THE FORGED CHEQUE.
Oh! what a strange, and, at the same time, what a wondrous world is this
in which we live;—and how marvellous is human progress! The utmost
attainments effected by the wisdom of our ancestors were but ignorance
and short-sightedness compared with the knowledge of the present day.
Antiquity had its grand intellects and its sublime geniuses; but it
furnished not the same abundance of materials to act upon as is afforded
by the discoveries and likewise by the spirit of this age!
But are we proportionately happier, on this account, than were our
forefathers? Is the working-man, for instance, more prosperous, more
comfortable, more enviable as to his condition, than the aboriginal
Briton who lived in a cave or the hollow of a tree, and who painted his
body to protect it against the cold?
With all our prosperity—with all the grandeur, the glitter, and the
refinement of our civilisation—with all our moralising institutions and
our love of social order and mental improvement, we yet find the
national heart devoured, tortured, and preyed upon by that undying
serpent—PAUPERISM!
Yes: the millions are not so happy, so prosperous, or so comfortable as
they ought to be;—for they are compelled to gnaw the tares of
civilisation's field, while the proud and heartless oligarchy
self-appropriate the corn!
Proud and heartless, indeed, are the rulers and the mighty ones of this
land; and if the millions remain passive and patient, that pride and
that heartlessness will grow, the one more despotic and the other more
selfish.
It was but a few days ago that we marked two distinct articles in the
morning newspapers, which formed a contrast fearfully significant in its
evidence of the pride and the heartlessness which we abominate on the
one hand, and of the distress and suffering which we so deeply deplore
on the other.
One of these articles consisted but of _four lines_: the other occupied
nearly _two columns_.
The first stated as laconically as possible that bread had risen to
thirteen-pence the quartern loaf, and recorded a rapidly-disposed of
regret that provisions should be so dear, on account of the poor. The
second gave a laboured, fulsome, and tediously wire-drawn narrative of
"Her Majesty's State Ball."
Thus the misery endured by millions in consequence of dearness and
scarcity, is a trivial matter deserving only of _four lines_; whereas
the trumpery nonsense and childish tom-foolery of a royal dance are
deemed of sufficient importance to merit nearly _two columns_!
Oh! instead of giving balls and splendid entertainments at such a time,
if the Sovereign of this land were to say to the people, "Ye are
starving, and it makes my heart bleed to think that from your very
vitals are wrung the hundreds of thousands of pounds which are wasted by
myself and the other members of the Royal Family on our frivolities, our
whims, our caprices, and our wanton extravagances: therefore will I give
ye back one half of the enormous income which I have hitherto enjoyed,
in the full confidence that my example will be imitated by many others
who prey upon you;"—did the Sovereign thus speak to the nation, the
nation would be justly proud of its Sovereign; and yet this Sovereign
would only be performing a duty dictated by humanity and common justice.
What would be thought of the father of a family who feasted on turtle
and venison, accompanied by generous wines, every day, while his
children were thrust into the cold, humid cellar, to devour a mouldy
crust and drink water?
Yet the Sovereign delights in the attribute of a general and
comprehensive paternal solicitude in the welfare of the people: but it
is an attribute which exists only in the imaginations of grovelling
courtiers or lick-spittle historians.
Royalty and Aristocracy are intensely—necessarily—and thoroughly
selfish: and as for any anxiety on behalf of the toiling and suffering
millions, the idea is absurd—the notion is a mere delusion—the assertion
that such a feeling exists, is a lie—a monstrous, wicked, atrocious lie!
There is more of the milk of human kindness in a single cottage than in
all the palaces of Europe taken together.
There is more true philanthropy in one poor man's hovel, than in a
thousand mansions of the great and wealthy in the fashionable quarters
of London.
Oh! if the father or the mother can dance and be glad while the children
are famishing, the sooner all ties are severed between such worthless
parents and such an oppressed and outraged offspring, the better!
Nero danced and sang on the summit of a tower at the spectacle presented
to his eyes by burning Rome;—and festivity and rejoicing reign in our
English palaces, at a moment when scarcity menaces the land with famine
and its invariable attendant—pestilence!
People of England! ye now understand how much sympathy ye may expect on
the part of those who derive all their wealth from the sweat of your
brow!
People of Ireland! ye now comprehend how much pity your starving
condition excites on the part of your rulers!
People of Scotland! ye now perceive how worthy the great ones of the
realm are of your adulation!
