A HISTORY OF THE PAST.
Mr. de Medina was the son of a Spanish merchant, who died, leaving a
considerable fortune behind him, and of which this son was the sole
inheritor. But, by the villainy of his relations and the corrupt
decision of a Spanish judge, Mr. de Medina found himself despoiled of
the riches which were rightfully his own; and at the age of
two-and-twenty he quitted his native land in disgust, to return to
England, where indeed he had been educated, and the language of which
country he spoke as fluently as his own.
It is hardly necessary to state that Mr. de Medina was of the Jewish
persuasion; and on his arrival in London, he naturally applied to the
eminent merchants of his own creed for employment. It is the fashion in
this country to decry the Jews—to represent them as invariably sordid,
mercenary, avaricious, and griping—indeed, to carry the charges laid
against them to such a length, as to associate with their names a spirit
of usury amounting to the most flagrant and dishonourable extortion. And
these charges have been repeated so often, and echoed seriously by so
many persons deemed a respectable authority, that the prejudice against
the Jews has become interwoven with the Englishman's creed. But the
exceptions have been mistaken for the rule; and—strange as the assertion
may sound to many ears—we boldly proclaim that there is not a more
honest, intelligent, humane, and hospitable class of persons on the face
of the earth than the Jews.
The fact is, when an Englishman is broken down in fortune, and can no
longer raise funds by mortgage on his estate, nor by the credit of his
name, he flies to the money-lender. Now Jews are essentially a financial
nation; and money-broking, in all its details, is their special
avocation. The class of Israelite money-lenders is, therefore, numerous;
and it is ten to one that the broken-down individual, who requires a
loan, addresses himself to a Jew—even if he take the money-lender living
nearest to him, or to whom he is first recommended. Well—he transacts
his business with this Jew; and as he can give no security beyond his
bond or his bill, and his spendthrift habits are notorious, he cannot of
course obtain the loan he seeks save on terms proportionate to the risk
incurred by the lender. Yet he goes away, and curses the Jew as an
usurer; and thus another voice is raised to denounce the entire nation
as avaricious and griping. But does this person, however, reflect that
had he applied to a Christian money-broker, the terms would have been
equally high, seeing that he had no real security to offer, and that his
name was already tarnished? Talk of the usury of the Jews—look at the
usury practised by Christians! Look at the rapacity of Christian
attorneys!—look at the greediness of Christian bill-discounters!—look,
in a word, at the money-making spirit of the Christian, and then call
the Jew the usurer _par excellence_! It is a detestable calumny—a vile
prejudice, as dishonourable to the English character an it is unjust
towards a generous-hearted race!
We deem it right to state that these observations are recorded as
disinterestedly and as impartially—as honestly and as conscientiously,
as any other comments upon prejudices or abuses which have ever appeared
in "THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON." Not a drop of Jewish blood flows in our
veins; but we have the honour to enjoy the friendship of several
estimable families of the Jewish persuasion. We have, therefore, had
opportunities of judging of the Israelite character; and the reader must
be well aware that the writer who wields his pen _against_ a popular
prejudice is more likely to be instigated by upright motives than he who
labours to maintain it. In following the current of general opinion, one
is sure to gain friends: in adventurously undertaking to stem it, he is
equally certain to create enemies. But, thank God! this work is
addressed to an intelligent and enlightened people—to the industrious
classes of the United Kingdom—to those who are the true pillars of
England's prosperity, glory, and greatness!
When Mr. de Medina arrived, friendless and almost penniless, on the
British soil, he addressed himself to the heads of several eminent
commercial firms in the City of London,—firms, the constituents of which
were of his own persuasion. The Jews always assist each other to the
extent of their means:—do the Christians? Answer, ye cavillers against
the persecuted race of Israel! Mr. de Medina, accordingly, found
occupation; and so admirably did he conduct himself—so well did he
promote the interests of his employers, that by the time he reached the
age of thirty, he found himself a partner in the concern whose
prosperity his talents and his industry had so much enhanced. He then
repaired to Liverpool, to establish a branch-house of trade, and of
which he became the sole manager. His partners dying soon afterwards, he
effected an arrangement with their heirs, by which he abandoned all
share in the London business, and retained the Liverpool house as his
own.
His success was now extraordinary; and his dealings were proverbially
honourable and fair. He went upon the principle of doing a large
business with small gains, and paying good wages to those who were in
his employment. Thus, though naturally of a stern and severe
disposition, his name was respected and his character admired. At the
age of thirty-five—twenty years before the opening of our tale—he
married a lady of his own nation—beautiful, accomplished, and rich.
Within twelve months their union was blessed with a daughter, on whom
the name of Tamar was bestowed; and at the expiration of another year, a
second girl was born, and who was called Esther. But in giving birth to
the latter, Mrs. de Medina lost her life; and for a considerable time
the bereaved husband was inconsolable.
The kindness of his friends and a conviction of the necessity of
subduing his grief as much as possible, for the sake of the motherless
babes who were left to him, aroused Mr. de Medina from the torpor of
profound woe; and he became so passionately attached to his children,
that he would fondle them as if he himself were a child. As they grew
up, a remarkable resemblance was observed between them; and as Esther
was somewhat precocious in a physical point of view, she was as tall
when ten years old as her sister. Strangers then took them for twins,
although there was really twelve months' difference between their ages.
But they actually appeared to be counterparts of each other. Their hair
was of precisely the same intensely black and glossy shade: their eyes
were of the same dark hue and liquid lustre;—their countenances
presented each the same blending of the white and rich carnation beneath
the transparent tinge of delicate olive or bistre which marked their
origin; their very teeth were of the same shape, and shone, too, between
pairs of lips which Nature had made in the same mould, and dyed with the
same vermillion. Twin-roses did the lovely sisters seem,—roses on the
same stalk; and by the time Tamar was sixteen and Esther fifteen, the
ripe beauty of the former and the somewhat precocious loveliness of the
latter, appeared to have attained the same glorious degree of female
perfection.
But their minds were not equally similar. Tamar was vain of her personal
attractions, while Esther was reserved and bashful: the former was never
so happy as when she was the centre of attraction in a ball-room, while
the latter preferred the serene tranquillity of home. In their style of
dress they were equally different from each other. Tamar delighted in
the richest attire, and loved to deck herself with costly jewels; and,
well aware that she possessed a splendid bust, she wore her gowns so low
as to leave no room for conjecture relative to the charming fullness of
her bosom. Esther, on the contrary, selected good, but not showy
materials for her dress, and never appeared with a profusion of
jewellery. Though of proportions as rich and symmetrical as her sister,
yet she rather sought to conceal their swelling contours than display
them. Tamar was of warm and impassioned temperament, and her breast was
easily excited by fierce desires; but Esther was the embodiment of
chaste and pure notions—her soul the abode of maiden innocence!
Mr. de Medina often remonstrated with Tamar upon her love of splendid
attire, and her anxiety to shine in the circles of gaiety. But her ways
were so winning, that when she threw her arms around his neck, and
besought him not to be angry with her, or to allow her to accompany some
female friends to a ball or concert to which she had been invited, he
invariably yielded to her soft persuasion.
Tamar was a few weeks past the age of sixteen, and Esther had
accomplished her fifteenth year, when an incident occurred which was
fated to wield a material influence over the career of the elder sister.
One night Mr. de Medina, while returning home on horseback from a
neighbouring village where he had dined with a friend, was stopped and
plundered of his purse and pocket-book. He was by no means a man who was
likely to yield without resistance to the audacious demands of a
highwayman; but he was unarmed at the time—and by some accident he was
unattended by his groom. The robber, who wore a black crape over his
countenance, was armed to the teeth, and seemed resolute as well as
desperate: Mr. de Medina, therefore, risked not an useless contest with
him, but surrendered his property as above mentioned. On his return
home, and while conversing on the incident with his daughters, he
suddenly recollected that the pocket-book contained a paper of great
value and importance to himself, but of no use to any other person. He
accordingly inserted advertisements in the local newspapers, offering a
reward for the restoration of that document, and promising impunity to
the robber, if he would give it up. But for several days these
notifications remained unanswered.
A week elapsed, and one morning an individual, dressed in a
semi-sporting style, called at the house and inquired for Mr. de Medina.
