For some moments after they were alone in the drawing-room together, they maintained a profound silence.
At length Richard spoke.
“It is a mournful occurrence which has brought us together to-day, Isabella,” he said.
“And although this meeting between us be unknown to my father,” answered Isabella, “yet the nature of the circumstance which caused it must serve as my apology in your eyes.”
“In my eyes!” ejaculated Markham. “Oh! how can an apology be necessary for an interview with one who loves you as I love you?”
“I am not accustomed to act the prude, Richard,” returned Isabella; “and therefore I will not say that I regret having met you,—apart from the sad event which led to our meeting.”
“Oh! Isabella, if I do not now renew to you all my former protestations of affection, it is because it were impious for me to think of our love, when death is busy in the same house.”
“Richard, I admire your feeling in this respect. But you are all our poor dying friend proclaimed you—high-minded, honourable, and generous. O Richard! the prophetic language of Mary-Anne has produced a powerful impression upon my mind!”
“And on mine, also,” answered Markham. “Not that I esteem the prospective honours displayed to my view; but because I hope—sincerely hope—that my adored Isabella may one day be mine.”
The Princess tendered him her hand, which he kissed in rapture.
“Do you know,” said Isabella, after a few moments’ silence, “that events are taking a turn in Castelcicala, which may lead to all that poor Mary-Anne has prophesied? There was a strong party in the state opposed to the marriage of the Grand Duke; and the military department was particularly dissatisfied.”
“I remember that in the accounts which I read of the celebration of that marriage, it was stated that the ducal procession experienced a chilling reception from the soldiery.”
“True,” answered Isabella; “and early last month—a few days after the commencement of the new year—that spirit showed itself more unequivocally still. Three regiments surrounded the ducal palace, and demanded a constitution. The Grand Duke succeeded in pacifying them with vague promises; and the regiments retired to their quarters. It then appears that his Serene Highness wished to make an example of those regiments, and drew up a decree ordaining them to be disbanded, the officers to be cashiered, and the men to be distributed amongst other corps.”
“That was a severe measure,” remarked Richard.
“So severe,” continued Isabella, “that General Grachia, the Minister of War, refused to sign the ducal ordinance. He was accordingly compelled to resign, the Duke remaining inflexible. The whole of the Cabinet-Ministers then sent in their resignations, which the Grand Duke accepted. Signor Pisani, the Under Secretary for Foreign Affairs, was charged with the formation of a new ministry—a fact which shows how completely the Duke has alienated from himself all the great statesmen of Castelcicala.”
“So that he has been compelled to have recourse to an Under Secretary as his Prime Minister,” observed Richard.
“Precisely,” answered Isabella. “Signor Pisani formed an administration; and its first act was to carry into force the decree already drawn up against the three discontented regiments. The second proceeding of the new ministry was to banish General Grachia from the country.”
“This was madness!” ejaculated Markham. “Does the Grand Duke wish to seal his own ruin?”
“It would appear that he is desperate,” continued Isabella, “as I shall show you in a moment. General Grachia left Montoni, accompanied by his family, and followed by immense multitudes, who cheered him as the well-known friend of the Prince my father. The troops also crowded in his way, to show their respect for the veteran chief who had so often led them to conquest. The next morning a ducal ordinance appeared, which showed that the Grand Duke was resolved to throw off the mask, and proclaim a despotism. I have the Montoni Gazette in my reticule.”
Isabella produced the newspaper, and, opening it, said, “I will translate the ordinance to you.”
“Nay—rather allow me to read it for myself,” returned Markham.
“How? But it is in Italian,” exclaimed the Signora.
“And I will read it in that tongue,” said Richard.
“I was not aware—I knew not until now——”
“No, dearest Isabella: until lately the Italian language was as Chinese to me,” interrupted Richard: “but I have studied it intensely—without aid, without guidance; and if I cannot speak it fluently nor with the correct pronunciation, I can understand it with ease, and—I flatter myself—speak at least intelligibly.”
The lovely Italian girl listened to this announcement with the most tender interest. She received it as a proof of boundless love for her; and sweet—ineffably sweet was the glance of deep gratitude which she threw upon her lover.
Richard took the Montoni Gazette from the fair hand which tendered it to him, and then read, with ease and fluency, the following translation of the ducal ordinance alluded to:—
“ANGELO III., BY THE GRACE OF GOD, GRAND
DUKE OF CASTELCICALA,
“To all present and to come, Greeting:
“We have ordered and do order that which follows:—
“I. The censorship of the press is restored from this date: and no newspaper nor periodical work shall be published in our dominions, without the consent of the Minister of the Interior.
“II. Offences against this law, as well as all others connected with the press, shall henceforth be brought before the cognizance of the Captain-General of the province where such offences may occur, instead of before the Ordinary tribunals.
“III. No assembly of more than seven persons will henceforth be allowed to take place, without the consent of the local authorities, save for the purposes of religious worship and ceremonial.