But it is sickening, as it is sorrowful, to dwell on this subject. Some
of our readers may perhaps ask us wherefore we broach it at all? We will
reply by means of a few questions. Is not every individual member of a
society interested in the welfare of that society? or ought he not at
least to be so? Is he not justified in denouncing the errors or the
downright turpitude of the magistrates whom that society has chosen to
govern it, and who derive their power only from its good will and
pleasure? or is it not indeed his duty to proclaim those errors and that
turpitude? Should not this duty be performed, even if it be unpleasant?
and can we ever hope to ameliorate our condition, unless we expose the
abuses which oppress, degrade, and demoralise us?
Oh! let no one rashly and in a random manner say that he cares nothing
about politics! Such an assertion denotes a wilful disregard not only of
his neighbour's interests, but also of his own. Were all men to
entertain such an indifference, the people would be the veriest slaves
that an unrestrained despotism and an unwatched tyranny could render
them. It is as necessary for the industrious classes to protect their
rights and privileges by zealously guarding them, as to adopt
precautions to save their houses from fire.
One word more. It is a common saying, and as absurd as it is
common—"Oh! women have no right to meddle in politics." Women, on the
contrary, have as much right as "the lords of the creation" to exhibit
an interest in the systems and institutions by which they are
governed. For the sake of their children, as well as for their own,
they should assert and exercise that right. It is a lamentable
delusion to suppose that the intellect of woman is not powerful nor
comprehensive enough to embrace such considerations. The intellect of
woman is naturally as strong as that of man; but it has less chances
and less opportunities of developing its capacity. The masculine study
of politics would aid the intellect of woman in putting forth its
strength; and we hope that the day is gone by when the female sex are
to be limited to the occupations of the drawing-room, the nursery, or
the kitchen. We do not wish to see women become soldiers or sailors,
nor to work at severe employment: but we are anxious to behold them
_thinkers_ as well as _readers_—utilitarians as well as domestic
economists. And we know of no greater benefit that could be conferred
on society in general, than that which might be derived from the
influence of the well developed intellect of woman. Her mind is
naturally better poised than that of man: far-seeing and quick-sighted
is she;—a readiness at devising and combining plans to meet
emergencies, is intuitive with her. Her judgment is correct—her taste
good;—and she profits by experience far more usefully than does man.
Is it not absurd, then—is it not unjust—and is it not unwise to deny
to woman the right of exercising her proper influence in that society
of which she is the ornament and the delight?
Alas! that there should be such exceptions to the general rule of female
excellence, as Martha Slingsby,—a woman whose principles were thoroughly
corrupt, whose licentious passions were of the most devouring,
insatiable kind, and whose talent for wicked combinations and evil
plottings was unfortunately so great!
Let us return to this hypocritical and abandoned creature, and follow
her in the vile scheme which now occupies all her attention.
Having breakfasted at an early hour, she seated herself at her desk,
whence she drew forth a packet of letters received by her at various
times from Sir Henry Courtenay, and the signatures of which now became
the objects of her special study. The art of counterfeiting the late
baronet's autograph was practised by her for nearly half an hour; for
though she was already tolerably confident of her ability to forge his
signature most successfully,—as she had assured Mr. Torrens,—she
nevertheless deemed it prudent to render the imitation as perfect as
possible.
At last the atrocious deed was accomplished to her complete
satisfaction; and a cheque for two thousand pounds lay, drawn in a
thoroughly business-like manner, upon her desk!
She was bold and courageous in the execution of plots and the carrying
out of deep schemes;—but this dark and dangerous crime which she had
just perpetrated, caused her to shudder from head to foot! Hitherto all
her wickedness had been of a nature calculated only, if detected, to
involve her in disgrace, and not in peril—to ruin her character, but not
place her life in jeopardy! Now she had taken a step—a bold and
desperate step—which at once set her on the high road that conducts all
those who are found treading its pathway, to the foot of the scaffold!
Yes—she shrank back and she trembled violently as she rose from the desk
whereon the forged cheque now lay; and for a moment she was inclined to
seize it—to rend it into a thousand pieces—and thus to dispel at once
and in an instant the tremendous black cloud of stormy danger which she
had drawn over her own head.
But, no—she had courage enough to be wicked and rash; but she had not
strength of mind sufficient to render her prudent. She therefore decided
on daring all—risking everything, by the presentation of the forged
cheque!
Having dressed herself in a style of unusual elegance, she proceeded in
a hackney-coach to Lombard Street, and alighted at the door of the
banking-house on which the cheque was drawn.