But Mr. de Medina had just left home for the purpose of conducting
Esther to the dwelling of some friends who resided in the neighbourhood
of Liverpool, and with whom she was to pass a few days. Tamar was,
however, at home; and as the servant informed her that "the gentleman
said his business was important," she desired that he might be shown up
into the drawing-room. He was evidently struck by the dazzling beauty of
the Jewess who had thus accorded him an audience; and there was
something so dashing—so rakish—so off-hand, without vulgarity, in his
manner,—a something between the frankness of an open-hearted man and the
easy politeness of one who knows the world well,—that Tamar did not
treat him with that degree of cold courtesy which seems to say, "Have
the kindness to explain your business, and then you may depart." But she
requested him to be seated; and when he made a few observations which
led to a connected discourse on the gaiety and "doings" of the Liverpool
folks, she suffered herself to be drawn into the conversation without
pausing to ask the motive of his visit. Thus nearly half-an-hour passed
away: and while Tamar thought to herself that she had never met a more
agreeable gentleman in her life—and certainly never one who possessed
such a brilliant set of teeth, or who looked so well in tops and
cords,—the stranger came to a conclusion equally favourable concerning
herself. Indeed, he was quite charmed with the personal attractions and
the conversation of the beautiful Jewess; and when he took his leave,
she forgot that he had not communicated his business, nor even his name.
When her father returned home in the afternoon, she mentioned to him the
visit of the stranger; but added that he only remained a few moments,
and would not explain his business to her. Mr. de Medina immediately
expressed his belief that the call had some reference to his
advertisement concerning the lost paper. But Tamar enthusiastically
repelled the suspicion; declaring that, though he had not stayed a
minute, yet his manners, appearance, and address, were of too superior a
nature to be associated with a dishonourable avocation. Mr. de Medina
asked if he had intimated when he should call again; to which question
Tamar, fearful that it would appear strange to give a negative reply,
answered—"In a few days." Thus terminated a conversation in which Tamar
had been guilty of much duplicity, and which was marked by the first
deliberate falsehood which she ever unblushingly told her father.
On the following day the stranger returned; and Mr. de Medina, not
having expected him so soon, was not at home to receive him. But Tamar
was in the drawing-room, to which he was conducted as on the previous
day. It was summer-time, and she was engaged in tying up the drooping
heads of some flowers in the large balcony. The stranger begged her not
to desist from her occupation; but, on the contrary, offered, in his gay
manner of frank politeness, to assist her. She could not refuse his
aid—she did not wish to refuse it; and they were soon engaged in a very
interesting conversation. He held the stalks of the flowers, too, while
she tied the thread; and her beautiful hand passed over that of the
stranger's—_not_ without touching it; while her breath, sweeter than the
perfume of the flowers themselves, fanned his cheek. Once, when he
stooped a little lower, under pretence of examining a particular
rose-bud more closely, his hair mingled with hers, and he could see that
the rich glow of excitement flooded her countenance—her neck—and even
extended to the bosom, of which he was enabled, by her stooping posture,
to catch more than partial glimpses.
When next their eyes met, there seemed to be already a tacit kind of
intelligence established between them,—an intelligence which appeared to
say she knew he had allowed his hair to mingle with hers on purpose, and
that she had not withdrawn her head because the contact pleased her. The
interesting conversation was continued; and an hour had passed before
either the stranger showed the slightest sign of an intention to take
his leave, or Tamar remembered how long they had been alone together.
When he did at length take up his hat and his riding-whip, he also
picked up a flower which Tamar had accidentally broken off from its stem
in the balcony; and placing it in his buttonhole without making the
slightest allusion to the little incident, he bowed and quitted the
room.
He had been gone at least ten minutes ere Tamar again recollected that
he had not mentioned his business nor told his name. She had been
thinking of the incident of the flower;—yes—and also of the commingling
of her raven locks with his fine, manly light hair. When her father
returned home on this occasion, she did not mention the fact of the
stranger's visit at all. Throughout the remainder of that day she
wondered whether he would return on the following one; and she made up
her mind, if he did, not to suffer him to depart before she had elicited
his business and his name. In the evening she went out to make a few
purchases at a shop in a neighbouring street; and she was retracing her
way, when two young men, walking arm-in-arm, and smoking cigars,—having
withal something most offensively obtrusive in their entire
appearance,—stopped short in front of Tamar, literally barred her way,
and began to address her in that flippant, coarse style which, without
being absolutely obscene, is nevertheless particularly insulting.
"Gentlemen—if such you be," said Tamar, in a dignified manner, "I
request you to let me pass."—"Well, won't you let us escort you home,
wherever it is?" demanded one; "for you're a devilish sweet girl, upon
my honour."—Scarcely were these words uttered when the long lash of a
riding-whip began to belabour the backs of the two young swells in a
fashion that made them almost scream with agony; and Tamar, who
instantly stepped aside, recognised in the champion that had thus come
to her assistance, the very individual who was uppermost in her thoughts
at the moment when she was stopped in the insulting manner described.
The two swells were for an instant so taken by surprise that they
dropped each other's arm and their cigars simultaneously, and began to
caper about in the most extraordinary manner, the stranger continuing to
lash them with so good a will, and yet in such an easy, unexcited
manner, that Tamar could scarcely forbear from laughing heartily. But
when they perceived that there was only one assailant, they rushed in
upon the stranger, and endeavoured to close with him. He did not retreat
a single step, but hitting one of them a heavy blow on the wrist with
the butt-end of his whip, he sent _him_ off roaring, while with his left
hand he caught the _other_ by the collar of the coat and swinging him
round—apparently without any extraordinary effort—laid him on his back
in the dust. He then offered his arm to Tamar, and led her away as
quietly as if nothing had happened, at the same time commencing a
discourse upon some totally different topic, as if he would not even
give her an opportunity of thanking him for the manner in which he had
chastised the insulting youngsters.
But Tamar _did_ thank him—and very warmly too; for this feat was just
one of the very nature calculated to improve the hold which the stranger
already had upon the heart of the beautiful Jewess. She now looked upon
him with admiration; for all women love bravery in a man;—and his
bravery was so real—so natural—so totally devoid of impetuous excitement
when called into action, and so free from any subsequent desire to
elicit flattery,—that she beheld in him a character at once generous and
noble. She could have thrown her arms round his neck, and said,
"Stranger! whoever you may be, I admire—I love you!" And when he _did_
take her hand, as she leant upon his arm, and when he pressed it
gently—then let it fall without uttering a word, but fixed his deep
blue, laughing, and expressive eyes upon her countenance with a
steadiness that meant much though his tongue was silent, a soft—a
delicious languor came over her, congenial with the moonlight hour.
He conducted her to within a few doors of her father's house, and then
took leave of her, saying, "I shall see you again to-morrow." She
entered her dwelling, and retired immediately to her chamber; for her
heart was filled with a happiness which she knew that her countenance
would betray. When she met her father at supper, she was more composed;
and she said not a word to him concerning the occurrence of the evening.
On the following day the stranger called again; and again did he find
Tamar alone in the drawing-room. On this occasion she extended to him
her hand, which he took and pressed to his lips. The maiden did not
withdraw it; and her cheeks—her neck—her bosom were flushed with the
thrilling glow of excitement, while her eyes expressed a voluptuous
languor. The stranger drew her towards him—their lips met: they embraced
tenderly. Then he declared his love for her—and she murmured words in
reply which convinced him that he was loved in return. Thus, on the
fourth occasion of their meeting, did they pour fourth the secrets of
their hearts; and Tamar plighted her affection to one whose name she as
yet knew not!
Their happy interview was suddenly disturbed by a loud knock at the
street-door; and Tamar exclaimed, "My father!" The stranger implored her
to compose herself; and she had succeeded in assuming a collected and
tranquil demeanour, when Mr. de Medina entered the room. Her lover was
standing at a respectful distance from Tamar, with whom he appeared to
be exchanging the mere courteous observations which usually pass between
perfect strangers. Mr. de Medina requested him to be seated, and
inquired his business. "I have called relative to the advertisements
which you inserted in the newspapers," was the reply.—"I thought as
much!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina: then, turning towards his daughter, he
said, "Tamar, my love, you can leave us."—The maiden dared not disobey
the hint thus conveyed; but as she passed behind her father to quit the
room, she darted upon her lover a look so full of meaning—so expressive
of ardent affection, that it seemed to say, "Be you who and what you
may, I shall never cease to adore you!" And he returned that look with a
glance more rapid but equally significant of tenderness.
When she had left the room, Mr. de Medina continued by observing, "May I
have the pleasure of learning your name?"—"Certainly," was the off-hand
answer. "I am called Thomas Rainford."—"And your business with me, sir,"
added Mr. de Medina, in a cold tone and with suspicious manner, "is
relative to the paper of which I was robbed?"—"Precisely so," exclaimed
Tom Rain. "A more suitable person than myself could not possibly have
called respecting the affair."—"How so, sir?" demanded Mr. de Medina,
his manner growing still more suspicious.—"Simply, because it was I who
robbed you," was the cool answer; and Tom Rain's merry laugh rang
through the room.—"You!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina, starting from his
seat. "Then how dare you show your face here?"—"Oh! very easily,"
replied Rainford, without moving from his chair. "In the first place
your advertisements promise impunity to the robber, on condition that he
restores the document; in the second place, if you contemplated any
treachery, it would only be the worse for you and would not injure me;
and thirdly, it struck me that I had better come in person to give you
up the paper, because it might have miscarried through the post, or a
messenger might have lost it. However, here it is, Mr. de Medina; and
had you not advertised for it, I should have restored it to you. I am no
rascally extortioner: I never hold men's private papers as a means of
drawing money from them. What I do, I do boldly and in true John Bull
fashion. A jolly highwayman, Mr. de Medina, is as different from a
sneaking pickpocket or a low swindler, as an attorney in grand practice
is different from the paltry pettifogger who hangs about the doors of
criminal courts or police-offices. It is not often I boast in this way,
Mr. de Medina; but I thought you might as well understand that a
principle of honour alone, and neither fear nor hope of reward, has
induced me to restore you that document. As for fear, I never knew it;
and as for reward, I should not think of taking it, were you to offer
any."—Mr. de Medina gazed upon Rainford in astonishment, as much as to
say, "You are really a very extraordinary person!" But his lips uttered
not what the countenance expressed.
