me for the past?”
“We have much to forgive on either side, Sophia,” responded the Marquis: “and as I was the first cause of dissension between us—as I indeed was the author of all your unhappiness, by forcing you into a marriage which you abhorred—’tis for me to demand pardon first. Tell me, then, Sophia—tell me that you can pardon me for all the misery I have been the wretched means of heaping upon your head?”
“Oh! yes—yes!” exclaimed the lady, the tears again pouring in torrents down her cheeks: “would to heaven that I could prove to you how deeply sensible I am of this kindness which you now manifest towards me!”
“Then you forgive me!” cried the nobleman, pressing her hand tenderly, while joy beamed in his eyes hitherto dim with the glazing influence of a mortal enervation:—“then you forgive me!” he repeated, his voice becoming stronger.
“Yes—oh! yes—a thousand times yes!” she exclaimed; and bending over him, she pressed her lips upon his cold forehead. “But do you pardon me likewise?” she asked, after a few moments’ pause.
“It was I who provoked all that has occurred—I who was the unhappy means of blighting the pure affections of your youth,” returned the Marquis; “and therefore—whatever may have been the consequences—I am bound to pardon and forget. Alas! Sophia, often and often—and with feelings of ineffable pain and anguish—have I thought of that fatal day when, long years ago, I levelled at you a terrible accusation. But I was a coward—and I was cruel thus to have taxed you with a fault which at that period my jealous suspicions alone——”
“To what do you allude?” demanded the Marchioness, inwardly shocked, and with her heart bleeding as she asked the question: for she divined too well to what her husband did allude—and she was almost crushed with a devouring sense of shame.
“Oh! if you can have forgotten that fatal day,” exclaimed the Marquis, whose sight was too dim, and whose mental powers of perception were too weak to enable him to understand rightly his wife’s present emotions,—“then are you happy indeed! For, alas! I referred to the day on which we separated, sixteen or seventeen years ago—I cannot now remember accurately how many have passed since then——”
“And why allude to that unhappy epoch?” asked the lady, in a low and tremulous tone.
“Because I wish to convince you that I am indeed repentant for all the share which I took in sealing our misery,” replied the nobleman. “On that memorable day, I accused you of infidelity towards me—and yet subsequent reflection has convinced me that you were innocent then! Oh! never—never shall I forget that tone in which you breathed the fatal words—‘All is now at an end between you and me! We part—for ever!’ I have thought since—aye, and I have said that you resembled what would be a sculptor’s or an artist’s conception of Injured Innocence; and then, when I adjured you in the name of your infant daughter to stay, you uttered a wild cry and fled! That cry rings in my ears now—has vibrated in my brain ever since——”
“Oh! in the name of heaven, proceed not thus!” murmured the Marchioness, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly.
But wherefore, did she thus weep?—wherefore were her emotions so powerful? Why was her heart thus wrung until every fibre appeared to be stretched to its utmost power of tension? It was because on the occasion to which the Marquis referred, guilt and not innocence had made her voice hollow and thick as she breathed the words which decreed an eternal separation!—it was because that wild cry had been wrung from her by the appeal that was made in the name of the infant child whom she knew to be the offspring of her amour with Sir Gilbert Heathcote! But there are times when Conscious Guilt so much resembles Injured Innocence, that the most keen observer may be deceived;—and such was the fact in the case now alluded to.
A long pause ensued—during which the Marquis, still totally ignorant of the real nature of his wife’s emotions, gazed upon her with an affectionate interest that was rapidly growing into a resuscitated love.
“Weep not, dearest,” he at length said;—“weep not, I implore you!”
“I weep, because I feel that I am so completely unworthy of your present kindness,” responded the Marchioness, withdrawing her hands from her face, and bending her tearful eyes with an expression of such mournfulness and such profound penitence upon her husband, that had he the power to raise himself in the bed, he would have snatched her to his bosom.
“It is now my turn to implore you not to dwell longer upon the past,” he said, taking one of her hands and conveying it to his lips. “We have promised mutual forgiveness. You have pardoned me for forcing you into a marriage which caused all your unhappiness: and I have pardoned you for your connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote since the period of our separation. This is the understanding between us, Sophia—and now we are friends again. But tell me, my dear wife—tell me how long I have been stretched on this bed, and how you came thus to be here to minister unto me?”
“Four days have elapsed since you—since—” began the Marchioness, hesitating how to allude to the dreadful attempt at suicide which her husband had committed.