“IV. Our Captains-General are hereby authorised to declare martial law in their provinces, or any part of their provinces, should signs of insubordination appear.
“V. Our Minister Secretary of State for the Department of the Interior will see to the execution of this our ordinance.
“By the Grand Duke, ANGELO III.
“RAPALLO PISANI,
“Minister of the Interior.
“January 10th, 1840.”
“The Grand Duke has thus destroyed the freedom of the press, promulgated a law to suppress political meetings, and menaced the country with martial law,” said Richard, when he had terminated the perusal of this ordinance.
“And it would appear, by the newspapers and by private letters which my father has received,” added Isabella, “that the Grand Duke would have proceeded to extremes far more dangerous to his throne, had not his amiable Duchess softened him. But even her intercessions—and I understand she is a most deserving princess—were ineffectual in a great measure.”
“Know you the results of that despotic ordinance?” asked Markham.
“Several riots have taken place at Montoni,” answered the Signora; “and the Captain-General of the province of Abrantani has proclaimed martial law throughout the districts which he governs.”
“Matters are then becoming serious in Castelcicala,” observed Richard. “What has become of General Grachia?”
“No one knows. He left Montoni within twenty-four hours after the receipt of the decree of exile; but my father has received no information of his progress or intentions. Oh! my beloved country,” she exclaimed, in a tone of pious fervour, “may God grant that thou wilt not be the scene of anarchy, bloodshed, and civil strife!”
Richard surveyed his beautiful companion with the most enraptured admiration, as she uttered that holy wish,—a wish that spoke so eloquently of the absence of all selfishness from her pure soul.
The
above conversation had been carried on in a subdued tone; and its topic had not excluded from the minds of the young lovers the recollection of the sad scene which they had ere now witnessed.
Indeed they only pursued their discourse upon that particular subject, because it was connected with the chain of events which seemed adapted to carry out the prophetic hopes of the dying girl.
Nearly an hour had passed since they had left the chamber of death.
At length the door opened slowly, and Mr. Gregory entered the drawing-room.
His countenance was deadly pale; and yet it wore an expression of pious resignation.
Isabella and Richard knew that all was over.
Mr. Gregory advanced towards them, and taking their hands, said, “She is gone—she died in my arms! Almost her last words were, ‘Tell Isabella and Richard sometimes to think of Mary-Anne.’ ”
The bereaved parent could subdue his grief no longer: he threw himself upon the sofa and burst into tears.
Nor were the cheeks of Isabella and Richard unmoistened by the holy dew of sweet sympathy.
“Richard,” said Mr. Gregory, after a long pause, “you must write to my sons and tell them of this sad affliction. Desire them to return home immediately from college: I was wrong not to have sent for them before; but—my God! I knew not that my sweet child’s death was so near!”
Markham instantly complied with Mr. Gregory’s request, and despatched the letter to the post.
Scarcely was this duty accomplished, when Count Alteroni’s carriage drove up to the door. It was, however, empty, having been merely sent to fetch Isabella home.
The Signora took leave of Mr. Gregory, and bade a tender adieu to Richard, who handed her into the vehicle.
The carriage then drove away.
Richard passed the remainder of the day with Mr. Gregory, and returned home in the evening deeply affected at the misfortune which had overtaken an amiable family.
But Markham, on his arrival at his own house, was doomed to hear tidings of a most unpleasant nature.
“Mr. Tracy’s footman has been here with very disagreeable news,” said Ellen, the moment Markham entered the sitting-room. “Had I known whither you were gone, I should have directed him on to you.”
“Mr. Tracy’s footman!” exclaimed Richard. “Why—he was here last evening, with a letter from his master inviting me and Mr. Monroe to dine with him next Monday——”
“I am aware of it,” interrupted Ellen. “And you declined the invitation.”
“Yes—because I do not seek society,” observed Richard. “I wrote a proper answer: what, then, did his servant require to-day?”
“It appears that a young person in whom you felt some interest—”
“Katherine Wilmot?” said Richard.
“That is the name,” returned Ellen.
“What about her?” asked our hero.
“She has committed a crime——”
“A crime!”
“A crime of the blackest dye: she has poisoned Mr. Tracy’s housekeeper.”
“Ellen you are deceived—you are mistaken: it is impossible!” exclaimed Markham. “I never saw her but once, it is true: and still the impression she made upon me was most favourable. I did not mention any thing concerning her to either you or your father, because I sought to do an act of humanity in tearing her away from a wretched home, and I am not one who speaks of such a deed as that.”
“I am not deceived—I am not mistaken, Richard,” answered Ellen. “The footman came and narrated to me the particulars: and he said that his master was too unwell, through horror and excitement, to write to you upon the subject.”
Ellen then related the few particulars yet known in connexion with the case, but the nature of which is already before the reader.
Richard remained silent for a long time, after Ellen had ceased to speak.
“If that innocent-looking girl be a murderess,” he exclaimed at length, “I shall never put faith in human appearances again. But, until she be proved guilty, I will not desert her.”
