THE EX-MEMBER FOR ROTTENBOROUGH.
It was now the middle of April, 1843.
The morning was fine, and the streets were marked with the bustle of men
of business, clerks, and others repairing to their respective offices,
when Mr. George Montague Greenwood turned from Saint Paul's Churchyard
into Cheapside.
He was attired in a plain, and even somewhat shabby manner: there was
not a particle of jewellery about him; and a keen eye might have
discovered, in the _tout ensemble_ of his appearance, that his toilette
had been arranged with every endeavour to produce as good an effect as
possible.
Thus his neckcloth was tied with a precision seldom bestowed upon a
faded piece of black silk: his shirt-cuffs were drawn down so as to
place an interval of snowy white between the somewhat threadbare sleeve
of the blue coat and the common grey glove of Berlin wool:—a black
riband hung round his neck and was gathered at the ends in the right
pocket of the soiled satin waistcoat, so as to leave the beholder in a
state of uncertainty whether it were connected with a watch or only an
eye-glass—or, indeed, with any thing at all;—and the Oxford-mixture
trousers, _rather_ white at the knees, were strapped tightly over a pair
of well-blacked bluchers, a casual observer would certainly have taken
for Wellingtons.
In his hand he carried a neat black cane; and his gait was characterised
by much of the self-sufficiency which had marked it in better days. It
was, however, far removed from a swagger: Greenwood was too much of a
gentleman in his habits to fall into the slightest manifestation of
vulgarity.
His beautiful black hair, curling and glossy, put to shame the brownish
hue of the beaver hat which had evidently seen some service, and had
lately been exposed to all the varieties of weather peculiar to this
capricious climate. His face—eminently handsome, as we have before
observed—was pale and rather thin; but there was a haughty assurance in
the proud curl of the upper lip, and a fire in his large dark eyes,
which showed that hope was not altogether a stranger to the breast of
Mr. George Montague Greenwood.
It was about a quarter past nine in the morning when this gentleman
entered the great thoroughfare of Cheapside.
Perhaps there is no street in all London which presents so many moral
phases to the eyes of the acute beholder as this one, and at that hour;
inasmuch as those eyes may single out, and almost read the pursuit of,
every individual forming an item in the dense crowd that is then rolling
onward to the vicinity of the Bank of England.
For of every ten persons, nine are proceeding in that direction.
Reader, let us pause for a moment and examine the details of the scene
to which we allude: for Greenwood has slackened his pace—his eye has
caught sight of Bow clock—and he perceives that he is yet too early to
commence the visits which he intends to make in certain quarters.
And first, gentle reader, behold that young man with the loose taglioni
and no undercoat: he has a devil-me-care kind of look about him, mingled
with an air of seediness, as if he had been up the best part of the
night at a free-and-easy. He is smoking a cigar—at that hour of the
morning! It is impossible to gaze at him for two seconds, without being
convinced that he is an articled clerk to an attorney, and that he
doesn't care so long as he reaches the office just five minutes before
the "governor" arrives.
But that old man, with a threadbare suit of black, and the red cotton
handkerchief sticking so suspiciously out of his pocket, as if he had
something wrapped up in it,—who is he? Mark how he shuffles along,
dragging his heavy high-lows over the pavement at a pace too speedy for
his attenuated frame: and see with what anxiety he looks up at the clock
projecting out far overhead, to assure himself that he shall yet be at
his office within two minutes of half-past nine—or else risk his place
and the eighteen shillings a week which it brings him in, and on which
he has to support a wife and large family. He is a copying clerk in a
lawyer's office—there can be no doubt of it; and the poor man has his
dinner wrapped up in his pocket-handkerchief!
Do you observe that proud, pompous-looking stout man, with the large
yellow cane in his hand, and the massive chain and seals hanging from
his fob? He is a stockbroker who, having got up a bubble Railway
Company, has enriched himself in a single day, after having struggled
against difficulties for twenty years. But, see—a fashionably-dressed
gentleman, with a _little_ too much jewellery about his person, and a
_rather_ too severe swagger in his gait, overtakes our stout friend, and
passes his arm familiarly in his as he wishes him "good morning." There
is no mistake about this individual: he is the Managing-Director of the
stockbroker's Company, and was taken from a three-pair back in the New
Cut to preside at the Board. _Arcades ambo_—a precious pair!