The highwayman rose, bowed with easy politeness to Mr. de Medina, and
quitted the room. As he was crossing the landing towards the stairs, the
door of an apartment adjoining that where he had just left Mr. de
Medina, was cautiously opened, and Tamar thrust a note into his hand. He
caught a glimpse of her countenance as he received it; and he saw that
she had been weeping. When he reached the street, he tore open the note,
and read as follows:—"_I have overheard all! But I do not love thee the
less, my brave—my gallant Rainford! This evening, I shall have occasion
to call at two or three shops in the same street where you rescued me
from insult yesterday._"—Need we inform our readers that Tom Rain kept
the appointment thus given him? Or need we say how the lovers
subsequently met as often as Tamar could leave the house without
exciting suspicion? Yes—they met frequently; and each interview only
tended to strengthen the profound attachment which they had formed for
each other.
And no wonder that Tom Rain loved his beautiful Tamar; for
beautiful—ravishingly beautiful she indeed was! To behold her
countenance, was passion;—to gaze on her admirable shape, was
rapture;—to meet the glances of her fine black eyes was fascination!
And, oh! how devotedly she loved Rainford in return! To her he was a
hero; for, although she knew him to be a highwayman, yet well was she
aware that he never stooped to a petty meanness, and that his soul was
endowed with many noble—many generous qualities. One daring feat which
he performed a few weeks after she first became acquainted with him,
converted her admiration into a positive enthusiasm; so that the Empress
Josephine could not have more ardently worshipped Napoleon than did
Tamar her Tom Rain!
Thus it happened:—One night the Liverpool and Manchester coach was
stopped on its way to the former town, by a single highwayman, who wore
a crape over his face, was well mounted, and equally well armed.
Although the coach was crowded with passengers, most of whom were men,
yet so terrible was the robber even in his very coolness—so formidable
with his easy air of unconcern, that all were paralysed with fear. No
resistance was offered him; and he reaped an excellent harvest from the
purses of the passengers. One gentleman, who happened to be the Mayor of
Liverpool, was so bewildered by terror, that though only asked for his
money, he handed to the highwayman both purse and watch. The latter was
returned, the robber declaring that he scorned any thing save the
current coin of the realm or good Bank-notes. From the female passengers
he took nothing; and, perceiving by the moonlight a poor shivering girl
of about fifteen seated outside at the back of the coach, he asked her a
few questions. The brief and timid replies which she gave were ample
enough to render intelligible a tale of suffering and woe; and the
highwayman, drawing forth five guineas, said, "Here, my dear, you need
not be afraid to accept this trifle. It comes from a pocket into which
none of these gentlemen's gold has gone."—And before the poor girl could
utter a word in reply, the highwayman put spurs to his horse, and
disappeared in a few moments.
But this action on his part did not disarm the male passengers, who had
been robbed, of their rage and their rancour. The Mayor was particularly
indignant: the entire town of Liverpool had been insulted—grossly
insulted in his worshipful person! Such wrath required a vent; and it
found an issue by means of advertising the daring robbery. The Mayor
announced, in all the local papers and by means of placards, "_that any
one who should be instrumental in bringing the highwayman before him,
would receive the sum of two hundred pounds as a reward_." But a week
elapsed before these proclamations received any answer. At the
expiration of that time the following incident occurred. One evening,
the Mayor entertained a select party of friends at a splendid banquet.
The cloth had been removed some time—the ladies had retired to the
drawing-room—and the gentlemen, about a dozen in number, were passing
the wine rapidly round, when a servant entered to inform his master that
a person wished to speak to him in the hall. The servant's manner was
somewhat embarrassed; and, upon being questioned, he said that the
stranger seemed to wear a mask, as his face was too hideous to be
possibly a human one. The Mayor trembled; and his guests caught the
infection of his terror. His worship hazarded an opinion that the
visitor was perhaps in some way connected with the highwayman who had
robbed the Manchester and Liverpool coach; and he directed the servant
to show the stranger into the study and then run and fetch a constable.
But scarcely were these commands issued, when the door opened; and in
walked the object of interest and fear. The Mayor and his guests uttered
simultaneous ejaculations of terror; for never did mortal man possess so
frightful a face; and as it was partially shaded by a huge quantity of
hair and a large slouched hat, it was impossible to decide whether it
were really a mask or a natural physiognomy. The nose was enormous, and
studded with carbuncles and warts: the cheeks were fiery red; and the
chin was of dimensions proportionate with the nasal promontory. This
terrible being was enveloped in a long cloak; but through the holes cut
for the purpose appeared his arms, the hands holding each a tremendous
horse-pistol as big as a blunderbuss.
Placing his back against the door, the intruder said, in a voice which
he rendered as hollow and fierce as possible, "Most worshipful Mayor!
you have advertised that any one who is instrumental in bringing a
certain highwayman before you, shall receive the sum of two hundred
pounds as a reward. _I am_ the highwayman alluded to: I have brought
myself before you; and I appeal to the wisdom and justice of the
intelligent gentlemen seated round your board, whether I have not fairly
earned the recompense promised?"—"But," stammered the Mayor, "I meant
that any one who would bring the robber a prisoner before me, should be
entitled to the reward."—"I don't care what you meant," returned the
highwayman: "I only know what your advertisements and placards say. You
should get the corporation to vote funds to enable you to attach a
grammarian to your establishment. He would be more useful than the
sword-bearer, I think," added the audacious robber, with a merry laugh
in his natural tone. "But I have no leisure to bandy words with you.
Tell out the two hundred pounds; or I shall be under the disagreeable
necessity of allowing one of these little instruments to empty its
contents in the direction of your head."—And, with these words, he
raised a pistol. The Mayor uttered an exclamation of terror, and cast an
imploring glance rapidly around. But all his guests were sitting like
statues—in blank dismay. The Mayor saw that he must not look to them for
assistance; and yet he was very loath to part with two hundred pounds in
such an unsatisfactory manner.—"But how do I know that you really are
the person who robbed the coach?" he asked, the words evidently costing
him a most painful effort to enunciate them.—"Because I can tell you
every incident that occurred on the occasion," was the answer.—"That
information you may have received from hearsay or gleaned from the
papers," returned the Mayor, gathering courage as he found the robber
willing to argue the point with him.—"I will give you another proof,"
said the robber. "There was a bad guinea in the purse I took from you.
Are you satisfied now?"—"Not quite," rejoined the Mayor, hoping that by
gaining time, some chance might place the daring visitor in his
power.—"Then I have one more proof to offer you," said the robber. "In a
corner of the purse there was a scrap of paper containing the receipt of
an overseer of some parish in Manchester for the quarter's money due for
the maintenance of your worship's bastard; and so I suppose you had been
to that town to pay it."—The Mayor was aghast as this announcement burst
upon him; for, though he had lost the receipt in question, it had never
struck him that he had placed it in his purse when he paid the money at
Manchester. The guests surveyed their worshipful host in astonishment;
and the servant giggled behind his chair.—"_Now_ are you satisfied?"
demanded the highwayman. "Remember, you brought it on yourself."—The
Mayor, partially recovering his presence of mind, affected to laugh off
the matter as a capital joke on the part of the robber; but he made no
farther objection to pay the two hundred pounds. This he was enabled to
do, by borrowing all the money that his guests had about them, and
adding it to the contents of his own pocket; for the highwayman would
neither take a cheque nor allow him to quit the room to procure the
requisite sum from his strong-box. The robber would not even leave his
post at the door, but compelled the Mayor to rise from the table and
bring the cash and notes to him—a proceeding which his worship liked as
little as might be, seeing that it brought him into awful vicinity with
the nose, the chin, and the pistols. At length the business was settled;
and the highwayman withdrew, locking the door behind him,—but not before
he had assured the company that if they attempted to open the windows
and raise an alarm in the street after him, he would instantly return
and put them all to death.
