THE BED OF SICKNESS.
RETURN we to the dwelling of Richard Markham on the same day that Eliza Sydney sought her friend Mrs. Arlington, as related in the preceding chapter.
Richard awoke as from a long and painful dream.
He opened his eyes, and gazed vacantly around him. He was in his own bed, and Whittingham was seated by his side.
“The Lord be praised!” ejaculated the faithful old domestic;—and conceiving it necessary to quote Scripture upon the occasion of this happy recovery, he uttered, in a loud and solemn voice, the first sentence which presented itself to his memory,—“My tongue is the pen of a ready writer!”
“How long have I been ill, Whittingham?” demanded our hero, in a faint tone.
“Four blessed days have you been devoided of your sensations, Master Richard,” was the reply; “and most disastrous was my fears that you would never be evanescent no more. I have sustained my vigils by day and my diaries by night at your bedside, Master Richard; and I may say, without mitigating against truth, that I haven’t had my garments off my back since you was first brought home.”
“Indeed, Whittingham, I am deeply indebted to you, my good friend,” said Richard, pressing the faithful old domestic’s hand. “But have I really been so very ill?”
“Ill!” exclaimed Whittingham; “for these four days you have never opened your eyes, save in delirium, until this moment. But you have been a ravaging in your dreams—and sobbing—and moaning so! I suppose, Master Richard, you haven’t the most remotest idea of how you come home again?”
“Not in the least, Whittingham. All I recollect was, running along the Richmond Road, in the middle of the night—with a whirlwind in my brain—”
“And you must have fallen down from sheer fatigue,” interrupted the butler; “for two drovers picked you up, and took you to a cottage close by. The people at the cottage searched your pockets and found your card, so they sent off a messenger to your own house, and I went in a po-shay, and fetched you home.”
“And I have been ill four whole days!” cried Markham.
“Yes, but you don’t know yet what has happened during that period,” said the butler, with a solemn shake of the head.
“Tell me all the news, Whittingham: let me know what has passed during my illness.”
“I’ll repeat to you allegorically all that’s incurred,” resumed Whittingham, preparing to enumerate the various incidents upon his fingers. “In the first place—let me see—yes, it was the first incurrence of any consequence—the old sow littered. That’s annygoat the first. Then come a terrible buffoon—a tifoon, I mean—and down tumbled the eastern stack of chimbleys. That’s annygoat the second. Third, the young water-cress gal was confined with a unlegitimated child; and so I told her mother never to let her call here again, as we didn’t encourage immoral karikters. That’s annygoat the third. Next, there’s poor Ben Halliday, who wouldn’t pay the pavement rate at Holloway, ’cause he hasn’t got any pavement before his house, sold up, stick and stock; and so I gave him a couple of guineas. Annygoat the fourth. And last of all, a gentleman’s livery servant—not that villain Yorkminster’s, or whatever his name was—come with a horse and shay and left your pokmanty, without saying a word. That’s anny—”
“My portmanteau!” exclaimed Richard, whose countenance was now suddenly animated with a ray of hope: “and have you unpacked it?”
“Not yet: I haven’t had no time.”
“Bring it to the bed-side, place it upon a couple of chairs, and open it at once,” said Markham hastily. “Bestir yourself, good Whittingham: I am anxious to see if there be any note—any letter—any—”
While Richard uttered these words with a considerable degree of impatience, the butler dragged the portmanteau from beneath the bed, where he had deposited it, and placed it close to his master’s right hand. It was speedily opened, unpacked, and examined throughout; the clothes and linen were unfolded; and Richard’s eyes followed the investigation with the most painful curiosity. But there was no letter—no note from any inmate of the count’s abode.
A sudden reminiscence entered his mind. Was the document signed at the Dark House amongst his papers? He recollected having handed it to the count; but he could not call to mind what had afterwards become of it. A moment’s examination convinced him that it had not been returned to him. At first he was grievously annoyed by this circumstance;—in another minute he was pleased, for it struck him that, after all, its contents might have been perused by the count and his family when the excitement of that fatal night had worn off. But how to wipe away the dread suspicion raised by the Resurrection Man, relative to the burglary—oh! that was the most painful, and yet the most necessary task of all!
Markham sank back upon his pillow, and was lost in thought, when a low knock was heard at the door of his chamber. Whittingham answered it, and introduced Mr. Monroe.
The old man was the very picture of care and wretchedness:—the mark of famine was, moreover, upon his sunken cheeks. His eyes were dead and lustreless;—his neck, his wrists, and his hands—seemed nothing but skin and bone. In spite of the cleanliness of his person, the thread-bare shabbiness of his clothes could not escape the eye of even the most superficial observer.
Markham had not seen him for some months; and now, forgetting his own malady and his own cares, he felt shocked at the dreadful alteration wrought upon the old man’s person during that interval. On his part, Mr. Monroe was not less surprised to find Richard upon a bed of sickness.
“My dear sir,” said Markham, “you are ill—you are suffering—and you do not come to me to—”
“What! you have penetrated my secret, Richard!” exclaimed the old man bitterly. “Well—I will conceal the truth no longer: yes—myself and my poor daughter—we are dying by inches!”
