ELIZA SYDNEY.
The reader will remember that the events already related have brought us
up to the close of 1838.
Thus three years had elapsed since the memorable trial which resulted in
the condemnation of Eliza Sydney to an imprisonment of twenty-four long
months in Newgate; and a year had passed since her release from that
dread abode.
We therefore return to her again in December, 1838--about the same time
that those incidents occurred which we detailed in the last few
chapters.
Probably to the surprise of the reader, we again find Eliza Sydney the
mistress of the beautiful villa at Upper Clapton.
Yes: on the evening when we once more introduce ourselves to her, she
was sitting alone in the drawing-room of that home, reading by the side
of a cheerful fire.
She was now twenty-eight years of age; and, although somewhat more
inclining to _embonpoint_ than when we first described her, she was
still a lovely and fascinating woman. That slightly increased roundness
of form had given her charms a voluptuousness the most ravishing and
seductive, but the effects of which upon the beholder were attempered by
the dignity that reigned upon her high and noble brow, and the chaste
expression of her melting hazel eyes.
She was one of those fine creatures--one of those splendid specimens of
the female sex, which are alone seen in the cold climates of the north;
for it appears to be a rule in nature that the flowers of our species
expand into the most luscious loveliness in the least genial latitudes.
There was a soft melancholy in the expression of her countenance, which
might have been mistaken for languor, and which gave an additional charm
to her appearance; for it was easy to perceive her mind was now at ease,
that delicate shade of sadness being the indelible effect of the
adventures of the past.
Her mind was at ease, because she was pure in heart and virtuous in
intention,--because she knew that she had erred innocently when she lent
herself to the fraud for which she had suffered,--because she possessed
a competency that secured her against care for the present and fear for
the future,--and because she dwelt in that strict solitude and
retirement which she loved, and which was congenial to a soul that had
seen enough of the world to learn to dread its cruel artifices and
deceptive ways.
We said that it was evening when we again introduce Eliza to the
readers. A cold wind whistled without; and a huge Christmas log burnt at
the back of the grate, giving an air of supreme comfort to that
tastefully-furnished room.
The French porcelain time-piece upon the mantel proclaimed the hour of
eight.
Scarcely had the silvery chime ceased, when Louisa entered the room in
great haste and excitement.
"Oh, ma'am! who do you think is here?" she cried, closing the door
carefully behind her.
"It is impossible for me to guess, Louisa," said Eliza, smiling.
"Mr. Stephens!" exclaimed the servant: "and he earnestly implores to see
you!"
"Mr. Stephens!" echoed Eliza. "Impossible!"
"It is him, flesh and blood: but so pale--so ghostly pale--and so
altered!"
"Mr. Stephens!" repeated Eliza. "You must be mistaken--you must be
dreaming; for you are well aware that, in accordance with his sentence,
he most be very--very far from England."
"He is here--he is in London--he is at your door!" said Louisa
emphatically; "and as far as I could see by the light of the candle that
I had with me when I answered his knock, he is in rags and tatters."
"And he wishes to see me?" said Eliza, musing.
"Yes, ma'am."
There was a pause of a few moments.
"I will see him," exclaimed Eliza, in a decided tone, after some
consideration. "He may be in want--in distress; and I cannot forget that
he proclaimed my innocence in the dock of the Old Bailey."
Louisa left the room: and in another minute the convict Stephens stood
in the presence of Eliza Sydney.
Altered! he was indeed altered. His eyes were sunken and lustreless--his
cheeks wan and hollow--his hair prematurely tinged with grey--and his
form thin and emaciated. He was moreover clad in rags--absolute rags.
"My God!" ejaculated Eliza: "in what a condition do you return to your
native land!"
"And heaven alone knows what sacrifices I have made, and what hardships
I have undergone to come back!" said Stephens in a hollow voice.
"You are pardoned, then?"
"Oh, no! crimes like mine are not so readily forgiven. I escaped!"
"Escaped!" exclaimed Eliza: "and are you not afraid of being
recaptured?"
"I must run that risk," replied Stephens, sorrowfully. "But give me
food--I am hungry--I am starving!"
The unhappy man sank upon a chair as he uttered these words; and Eliza
summoned Louisa to bring refreshments.
The servant placed a tray laden with provisions upon the table, and
retired.
Stephens then fell ravenously upon the food thus set before him; while
tears stood in Eliza's eyes when she thought that the miserable wretch
had once commanded in that house where he now craved a morsel of bread!