Saying to herself,—"Now for the aid of all my courage!"—she entered the
spacious establishment, and advanced towards the counter.
One of the numerous clerks in attendance instantly received the cheque
which she handed across to him;—and, as it left her hand, a chill struck
to her heart—and she would at that moment have given worlds to recall
it.
Her composure was now only the effect of utter desperation: but so
unruffled was her countenance, that not a lineament was so changed as to
be calculated to engender suspicion.
The clerk took the cheque to the nearest desk upon the counter; and
after reading it with more than usual attention, as Mrs. Slingsby
thought, he said, "This is dated the day before yesterday, madam. Have
you seen Sir Henry Courtenay since then?"
"I have not," answered Mrs. Slingsby, wondering how she was able to
speak in a tone so cold and collected. "I believe," she added, "that he
is gone out of town."
"Pardon the question, madam," observed the clerk; "but one of his
servants was here last evening, just before closing time, to enquire if
we had seen Sir Henry:"—then, after a few moments' pause, he said, "How
will you have this?"
Immense was the relief suddenly experienced by the guilty woman! She
seemed as if drawn abruptly forth from the depths of an ocean in which
she had been suffocating—drowning. The revulsion of feeling was so
great, that, whereas she had been enabled to stand without support
throughout the few minutes of frightful ordeal just passed, she was now
compelled to cling to the counter, though the clerk observed not her
emotion.
Having specified the manner in which she desired the amount of the
cheque to be paid her, Mrs. Slingsby received the produce of her crime,
and quitted the bank.
She was now so astounded at the complete success of her
scheme,—although, when able to reflect calmly upon it, she had never
once doubted the issue,—that she could scarcely believe in its
realization. Her brain whirled—her heart palpitated violently, as she
ascended the steps of the hackney-coach;—and its motion, as it rolled
away from the door of the bank, increased the excitement under which she
was now labouring.
On her return to Old Burlington Street, she found Mr. Torrens waiting
for her, it being nearly twelve o'clock—the hour appointed for their
visit to the solicitor.
The moment she entered the drawing-room, Mr. Torrens rose from his seat,
and advanced towards her, his eyes fixed intently upon her countenance.
In fact Mr. Torrens was deeply anxious to learn the result of the bold
venture which Mrs. Slingsby was that morning to make. With him it was
now a matter of pecuniary ruin or salvation; and he had overcome so many
difficulties already,—stifling his own scruples at taking an immodest
woman for his wife, and reducing his daughter to a belief in the
necessity of his submitting to this matrimonial arrangement,—that he
trembled lest some unforeseen accident should thwart him just at the
moment when he appeared to be touching on the goal of success. Moreover,
he had that morning, ere quitting home, so contrived matters with John
Jeffreys as to induce this man to leave his service without delay; and
he had enjoyed the supreme satisfaction of seeing that dangerous person
leave his house ere he himself had set out to keep his appointment with
Mrs. Slingsby. Thus every thing had progressed in accordance with Mr.
Torrens' views and wishes, so far as the preliminaries to his change of
condition were involved.
"Well, my dear madam, what tidings?" he eagerly demanded, as he
approached to meet Mrs. Slingsby.
"I have succeeded," she said, throwing herself into a chair. "But I
would not for worlds undergo again the same dreadful alternations
between acute suspense and thrilling joy—cold tremor and feverish
excitement."
"And yet the transaction has given a charming glow of animation to your
countenance," observed Mr. Torrens, now for the first time inflamed by
desire in respect to the amorous widow whom he was shortly to make his
wife. "I have procured the license; and——"
"And Rosamond—what of her?" demanded Mrs. Slingsby hastily.
"She will receive you with a respectful welcome at Torrens Cottage," was
the answer. "By dint of reasoning with her, I overcame all her scruples,
and rendered her pliant and ductile to our purposes."
"All progresses well, then," said Mrs. Slingsby. "Let us now away to Mr.
Howard."
And to that gentleman's office did the pair proceed. Their business was
soon explained to the attorney, who manifested no surprise nor any
particular emotion at the singularity of the transaction; for Mr. Howard
was a perfect man of business, ready to receive instructions without
expressing any feelings at all calculated to annoy his clients, and
never indicating a curiosity to learn more than those clients might
choose to confide to him.
"I am to keep this sum of two thousand pounds until such time as Mr.
Torrens may claim it in the capacity of your husband?" he said, as
coolly and quietly as if he were receiving a deposit on the purchase of
an estate.