Glance a moment at that great, stout, shabbily-dressed man, whose
trousers are so tight that they certainly never could have been made for
him, and whose watery boiled-kind of eyes, vacant look, and pale but
bloated face, denote the habitual gin-drinker. He rolls along with a
staggering gait, as if the effects of the previous night's debauch had
not been slept off, or as if he had already taken his first dram. He is
on his way to the neighbourhood of the Bank, where he either loiters
about on the steps of the Auction Mart, or at the door of Capel Court,
or else proceeds to some public-house parlour "which he frequents." His
business is to hawk bills about for discount; and, to hear him speak,
one would believe that he could raise a million of money in no
time—whereas he has most likely the pawn-ticket of his Sunday's coat in
his pocket.
And now mark that elderly, sedate, quiet-looking man, whose good black
suit is well-brushed and his boots nicely polished. He compares his
heavy gold watch with the clock of Bow church, and is quite delighted to
see that _his_ time is correct to a second. And now he continues his
way, without looking to the right or the left: he knows every
feature—every shop—every lamp-post of Cheapside and the Poultry too well
to have any farther curiosity about those thoroughfares—for he has
passed along that way every morning, Sundays excepted, during the last
twenty years. Are you not prepared to make an affidavit that he is a
superior clerk in the Bank of England?
But we must abandon any farther scrutiny of the several members of the
crowd in Cheapside—at least for the present; because it is now half-past
nine o'clock, and Mr. Greenwood has reached Cornhill.
Here he paused—and sighed,—sighed deeply.
That sigh told a long and painful history,—of how he had lately been
rich and prosperous—how he had lost all by grasping at more—how he was
now reduced almost to the very verge of penury—and how he wondered
whether he should ever be wealthy and great again!
"Yes—yes: I _will_ be!" he said to himself—speaking not with his lips,
but with that silent though emphatic tongue which belongs to the soul.
"My good star cannot have deserted me for ever! But this day must show!"
Then, calling all his assurance to his aid, he turned into the office of
a well-known merchant and capitalist on Cornhill.
The clerks did not immediately recognise him; for the last time he had
called there, it was at four in the afternoon and he had alighted from
an elegant cab: whereas now it was half-past nine in the morning, and he
had evidently come on foot. But when he demanded, in his usual
authoritative tone, whether their master had arrived yet, they
recollected him, and replied in the affirmative.
Greenwood accordingly walked into the merchant's private office.
"Ah! my dear sir," he said, extending his hand towards the merchant,
"how do you find yourself? It is almost an age since we met."
The merchant affected not to perceive the out-stretched hand; nor did he
return the bland smile with which Mr. Greenwood accosted him. But, just
raising his eyes from the morning paper which lay before him, he said in
a cold tone, "Oh! Mr. Greenwood, I believe? Pray, sir, what is your
business?"
The ex-member for Rottenborough took a chair uninvited, and proceeded to
observe in a confidential kind of whisper,—"The fact is, my dear sir, I
have conceived a magnificent project for making a few thousands into as
many millions, I may say; and as on former occasions you and I have done
_some_ little business together—and I have put a _few_ good things in
your way—I thought I would give you the refusal of my new design."
"I am really infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Greenwood——"
"Oh! I knew you would be, my dear sir!" interrupted the ex-member. "The
risk is nothing—the gains certain and enormous. You and I can keep it
all to ourselves; and——"
"You require me to advance the funds, I presume?" asked the merchant,
eyeing his visitor askance.
"Just so—a few thousands only—to be repaid out of the first proceeds, of
course," returned Greenwood.
"Then, sir, I beg to decline the speculation," said the merchant, drily.
"Speculation! it is _not_ a speculation," cried Greenwood: "it is a
certainty."
"Nevertheless, sir, I must decline it; and as my time is very much
occupied——"
"Oh! I shall not intrude upon you any longer," interrupted Greenwood,
indignantly; and he strode out of the office.
"The impertinent scoundrel!" he muttered to himself, when he had gained
the street. "After all the good things I have placed in his way, to
treat me in this manner. But, never mind—let me once grow rich again and
I will humble him at my feet!"
In spite of this attempt at self-consolation, Greenwood was deeply
mortified with the reception which he had experienced at the merchant's
office: his anger had, however, cooled and his spirits revived by the
time he reached Birchin Lane, where dwelt another of his City
acquaintances.