At length the convict terminated his meal.
"I had eaten nothing," he said, "since yesterday afternoon, when I spent
my last penny to procure a roll. Last night I slept in a shed near the
docks, a large stone for my pillow. All this day I have been wandering
about the most obscure and wretched neighbourhoods of London--not
knowing whither to go, and afraid to be seen by any one who may
recognise me. Recognise me!" he added, in a strange satirical manner:
"that would perhaps be difficult;" then, linking his voice almost to a
whisper, he said in a tone of profound and touching melancholy, "Do you
not find me much--very much altered?"
"You have doubtless suffered deeply," said Eliza, wiping away the tears
from her eyes; for at that moment she remembered not the injury brought
by that man upon herself--she saw and knew of nought save the misery of
the hapless being before her.
"You weep, Eliza," exclaimed Stephens, "you weep for me who am unworthy
even of your notice!"
"Forget the past: I prefer dwelling upon the kindnesses rather than the
injuries I have experienced at your hands."
"Excellent woman!" cried the convict, deeply affected. "Oh! you know not
what I have endured--what dangers I have incurred--what hardships I have
undergone--what privations I have experienced! Compelled to work my
passage back to England as a common sailor--a prey to the brutality of a
tyrannical and drunken captain--exposed to all the inclemencies of the
weather,--no tongue can tell what I have gone through! But I will not
weary you with my complaints. Rather let me hear how you yourself have
fared."
"My tale is short," answered Eliza. "The two years in Newgate passed
away. God knows how they passed away--but they _did_ pass! Of that I
will say no more--save that the most powerful interest was exerted to
obtain a mitigation of my sentence--but in vain! The Secretary of State
assured the Earl of Warrington that he could not interfere with the very
lenient judgment awarded by the court relative to myself. One more
circumstance I must mention. Every three months, when the prison
regulations allowed the admission of the friends of those confined, a
lady visited me; and though that lady be the mistress of the Earl of
Warrington, I would rejoice to call her _sister_."
"Oh! how rejoiced I am to know that you were not without friends!"
exclaimed Stephens.
"The Earl of Warrington sent me by this lady assurances of his
forgiveness, and even of his intention to befriend me, for the sake of
my dear departed mother. But, oh! who could have anticipated the
noble--the generous conduct pursued towards me by that nobleman? The day
of my liberation dawned. Mrs. Arlington came in the earl's private
travelling carriage, and received me at the door of the prison. The
carriage rolled away; and, when I had recovered from the first emotions
of joy at leaving that horrible place, I found we were proceeding along
the Hackney Road. I cast a glance of surprise at Mrs. Arlington; she
only smiled, and would not gratify my curiosity. At length we came in
sight of the villa, and my astonishment increased. Still Mrs. Arlington
only smiled. In a few minutes more the carriage entered the enclosure,
and drove up to this door. Mrs. Arlington seemed to enjoy my
surprise--and yet tears glistened in her eyes. Oh! the admirable woman:
they were tears of joy at the grateful task which the earl had imposed
upon her. The front door opened, and Louisa ran forward to welcome me.
Mrs. Arlington took my hand, and led me into the dining-room. The
furniture was all entirely new. She conducted me over the house: every
room was similarly renovated. At length I felt exhausted with pleasure,
hope, and alarm, and sank upon the sofa in this apartment. 'My dear
Eliza,' said Mrs. Arlington, 'all that you survey is yours. The very
house itself is your own property. The Earl of Warrington has purchased
it, for you; and his solicitor, Mr. Pakenham, will call upon you
to-morrow with the title-deeds.'----I fainted through excess of
happiness and gratitude."
"How noble!" exclaimed Stephens. "I knew that the Earl of Warrington had
purchased this estate; for I had already mortgaged it to its full value
previous to that fatal epoch when all my hopes failed! My brother, who
resided in Liverpool, left England six months after my departure, and
went out to settle in New South Wales. He told me that the person who
had lent me the money upon this property, had disposed of it to the
earl. My brother's object was to settle at Sydney, and procure me to be
allotted to him as his servant. I should then have been free. But, alas!
scarcely had he set foot in the island, when he was seized with a
malignant fever, which proved fatal."
"Misfortunes never come singly," said Eliza. Then, after a pause, she
added, "Neither do blessings! And if I have been greatly afflicted--I
have also enjoyed some happiness. In reference to my own narrative, I
must add that Mr. Pakenham called on the following day, as Mrs.