“Oh! name not the horrible deed!” he groaned forth, writhing in anguish.
“But it is not known—save to three or four persons,” hastily observed his wife, well aware that this assurance would prove consolatory.
“Heaven be thanked!” murmured the old nobleman, clasping his hands fervently. “And now tell me, my dear Sophia, how you came to learn the shocking intelligence?”
“If you will compose yourself as much as you can, and speak but little, I will explain every thing to you,” she answered, assuming, with captivating tenderness of tone and manner, the position of wife and nurse.
“One word first!” exclaimed the Marquis. “Agnes—”
“Is here—beneath your roof,” was the reply.
“My daughter again near me!” he murmured, joy animating his countenance: but in another moment a cloud overspread his features, as he said hesitatingly, “Does she know of the dreadful attempt that I made upon my life?”
“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated the Marchioness, shocked at the bare idea. “That circumstance has been religiously withheld from her. She is however now aware that she is the daughter of the Marquis of Delmour, and not of plain Mr. Vernon; and she believes you to be dangerously ill. She has indeed been my companion for hours together by your bed-side——”
“Dearest Agnes!” exclaimed the nobleman, with an effusion of tenderness in his tone. “I will see her presently—when I am more composed,” he added. “And now give me the promised explanations relative to all I have asked you.”
“Listen, then, my dear husband—and do not interrupt me. Yon have already spoken too much, considering your depressed and enfeebled state; and Sir John Lascelles, when he calls again, will be angry with me for permitting you to use such exertions. Oh! you know not how kind—how attentive he has been! But you will shortly have an opportunity of thanking him with your own lips—for he will be here in an hour. Though the room be darkened, it is now about eleven o’clock in the morning; and he will call at noon. Compose yourself, therefore; and I will give you all the details you require.”
The Marchioness arranged her husband’s pillows—kissed his forehead once more—and then, seating herself by his bed-side, proceeded as follows:—
“That excellent young nobleman, Lord William Trevelyan, called upon me a few days ago, in consequence of an interview which he had had with you. It was relative to Agnes. I assured him that Sir Gilbert Heathcote and myself had come to an understanding that we should see each other no more; and I likewise informed Lord William that it was my intention to repair with Agnes to the Continent. But after he had taken his departure, I reflected profoundly upon the plans I had somewhat too hastily determined to adopt;—and another project suggested itself. For you may believe me when I solemnly avow that all my solicitude was relative to Agnes. Her present happiness and her future welfare in the world alone occupied my attention. Thus was it that the thought stole into my mind, of how unfortunate it was for her to be separated from the father whom she loved so well, and how prejudicial to her interests the equivocal position of her mother was likely to become. Then I resolved to see you—to throw myself upon your mercy—to implore forgiveness for the past—and to beseech you that we might all dwell once again beneath the same roof! For I reflected that as you had shown so much forbearance in never appealing to the courts of justice to divorce me legally—and as you had rather manifested every inclination to envelope in secrecy the causes of our unfortunate differences,—the conviction gained upon my mind that you were generous enough to be capable of still farther sacrifices for the sake of Agnes. Oh! you can comprehend a mother’s solicitude, my dear husband——”
“Yes—yes: proceed!” exclaimed the Marquis, powerfully affected.
“Well—animated with the hopes inspired by all these considerations,” resumed the Marchioness, “I passed the night in meditating upon the best course to adopt in order to procure an interview with you,—an interview after so long a separation! At length I determined to pen a brief note, stating that family affairs of the utmost importance to us both had induced me to take this step; and a letter to that effect did I accordingly write on the following morning. But when I had completed this much of my task, another idea struck me,—which was to become the personal bearer of my own note. I will now candidly admit that I shrank from undertaking a task which might appear to you to evince a matchless audacity and presumption; but when I thought of Agnes, I resolved to risk any mortification or shame which could possibly be inflicted upon me.”
“Oh! no mortification—no shame!” cried the nobleman. “Would to heaven that you had only come in time to——to——”
“Hush!” exclaimed the Marchioness, placing her finger upon her lip: “you promised that you would listen, without exerting yourself to speak.”
“Proceed, dearest,” said the Marquis, who all this while had one of his wife’s hands locked in his own.