This incident was in every body's mouth next day, throughout the good
town of Liverpool and its environs; and the Mayor was most heartily
laughed at. But Tamar alone knew the name of the daring individual who
had perpetrated so audacious a feat.
The beautiful Jewess carefully concealed her amour from her sister and
her father. Indeed, Esther never saw Tom Rain during the whole time that
he remained in Liverpool. But one day Tamar disappeared, leaving a note
behind her, addressed to her sister, whom she begged to break to their
father her flight and its cause. She stated that her happiness—her life
were wrapped up in Thomas Rainford: and that as she was well aware her
sire would never consent to her union with him, even if the usages of
the Jewish nation sanctioned an alliance with a Christian, she had taken
a step which she should regret only on account of the distress it might
create in the minds of her father and sister. Esther could scarcely
believe her eyes when she read the appalling contents of this note. She
fancied that she was in a dream: then, when the full conviction of the
truth burst upon her, and she comprehended that her sister had really
fled with Rainford, she gave way to all the wildness of her grief—for
she was deeply, deeply attached to Tamar!
But how did Mr. de Medina bear this cruel blow? He wept not—he gave
vent to no passionate exclamation—he manifested no excitement. But,
after remaining wrapt up in profound meditation for upwards of an
hour, while Esther sate near, watching him with the deepest—most
acutely painful suspense,—a long, long hour of utter silence, broken
only by the frequent sobs that told the maiden's anguish,—Mr. de
Medina spoke in a calm, deliberate, but stern and relentless
tone:—"Henceforth, Esther, I have but one daughter—_thyself_! Let the
name of Tamar never more be uttered in my presence. Destroy every
thing in the house which may tend to remind me that there once dwelt
such a being here—the music whereon her name is written, the drawings
which she executed, the very window-hangings which she embroidered.
Destroy them all, Esther—keep them not—I command you, as you value my
blessing! And henceforth—whatever may occur, never speak of your
sister. In the presence of those who are aware that you _had_ a
sister, cut short any allusion that the thoughtless might make
respecting her, by observing emphatically—'_I have no sister
now!_'—for should such allusion be made before me, my reproof and my
response would be, '_I have but one daughter—and her name is Esther_!'
It is my intention to wind up my affairs as speedily as possible and
retire from business. Had not _this_ occurred, I should have toiled a
few years longer to amass an immense fortune to be divided between
_two_: now the fortune which I possess will be immense enough for
_one_. And that _one_, Esther, is thyself! But two or three years may
elapse before I shall be enabled so to condense the vast details of my
undertakings into such a narrow compass that I may terminate them all
prosperously. During these two or three years we must remain in
Liverpool: but our sojourn here shall not last a day—no, nor an hour
longer than my affairs render imperatively necessary. We will then
repair to London; for it is in the giant metropolis alone that we may
hope to conceal from the world this disgrace—this infamy—this blight
which has fallen upon a family whose name, I had fondly hoped, would
have gone down untainted from generation to generation—even as it had
descended to me from a long line of honourable and honoured ancestors!
These, Esther, are my resolves: seek not to move me.—I am now
inflexible! Nay—implore me not to change my determination, stern
though it may appear: it is immutable as those Median and Persian laws
whereof mention is made in the Book of Books. _Henceforth I have but
one daughter!_"
[Illustration]
And having thus announced the inexorable resolves on which his mind had
settled itself during that long, long hour of deep and silent
meditation, the Jew bent down and kissed the brow of his kneeling
daughter with an affection which in its tenderness contrasted strangely
with the stern severity of the conduct that he had determined to pursue
in respect to the lost—the guilty—the disowned Tamar! He then hurried
from the room; and Esther—poor Esther! was left alone to shed torrents
of unavailing tears, and give vent to fruitless sobs and sighs.
But, oh! what pen can describe the acuteness of her affliction—the
anguish of her gentle heart, when, not daring altogether to disobey the
will of her sire, she removed from their frames the charming landscapes
which Tamar had painted in water-colours, and placed out of sight the
music copies whereon the name of Tamar was penned in her own sweet,
fluent handwriting! And blame not Esther, gentle reader—no, blame her
not, if, disobedient as to the literal meaning of her father's commands,
she retained those paintings and that music,—retained them as memorials
of the lost sister whom she so fondly loved! But she secured them in her
own chamber; and, alas—poor girl! as she placed the pictures one by one
in a drawer, their best tints and their brightest colours were marred by
the scalding tears that fell upon them! For, oh! acute as the pain
inflicted by the merciless knife which the surgeon wields to amputate a
limb, was this task to the sensitive heart of Esther,—a task involving a
deed wearing in her eyes the semblance of profanity,—for little short of
_that_ appeared the removal from their wonted places of those memorials
of the disowned and cast-off Tamar. 'Twas like crushing all the
reminiscences of a sweet sisterhood,—'twas like cutting away from her
heart the brightest thoughts that had hitherto clung around it—tearing
rudely off the flowers that encircled Hope's youthful brow, and
entombing the choice memories of a happy girlhood!
Then, when the music-books and the pictures were thus removed from the
places where she had so long been accustomed to see them, how mournful
to her was the sight of the tuneful, but now silent piano on which the
former had been piled up—how naked appeared the walls to which the
latter had hung! And next she was compelled to take down the very
hangings which Tamar had embroidered for the drawing-room windows; and
there was fresh cause for tears—fresh motive for the renewal, or rather
for the continuation of her grief! But the task was nevertheless
completed; and the drapery was also retained by Esther as a memorial of
her sister. Not for worlds could she have brought herself to that frame
of mind which would have been necessary to enable her to achieve the
_destruction_ of all those objects,—no—not even were her father to
menace her with his direst curse! When Mr. de Medina again appeared in
the suite of rooms which had been subject to the changes just detailed,
he cast a rapid glance around him, and perceiving that his orders had
been obeyed so far as _removal_ went, asked not a question relative to
the manner in which the various objects had been disposed of: but,
settling his looks upon Esther's countenance, after that hasty survey,
he said emphatically, "_Thank God! I possess an obedient—a dutiful—an
affectionate child!_"
In the meantime Tom Rain and the beautiful Tamar were far away from
Liverpool, on their road to London; and when they reached the great
metropolis, they hired a neat lodging in a secluded neighbourhood—for
they entertained apprehensions that Mr. de Medina might endeavour to
trace his fugitive daughter. Tamar did not, in this respect, know her
father's disposition well. Judging by his past kindness, she argued
accordingly—little imagining that he had strength of mind sufficient to
adopt the fearful alternative of casting her off for ever! Rainford had
so well stocked himself with coin during his sojourn in Liverpool and
its neighbourhood, that there was no immediate necessity of exercising
his _professional skill_, or rather _valour_, to supply resources; and
several weeks glided away happily—the happiest of his life! He loved
Tamar most tenderly and devotedly; and she not only loved him in
return—but absolutely adored him. Oh! how she worshipped her gallant
highwayman, who was so brave—so generous—and withal so kind to her.
Never was there a better temper than that of Tom Rain: it was impossible
for him to be put out of humour. He would have scorned the idea of
raising a quarrel for the mere sake of making it up again. He saw no
amusement in such maudlin proceedings: dissensions, bickerings, and
domestic feuds were his abhorrence. He looked upon woman as the weaker
vessel, whom man was bound to protect. He thought it beneath him to
dispute with a female; because with him it could be a mere warfare of
words, to which none but a coward would put an end by means of a blow.
Besides, he hated that strife which is waged with the tongue: if a man
offended him, he did not wait to argue the point, but quietly knocked
him down. That was his first and last reason when irritated: but he
could not adopt the same course with a woman, and he therefore most
rationally concluded that it was perfectly useless to quarrel with her.
Tamar, like all young and beautiful women—especially being placed as it
were in an equivocal position—was jealous. Tom Rain loved to visit all
the strange places in which London abounds, that he might make himself
acquainted with the "lights and shades" of metropolitan life; and
sometimes Tamar complained that he was too long absent. "Now, my dear
girl," he would say, "I give you as much of my time as possible; and
when I tell you that I shall be home at a certain hour, I never
disappoint you. But do not show ill-humour because I take a couple of
hours to myself. So now kiss me, and do not teach that pretty face to
frown." His good temper invariably proved irresistible; and in the
course of time his mistress never thought of manifesting any opposite
feeling. Indeed, he was so kind—so good—so attentive towards her, that,
had it not been for the frequent intrusion of a painful reminiscence
concerning her father and sister, Tamar would have been completely
happy.
