THE BED OF SICKNESS.
Return we to the dwelling of Richard Markham on the same day that Eliza
Sydney sought her friend Mrs. Arlington, as related in the preceding
chapter.
Richard awoke as from a long and painful dream.
He opened his eyes, and gazed vacantly around him. He was in his own
bed, and Whittingham was seated by his side.
"The Lord be praised!" ejaculated the faithful old domestic;--and
conceiving it necessary to quote Scripture upon the occasion of this
happy recovery, he uttered, in a loud and solemn voice, the first
sentence which presented itself to his memory,--"My tongue is the pen of
a ready writer!"
"How long have I been ill, Whittingham?" demanded our hero, in a faint
tone.
"Four blessed days have you been devoided of your sensations, Master
Richard," was the reply; "and most disastrous was my fears that you
would never be evanescent no more. I have sustained my vigils by day and
my diaries by night at your bed-side, Master Richard; and I may say,
without mitigating against truth, that I haven't had my garments off my
back since you was first brought home."
"Indeed, Whittingham, I am deeply indebted to you, my good friend," said
Richard, pressing the faithful old domestic's hand. "But have I really
been so very ill?"
"Ill!" exclaimed Whittingham; "for these four days you have never opened
your eyes, save in delirium, until this moment. But you have been a
ravaging in your dreams--and sobbing--and moaning so! I suppose, Master
Richard, you haven't the most remotest idea of how you come home again?"
"Not in the least, Whittingham. All I recollect was, running along the
Richmond Road, in the middle of the night--with a whirlwind in my
brain--"
"And you must have fallen down from sheer fatigue," interrupted the
butler; "for two drovers picked you up, and took you to a cottage close
by. The people at the cottage searched your pockets and found your card,
so they sent off a messenger to your own house, and I went in a po-shay,
and fetched you home."
"And I have been ill four whole days!" cried Markham.
"Yes, but you don't know yet what has happened during that period," said
the butler, with a solemn shake of the head.
"Tell me all the news, Whittingham: let me know what has passed during
my illness."
"I'll repeat to you allegorically all that's incurred," resumed
Whittingham, preparing to enumerate the various incidents upon his
fingers. "In the first place--let me see--yes, it _was_ the first
incurrence of any consequence--the old sow littered. That's annygoat the
first. Then come a terrible buffoon--a tifoon, I mean--and down tumbled
the eastern stack of chimbleys. That's annygoat the second. Third, the
young water-cress gal was confined with a unlegitimated child; and so I
told her mother never to let her call here again, as we didn't encourage
immoral karikters. That's annygoat the third. Next, there's poor Ben
Halliday, who wouldn't pay the pavement rate at Holloway, 'cause he
hasn't got any pavement before his house, sold up, stick and stock; and
so I gave him a couple of guineas. Annygoat the fourth. And last of all,
a gentleman's livery servant--not that villain Yorkminster's, or
whatever his name was--come with a horse and shay and left your
pokmanty, without saying a word. That's anny--"
"My portmanteau!" exclaimed Richard, whose countenance was now suddenly
animated with a ray of hope: "and have you unpacked it?"
"Not yet: I haven't had no time."
"Bring it to the bed-side, place it upon a couple of chairs, and open it
at once," said Markham hastily. "Bestir yourself, good Whittingham: I am
anxious to see if there be any note--any letter--any--"
While Richard uttered these words with a considerable degree of
impatience, the butler dragged the portmanteau from beneath the bed,
where he had deposited it, and placed it close to his master's right
hand. It was speedily opened, unpacked, and examined throughout; the
clothes and linen were unfolded; and Richard's eyes followed the
investigation with the most painful curiosity. But there was no
letter--no note from any inmate of the count's abode.
A sudden reminiscence entered his mind. Was the document signed at the
_Dark House_ amongst his papers? He recollected having handed it to the
count; but he could not call to mind what had afterwards become of it. A
moment's examination convinced him that it had not been returned to him.
At first he was grievously annoyed by this circumstance;--in another
minute he was pleased, for it struck him that, after all, its contents
might have been perused by the count and his family when the excitement
of that fatal night had worn off. But how to wipe away the dread
suspicion raised by the Resurrection Man, relative to the burglary--oh!
that was the most painful, and yet the most necessary task of all!
Markham sank back upon his pillow, and was lost in thought, when a low
knock was heard at the door of his chamber. Whittingham answered it, and
introduced Mr. Monroe.
The old man was the very picture of care and wretchedness:--the mark of
famine was, moreover, upon his sunken cheeks. His eyes were dead and
lustreless;--his neck, his wrists, and his hands seemed nothing but skin
and bone. In spite of the cleanliness of his person, the thread-bare
shabbiness of his clothes could not escape the eye of even the most
superficial observer.