“Summoning all my courage to my aid,” she resumed, “I resolved on presenting myself at your abode. I arrived—I sent up the letter by your valet: but in a few minutes he came rushing down the stairs with a countenance that had horror depicted in every lineament. I shall not however dwell upon this portion of my adventure. You may probably conjecture how dreadful was my alarm—how great my grief, when I learnt from the broken sentences in which the man spoke, the frightful intelligence of the condition in which he had found you. Then I revealed to him who I was; and, recovering my presence of mind, bade him place a seal on his lips with regard to every one save the doctor, whom I dispatched him to fetch. In a few moments I was with you: I stanched the blood—I did all that an unassisted and inexperienced woman could do in such a case. Sir John Lascelles arrived—and the information he gave me, after inspecting the wound, was reassuring. I then resolved to remain with you; and I sent the valet to fetch Agnes. This is all the explanation that I have to give;—unless indeed I should add that I communicated with Lord William Trevelyan, who, as a generous friend and as the intended husband of Agnes——”
“Has he visited this chamber?” asked the old nobleman, hastily.
“Yes,” was the reply. “Considering that he was alike in your confidence and in mine, I did not think it either grateful or prudent to leave him unacquainted with all that had occurred. The secret therefore rests with him, the good physician, the valet, and myself; and the household generally believes that you were found in a fit, which has been followed by a dangerous illness.”
“My dearest wife,” said the Marquis, after a long pause, “were there no circumstances which compelled me, as an honest man, to ask your pardon for the past, in the same way as you have demanded and obtained my forgiveness,—all that you have now told me would efface from my memory every thing that it had ever cherished to your prejudice. The delicacy you have displayed—your generosity—your watchfulness——”
“Nay—I cannot permit you thus to exert yourself,” interrupted the Marchioness, placing her hand upon his mouth.
“But you must permit me to declare how deep is the gratitude that I experience for your conduct towards me,” he said. “Oh! my beloved wife—for so I must again call you—I was mad at the time when I laid violent hands upon myself!”
“Oh! speak not of that!” exclaimed the lady. “My God! was it in consequence of that last interview which you had with Trevelyan——”
“No—no,” interrupted the Marquis: “do not blame yourself in any way! It was not on account of the determination which you had expressed, and which he explained to me, to retain Agnes in your care. No—alas! a far less worthy cause——But tell me,” he exclaimed, suddenly checking himself, as an idea struck him: “has there been any communication made from my bankers——”
“Do not harass yourself with matters of business,” said the Marchioness, in a tone expressive of the deepest solicitude.
“Nay—if I am to endure the tortures of suspense, I shall never recover,” exclaimed the nobleman, with strong emphasis. “Besides, I see by your manner that something has occurred, Sophia——”
“Well—I will explain every thing,” said the Marchioness; “and then your mind will be relieved: for I see that it is useless to expect you to compose yourself while any cause of vexation or excitement exists. Tranquillise your mind, therefore, relative to the matter which is now uppermost in your thoughts. Your honour has been duly cared for—no exposure has given existence to shame or humiliation.”
“Oh! again—again I thank you, my generous wife,” cried the Marquis. “But pray give me an explanation of all this!”
“I will do so without farther preface,” she said. “In the course of the day following the mournful one whose chief incident made me an inmate of the house to which I only came in the first instance as a visitor, the principal partner in the banking firm in the Strand called with an earnest request to see you immediately. In pursuance of certain orders which I had given to the servants relative to any visitors who might come upon business, I was immediately made acquainted with the banker’s presence; and I hastened to the room where he was waiting. I assured him that you had been seized with a sudden fit, and were unable to see any one; and, as I had already made myself known in the house as your wife, I informed him that I was the Marchioness of Delmour. He said that it was of the greatest consequence for him to see you; and I replied that you were insensible to all that was passing around you. He appeared much annoyed—indeed bewildered by this announcement; and I conjured him to be candid with me. He then stated that a forgery had been committed upon the bank, your name having been already used to procure the sum of sixty thousand pounds; that the legitimate owner of the cheque had just called to obtain the cash, and was actually waiting at the bank at that instant; and that he himself had come to require final instructions from you, as the lady was resolute in enforcing her demand. Pardon me, my husband,” continued the Marchioness, “if I tell you I suspected that the affair was one which you would be unwilling to have exposed; and, indeed, on a little farther conversation with the banker, I heard sufficient to convince me that such was the fact. I accordingly took it upon myself to desire him to effect a compromise with the lady in question: but she being obstinate, he paid the entire amount. This result he subsequently called to communicate to me; and I hope that you will at least approve of my motives, if not of the instructions that I gave.”
