THE LAPSE OF TWO YEARS.
Shakspeare said, "All the world is a _stage_:" we say, "All the world is
an _omnibus_."
The old and young--the virtuous and wicked--the rich and the poor, are
invariably thrown and mixed up together; and yet their interests are
always separate. Few stretch out a hand to help a ragged or a decrepit
man into the vehicle; and the well-dressed draw back and avert their
heads as the impoverished wretch forces his way with difficulty past
them up to the vacant seat in the farthest corner. The moment a
well-dressed individual mounts the steps of the omnibus, every hand is
thrust out to help him in, and the most convenient seat is
instantaneously accorded to him. And then the World's omnibus hurries
along, stopping occasionally at the gates of a church-yard to put down
one of its passengers, and calling at some palace or some cottage
indiscriminately to fill up the vacant seat.
Away--away thunders the World's omnibus again, crushing the fairest
flowers of the earth in its progress, and frequently choosing rough,
dreary, and unfrequented roads in preference to paths inviting, even,
and pleasant. Sometimes, by the caprice of the passengers, or by the
despotic commands of the masters of the World's omnibus, the beggar and
the rich man change garments and places; and the former then becomes the
object of deference and respect, while the latter is treated with
contempt and scorn. In the World's omnibus _might_ makes _right_;--but
_cunning_ frequently secures a more soft and comfortable seat than
either.
If a dispute ensues, and the question at issue is referred to the
conductor for arbitration, he glances at the personal appearance of the
complainant and defendant, and decides in favour of him who wears the
better coat. When stones or other impediments obstruct the way of the
World's omnibus, the poor and the ragged passengers are commanded to
alight and clear them away; and yet, when the vehicle stops for dinner
at the inn by the way side, the well-dressed and the affluent
appropriate to themselves the luxuries, while those who cleared away the
stones and who grease the wheels, get only a sorry crust--and sometimes
nothing at all.
And then, away--away the World's omnibus goes again, amidst noise, dust,
and all variations of weather. In the inclement seasons extra garments
are given to the well-dressed and the rich, but none to the ragged and
the poor:--on the contrary, their very rags and tatters are frequently
taken from them to pay the prices of the hard crusts at the road-side
inns. So goes the World's omnibus; and the moment the driver and
conductor, who are its masters and owners, are deposited in their turns
at the gates of some cemetery, their sons succeed them, whether
competent or not--whether infants in swaddling clothes, or old men in
their dotage. And few--very few of those drivers know how to hold the
reins;--and thus is it that the World's omnibus is frequently hurried at
a thundering rate over broken ground, even unto the very verge of some
precipice, down which it would be inevitably dashed, did not some bold
intrepid passenger emerge from his obscurity in the corner, rush upon
the box, hurl the incompetent driver from his seat, and assume the reins
in his stead. But mark the strange opinions of those who journey in the
World's omnibus! The passengers, instead of being grateful to him who
has thus rescued them from ruin, pronounce him the usurper of a seat to
which he has no hereditary claim, and never rest till they have
succeeded in displacing him, and restoring the incompetent driver to his
functions.
So goes the World's omnibus! None of the passengers are ever contented
with their seats, even though they may have originally chosen those
seats for themselves. This circumstance leads to a thousand quarrels and
mean artifices; and constant shiftings of positions take place. One
passenger envies the seat of another; and, when he has succeeded in
working his way into it, he finds to his surprise that it is not so
agreeable as he imagines, and he either wishes to get back to his old
one or to shove himself into another. The passengers in the World's
omnibus are divided into different sects and parties, each party
professing certain opinions for the authority of which they have no
better plea than "the wisdom of their forefathers." Thus one party hates
and abhors another; and each confidently imagines itself to be in the
right, and all other parties to be in the wrong. And for those
differences of opinion the most sanguinary broils ensue; and friendship,
honour, virtue, and integrity are all forgotten in the vindictive
contention.
But the World's omnibus rolls along all the same; and the Driver and
Conductor laugh at the contests amongst the passengers, which they
themselves have probably encouraged, and which somehow or another always
turn to their individual benefit in the long run.
So goes the World's omnibus;--so it has always hurried onwards;--and in
like manner will it ever go!
Oh! say not that Time has a leaden wing while it accompanies the World's
omnibus on its way!
Two years elapsed from the date of the Old Bailey trials described in
preceding chapters.
It was now the beginning of December, 1837.
The morning was dry, fine, and bright: the ground was as hard as
asphalte; and the air was pure, cold, and frosty.