This individual was a capitalist who had once been saved from serious
embarrassment, if not from total ruin, by a timely advance of funds made
to him by Greenwood; and though the capitalist had paid enormous
interest for the accommodation, he had nevertheless always exhibited the
most profound gratitude towards the ex-member for Rottenborough.
It was, therefore, with great confidence that Greenwood entered the
private office of the capitalist.
"Ah! my dear fellow," cried the latter, apparently overjoyed to see his
visitor, "how _have_ you been lately? Why—it is really an age since I
have seen you! Pray sit down—and now say what I can do for you."
Greenwood addressed him in terms similar to those which he had used with
the merchant a few minutes previously.
"And so you actually have a scheme that will make millions, my dear
Greenwood?" said the capitalist, his entire countenance beaming with
smiles.
"Just as I tell you," answered the ex-member.
"And you have considered it in all its bearings?"
"In every shape and way. Success is certain."
"Oh! what a lucky dog you are," cried the capitalist, playfully
thrusting his fingers into Greenwood's ribs.
"Well—I can't say that I am lucky," observed the latter, in a measured
tone. "I have had losses lately—serious losses: but you know that I am
not the man to be long in remedying them."
"Far from it, my boy!" exclaimed the capitalist. "You will make an
enormous fortune before you die—I am sure you will. And this new scheme
of yours,—although you have only hinted darkly at it,—_must_ succeed—I
am convinced it must."
"Then you are prepared to join me in the project?" said Greenwood.
"Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my dear friend," ejaculated the
capitalist: "but it is impossible."
"Impossible! How can that be, since you think so well of any thing which
I may devise?" asked Greenwood.
"God bless your soul!" cried the other; "money is money now-a-days. For
my part I can't think where the devil it all gets to! One hears of
it—reads of it—but never sees it! In fact," he added, sinking his voice
to a mysterious whisper, "I do believe that there is no such thing now
as money in the whole City."
"Ridiculous!" exclaimed Greenwood. "Complaints from _you_ are
absurd—because every one knows that you have made an enormous fortune
since that time when I was so happy to save you from bankruptcy."
"Yes—yes," said the capitalist: "I remember that incident—I have never
forgot it—I always told you I never should."
"Then, in plain terms," continued Greenwood, "do me the service of
advancing two or three thousand pounds to set my new project in motion."
"Impossible, Greenwood—impossible!" cried the capitalist, buttoning up
his breeches-pockets. "Things are in such a state that I would not
venture a penny upon the most feasible speculation in the world."
"Perhaps you will lend me a sum——"
"Lend! Ah! ha! Now, really, Greenwood, this is too good! Lend, indeed!
What—when we are all in the borrowing line in the City!"—and the
capitalist chuckled, as if he had uttered a splendid joke.
"In one word, then," said Greenwood, relishing this mirth as little as a
person in his situation was likely to do; "will you assist my temporary
wants—even if you do not choose to enter into my speculation? You know
that I am proud, and that it must pain me thus to speak to you: but I
declare most solemnly that fifty pounds at this moment would be of the
greatest service to me."
"Nothing gives me more pain than to refuse a friend like you," answered
the capitalist: "but, positively, I could not part with a shilling
to-day to save my own brother from a gaol."
Greenwood rose, put on his hat, and left the office without uttering
another word.
He felt that he was righteously punished—for _he_ had, in his time,
often treated men in the same manner,—professing ardent friendship, and
yet refusing the smallest pecuniary favour!
Having walked about for nearly half an hour, to calm the feelings which
the conduct of the capitalist had so painfully excited, Greenwood
repaired to the office of a great bill-discounter and speculator in
Broad Street. This individual had been a constant visitor at Greenwood's
house in Spring Gardens—had joined him in many of his most profitable
speculations—and had gained considerable sums thereby. He was, moreover,
of a very enterprising character, and always ready to risk money with
the hope of large returns.
Greenwood entered the clerks' office; and, glancing towards the private
one at the lower extremity, he caught sight of the speculator's
countenance peering over the blinds of the glass-door which opened
between the two rooms.
The face was instantly withdrawn; and Greenwood, who of course affected
not to have observed its appearance at the window, inquired whether the
speculator was within.
"Really I can't say, sir," drawled a clerk, who was mending a pen: then,
without desisting from his operation, he said, "I'll see, sir, in a
moment."
"Be so kind as to see _this_ moment," exclaimed Greenwood, angrily. "I
suppose you know who I am?"