After remaining for some months in London, Rainford and his beautiful
mistress set off for the northern counties, where the highwayman reaped
a rich harvest. His midnight expeditions were frequent, because his mode
of living was by no means economical: he delighted in good cheer—denied
himself nothing that he fancied—and yet was neither a drunkard nor a
glutton. He was moreover generous and liberal to an extreme, and,
emulative of the character of Robin Hood, gave to the poor no
inconsiderable portion of what he took from the rich. Tamar was,
moreover, fond of handsome apparel and resplendent jewellery; and
Rainford took a delight in gratifying all her whims and fancies. Thus
money was lavishly expended by them; but the highway was an
inexhaustible treasury to which Rainford never had recourse in vain. The
perils he incurred, in these predatory expeditions, were of course
numerous and great; but his dauntless valour—his wonderful presence of
mind—and the determined resolution with which he as it were met danger
face to face, invariably saved him from capture. At first Tamar was
dreadfully frightened when Rainford took leave of her to "get a draught
on his treasury cashed," as he laughingly termed his nocturnal
expeditions; but as he invariably returned home about the hour he had
promised, those apprehensions wore off, and she at length became
comparatively easy in her mind during his absence.
Thus did time pass away, until nearly three years had elapsed since
Tamar first met Rainford at Liverpool. During the whole of this period
she had heard nothing of her father and sister; and no allusion was ever
made to them by her lover or herself when together. But she did not the
less devote frequent thoughts to the author of her being and the
much-loved Esther, both of whom she longed—oh! ardently longed to
embrace once more.
The reader has already learnt the motives which induced Tom Rain to
visit the metropolis towards the close of the year 1826. The important
information which, during his travels about England in company with
Tamar, he gleaned from the gipsy Miranda, led him to betake himself once
more to London. It happened that Mr. de Medina and Esther arrived in the
capital almost at the same time; for the merchant had not been able to
wind up his affairs until that period. Retiring from business with a
large fortune, he had resolved to quit Liverpool—a place which
constantly brought back the most painful reminiscences to his mind, in
spite of his stern resolve to disown his elder daughter for ever. But
Esther—had she forgotten Tamar? Oh! no—the memory of the fond sister was
immortal; and she would have given whole years of her life to clasp
Tamar in her arms again!
This tender aspiration was speedily destined to be gratified. One
afternoon, towards the close of October, 1826, Esther de Medina was
returning home to Great Ormond Street, after having been to make a few
purchases in Holborn, when she encountered her sister Tamar, who was
also alone at the time. Fortunately the street where they thus met was
in a quiet neighbourhood and at that moment almost deserted: otherwise,
the ejaculations of surprise and delight which the sisters uttered, and
the eagerness with which they flew into each other's arms, might have
drawn upon them an attention by no means agreeable. As it was, they
escaped any particular notice; and hastening to the least frequented
side of Queen Square, they entered into long and serious conversation
together. Tamar implored Esther to tell her how their father had
received the tidings of her flight; and the younger sister was so
overcome by her emotions, that she allowed the entire truth to be
extracted from her by the questioning and cross-questioning of the
impatient Tamar. Thus was it that the latter learnt how she had been
disowned—cast off for ever! Terrible were the efforts which it cost her
to subdue a violent outburst of grief; and her heart seemed as if it
would break, when in a low tone she addressed her sister thus:—"Esther
dearest, my father has no cause to apprehend that I shall proclaim
myself his daughter. No—let him boldly declare that he has but _one_
child—_thyself_! I know not how long I may remain in London; but this I
faithfully promise you, that I will appear abroad as little as possible,
and then only with my countenance concealed by a dark veil, so long as
the interests of him whom I love may compel him to dwell in this city.
That we shall be long here, I do not believe. Tell our father, Esther,
that we have thus met; and communicate to him those assurances that I
have now given thee."—Esther clung to her sister for support: that
language was distressing to the young maiden to hear.—"And are you
happy, Tamar?" she asked, weeping bitterly.—"As happy as woman can be,
whose father has disowned her and who is separated from her sister,"
replied Tamar, now weeping also. "Yes, dearest Esther, I am happy with
_him_ whom I love so well, and who is so kind, so fond towards
me!"—"This assurance diminishes my grief," murmured Esther. "Oh! how
glad I am that we have thus met: this interview has suddenly relieved me
of a tremendous weight of cruel uncertainty regarding thee! But, alas!
Tamar, why did you desert your happy home? why did you abandon a father
and a sister who loved you so tenderly?"—"Esther, hast thou not yet
known _that love_ which is so different from the affection existing even
between parents and their children, or between those who are so closely
linked in the bonds of kinship as yourself and I?"—"No!"—"Well, then,
Esther, I can scarcely make you comprehend how much more deserving of
pity than blame I am! He whom I love so well came to the house—I did not
seek him; and my heart soon—oh! full soon became his. Could I help it?
It were vain and idle to say that we can control those feelings which
constitute the passion of Love! No earthly power could have restrained
the current of that attachment which hurried me along to the
accomplishment of what became my destiny. And when one loves as I loved
and still love, Esther,—and as I am loved in return,—father, sister,
home, kindred, friends—all are forgotten! Oh! this is true—so true, that
you would not blame me, did you know what it is to love as I
love!"—"Blame you, dearest sister!" exclaimed Esther. "Never! never!"
And she clasped Tamar fervently in her arms; but it was now dark, and
that part of the square to which they had retired for the purpose of
unrestrained discourse, echoed to no voices save their own.
When the sisters were a little more composed, Esther informed Tamar of
all that had occurred since they had last seen each other,—how their
father had renounced the cares and fatigues of business, and had
resolved to settle altogether in London; and how he was then negotiating
with the Earl of Ellingham for the tenancy of a small but compact estate
near Finchley. The sisters then agreed to correspond together; for
Esther secretly hoped that her father would not deny her the pleasure of
receiving letters from her sister. Tamar was accordingly to address her
correspondence to Great Ormond Street; and Esther was to direct her
letters to "_T. J., South Moulton Street_," where Rainford and his
mistress were then passing under the name of Jameson. The sisters were
now about to part, when, Esther, drawing a diamond ring from her finger
placed it in Tamar's hand: then taking a small pair of scissors from her
reticule, she cut off the end of one of her own ringlets, which, having
folded in a piece of paper, she also presented to her sister, saying in
her softest, sweetest tones,—"Tamar, the love which subsists between us,
no circumstances can destroy—no length of absence impair. We are about
to separate: and, though with the hope of meeting again, still that
meeting might be deferred by accidents at present unforeseen. I would
that you should possess some memorial of your sister——"—"Oh! is it
necessary?" exclaimed Tamar, in an impassioned tone of profound
sincerity.—"If not necessary, it would be at least soothing to my
feelings," said Esther; "for I possess memorials of you, in your
drawings and your music. Grant me, then, the favour which I am about to
ask you."—"Name it, sister," replied Tamar, now deeply affected in her
turn.—"It is, dearest," continued the amiable Esther, "that you dispose
of the ring which I have now presented to you, and that with the
proceeds you will have made a locket in which my hair may be set, and on
the inner side of which my name may be engraved. This I implore you to
do, my sister; and I know that you will not refuse me."—"The next time
we meet, Esther," said Tamar, in a tone tremulous with emotion, "I will
show you the locket."—The sisters then separated with aching hearts.
On her return home, Esther frankly and candidly confessed to her father
all that had occurred. For some minutes Mr. de Medina remained silent;
and Esther observed that a tear trembled upon his lash. But the hope
thereby excited within her, died away, when her father turned abruptly
round, and said, "Esther, you have not acted well. That you should speak
to her who was once my daughter, is natural. But that you should arrange
with her the means of correspondence, was wrong. I desire that the first
letter which she may address to this house, shall also be the last."—The
Jew then quitted the room, leaving his daughter in tears.
On the very next day Tamar wrote a long and most affectionate letter to
her sister; and Esther was compelled to inform her, in the reply, of the
harsh command issued by their father. But that very severity on the part
of Mr. de Medina to some extent—at least in this particular
instance—destroyed that frank and open-hearted confidence which Esther
had hitherto manifested towards him, and which was inherent in her
nature. She could not make up her mind to break off all correspondence
with her sister; and yet she dared not receive any future letters at the
house in Great Ormond Street. The idea of having Tamar's letters
addressed elsewhere, naturally suggested itself, therefore, to her
imagination; and she accordingly made an arrangement at the post-office
in Southampton Row, by which the woman who kept the shop consented to
receive and keep for Esther any missives that might be thus
addressed:—"_A. B. C., Post Office, Southampton Row. To be left till
called for._" That same evening Esther wrote another letter to her
sister, acquainting her with this arrangement; and we should observe
that Tamar duly communicated all these circumstances to Tom Rain, who
was delighted to find that she whom he so fondly loved had experienced
so much happiness by thus meeting and corresponding with her sister. The
highwayman was not, however, a little astonished when he had learnt from
Tamar that Mr. de Medina was about to become the tenant of the Earl of
Ellingham; and it was then for the first time that he communicated to
his mistress the full particulars of all that the gipsy Miranda had told
him, and which had made him acquainted with his parentage,—particulars
already so well known to the reader.