Arlington had promised; and he placed the deeds in my hand. I desired
him to retain them in his care for me. He then informed me that the Earl
of Warrington had purchased for me an annuity of four hundred pounds
a-year. Oh! such generosity overwhelmed me. I begged to be allowed to
hasten and throw myself at the feet of that excellent nobleman; but Mr.
Pakenham intimated that his lordship was averse to an interview. In a
word, he made me understand that I might never hope to thank my
benefactor to his face, and that a letter expressing my feelings would
be equally unwelcome. The good lawyer, however, tranquillised my mind on
one point: the earl has no aversion to me--entertains no animosity
against me; but he cannot bear to contemplate the offspring of the woman
whom he himself loved so madly!"
"Thus you are happy, and blest with kind friends; and I---- I am an
outcast!" said Stephens, in a tone of bitter remorse. "Oh! what would I
give to be able to recall the past! Blessed, however, be that strange
and unaccountable curiosity which led me into this neighbourhood
to-night! I say, blessed be it--since it has been the unexpected means
for me to hear and know that you at least are happy. Oh! conceive my
astonishment when, on approaching the villa, I inquired of a peasant,
'_Who dwells there now?_' and he replied, '_Miss Sydney!_' I could not
mistake that announcement: I was already prepared by it for the
narrative which you have given me of the Earl of Warrington's
generosity."
"Without him, what should I be at this moment?" said Eliza. "He has been
more than a friend to me,--his kindness was rather that of a father or a
brother! And that angel Mrs. Arlington, who visited me in prison--who
poured consolation into my soul, and sustained me with hopes that have
been more than realised,--oh! how deep a debt of gratitude do I owe to
her also. She did not conceal from me her true position in reference to
the Earl of Warrington: she detailed to me the narrative of her sorrows;
and I learnt that George Montague was the base deceiver who first taught
her to stray from the paths of virtue."
"George Montague!" exclaimed Stephens. "What has become of that man? He
is artful, talented, designing, and might perhaps be able to serve me if
he would."
"He has assumed, I am told, the name of Greenwood, and dwells in a
magnificent house in Spring Gardens. This I learnt from Mrs. Arlington,
who called here a few days ago. She also informed me that Montague had
circulated a report amongst his acquaintances, that the death of a
distant relation had put him in possession of considerable property, and
rendered the assumption of the name of Greenwood an indispensable
condition of its enjoyment."
"And thus has Montague risen," said Stephens; "while I am humbled to the
dust! His intrigues and machinations have enriched him; and the story of
the death of a wealthy relation is no doubt the apology for the sudden
display of the treasures he has been amassing for the last four or five
years. Have you seen him lately?"
"He called here a few days after my release from imprisonment," said
Eliza, with a slight blush; "but I did not choose to see him. I love
solitude--I prefer retirement."
"And my visit has most disagreeably intruded upon your privacy,"
observed Stephens.
"I could have wished to have seen you in a more prosperous state, for
your own sake," answered Eliza; "but as I observed just now, I would
rather remember the kindnesses I have received at your hands, than the
miseries which have resulted from your guilty deception. If with my
modest and limited means I can assist you, speak! What do you propose to
do?"
"My object is to proceed to America, where I might be enabled to obtain
an honest livelihood by my mercantile experience and knowledge. Every
moment that I prolong my stay in England is fraught with increased peril
to my safety; for were I captured, I should be sent back to that far-off
clime where so many of my fellow-countrymen endure inconceivable
miseries, and where my lot would become terrible indeed."
"I will assist you in your object," said Eliza. "Mr. Pakenham, who acts
as my banker, has a hundred pounds of mine in his hands: to-morrow I
will draw that amount; and if it will be of any service towards the
accomplishment of your plans----"
"Oh, Eliza! how can I sufficiently express my gratitude?" interrupted
Stephens, joy and hope animating his care-worn countenance and firing
his sunken eyes.
"Do not thank me," said Eliza. "I shall be happy if I can efface one
wrinkle from the brow of a fellow-creature. For your present necessities
take this,"--and she handed him her purse. "To-morrow evening I shall
expect you to call again; and I will then provide you with the means to
seek your fortune in another quarter of the world."
Stephens shed tears as he received the purse from the fair hand of that
noble-hearted woman.
He then took his departure with a heart far more light than when he had
knocked humbly and timidly at the door of that villa an hour before.