"Oh! yes—sir—certainly, sir," returned the clerk; and, having duly
nibbed the pen, he dismounted very leisurely from his stool—paused to
arrange a piece of blotting-paper on the desk in a very precise manner
indeed—brushed the splinters of the quill from his trousers—and then
dragged himself in a lazy fashion towards the private office.
Greenwood bit his quivering lip with rage.
"Two years ago," he thought to himself, "I should not have been treated
thus!"
Meantime the clerk entered the inner office, and carefully closed the
door behind him.
Greenwood could hear the murmuring sounds of two voices within.
At length the clerk re-appeared, and said in a careless tone, "The
governor isn't in, Mr. Greenwood: I thought he was—but he isn't—and,
what's more, I don't know when he will be. You'd better look in again,
if it's particular; but I know the governor's uncommon busy to-day."
"I shall not trouble you nor your _governor_ any more," returned
Greenwood, his heart ready to break at the cool, deliberate insult thus
put upon him. "You think me a fallen man—and you dare to treat me thus.
But——"
"Why, as for _that_," interrupted the clerk, with impertinent emphasis,
"every one knows you're broke and done up—and my governor doesn't want
shabby insolvents hanging about his premises."
Greenwood's countenance became scarlet as these bitter taunts met his
ears; and for a moment he felt inclined to rush upon the insolent clerk
and punish him severely with his cane.
But, being naturally of a cool and cautious disposition, he perceived
with a second thought that he might only become involved in a dilemma
from which he had no means to extricate himself: so, conquering his
passion, he rushed out of the office.
He could now no longer remain blind to the cruel conviction that the
extremities of his position were well known in the City, and that the
hopes with which he had sallied forth three hours previously were mere
delusive visions.
Still he was resolved to leave no stone unturned in the endeavour to
retrieve his ruined fortunes; but feeling sick at heart and the prey to
a deep depression of spirits, he plunged hastily into a public-house to
take some refreshment.
And now behold the once splendid and fastidious Greenwood,—the man who
had purchased the votes of a constituency, and had even created a
sensation within the walls of Parliament,—the individual who had
discounted bills of large amount for some of the greatest peers of
England, and whose luxurious mode of living had once been the envy and
wonder of the fashionable world,—behold the ex-member for Rottenborough
partaking of a pint of porter and a crust of bread and cheese in the
dingy parlour of a public-house!
There was a painful knitting of the brows, and there was a nervous
quivering of the lip, which denoted the acute emotions to which he was a
prey, as he partook of his humble fare; and once—once, two large tears
trickled down his cheeks, and moistened the bread that he was conveying
to his mouth.
For he thought of the times when money was as dirt in his
estimation,—when he rode in splendid vehicles, sate down to sumptuous
repasts, was ministered unto by a host of servants in gorgeous liveries,
and revelled in the arms of the loveliest women of the metropolis.
Oh! he thought of all this: he recalled to mind the well-filled
wardrobes he had once possessed, and glanced at his present faded
attire;—he shook up the remains of the muddy beer at the bottom of the
pewter-pot, and remembered the gold he had lavished on champagne: his
eyes lingered upon the crumbs of the bread and the rind of the cheese
left on the plate, and his imagination became busy with the
reminiscences of the turtle and venison that had once smoked upon his
board.
But worse—oh! far worse than this was the dread conviction that all his
lavish expenditure—all his ostentatious display—all his princely feasts,
had failed to secure him a single friend!
No wonder, then, that the bitter—bitter tears started from his eyes;
and, though he immediately checked that first ebullition of heart-felt
anguish yet the effort only caused the storm of emotions to rage the
more painfully within his breast.
For, in imagination, he cast his eyes towards a mansion a few miles
distant; and there he beheld _one_ whose condition formed a striking
contrast with his own—_one_ who had suddenly burst from obscurity and
created for himself as proud a name as might be found in Christendom,—a
young man whose indomitable energies and honourable aspirations had
enabled him to lead armies to conquest, and who had taken his place
amongst the greatest Princes in the universe!
The comparison which Greenwood drew—despite of himself—between the
elevated position of Richard Markham and his own fallen, ruined lot,
produced feelings of so painful—so exquisitely agonising a nature, that
he could endure them no longer. He felt that they were goading him to
madness—the more so because he was alone in that dingy parlour at the
time, and was therefore the least likely to struggle against them
successfully.