The seventh day after these events was the 31st of October—a date
rendered memorable, so far as this narrative is concerned, by the affair
of the diamonds. It was about five o'clock in the afternoon of the day
named, that Tamar called on Mr. Gordon, the diamond-merchant in Arundel
Street, to dispose of her ring. Rainford would have transacted the
business for her, but he was occupied at the time in effecting his
negotiations with Old Death; and, moreover, Tamar considered it to be a
matter exclusively regarding herself. We must confess that the idea of
possessing the means of procuring a beautiful locket shared in her mind
the place that ought to have been entirely occupied by the proofs she
had received of her sister's devoted attachment. But Tamar was
passionately enamoured of resplendent jewellery; and when, in Mr.
Gordon's apartments, she beheld a beautiful set of diamonds lying in an
open case upon the table, the temptation became irresistible. It cannot
be supposed that she had been very nearly three years the companion of a
highwayman without having her notions of _mine_ and _thine_ considerably
shaken; and through her brain instantly flashed the thought——"Wherefore
should not I make myself the mistress of those charming jewels, as well
as Tom render himself the possessor of a purse on the main road?"
Scarcely was the idea conceived, when she resolved to execute it; and
she haggled with the diamond-merchant relative to the price which he was
to pay for the ring, merely to gain an opportunity to self-appropriate
the diamonds. That opportunity served; and she departed alike with the
produce of the ring and of the theft!
But scarcely had she reached the street, when her sentiments underwent a
complete revulsion; and she would have given worlds to be able to recall
the last ten minutes. For an instant she paused, hesitating whether she
should not return into the presence of Mr. Gordon and restore him the
diamonds. Fear, however, prevented her,—a fear lest he might consider
her deserving of punishment for having abstracted them at all. She
accordingly hurried away towards South Moulton Street. But during her
walk thither, she reflected that Rainford might be much annoyed with her
for the deed she had committed; and the more she pondered thereon, the
more powerful became her conviction that he would be more than
annoyed—in fact, deeply incensed. She accordingly made up her mind to
conceal the circumstance from him, and seek the earliest possible
opportunity of sending back the diamonds, by some safe means, to Mr.
Gordon.
On her arrival in South Moulton Street, she found a letter from Esther.
It contained assurances of ardent affection, but apologised for its
brevity, on the ground that it was then already one o'clock in the day,
and that at two Lord Ellingham's carriage was to be at the door to
convey his lordship, her father, and herself to view the mansion and
estate near Finchley. She added that they were to dine at the mansion,
and were not to return until late in the evening. Tom Rain was present
in the room when Tamar read this note; and she communicated its contents
to him. Two nights afterwards he departed on a little expedition; and on
this occasion Lady Hatfield was robbed by the highwayman near Bedfont.
On the ensuing morning Rainford was arrested, and conveyed to Bow
Street; but he escaped with impunity, in the manner already described.
But how great was his astonishment when he heard the name of Esther de
Medina pronounced in the court; and with what interest—with what
respectful admiration, did he survey the sister of his Tamar—that sister
who loved her whom the father had disowned! When Mr. Gordon was called
forward, and stated his name and calling, Rainford began to grow uneasy;
for he knew that Tamar had sold him the ring three evenings previously.
But as the diamond-merchant gradually explained the details of the
robbery of the diamonds, the highwayman's heart sank within him—for he
had no difficulty in penetrating the mystery. He was still meditating
upon the course that should be adopted to prove Esther's innocence, when
it suddenly struck him that she must have been at the estate near
Finchley, at the very moment when the theft of the diamonds occurred.
The reader knows the rest: Lord Ellingham's attendance at the court was
ensured by the intervention of Rainford, and Esther was discharged. Her
father, it will be remembered, appeared at the police-office just as the
case was about to terminate; and the expression which he made use of to
his daughter,—"_Oh! Esther—Esther, I can understand it all! You have
brought this upon yourself!_"—is now accounted for. When Esther turned
_an appealing glance towards her father, as if to remind him of some
duty which he ought to perform, or to convey some silent prayer which he
could well understand_,—it was to beseech him to satisfy the
diamond-merchant for the loss of his jewels, and thus save Tamar from
any unpleasant consequences which might ensue were the theft traced to
her. But, as we have seen, _he affected not to notice that rapid but
profoundly significant glance_.
During the few minutes that Mr. de Medina remained in the court,
Rainford was concealed as it were—or at least shrouded from
observation—amongst the crowd; and thus he escaped the notice of the
Jew. We should also state that it was on this occasion Rainford first
beheld his half-brother, the Earl of Ellingham, _whose fine blue eyes
indicated a frank, and generous disposition_, and in whose favour the
highwayman was immediately prepossessed; for it must be remembered that
_his eyes were also of a deep blue, and indicated not only good humour,
but a certain generosity of disposition_. Indeed, it was only in respect
to the eyes and the brilliant teeth, that the Earl and Rainford
possessed the slightest family resemblance to each other. Yes:—it was on
this occasion that Rainford first saw him whom he knew to be his
half-brother; and the Earl noticed him also,—noticed him amongst the
crowd of spectators who thronged the court;—but he knew not then how
nearly that good-looking man, with the florid complexion and light hair,
was related to him!
When Rainford returned home to South Moulton Street, he upbraided Tamar
for the deed which she had perpetrated, and which had involved her
sister in such a cruel embarrassment. But he did not reproach her in
harsh nor brutal terms: of such conduct he was incapable. He spoke
severely and coldly—manifesting his displeasure in a way which touched
her to the quick, but provoked no recriminations. She was almost wild
with grief when she heard the narrative of her sister being dragged to a
police-office upon so degrading a charge; and, producing the diamonds,
she implored Rainford to hasten and send them back to their owner. He
intimated his intention of performing that duty in person; and ere he
went away, Tamar implored his forgiveness. "I have no right to assume to
myself the power of pardon," he answered; "seeing that my example has
done this. But, oh! Tamar—if not for _my_ sake—if not for _your_ sake—at
least for that of your estimable sister who is so devoted to you,
abstain from such deeds in future!"—He then embraced her, and issued
from the house.
In the meantime Esther de Medina had succeeded in persuading her father
to advance the money,—advance to _her_ the means wherewith to liquidate
the amount of the value at which the jewels were estimated. But in
giving the sum required, Mr. de Medina said sternly, "Esther, it is to
_you_ only that I concede this favour—and not for the sake of her who
was once my daughter, and whom the infamy this day brought to light has
estranged more remotely than ever from my heart!"—He then retired to
another room, as was his wont when he wished to avoid an unpleasant
topic: moreover, he thought that his daughter had suffered enough that
day to render any further reproach on his part unnecessary—indeed cruel;
and he knew that were the subject of conversation persisted in, he
should not be able to restrain his ire.
The reader has already seen how Esther de Medina called upon the
diamond-merchant, and paid him the sum of six hundred pounds—the amount
at which he valued his jewels. He offered her a receipt; but she
declined to take it—for she thought that as she was settling the affair
from motives purely honourable and through regard towards _another_, it
would appear as if she were really interested _personally_ in the
transaction were she to reduce it to a mere matter of business. Not that
she meditated a revelation of the fact that she had a sister so like
herself that, when seen apart, they might well be taken for each other,
and that this sister was the real culprit:—oh! no—she would not, even if
she had dared, admit that her father had _another_ daughter! And if she
_lingered—as if anxious to say something more_—'twas merely because her
feelings of natural pride prompted her to exclaim, "Oh! sir, believe
that I am innocent of this dreadful charge!"—but a second thought
convinced her that such a declaration would not be credited, unless
supported by a feasible explanation; and she _abruptly quitted the
house_—bearing the stigma, in Mr. Gordon's eyes, of having committed a
deed of which she was utterly guiltless!
Scarcely had Esther quitted the diamond-merchant's dwelling, when Tom
Rain called to restore the diamonds; and great was his surprise upon
learning _that Miss de Medina herself had called and paid the six
hundred pounds at which they were valued_. He, however, left the
diamonds, with the certainty that Esther would hear of their restoration
either from Mr. Gordon himself or direct from Tamar. Rainford then
returned to South Moulton Street, where he found Tamar in a very excited
state. The occurrences of the day had made a profound and most painful
impression upon her mind: the indignity offered to her sister—the
certain indignation of her father—the upbraidings of Rainford, who had
never spoken to her so severely before—and the bitter regrets which she
experienced when she contemplated her conduct,—all these circumstances
had combined to madden her. Thinking that Rainford was absent longer
than the business on which he had set out seemed to warrant, she was
filled with the most fearful misgivings. At one moment she fancied that,
in disgust at her behaviour, he had abandoned her for ever: then she
imagined that he must have been arrested as the possessor of the stolen
diamonds. Her mind was agitated like the ocean in a storm. She went out
in a fit of desperation, and purchased some arsenic at a chemist's shop.