"Exactly so," answered Mrs. Slingsby.
"And to-morrow morning, my dear sir," added Mr. Torrens, with a smile,
"I shall come to claim it."
"Good," exclaimed Mr. Howard, locking up the bank-notes and gold in his
iron safe. "I give you joy, Mr. Torrens: Mrs. Slingsby, I wish you all
possible happiness."
Thus speaking, the attorney bowed his clients out of the office.
Mr. Torrens escorted Mrs. Slingsby back to Old Burlington Street, and
then repaired as fast as his horse and gig would take him to his own
dwelling, to sit down to an early dinner, and afterwards dress himself
for the interesting ceremony of the evening.
But on his arrival at the Cottage, he learnt from the female servant who
opened the door, that his daughter Rosamond had left home an hour
previously.
"Left home!" ejaculated Mr. Torrens. "But she will return?" he continued
interrogatively. "Did she not say that she would return?"
"She desired me to give you this note, sir," answered the domestic.
Mr. Torrens tore open the letter placed in his hands, and read the
following impressive lines:—
"Pardon me, dearest father, for the step which I am now taking; but
I cannot—cannot support the idea of dwelling beneath the same roof
with that lady who is soon to be my mother-in-law. I know that I
promised not to desert the paternal home: that promise was given in
sincerity—though maddening reflections now render me incapable of
keeping it. You are well aware how dreadfully my feelings have been
wounded—how cruelly my heart has been lacerated, during the last few
hours; and I have struggled against the violence of my grief—I have
endeavoured to subdue my anguish;—but the occurrences of last
night—the outrage attempted by that villain Jeffreys—the revelation
of the terrible secret relative to Sir Henry Courtenay——Oh! my dear
father, a mind ten thousand times stronger than that of your unhappy
daughter could not endure the weight of all this aggregate of
misery! Therefore, sooner that my presence should render my father's
house unhappy, I depart thence, hoping to be followed by your
blessing! Grieve not for me, dear father—heaven will protect me!
From time to time I shall write to you; and should happier days
arrive——but of that, alas! I dare entertain no hope at present. To
you must I leave the painful task of accounting to my dearest,
dearest sister and her esteemed husband for my absence when you see
them again. Farewell—farewell, my beloved father! I scarcely know
what I have written—my brain is on fire—my heart is ready to
burst—my eyes are dimmed with tears."
The servant watched the countenance of her master with evident interest
and curiosity as he perused this note.
"Did Miss Rosamond appear much excited?" he asked, in a tremulous tone,
and without raising his eyes from the letter which he held in his hand.
"She was crying very much, sir," responded the servant; "and it made me
quite sad to see her. I attempted to comfort her; but she only shook her
head impatiently, and then sobbed as if her heart would break. I knew
that she was going to leave, because she had a small package in her
hand; and she did cry so dreadful when she told me to give you this
note."
Mr. Torrens turned aside, and hastened to his chamber, where he remained
until half-past five o'clock. He then descended to the parlour, dressed
for the nuptial ceremony. To the servant's enquiry relative to the
serving up of the dinner, he replied that he had no appetite, and
immediately gave orders for the horse and gig to be got ready by a
stable-boy, who had been hastily hired in the morning to take the place
of Jeffreys until a more efficient substitute could be found.
This command was soon obeyed, and shortly before seven o'clock Mr.
Torrens arrived in Old Burlington Street.
The flight of his daughter from home had proved a more severe shock to
him than the reader might imagine, considering the cold and heartless
disposition of this man. It was not that he felt he should miss her
society;—no—he did not love her enough to harbour a regret of that
nature;—but her departure from the paternal dwelling had made him writhe
beneath the maddening—the galling conviction that his independence was
in a measure gone, and that a stern necessity had compelled him to
assent to link his fate with that of a woman so vile and abandoned, that
his own child fled at the idea of her approach.
Influenced by such feelings as these, it was no easy task for Mr.
Torrens to assume a complacent demeanour suitable to the occasion of his
nuptials. He, nevertheless, managed to conceal the emotions which wrung
him so acutely, and played his part with tolerable satisfaction to Mrs.
Slingsby as she introduced him to Dr. Wagtail and the other guests,
including a clergyman, who were already assembled at her house.
The ceremony was performed by the reverend gentleman just alluded to,
Dr. Wagtail giving the bride away. A splendid banquet was then served
up; and shortly after ten o'clock Mr. and Mrs. Torrens departed together
for the Cottage.