“I approve of both,” answered the Marquis; “and I again thank you, Sophia, for the delicacy which you have exhibited in my behalf.”
At this moment a knock at the door of the chamber was heard; and Sir John Lascelles immediately afterwards made his appearance.
The worthy physician was much delighted at the sudden and unexpected improvement which had manifested itself in his patient: and, after a few inquiries of a purely professional nature, he turned towards the Marchioness, saying, “To her ladyship, my lord, are you indebted for your life. Her prompt attention and the singular presence of mind with which she adopted the proper—indeed, the only effectual course, immediately after the discovery of your alarming condition—saved your lordship from a speedy death. During the four days and four nights which have elapsed since the occurrence,” continued Sir John Lascelles, alluding as delicately as he could to the attempted suicide, “her ladyship has been constant and unwearied in her attendance at your bed-side. In order to retain the sad secret within as narrow a circle as possible, her ladyship would not even permit a nurse to be engaged;—but, unassisted, she has sustained all the cares—all the anxieties—and all the fatigues inevitably associated with daily watchings and long vigils. Pardon me, madam, for speaking thus enthusiastically; but, throughout my experience, which embraces a lengthened series of years, I never—never beheld such devotion.”
“I thank you, doctor,” said the nobleman, “for dwelling with such emphasis upon conduct as noble as it is generous. Certain differences—trifling in reality, and all in consequence of faults on my side,” continued the Marquis, “had long kept us apart. But we are now reunited, never again to separate until Death shall lay his hand upon me, Doctor,” added the nobleman, after a short pause,—while the Marchioness was weeping through deep emotion,—“should you ever hear any one allude to our protracted separation, I beg—I implore you to declare, upon the authority of my own avowal, that I alone was the offending party, and that her ladyship has generously forgiven me every thing.”
“I shall not wait to hear people allude to this matter, ere I myself broach the subject, in order to volunteer that explanation,” said Sir John Lascelles, who, firmly believing all that the Marquis had uttered, naturally considered that the most ample justice should be done towards a lady who had exhibited such a noble devotion to her husband under such peculiar circumstances.
When the physician had taken his leave, after prescribing certain medicines and giving the instructions necessary in the case, the Marchioness bent over her husband, and with deeply blushing countenance, said, “If there were anything at all deserving of praise in my conduct, yours is beyond all commendation: for I have merely performed a duty—whereas you have proved yourself to be the most generous of men. Oh! how can I ever sufficiently thank you, my dear husband, for having thus disarmed scandal of its weapons—thereby saving my honour even from the faintest breath of suspicion? And in order to do this, you have taken upon yourself the odium which attaches itself to the separation of man and wife.”
“I need—I deserve no thanks,” said the Marquis. “You have saved my life—you have recalled me to existence: to you am I indebted for that leisure which, by God’s mercy, may yet be afforded me wherein to repent of the heinous crime I have committed in laying violent hands upon myself. Sir John Lascelles goes much into society—he is intimate in all the first houses at the West End: and he will be careful to propagate the intelligence which I gave him. You may therefore hold up your head proudly, Sophia: for your secret is also retained within as narrow a circle as my own. And now as you have eased my mind on so many points, let me relieve you from any shadow of uncertainty that may hang over yours, in respect to the cause of this dreadful deed, the fatal results of which were averted only by your timely aid. It was through disappointment in respect to that very lady who presented herself at my bankers’——”
“Enough!” exclaimed the Marchioness: “we have already had too many painful revelations this day,” she added, in a low and affectionate tone. “If you are now strong enough to see her, I will fetch Agnes to remain with us for a few minutes.”
The Marquis joyfully assented; and Sophia, having arranged the collar of his linen in such a manner that the bandage on the throat could not be observed, quitted the room. She however almost immediately returned, followed by her daughter, who was overwhelmed with delight to find him whom she believed to be her father so much improved.
But when the Marchioness contemplated the heart-felt joy with which her husband welcomed Agnes to his arms, she was stricken with remorse at the deceit she was practising upon him,—permitting him to regard that beauteous girl as his own offspring! Could she, however, destroy an illusion which gave him so much delight, and was the source of so much happiness?—will our readers blame her for cherishing this secret in her own breast, instead of uselessly destroying the fabric of domestic peace which had once more been built up in that lordly mansion?