She returned;—Rainford had not yet arrived. She sate down, and tried to
wrestle with her maddening thoughts: but an invincible idea of suicide
dominated them all. She struggled—Oh! she struggled bravely against that
terrible sentiment; and at length Rainford came back. He exerted himself
to calm her—said all he could to tranquillise her mind. He declared that
he forgave her from the bottom of his heart, and lavished every token of
tenderness upon her. She endeavoured to triumph over the fearful
excitement under which she was labouring; but all she could do was to
_appear_ calm. Two or three hours passed away, and Rainford hoped she
was recovering her equanimity. But a species of delirium suddenly seized
upon her: she rushed to the bed-room, and, before Rainford even knew her
intention, she swallowed the poison. By the time he had followed her
into the room—alarmed at the precipitate speed with which she had
hurried thither—the deed was accomplished; and the paper which he picked
up, as she threw herself frantically at his feet, explained to him the
whole truth.
Not a moment was to be lost. Entrusting Tamar to the care of the
servant-girl, Rainford rushed from the house; and, as a hackney-coach
was fortunately passing at the moment, he leapt into it, desiring the
driver to take him to the nearest physician of eminence. The name of Dr.
Lascelles was best known to the honest jarvey, and to Grafton Street did
the vehicle accordingly proceed. The physician accompanied Rainford to
South Moulton Street, and Tamar was saved. But ere Lascelles took his
departure, the highwayman had resolved on adopting some plan to prevent
any disagreeable consequences occurring in respect to Esther de Medina
on account of this attempted suicide on the part of Tamar. For Rainford
naturally reflected, that as the physician was constantly moving in
society, and must necessarily have an immense circle of acquaintance, it
was more than probable that he might, sooner or later, encounter Esther,
whom he would mistake for the sister—his real patient. Hence the solemn
promise which Rainford exacted from Lascelles—_that when once his
professional visits had ceased in South Moulton Street, he would forget
that he had ever beholden Tamar; and that, should he ever meet her,
alone or in company, he would not even appear to recognise her—much less
attempt to speak to her—unless formally introduced, when he would
consider his acquaintance with her to be commenced only from the moment
of such introduction_. On the ensuing morning, at seven o'clock,
Rainford and Tamar took their departure from South Moulton Street, and
repaired to Lock's Fields, where the highwayman had already engaged
lodgings previously to the affair of the diamonds, as he was anxious,
for many obvious reasons, to dwell in a spot as secluded and retired as
possible. Tamar then wrote a long and pathetic letter to her sister,
imploring her forgiveness for the indignity which she had undergone on
account of one so worthless as herself; and requesting her to address
all future letters to her (until further notice) in this manner:—"_T.
R., No. 5, Brandon Street, Lock's Fields_."
On the same day that Rainford and Tamar thus removed to the vicinity of
the Elephant and Castle Tavern, Mr. Gordon called upon Esther de Medina
in Great Ormond Street. Esther was much embarrassed when the
diamond-merchant was announced; for she feared that if her father were
at home, he would naturally hasten to the drawing-room to learn the
object of this call, and a renewal of many painful reflections, as well
as of much unpleasant observation, would follow. It was therefore with a
feeling of pleasure that Esther found, upon inquiry of the servants,
that Mr. de Medina had gone out a few minutes previous to Mr. Gordon's
arrival. When the diamond-merchant mentioned _the particulars of the
visit which he had received from the light-haired gentleman_, Esther
instantly comprehended that the individual alluded to must be Rainford;
for though she had never seen him to her knowledge, yet she had heard a
few details relative to his personal appearance, three years previously,
at Liverpool. Mr. Gordon acquainted her with the restoration of the
diamonds, and _her countenance suddenly assumed an expression of joy_,
because she could not help recognising a certain evidence of good
principle, and of kind feeling towards herself, in the fact of such
restoration.
Two days afterwards Tamar and Esther again met; and the younger sister
breathed the most tender expressions of forgiveness in the ear of her
whom, though so guilty, she loved so tenderly. On the following evening
they met for the third time; and then Esther used all her powers of
persuasion to induce Tamar to accompany her home—to throw herself at the
feet of their father, and implore his forgiveness. But Tamar answered in
a firm tone, while tears nevertheless streamed down her countenance,—"It
is impossible, Esther! Rainford loves me so devotedly, that I should
esteem myself the veriest wretch upon the face of the earth to desert
him; and on this condition alone could I hope to obtain my father's
pardon. No: my destiny is fixed; to him I am linked until death shall
separate us! Think not, dearest Esther, that I love thee the less
because I cannot, dare not, take a step that would probably unite us
again at the blessed domestic hearth, and beneath the sacred roof of our
father's dwelling. Oh! God knows how sincerely, how earnestly, I wish
that such happiness was in store for me! But it is impossible,
Esther,—impossible!" And the sisters parted again, each weeping
bitterly. Mr. de Medina had noticed that Esther was absent from home a
long time on those two occasions; and he taxed her with having seen
Tamar again. She did not deny the charge; but falling at her father's
feet, she implored him to leave her that source of consolation. Her
grief was so excessive, that Mr. de Medina, who in his heart admired
these evidences of sisterly affection, gave no reply on that occasion: a
negative trembled upon his tongue—but he dared not utter it. He
recognised all that was generous and noble in the disposition of Esther;
and he felt proud of her as his daughter—the _only_ daughter whom he
considered himself to possess. But, when in the solitude of his study,
he reflected maturely upon these interviews which were taking place
between the sisters, and which, if not at once checked, would naturally
become more frequent, his mind was impressed with an idea that Tamar was
utterly and irredeemably profligate—abandoned in character beyond all
hope: and he feared lest Esther should be corrupted by her conversation.
He therefore resolved, painful as the duty was, to put an end to those
meetings, and yet mitigate the severity of this blow by winking, as it
were, at the continuation of their epistolary correspondence—but still
with the firm intention of crushing that indulgence also at a very early
period. He knew that oral communication is far more dangerous than
written interchange of thought; the former therefore was to be suspended
first. He accordingly chose the anniversary of the day on which Tamar
fled with Rainford to administer to Esther a solemn oath, binding her
never to see her sister again. And to this vow was the unhappy girl
compelled to pledge herself. It was the conversation which passed
between the father and daughter on this occasion, that Lord Ellingham
overheard—or rather, detached portions of which met his ears, producing
such strange misgivings in his mind relative to the purity of Esther de
Medina.
When the weeping Esther retired to her chamber, after having taken that
oath, it struck her that her father had not prohibited her from
_writing_ to Tamar: and Esther was too glad to avail herself of this
circumstance, to unburthen her grief to her sister through the medium of
that epistle which Old Death intercepted and perused, but which he
afterwards returned to the letter-box in Holborn. And if the reader will
refer to that letter, he will perceive that it was specially addressed
to Tamar, although when first glanced at, and while the impression
remained unfavourable to Esther's character, it might have seemed to
appeal to Rainford himself.
We have now cleared up all the mysteries relating to the family of Mr.
de Medina; and we doubt not our readers will be pleased to find that
Esther is indeed a model of purity—innocence—and sisterly affection. Oh!
despise not, then, the Jewess—for Christians might be proud to emulate
her virtues! And Rainford was a man who readily recognised and
appreciated all the excellence of her disposition—all the glorious
traits of her character, though he knew her not. But he
admired—enthusiastically admired the soul that could cling so devotedly
to its love for a sister; and from the first moment that the sisters met
in London, he vowed that Esther should never again be compromised by any
act or deed on the part of Tamar, if he were able to prevent it. Thus
was it that, on the night when Mr. Dykes and his myrmidons invaded the
house in Lock's Fields, Tom Rain gave such positive injunctions to Tamar
not to visit him in prison, should he be captured; for he feared lest
any one acquainted with Esther might meet Tamar under such
circumstances, the inevitable result being that the one would be
mistaken for the other. But on the day previous to his execution, he
yielded to the imploring—beseeching letters which Tamar sent to him by
means of Jacob Smith; and consented that she should take a last farewell
of him, on condition that she concealed her face as much as possible
with a veil.
When Esther read in the newspapers of Rainford's arrest, she felt
deeply—deeply for her poor sister, whom she knew to be so devotedly
attached to the highwayman. And, oh! Esther herself had begun to
comprehend the feeling of love; for she had not beheld with indifference
the handsome—the elegant—and the generous hearted Earl of Ellingham;—and
all that Tamar had said relative to the wondrous influence of that
passion, would at times recur strangely to her memory. Yes—Esther loved
the good young nobleman; but her soul was too pure—her manners to deeply
fraught with maidenly reserve, to betray the slightest evidence of her
attachment. Nor had she yet so far admitted, even in the secret depths
of her own mind, the existence of this inclination towards him, as to
ponder upon it seriously, or to invest it with the aspect of reality.