From an early hour a stout, elderly man--well wrapped up in a large
great coat, and with a worsted "comforter" coming up to his very nose,
which was of a purple colour with the cold--was seen walking up and down
the front of the Giltspur Street Compter, apparently dividing his
attention between the prison entrance and the clock of Saint Sepulchre's
church.
At a quarter to ten o'clock, on that same morning, a private carriage,
without armorial bearings upon the panels, and attended by two
domestics, whose splendid liveries were concealed beneath drab
great-coats, drove up to the door of the house inhabited by the Governor
of Newgate. Inside that carriage was seated a lady--wrapped up in the
most costly furs, and with a countenance whose beauty was enhanced by
the smile of pleasure and satisfaction which illuminated it.
Precisely as the clock of Saint Sepulchre's church struck ten, the doors
of the Compter and Newgate opened simultaneously, and with a similar
object.
From the Compter issued Richard Markham:--the portal of Newgate gave
freedom to Eliza Sydney.
They were both restored to liberty upon the same day--the terms of their
imprisonment dating from the commencement of the sessions during which
they were tried.
The moment Richard set foot in the street, he was caught in the arms of
the faithful Whittingham, who welcomed him with a kind of paternal
affection, and whimpered over him like a child.
Eliza Sydney entered the carriage awaiting her at the door of Newgate,
and was clasped to the bosom of Mrs. Arlington. The vehicle immediately
drove rapidly away in a north-easterly direction.
"Mr. Monroe is waiting for you at your own house at Holloway," said
Whittingham to his young master, when the first ebullition of joy was
over. "He has been ailing lately--and he thought that this happy and
fortitudinous event would be too much for his nerves."
"Let us make haste home, my excellent friend," observed Markham. "I am
dying to behold once more the haunts of my childhood."
Whittingham summoned a cab; and he and his young master were soon
rolling along the road which led to _home_.
Two years' imprisonment had produced a great effect upon Richard
Markham. The intellectual cast and faultless beauty of his countenance
still remained; but the joyous expression, natural to youth, had fled
for ever; and in its place was a settled melancholy which proclaimed an
early and intimate acquaintance with misfortune. His spirit was broken;
but his principles were not undermined:--his heart was lacerated to its
very core,--but his integrity remained intact. Even though the gate of
his prison had closed behind him, he could not shake off the idea that
his very countenance proclaimed him to be a _Freed Convict_.
At length the cab reached Markham Place.
Richard glanced, with a momentary gleam of satisfaction upon his pale
countenance, towards the hill on which stood the two trees--the rallying
point for the brothers who had separated, more than six years back,
beneath their foliage. Tears started to his eyes; and the ray of
sunshine upon his brow gave place to a cloud of deep and sombre
melancholy. He thought of what he was when he bade adieu to his brother
at that period, and what he was at the present moment. _Then_ all was
blooming and encouraging in his path; and _now_ he felt as if the mark
of Cain were upon him!
He alighted from the vehicle, and entered the library, where Mr. Monroe
awaited him. He and his guardian were at length alone together.
But how altered was Monroe since Richard had last seen him! His form was
bowed down, his countenance was haggard, his eyes were sunken, and his
brow was covered with wrinkles. He glanced furtively and anxiously
around him the instant the young man entered the room; and, instead of
hastening forward to welcome him, he sank upon a chair, covering his
face with his hands. The tears trickled through his fingers; and his
breast was convulsed with deep sobs.
"In the name of heaven, what ails you, sir?" demanded Richard.
"My boy--you have come back at last," exclaimed the old gentleman,
scarcely able to articulate a word, through the bitterness of his
grief;--"and this much-dreaded day has at length arrived!"
"Much-dreaded day," repeated Markham, in unfeigned astonishment. "I
should have thought, sir," he added coldly, "that _you_, who professed
yourself so convinced of my innocence, would have received me with a
smile of welcome!"
"My dear--dear boy," gasped the old man, "God knows I am rejoiced to
hail your freedom; and that same Almighty power can also attest to my
sincere conviction of your innocence. Believe me, I would go through
fire and water to serve you,--I would lay down my life, miserable and
valueless as it is, to benefit you;--but, oh! I cannot--cannot support
your presence!"
And the old gentleman seemed absolutely convulsed with agony as he
spoke.
"I presume," said Richard, leaning over him, so as to be enabled to
whisper in his ear, although there was none else at hand to listen,--"I
presume that you scorn the man who has been convicted of felony? It is
natural, sir--it is natural; but such a demonstration of aversion is not
the less calculated to wound one who never injured you."