“My God! and you were too proud to come to me! Oh! how sincerely—how eagerly would I have offered you the half of all I possess—”
“How could I come to you, Richard,” interrupted the old man, bursting into tears, “when I had already ruined you?”
“No—not you—not you,” said Markham: “you were the victim of a scoundrel; and, in acting for the best, you lost all!”
“God knows how truly you speak!” cried the old man fervently. “But tell me—what ails you? and how long have you been upon a bed of sickness?”
“A day or two;—it is nothing! Never mind me—I am now well—at all events, much better:—let us talk of yourself and your own affairs.”
“My fate, Richard, is a melancholy one—my destiny is sad, indeed! From the pinnacle of wealth and prosperity I have been dashed down to the lowest abyss of destitution and misery! But it is not for myself that I complain—it is not for myself that I suffer! I am by this time inured to every kind of disappointment and privation:—but my daughter—my poor Ellen! Oh! my God—it was for her sake that I came to you this morning to implore the wherewith to purchase a loaf of bread!”
“Merciful heavens, Mr. Monroe! are you reduced to this?” cried Richard, horror-struck at the piteous tale thus conveyed to him in a few words.
“It is true:—we are starving!” answered the old man, sinking into a chair, and sobbing bitterly.
Whittingham walked towards the window, and wiped his eyes more than once.
“Ah! I am glad you have come to me at last,” said Markham. “I will assist you to the utmost of my power—I will never let you want again! Oh! that villain Montague! how many hearts has he already broken—how many more will he yet break!”
“He is the cause of all this deep—deep misery,” observed Monroe. “But not alone by me is his name mentioned with loathing and horror: others have doubtless been, and will yet be, his victims. I have learnt—by the merest accident—that he has changed his name, and is now pursuing at the West End, the same course he s
o successfully practised in the City.”
“Changed his name!” ejaculated Markham. “And what does he call himself now?”
“Greenwood,” answered Mr. Monroe.
“Greenwood! George Montague and Greenwood one and the same person!” cried Richard, suddenly recalling to mind the name of the individual to whom the count had entrusted his capital. “Ah! you talk of new victims—I know one, whose ruin is perhaps by this time consummated. Quick—quick, Whittingham, give me writing materials: I will send a warning—although I am afraid it is already too late!”
While Whittingham was arranging his master’s portfolio upon the coverlid of the bed, Markham reflected upon the best means of communicating to Count Alteroni the character of the man to whom he had confided his fortune, and whom he thought of favourably as a suitor for his daughter’s hand. Anonymous letters were detestable to the honourable and open disposition of Richard, and he hesitated at the idea of sending a note direct from himself, fearing that it might be thrown into the fire the moment its signature should be perceived, and thus fail in its proposed aim. To call upon the count was impossible: to send Mr. Monroe was disagreeable. To communicate the important intelligence was imperiously necessary. But how was it to be conveyed? An idea struck across his brain in this perplexity:—he would write to the countess, and trust to the natural curiosity of the female disposition to ensure the perusal of his letter. He accordingly penned the ensuing epistle:—
“MADAM,
“Although calumniated in the presence of Count Alteroni, without being permitted to justify myself, and although ruined in your estimation, without the freedom of explanation,—believe me, I have still the welfare of your family most sincerely at heart. As a proof of this assertion, allow me to inform you that the Mr. Greenwood, to whom Count Alteroni has entrusted his capital, is an adventurer and a villain. I on several occasions casually mentioned to you that I was plundered of all my property, before I became of an age entitled to enjoy it. My guardian Mr. Monroe, employed a certain Mr. Allen to speculate for him; and this Mr. Allen was mercilessly robbed of all he possessed, and all he could raise, and all his friends who backed him could provide him with, by a miscreant of the name of Montague. These particulars, which I never mentioned to you before, I now deem it requisite to acquaint you with. Madam, that same George Montague is your Mr. Greenwood!
“I remain, Madam, your obedient servant,
“RICHARD MARKHAM.”
This letter was dispatched that same evening to Richmond.
CHAPTER LIII.
ACCUSATIONS AND EXPLANATIONS.
IT was seven o’clock in the evening.
Count Alteroni was sipping his claret; the countess was reading a new German novel; and the Signora Isabella was sitting in a pensive and melancholy mood, apparently occupied with some embroidery or other fancy-work, but in reality bent only upon her own painful reflections.
The air of this charming girl was languishing and sorrowful; and from time to time a tear started into her large black eye. That crystal drop upon the jet fringe of her eye-lid, seemed like the dew hanging on the ebony frame of a window.
The delicate hue of the rose which usually coloured her cheeks, and appeared as it were beneath the complexion of faint bistre which denoted her Italian origin, had fled; and her sweet vermilion lips were no longer wreathed in smiles.
“Isabel, my love,” said the count, “you are thoughtful this evening. What a silly girl you are to oppose that tyrannical little will of your own to my anxious hopes and wishes for your welfare—especially as I must know so much better than you what is for your good and what is not.”