After this interview with Agnes, the Marquis shortly fell into a deep and refreshing slumber, which continued until the evening.
On the following morning he was so much farther improved, that when Trevelyan called, he insisted upon seeing that good young nobleman, who was delighted beyond measure to find that such a signal change had taken place in his condition.
It was about nine in the evening, and Mr. John Rily, alias the Doctor, was seated in his chamber at the house in Roupel Street, smoking his pipe and pondering upon the best mode of disposing of the Bank-notes that were in his possession.
He had seen by the newspapers that his late companion, Mrs. Mortimer, had died from the effects of the terrible punishment inflicted upon her by Vitriol Bob: but he had not observed any advertisement proclaiming the notes that had been derived from the forgery;—and the journals were likewise silent respecting the forgery itself.
The Doctor accordingly concluded that the fraud remained undetected, and that the legitimate cheque had not been presented; and as several days had now elapsed since the notes had found their way into his possession, he began seriously to meditate how he could convert them into gold.
It may seem a singular thing to some that a man having in his possession sixty thousand pounds’ worth, was at a loss for the means to realise the amount: but such is often the predicament in which thieves are placed.
For thus stood the matter in respect to Jack Rily:—If he were to take a quantity of the notes to the Bank of England, his appearance might be so much against him as to excite suspicion: for he was not endowed with vanity sufficient to blind his eyes to the fact that his outward aspect was of the most villanously hang-dog description it was possible to conceive. Besides, he was not certain that the notes might not have been privately stopped. Again, if he applied to the “fences” and receivers of stolen property with whom he was acquainted, he knew that they could not cash more than two or three thousand pounds’ worth of the notes; and in doing even this much, they might mulct him of one-half the value. Besides, they were only to be trusted by men in such desperate circumstances as to leave no other alternative: whereas the Doctor had plenty of gold remaining from his share of the plunder derived from the adventure in the Haunted Houses. Lastly in the catalogue of difficulties now enumerated, Jack Rily had heard from a friend so much of the galleys in France, that he did not at all relish the idea of repairing to that country and standing the chance of visiting those places by attempting to pass notes concerning which private information might have been sent, for any thing he knew to the contrary, to the various money-changers.
All these considerations were occupying the Doctor’s thoughts on the evening alluded to; when his landlord entered to acquaint him that a gentleman named Green desired to speak to him.
“Ah! my old school-pal!” ejaculated Rily, joyfully: “show him up by all means!”
And during the short interval which elapsed ere the attorney’s clerk made his appearance, the Doctor placed the brandy-bottle, a couple of tumblers, and a clean pipe upon the table.
By the time these preparations were completed, Mr. Green entered the room, and was received with the familiarity of a long-standing acquaintance.
“Well, it is quite an age since I saw you last!” exclaimed the Doctor, as soon as his visitor was seated. “What have you been doing with yourself? Still drudging on at old Heathcote’s?”
“Just the same—or rather worse,” was the reply.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” observed the Doctor. “Come, help yourself. But how came you to find me out in my new quarters?”
“I was passing by here yesterday to serve a writ upon a poor devil in this street,” answered Mr. Green, “and I twigged you at the window. You didn’t see me: but I made up my mind to give you a call—and so here I am.”
“And I feel devilish glad to see you,” responded Jack Rily. “You may observe that my circumstances have improved a trifle or so, of late.”
“Ah! I wish to heaven that mine would show any proof of amendment,” said Green, with a profound sigh, as he helped himself to a tumbler of brandy-and-water. “I made a couple of hundred pounds the other day—it was an affair of giving information about a lunatic-asylum in which Heathcote had locked up his own brother;—and because I treated myself to this new suit of clothes,” he added, glancing down at his dress, “the old villain declared that I must have robbed him to procure the money. Oh! how I long to be revenged on that man!”
“Well, I don’t suppose it’s so very difficult,” observed Rily: “at least I should think, from all you have told me at different times, that you know enough about him to make him quake in his shoes.”
“Yes—yes—but—then,” stammered the clerk, with the hesitation of one who longs to open his heart to another, yet shrinks from the avowal of a villany even to the ears of a villain.
“But what?” demanded the Doctor, relighting his pipe. “If you’ve come to consult me, then out with everything at once. Do nothing by halves, old fellow—I never do.”