"No--no, Richard; you never injured me; and that makes me feel the more
acutely now. But--hear me. I take God to witness that I love you as my
own son, and that I am above such unnatural conduct as that which you
would impute to me."
"My God!" cried Markham, impatiently, "what does all this mean? Are you
ill? Has anything unpleasant occurred? If so, we will postpone all
discussion upon my affairs until a period more agreeable to yourself."
As Markham uttered these words, he gently disengaged the old man's hands
from his countenance, and pressed them in his own. He was then for the
first time struck by the altered and care-worn features of his guardian;
and, without thinking of the effect his words might produce, he
exclaimed, "My dear sir, you have evidently been very--very ill!"
"Ill!" cried the old man, bitterly. "When the mind suffers, the body is
sympathetically affected; and this has been my case! If you have
suffered much, Richard, during the last two years--so have I; and we
have both only the same consolation--our innocence!"
"You speak in enigmas," ejaculated Markham. "What can you have to do
with innocence or guilt--you who never wronged a human being?"
So strange became the expression of the old man's countenance, as
Richard uttered these words, that the young man was perfectly
astonished, and almost horrified; and undefined alarms floated through
his brain. He was in a painful state of suspense; and yet he was afraid
to ask a question.
"Richard!" suddenly exclaimed the old man, now looking our hero fixedly
and fearlessly in the face, "I have a terrible communication to make to
you."
"A terrible communication!" repeated Markham; "is it in respect to my
brother? If so, do not keep me in suspense--let me know the worst at
once--I can bear anything but suspense!"
"I have never heard _from_ nor _of_ your brother," answered Mr. Monroe;
"and cannot say whether he be dead or living."
"Thank God, you have nothing terrible to communicate relative to _him_,"
exclaimed Markham; for he always had, and still entertained a
presentiment that the appointment on the hill, beneath the two trees,
would be punctually kept;--and this hope had cheered him during his
horrible imprisonment.
"But I will not keep you in suspense, Richard," said the old man; "it is
better for me to unburthen my mind at once. You are ruined!"
"Ruined!" said Markham, starting as that dread word fell upon his ears;
for the word _ruin_ does not express one evil, like other words, such as
sickness, poverty, imprisonment; but it comprises and expresses an awful
catalogue of all the miseries which can be supposed to afflict humanity.
"Ruined!" he cried;--then catching at a straw, he added, "Aye! ruined in
reputation, doubtless; but rich in the possessions which this world
principally esteems. My property was all vested in you by my deceased
father--I was not of age when I was condemned--and consequently the law
could not touch my fortune when it filched from me my good name!"
"Ruined--ruined in property and all!" returned Mr. Monroe, solemnly.
"Unfortunate speculations on _my_ part, but in _your_ interest, have
consumed the vast property entrusted to me by your father!"
Markham fell into an arm chair; and for a moment he thought that every
fibre in his heart would break. A terrible load oppressed his chest and
his brain;--he was the victim of deep despair. As one looks forth into
the darkness of midnight, and sees it dense and motionless, so did he
now survey his own prospects. The single consolation which, besides the
hope of again meeting his brother,--the real, the present, the tangible
consolation, as it might be called, which would have enabled him to
forget a portion of his sufferings and his wrongs,--this was now gone;
and, a beggar upon the face of the earth, he found that he had not even
the advantage of a good name to help him onwards in his career. Hope was
quenched within him!
A long pause ensued.
At its expiration Markham suddenly rose from the arm-chair, approached
his guardian, and said in a low and hollow voice. "Tell me how all this
has happened; let me know the circumstances which led to this calamity."
"They are brief," said Monroe, "and will convince you that I am more to
be pitied than blamed. Long previous to your unfortunate trial I
commenced a series of speculations with my own property, all of which
turned out unhappily. The year 1832 was a fatal one to many
old-established houses; and mine was menaced with absolute ruin. In an
evil hour I listened to the advice of a Mr. Allen, a merchant who had
been reduced by great losses in America trading; and by his counsel, I
employed a small portion of _your_ property with the view of recovering
my own, and augmenting your wealth at the same time. Allen acted as my
agent in these new speculations. At first we were eminently successful;
I speedily released myself from difficulty, and doubled the sum that I
had borrowed from your fortune. At the beginning of 1836 Mr. Allen heard
of a gentleman who required the loan of a considerable sum of money to
work a patent which was represented to be a perfect mine of gold. Mr.