She knew that he was attached, and believed him engaged to be married to
Lady Hatfield and she sighed involuntarily—scarcely comprehending
wherefore—when she thought thereon. Still she loved him—while she
believed, in the innocence of her own heart, that she merely felt
interested in him as a friend. Nor did her imagination define the true
distinction between the feeling which she actually experienced, and that
which she only conceived to animate her,—no, not even when the glowing
description of love which her sister had drawn on one occasion of their
meeting, presented itself to her mind. But she could yet the more easily
understand how it was possible for Tamar to love Rainford so devotedly
as she did. Hence the acute anguish that Esther experienced, on account
of her sister, when she read the arrest of the highwayman. Mr. de Medina
did not of course remain ignorant of the occurrence; but he made not the
slightest allusion to it in the presence of Esther. Nor did he put into
force his previously contemplated plan of forbidding any future
epistolary correspondence between the sisters. He felt deeply for Tamar,
in spite of his stern silence respecting her; and he would not deprive
her, under the weight of such dire afflictions, of the consolation which
he naturally conceived the letters of Esther must prove to her. He even
gave Esther, though unasked, a considerable sum of money, casually
observing "that she might wish to purchase herself a new piano, or any
thing else she might fancy;"—and the young maiden pressed her father's
hand, for it struck her that he meant her to be the medium of conveying
assistance, in case it should be needed, to Tamar. But Tamar, in reply
to the letter which Esther wrote proffering pecuniary aid, gave her the
assurance that, though bowed down by the weight of affliction, poverty
was not amongst the sources of her deep sorrow.
Day after day did Esther fondly hope that her father would speak to her
relative to the now unfriended position of her sister; but Mr. de Medina
preserved a profound silence. There were, however, moments when Esther
fancied that his countenance looked anxious and care-worn, as if a
struggle were taking place in his mind. Still time wore on, and he said
nothing respecting Tamar:—he mentioned not her name! But one night, when
Esther could not sleep, she thought that she heard a moaning sound in
her father's room, which was on the opposite side of the passage
communicating with her own; and, alarmed lest he might have been seized
with sudden indisposition, she stole silently from her chamber and
listened at his door. He was pacing the room with agitated steps, and
speaking aloud in a manner indicative of acute mental anguish. "O Tamar!
Tamar—my daughter Tamar! wherefore didst thou ever abandon me? God of my
fathers! that such misery—such disgrace—such infamy should have fallen
upon my race! And yet—though I have disowned thee—though I have cast
thee off for ever—though, obedient to a stern duty, I have interdicted
thy meetings with Esther, the darling of my heart,—nevertheless, my
heart yearns towards thee, my Tamar! Oh! to reclaim thee—to bring thee
back to the paths of virtue—to see thee happy and gay as thou once
wast,—Oh! to do all this, I would consent to become the veriest beggar
who crawls upon the face of the earth!" There was a long pause; and Mr.
de Medina continued to pace his room with steps still more agitated than
hitherto—while Esther stood in breathless suspense at the door, not
daring to make her father aware that she had overheard him, and yet
unable to retrace her steps to her own chamber. "But it may not be!"
suddenly exclaimed the Jew, in an impassioned—rending tone; for the
triumph which he had achieved over his softer feelings, cost him pangs
as acute as if his heart-strings were being torn asunder. "No—it may not
be! I have pronounced the fatal words, Tamar—I have disowned thee; and I
may not recall the _fiat_! But if that man——who led thee astray——should
be cut off by the hand of justice——" and the Jew's voice grew tremulous
as in broken sentences he uttered these words——"then thou will be alone
in the world——friendless——perhaps in want——starving——Oh! my God! my
God!"
And Esther knew that her father was overcome with the bitterness of
grief. For a moment her hand was raised to knock at the door; but in the
next the thought struck her that she would be doing wrong to wound, and
even humiliate him, by suffering him to know that she had become aware
of the sorrow which he devoured in secret! And it also flashed to her
mind that beneath the cold, stern, and severe demeanour which he had
maintained ever since the flight of Tamar from the paternal
roof,—beneath, also, that unbroken—profound silence which he had
maintained towards her in respect to the misfortune that had fallen upon
Tamar by the arrest of Rainford,—beneath all this, there agitated within
his breast feelings and emotions keenly sensitive, but which were seldom
if ever allowed to reflect themselves in the mirror of the countenance.
Deeming, therefore, her father's grief too sacred for intrusion—too
solemn to be broken in upon, Miss de Medina stole back to her chamber,
and moistened a sleepless pillow with her tears. Nevertheless, a gleam
of light penetrated the dark clouds of grief which hung upon her mind;
for she had ascertained, beyond all possibility of doubt, that Tamar was
not entirely unloved by her father—that his heart was not a tomb in
which her memory was interred!
For, oh! that heart yearned towards thee, Tamar—lost, fallen though thou
wast! and this conviction was an anodyne to the lacerated feelings of
thy sister Esther! Time passed on—and still Mr. de Medina remained
silent respecting the matter to which the charming maiden daily and
hourly hoped to hear him allude. At length the trial took place—and the
gallant highwayman was condemned to death. Oh! had it not been for that
terrible oath—an oath from which her sire only could release her—Esther
would have flown to console her sister at that season of her bitter
grief. But, alas! all she could do was to impart solace by means of
letters; and how cold is even the most fervent language of the pen when
compared with that which the heart feels it should utter through the
medium of the tongue! Tamar replied to those letters; and Esther was
astonished to perceive that the afflicted woman wrote with a certain
degree of calmness:—but she feared that it was indeed the calmness of
despair! A second time did Mr. de Medina place in Esther's hands a
considerable sum of money, telling her to use it as she thought fit; and
the beauteous maiden, while her heart fluttered with hope and anxious
expectation, exclaimed in an appealing tone, "Oh! my dear father—God
grant that I do not misunderstand thy motives! Thou knowest that I have
no need for all this gold; and _she_ requireth a sire's pardon, but not
the aid of his purse."—"I do not—I dare not understand you, Esther,"
returned Mr. de Medina, with difficulty assuming a cold tone, but with
tears starting into his eyes:—and then he hastily quitted the room.
Esther saw how deeply he was moved: and hope increased—not
diminished—within her gentle breast. Then, when she pondered on all her
father had uttered aloud, on that night when she had listened at his
chamber door,—and when she reflected on all his proceedings since the
day of Rainford's arrest,—she fancied that she could fathom his motives
and intentions. "Should my dear—dear sister," she thought within
herself, "be left friendless and alone in the world, by the hand of
justice striking at the existence of him whom she loves—_then_, and only
_then_, will the door of the paternal dwelling be opened, and a father's
arms be extended, to receive the exile once more."
At length the fatal morning came—the morning on which Rainford was to
suffer, and to which date we have now brought up our history. On the
preceding Saturday Tamar had written to Esther to say that the hours of
her bitterest—most crushing trials were now at hand; and that if she
survived the soul-harrowing anguish then in store for her, it would be
only with the hope of yet finding herself restored, sooner or later, to
the sweet companionship of her sister, and also for the sake of the
little boy whom Rainford's kindness had adopted, and who was so
completely dependent upon her. "The moment all shall be over on Monday
morning," added Tamar in her letter, "my preparations to leave London
will commence. It is my intention—my firm intention to proceed to
America, and there remain—burying my woes in a strange land, and
devoting myself to the care of this boy—until it may please God to move
my father's heart to recall me home! Let me receive a letter from thee,
then, my beloved sister, on Monday morning—a letter that may console me
by the assurances of thy continued love—if consolation there be for me
in this life! Let your much-coveted communication reach me, sweetest
Esther, at about ten o'clock on Monday. May God bless you,
dearest—dearest Esther!"
Accordingly, on Monday morning, at about half-past nine, Esther
despatched a letter, by a messenger, to Tamar's lodgings in the City.
Need we say that this epistle contained all the tender assurances of
love and unvarying affection which the affectionate disposition of the
Jewish maiden could suggest, or which were calculated to console where
consolation was so difficult? When the messenger, whom she had gone out
to hire, had departed with the letter, Esther de Medina felt too
restless—too nervous—too unsettled, to return home again immediately.
The idea that one whom her sister loved had suffered an ignominious
death that morning, and that Tamar was at that very moment crushed down
to the earth by the weight of her afflictions,—this idea was more than
Esther could contend against. She wandered listlessly about—unmindful
whither she was going; and it was in this frame of mind that she
suddenly heard her name pronounced. She knew the voice, which somewhat
recalled her to herself; for it was the voice of Lord Ellingham, whose
absence from home had been made known to her by means of the laconic
letter which he had addressed to her father from his dungeon.
[Illustration]
The reader knows the rest:—with strange rapidity was she hurried away by
the Earl towards Red Lion Street; and in the house to which she was
conducted, she found her sister, who had arrived there only a few
minutes previously, guided by Jacob Smith.