Hastily quitting the public-house, he rushed into the street, where the
fresh air seemed to do him good.
And then he asked himself whether he should risk farther insult by
calling upon other wealthy men with whom he had once been on intimate
terms? For a few moments he was inclined to abandon the idea: but a
little calm reflection told him not to despair.
Moreover, he had a reason—a powerful motive for exerting all his
energies to repair the past, so far as his worldly fortunes were
concerned; and though the idea was almost insane, he hoped—_if he had
but a chance_—to make such good use of the coming few weeks as would
reinstate him in the possession of enormous wealth.
But, alas! it seemed as if no one would listen to the scheme which he
felt convinced was calculated to return millions for the risk of a few
thousands!
"Oh! I _must_ retrieve myself—I _must_ make a fortune!" he thought, as
he hurried towards Moorgate Street. "One lucky stroke—and
four-and-twenty hours shall see me rich again!"
This idea brought a smile to his lips; and, relaxing his pace, he
composed his countenance as well as he could ere he entered the office
of a wealthy stockbroker in Moorgate Street.
The stockbroker was lounging over the clerks' desk, conversing with a
merchant whom Greenwood also knew; and the moment the ex-member for
Rottenborough entered, the two City gentlemen treated him to a long,
impertinent, and contemptuous stare.
"Ah!" said Greenwood, affecting a pleasant smile, which, God knows! did
not come from the heart; "you do not appear to recollect me? Am I so
very much changed as all _that_?"
"Well—it _is_ Greenwood, pos-i-tive-ly!" drawled the stockbroker,
turning towards his friend the merchant in a manner that was equivalent
to saying, "I wonder at his impudence in coming here."
"Yes—it _is_ Greenwood," observed the merchant, putting his glasses up
to his eyes: "or rather the shadow of Greenwood, I should take it to
be."
"Ah! ha! ha!" chuckled the stockbroker.
"You are disposed to be facetious, gentlemen," said the object of this
intended witticism but really galling insult: "I presume that my long
absence from the usual City haunts——"
"I can assure you, Greenwood," interrupted the stockbroker, "that the
City has got on uncommonly well without you. The Bank hasn't stopped
payment—bills are easy of discount—money is plentiful——"
"And yet," said Greenwood, determined to receive all this sarcasm as
quietly as a poor devil ought to do when about to make a proposal
requiring an advance of funds,—"and yet a certain capitalist—a very
intimate friend of mine, in Birchin Lane—assured me just now that money
was very scarce."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed the stockbroker.
"He! he! he!" chuckled the merchant.
"Why, the fact is, Greenwood," continued the broker, "your _very
intimate friend_ the capitalist was here only a quarter of an hour ago;
and he delighted us hugely by telling us how you called upon him this
morning with a scheme that would make millions, and ended by wanting to
borrow fifty pounds of him."
"He! he! he!" again chuckled the merchant.
"Ha! ha! ha!" once more laughed the stockbroker; and, taking his
friend's arm, he led him into his private office, the two continuing to
laugh and chuckle until the door closed behind them.
Greenwood now became aware of the gratifying fact that every clerk in
the counting-house was laughing also; and he rushed out into the street,
a prey to feelings of the most agonising nature.
But the ignominy of that day was not yet complete in respect to him.
As he darted away from the door of the insolent stockbroker's office, he
came in collision with two gentlemen who were walking arm-in-arm towards
the Bank.
"'Pon my honour, my good fellow——" began one, rubbing his arm which had
been hurt by the encounter.
"Greenwood!" cried the second, stepping back in surprise.
The ex-member for Rottenborough raised his eyes at the sounds of those
well-known voices, and beheld Mr. Chichester, with his inseparable
friend the baronet, both eyeing him in the most insulting manner.
"Ah! Greenwood, my dear fellow," exclaimed Sir Rupert; "I am really
quite delighted to see you. How get on the free and independent electors
of Rottenborough? Egad, though—you are not quite the pink of fashion
that you used to be—when you did me the honour of making my wife your
mistress."
"Greenwood and Berlin-wool gloves—impossible!" cried Chichester. "Such a
companionship is quite unnatural!"
"And an old coat brushed up to look like a new one," added the baronet,
laughing heartily.
"And bluchers——"
Greenwood stayed to hear no more: he broke from the hold which the two
friends had laid upon him, and darted down an alley into Coleman Street.