“Well, you see—the truth is—that—I—I am in the man’s power—completely in his power,” responded Green: “and now he’s making my life so wretched—oh! so wretched, that I think of running away to America with my two hundred pounds. But then I know that he would move heaven and earth to find me out; he would advertise me—give a description of my person—swear that I had robbed him, or something of that kind;—anything, indeed, would he do to revenge himself upon me. He is one of those despicable characters that cherish the bitterest—the most fiend-like malignity.”
“And what is he doing to you now?” demanded Jack, smoking his pipe at his ease while his friend was thus pouring forth his complaints.
“What doesn’t he do, you should rather ask me,” exclaimed Green, in a tone of mingled rage, hate, and despair. “As I just now told you, he put his brother Sir Gilbert into a lunatic asylum, in the hope of getting into his own hands the management of all the baronet’s property—and doubtless in the expectation likewise that grief would send the unfortunate gentleman to his last home. Well, Sir Gilbert escaped——”
“Through your connivance, eh?” interrupted the Doctor, with a knowing chuckle.
“Yes—with my connivance,” responded Green; “and it is the suspicion of this fact that makes Heathcote so intolerable in his conduct towards me. Besides, seeing me with a new suit of clothes, he swore that if I had not robbed him I must have been bribed to give information relative to the place where his brother was confined. It was all in vain that I reminded him of my salary being quite sufficient to keep me in decent attire——”
“Why, don’t you see,” again interrupted the Doctor,—“when once a man has got a certain suspicion into his head, he won’t very easily part with it. He cherishes it—feeds upon it—sleeps upon it—dreams of it, just as a young girl does of her first love.”
“I suppose that this must be the case,” said Green. “At all events, I have been made so miserable by Heathcote for the last few days, that it was like a ray of hope when I saw you at the window of this room yesterday; and I determined to come and chat with you over the matter.”
“And yet I don’t see very well how I can assist you, since you declare that you are completely in Heathcote’s power,” observed Jack Rily. “But you must tell me every thing.”
“Well—there’s no use in denying, then, that Heathcote can transport me if he chooses,” said Green. “Some years ago I—I—committed—a—a forgery——”
“Oh! that’s nothing,” exclaimed Jack, assuming a consolatory tone. “But go on.”
“Nothing do you call it!” cried the clerk, looking apprehensively around him, as if he were fearful that the very walls had ears. “In a month’s time a thousand pounds must be forthcoming—or I shall be transported. Up to this time Heathcote has all along given me to understand that he will replace the money for me: but this business of his brother’s escape and two or three other matters that have gone wrong with him lately——”
“I understand you,” said Jack Rily: “they have put the kyebosh upon it.”
“The what?” demanded Green, unskilled in slang phrases.
“Put a stopper on the affair, I mean,” explained the Doctor, whom an idea had struck while his companion was talking; and this idea was that Mr. Green might be made instrumental in procuring cash for a considerable portion of the Bank-notes.
“I am indeed afraid that Heathcote will not assist me,” pursued the wretched clerk; “and if he does not, I cannot say what will become of me. In fact there is no use in buoying myself up with the hope that Heathcote will do any thing for me: he himself has lost money lately in several ways—and moreover his temper is terribly soured by this affair about his brother.”
“Is Sir Gilbert taking steps to punish him, then?” asked Jack.
“Oh! no—he is too generous and too forgiving in his disposition,” replied Green: “but he has compelled the two surgeons who signed the certificate of insanity, to give him a counter-declaration—and indeed a confession to the effect that they were bribed to sign the document on the strength of which he was placed in the mad-house. There is consequently the danger of all this becoming known; and Heathcote, finding his reputation to be hanging by a thread, has grown as it were desperate,—not caring what may happen to himself—still less what may befall me.”
“I should think, then, that if you had a thousand pounds, you would fancy yourself a very lucky fellow, and be able to defy Heathcote altogether,” observed Jack Rily.
“I would give the last ten years of my life to reach such happiness,” said the clerk. “But it is useless—vain to hope—”
“Will you give a few hours of your time and a little of your ingenuity?” demanded the Doctor, now fixing upon him a look full of deep and mysterious meaning.
“Do not banter me—do not make a jest of my misfortune,” exclaimed Green.
“By Satan! I never was more serious in my life,” returned the Doctor. “Nay—you may stare at me as you will: but the thousand pounds are nearer within your reach than you fancy—and you might still keep your two hundred pounds for your own purposes.”