“I think,” answered Isabella, with a deep sigh, “that I oppose no tyrannical will to your lordship’s commands.”
“Lordship’s commands!” repeated the count, somewhat angrily. “Have I not ordered our rank and station to be forgotten here—in England? And as for commands, Bella,” added the nobleman, softening, “I have merely expressed my wish that you should give Mr. Greenwood an opportunity of proving his disinterested affection and securing your esteem—especially on the occasion of our approaching visit to our friends the Tremordyns.”
“My dear papa,” answered the signora, “I have faithfully promised you that if Mr. Greenwood should gain my affections, he shall not sue in vain for my hand.”
“That is a species of compromise which I do not understand,” exclaimed the count. “Have you any particular aversion to him?”
“I have no aversion—but I certainly have no love,” replied Isabella firmly; “and where there is not love, dear father, you would not have me wed?”
“Oh! as for love,” said the count, evading a direct reply to this query, “time invariably thaws away those stern resolves and objections which young ladies sometimes choose to entertain, in opposition to the wishes of their parents.”
“My lord, I have no power over volition,” exclaimed Isabella, with difficulty restraining her tears.
“This is very provoking, Isabella—very!” said the count, drinking his claret with rapidity. “This man is in every way worthy of you—rich, genteel, and good-looking. As for his rank—it is true that he has no title: but of what avail to us are rank and title—exiled as we are from our native land—”
“Oh! my dear father!” cried Isabella, wiping her eyes; “do not fancy so ill of me as to suppose that I languish for rank, or care for honour! No—let me either possess that title which is a reflection of your own when in Castelcicala;—or let me be plain Signora Isabella in a foreign land. Pomp and banishment—pride and exile, are monstrous incongruities!”
“That is spoken like my own dear daughter,” exclaimed the count. “The sorrows of my own lot are mitigated by the philosophy and firmness with which you and your dear mother support our change of fortunes;—and, alas! I see but little chance of another re-action in our favour. O my dear country! shall I ever see thee more? Wilt thou one day recognise those who really love thee?”
A profound silence ensued: neither of the ladies chose to interrupt the meditations of the patriot; and he himself rose and paced the room with agitated steps.
“And it is this despair when I contemplate my future prospects,” continued the nobleman, after a long pause, “that induces me to wish to see you speedily settled and provided for, my dearest Isabella. What other motive can I have but your good?”
“Oh! I know it—I know it, my dear father,” cried the charming girl; “and it is that conviction which makes me wretched when I think how reluctant I am to obey you in this instance. But do not grieve yourself, my dear father—and do not be angry with me! I will be as civil and friendly as I can to this Mr. Greenwood; and if—and if——”
The beautiful Italian could say no more: her heart was full—almost to bursting; and throwing herself into her mother’s arms, she wept bitterly.
The count, who was passionately attached to his daughter, was deeply affected and greatly shocked by this demonstration of her feelings. He had flattered himself that her repugnance to Mr. Greenwood was far from being deeply rooted, and was merely the result of a young girl’s fears and anxieties when she found that she was not romantically attached to her suitor. But he little suspected that she cherished a sincere and tender passion for another—a passion which she might essay in vain to conquer.
“Bella, my darling,” he exclaimed, “do not give way to grief: you cannot think that I would sacrifice you to gold—mere gold? No—never, never! Console yourself—you shall never be dragged a victim to the altar!”
“My dearest father,” cried Isabella, turning towards the count and embracing him fondly,—“God, who reads all my actions, knows that I would make any sacrifice to please you—to spare you one pang—to forward your views! Oh! believe me, I am too well aware of the deep responsibility under which I exist towards my paren
ts—too deeply imbued with gratitude for all your kindness towards me, not to be prepared to obey your wishes!”
“I will exact no sacrifice, dearest girl,” said the count. “Compose yourself—and do not weep!”
At that moment a loud double knock at the front door resounded through the house; and scarcely had Isabella recovered her self-possession, when Mr. Greenwood was announced.
“Ladies, excuse this late visit,” said the financier, sailing into the room with his countenance wreathed into the blandest smiles; “but the truth is, I had business in the neighbourhood, and I could not possibly pass without stopping for a few moments at a mansion where there are such attractions.”
These last words were addressed pointedly to Isabella, who only replied to the compliment by a cold bow.
“Count,” said Mr. Greenwood, now turning towards the nobleman, “I have not seen you since your adventure upon the highway! But I was delighted to learn that you had received no injury.”
“My only regret is that I did not shoot the villains,” answered the count. “Have you had another deed prepared, to replace the one stolen from me on that occasion?”
“I have given my solicitors the necessary instructions,” answered Greenwood. “In a few days——”
“Every thing with you is in a few days, Greenwood,” interrupted the count, somewhat pointedly. “That deed would not occupy one day to engross, now that the copy is at your attorney’s office; and it would have been a mark of goodwill on your part—”
“Pray do not blame me!” exclaimed the financier, smiling so as to display his very white teeth, of which he seemed not a little proud. “I believe that for a man who has so much business upon his hands, and the interests of so many to watch and care for, I am as punctual to my appointments as most people.”
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 53