Markham had not seen him for some months; and now, forgetting his own
malady and his own cares, he felt shocked at the dreadful alteration
wrought upon the old man's person during that interval. On his part, Mr.
Monroe was not less surprised to find Richard upon a bed of sickness.
"My dear sir," said Markham, "you are ill--you are suffering--and you do
not come to me to--"
"What! you have penetrated my secret, Richard!" exclaimed the old man
bitterly. "Well--I will conceal the truth no longer: yes--myself and my
poor daughter--we are dying by inches!"
"My God! and you were too proud to come to me! Oh! how sincerely--how
eagerly would I have offered you the half of all I possess--"
"How could I come to you, Richard," interrupted the old man, bursting
into tears, "when I had already ruined you?"
"No--not you--not you," said Markham: "you were the victim of a
scoundrel; and, in acting for the best, you lost all!"
"God knows how truly you speak!" cried the old man fervently. "But tell
me--what ails you? and how long have you been upon a bed of sickness?"
"A day or two;--it is nothing! Never mind me--I am now well--at all
events, much better:--let us talk of yourself and your own affairs."
"My fate, Richard, is a melancholy one--my destiny is sad, indeed! From
the pinnacle of wealth and prosperity I have been dashed down to the
lowest abyss of destitution and misery! But it is not for myself that I
complain--it is not for myself that I suffer! I am by this time inured
to every kind of disappointment and privation:--but my daughter--my poor
Ellen! Oh! my God--it was for her sake that I came to you this morning
to implore the wherewith to purchase a loaf of bread!"
"Merciful heavens, Mr. Monroe! are you reduced to this?" cried Richard,
horror-struck at the piteous tale thus conveyed to him in a few words.
"It is true:--we are starving!" answered the old man, sinking into a
chair, and sobbing bitterly.
Whittingham walked towards the window, and wiped his eyes more than
once.
"Ah! I am glad you have come to me at last," said Markham. "I will
assist you to the utmost of my power--I will never let you want again!
Oh! that villain Montague! how many hearts has he already broken--how
many more will he yet break!"
"He is the cause of all this deep--deep misery," observed Monroe. "But
not alone by me is his name mentioned with loathing and horror: others
have doubtless been, and will yet be, his victims. I have learnt--by the
merest accident--that he has changed his name, and is now pursuing at
the West End, the same course he so successfully practised in the City."
"Changed his name!" ejaculated Markham. "And what does he call himself
now?"
"Greenwood," answered Mr. Monroe.
"Greenwood! George Montague and Greenwood one and the same person!"
cried Richard, suddenly recalling to mind the name of the individual to
whom the count had entrusted his capital. "Ah! you talk of new
victims--I know one, whose ruin is perhaps by this time consummated.
Quick--quick, Whittingham, give me writing materials: I will send a
warning--although I am afraid it is already too late!"
While Whittingham was arranging his master's portfolio upon the coverlid
of the bed, Markham reflected upon the best means of communicating to
Count Alteroni the character of the man to whom he had confided his
fortune, and whom he thought of favourably as a suitor for his
daughter's hand. Anonymous letters were detestable to the honourable and
open disposition of Richard, and he hesitated at the idea of sending a
note direct from himself, fearing that it might be thrown into the fire
the moment its signature should be perceived, and thus fail in its
proposed aim. To call upon the count was impossible: to send Mr. Monroe
was disagreeable. To communicate the important intelligence was
imperiously necessary. But how was it to be conveyed? An idea struck
across his brain in this perplexity:--he would write to the countess,
and trust to the natural curiosity of the female disposition to ensure
the perusal of his letter. He accordingly penned the ensuing epistle:--
"MADAM,
"Although calumniated in the presence of Count Alteroni, without
being permitted to justify myself; and although ruined in your
estimation, without the freedom of explanation,--believe me, I have
still the welfare of your family most sincerely at heart. As a
proof of this assertion, allow me to inform you that the Mr.
Greenwood, to whom Count Alteroni has entrusted his capital, is an
adventurer and a villain. I on several occasions casually mentioned
to you that I was plundered of all my property, before I became of
an age entitled to enjoy it. My guardian Mr. Monroe, employed a
certain Mr. Allen to speculate for him; and this Mr. Allen was
mercilessly robbed of all he possessed, and all he could raise, and
all his friends who backed him could provide him with, by a
miscreant of the name of Montague. These particulars, which I never
mentioned to you before, I now deem it requisite to acquaint you
with. Madam, that same George Montague is your Mr. Greenwood!
"I remain, Madam, your obedient servant,
"RICHARD MARKHAM."
This letter was dispatched that same evening to Richmond.