Allen and I consulted upon the eligibility of embarking money in this
enterprise: in a word, we were dazzled by the immense advantages to be
derived from the speculation. At that time--it was shortly after your
trial and sentence, Richard--I was ill and confined to my bed. Mr. Allen
therefore managed this for me; and it is an extraordinary fact that I
have never once seen the individual to whom I lent an enormous sum of
money--for I _did_ advance the sum required by that person; and I drew
largely upon your fortune to procure it! Oh! Richard--had this
speculation succeeded, I should have been a wealthy man once more, and
your property would have been more than doubled. But, alas! this
individual to whom I advanced that immense amount, and whose securities
I had fancied unexceptionable, defrauded me in the most barefaced
manner! And yet the law could not touch him, for he had contrived to
associate Allen's name with his own as a partner in the enterprise.
Rendered desperate by this appalling loss, I embarked in the most
extravagant speculations with the remainder of your money. The
infatuation of the gambler seized upon me: and I never stopped until the
result was ruin--total ruin to me, and comparative ruin to you!"
[Illustration]
"Comparative ruin--only _comparative_ ruin!" ejaculated Markham, his
countenance suddenly brightening up at these words: "is there any thing
left from the wrecks of my property--is there any thing available still
remaining? Speak;--and if you answer me in the affirmative--if you
announce the existence of never so small a pittance, I will yet forgive
you all!"
"This house and the small estate attached to it are left," answered the
old man, "and totally unincumbered. I neither could nor would touch your
paternal possessions."
Markham felt indescribable relief from this statement; and he wrung his
guardian's hand with the same gratitude which he would have shown had he
that day received his inheritance entire.
"Thank God, I am not totally ruined!" cried Markham. "I can at least
bury myself in this retreat;--I can daily ascend that hill where the
memorials of fraternal affection stand;--and I can there hope for the
return of my brother! My dear sir, what has been done cannot be
recalled: reproaches, even were I inclined to offer any, would be
useless; and regrets would be equally unavailing. This estate will
produce me a small income--but enough for my wants. Two hundred pounds
a-year are certainly a beggar's pittance, when compared with the
inheritance which my father left me;--but I am still grateful that even
the means of subsistence are left. And you, Mr. Monroe--upon what are
you subsisting?"
"I still attend to the wrecks of my affairs," replied the old man; "and
then I have my daughter Ellen--who earns a little with her needle----"
"You shall come and take up your abode with me--you and your
daughter--and share my income," interrupted the generous young man, who
saw not before him an individual that had deprived him of a large
fortune, but an old--old man, bent down by the weight of numerous and
deep afflictions.
Monroe wept at this noble conduct on the part of his ward, and
strenuously refused to accept the proffered kindness and hospitality.
Markham urged, begged, and entreated;--but the old man would not accede
to his wish.
"You have not told me what became of your friend Mr. Allen," said
Richard, after a pause.
"He was an honourable and an upright man," was the reply; "and the ruin
which he had been the means of entailing, though innocently, upon me,
broke his heart, he died three months ago."
"And what became of the infamous cheat whose schemes have thus killed
one person and ruined two others?"
"I know not," answered Mr. Monroe. "I never saw him myself; nor did he
even know that there was such a person as myself connected with the loan
which he received. Certain commercial reasons--too long to be explained
now--made me put forward Allen as the person who advanced the money, and
conducted the entire business as a principal, and not as an agent. Thus
no communication ever took place between me and this George Montague."
"George Montague!" ejaculated Richard.
"Yes--he was the villain who has plundered us."
"George Montague again!" murmured Richard, as he paced the room with
hurried and uneven steps. "Why is it that this name should constantly
obtrude itself upon my notice? wherefore should I be perpetually
condemned to hear it uttered, and always coupled with epithets of
abhorrence and reproach? and why should I be amongst the number of that
miscreant's victims? Strange combination of circumstances!"
"Are you acquainted with this Montague?" demanded his guardian: "the
name seemed to produce a singular effect upon you."
"I am not acquainted with him: like you, I have never even seen him,"
said Markham. "But I have heard much concerning him; and all that I
_have_ heard is evil. Surely--surely justice will some day overtake a
miscreant who is constantly preying upon society, and who enriches
himself at the expense of his fellow-creatures' happiness!"
Some time longer was devoted to conversation upon topics of interest to
Markham and his guardian; and when the former had partially succeeded in
tranquillising the mind of the latter, the old man was suffered to take
his departure.