“Pray explain yourself!” cried the clerk, not daring to yield to the hope which suddenly appeared to rise up before him. “Keep me not in suspense, I conjure you! Can you do anything for me?—can you put me into the way——”
“Yes—I can,” answered the Doctor, emphatically. “And now you may as well tell me candidly that you thought I might be able to assist you, when you resolved upon calling here. Because, since we were at school together—which is many long years ago—our paths in life have been so different, that it is not very likely you would have honoured me by your company without some pressing motive.”
“You must at the same time admit that whenever I have met you, I have always spoken civilly to you—and sometimes stood treat,” added Green, diffidently.
“Once or twice,” observed Jack. “But that don’t matter one way or the other. I asked you a question: and before I open my mind any farther——”
“Well—I candidly admit, then,” interrupted Green, wishing to bring the matter to the point as speedily as possible—“I candidly admit that I did hope you could help me in some way or another. But it was only the hope of a desperate man: for as to the idea that you could assist me to eight hundred or a thousand pounds, it would have been insane to harbour it even for an instant. To speak more frankly still, I almost thought of asking you to let me join you in your own way of life, although I hardly know what your pursuits positively are.”
“They require courage and firmness, at all events,” answered Jack Rily, with a coarse laugh; “whereas you have got into such cursed cringing, bowing, and scraping ways, that you are only fit for a toad-eater. Excuse me for speaking frankly—but as we are talking on matters of business——”
“Quite correct,” interrupted Green, swallowing his resentment: for he felt but little pleased at the home-truth which had just been told him. “And now for the information which is to relieve me from such cruel suspense.”
“First answer me one or two questions,” said the Doctor. “I suppose you are often in the habit of changing Bank-notes for your master?”
“Yes: but not to any considerable amount at a time,” answered Green: “he is too suspicious to trust me with a sum sufficiently large to tempt me to run away with it.”
“Nevertheless, I suppose you could manage to change a few heavy notes, if you had them?” pursued the Doctor.
“Heavy notes?” repeated Green, turning pale and trembling. “Are they—fo—or—ged?”
“Not they!” exclaimed Rily, half disgusted with his timorous companion. “They are genuine Bank of England flimsies: but as they didn’t come into my hands in a very regular manner, and as my appearance isn’t altogether in my favour, I can’t pass them myself.”
“Oh! I—I—can get cash for them,” said Green, with all the eagerness of a man in a desperate predicament. “Heathcote’s bankers would do me as many as you can possibly have.”
“I question it,” observed the Doctor, drily. “Would they cash you two notes for a thousand each?”
“Yes—yes: assuredly they would,” was the prompt answer.
“And you must know other places——”
“Several—several,” interrupted Green, anticipating the remainder of the questions. “But would it not be shorter to go to the Bank of England at once?”
“Well—I think it would,” responded Jack.
“Unless—unless—there’s any fear—any danger, I mean—I——”
“Curse upon your fears and dangers!” ejaculated the hare-lipped villain, savagely: “there are none at all—only, as I just now said, I can’t go myself. But if you can get ten thousand changed to-morrow, you may have one thousand for your own purposes.”
Mr. Green could not find words to express his gratitude in return for this assurance: he was overwhelmed with a delight which he had not experienced for years. The thought of emancipating himself from the thraldom of his despot-master was too brilliant—too dazzling to gaze upon. He could not believe that there was anything beyond a mere chance in his favour:—that the matter was a certainty, he dared not imagine.
But when Jack Rily displayed a few of the notes, and mysteriously hinted that they were the produce of a forgery which could not possibly be detected, Mr. Green started from his chair, and actually danced for joy!
It was five o’clock in the morning of the day after the interview described in the last chapter; and Mr. Heathcote was seated at the writing-table in his private office.
He was busily occupied with papers;—for his was a disposition that could not endure idleness. Even when vexed and annoyed—as he was at present—it was impossible for him to remain inactive. Had he been an author, he would have eclipsed Walter Scott or Paul de Koek in the number of his works.
There was a deep gloom upon his brow and a sinister light in his restless eyes, as he bent over the parchment-deeds which he was inspecting; and from time to time he cast an anxious glance towards the door.
At length be rang the bell; and the junior clerk answered the summons.
“Has not Mr. Green made his appearance yet?” demanded the lawyer, with an emphasis on the last word.
“No, sir—he has not,” was the reply, given timidly—for the young man beheld both the gloom on the brow and the gleaming in the eye.