“Do you know,” said Ellen, “that I do not like your Mr. Tracy at all! Not that I suppose him capable of falsely accusing any one of so heinous a crime as murder; but I do not like him.”
“A female caprice, Ellen,” observed Richard. “The world in general adores him.”
“Ah! those who stand upon the highest pinnacle often experience the most signal falls,” said Ellen.
“The breath of calumny has never tainted his fair fame,” cried Richard.
“Alas! we have so many—many instances of profound ecclesiastical hypocrisy,” persisted Miss Monroe.
“Ellen, you wrong an excellent man,” said Markham, somewhat severely. “I will call upon him to-morrow morning, and learn from his own lips the particulars of this most mysterious deed.”
CHAPTER CLIV.
REFLECTIONS.—THE NEW PRISON.
Richard Markham passed an uneasy night.
His thoughts wandered from topic to topic until the variety seemed infinite.
He pondered upon his brother, and again reflected for the thousandth time what connexion could possibly exist between him and the Resurrection Man. The fatal letter, desiring this terrible individual to call upon him, was too decidedly in Eugene’s handwriting to be doubted. The other contents of the pocket-book, which Richard had found in the Gipsies’ Palace, threw no light upon the subject; indeed, they only consisted of a few papers of no consequence to any one.
Then Richard’s thoughts travelled to the Resurrection Man himself. Was this individual really no more? Had the truth been told relative to his death at the Gipsies’ encampment near Pentonville prison?
Next our hero’s imagination wandered to the death-bed of the innocent girl who had entertained so unfortunate a passion for him. What fervent love was that! what disinterested affection! And then to perish in such a manner,—with the darkness of the tomb upon her eyes, long ere death itself made its dread appearance!
But with what inspiration had she prophesied the most exalted destinies for him she loved! With her sybilline finger she had pointed to a throne!
And then how speedily were those predictions followed by the communication of events which portended grand political changes in Castelcicala,—changes which threatened the reigning sovereign with overthrow, and the inevitable result of which must be the elevation of Prince Alberto to the ducal throne!
And Isabella—how many proofs of her unvaried love for our hero had she not given? She had confessed her attachment to the deceased maiden—she had avowed it to that deceased maiden’s father. Then, when Mary-Anne had prophesied the exalted rank which Isabella would be destined to confer, by the fact of marriage, upon Richard, the lovely Italian had ratified the promise by the gentle pressure of her hand!
Next our hero pondered upon the awful deed which had been ascribed to Katherine Wilmot; and here he was lost in a labyrinth of amaze, distrust, and doubt. Could it be possible that the blackest heart was concealed in so fair a shrine? or had circumstantial evidence accumulated with fearful effect to enthral an innocent girl in the meshes of the criminal law? Richard remembered how he himself had suffered through the overwhelming weight of circumstantial evidence; and this thought rendered him slow to put faith in the guilt of others.
Then, amidst other topics, Richard meditated upon the mysterious instructions which were conveyed to him in the document left behind by Armstrong, and which seemed to promise much by the solemn earnestness that characterised the directions relative to the circumstances or the time that would justify him in opening the sealed packet.
Thus, if some of our hero’s thoughts were calculated to produce uneasiness, others were associated with secret hopes of successful love and dazzling visions of prosperity.
In three y
ears and a half the appointment with his brother was to be kept. How would they meet? and would Eugene appear on the day named, and upon the hill where the two trees stood? Why had he not written in the meantime? Was he progressing so well that he wished to surprise his brother with his great prosperity? or was he so wretched that his proud heart prevented him from seeking the assistance of one of whom he had taken leave with a species of challenge to a race in the paths which lead to fortune? That Eugene was alive, Richard felt convinced, because the inscriptions on the tree—Eugene’s own tree—and the letter to the Resurrection Man, proved this fact. The same circumstances also showed that Eugene had been several times in London (even if he did not dwell in the metropolis altogether) since he parted with Richard upon the hill.
Then Richard reflected that if he himself were eventually prosperous, his success would be owing to fair and honourable means; and he sincerely hoped that his brother might be pursuing an equally harmless career. Such an idea, however, seemed to be contradicted by the mysterious note to the Resurrection Man. But our hero remembered that bad men often enjoyed immense success; and then he thought of Mr. Greenwood—the man who had robbed him of his property, but whom, so far as he knew, he had never seen. That Greenwood was rising rapidly, Richard was well aware; the newspapers conveyed that information. So well had he played his cards, that a baronetcy, if not even a junior post in the administration, would be his the moment his party should come to power. All this Richard knew: the Tory journals were strenuous in their praise of Mr. Greenwood, and lauded to the skies his devotion to the statesmen who were aspiring to office. Then the great wealth of Mr. Greenwood had become proverbial: not a grand enterprise of the day could be started without his name. He was a director in no end of Railway Companies; a shareholder in all the principal Life Insurance Offices; a speculator in every kind of stock; chairman of several commercial associations; a ship-owner; a land-owner; a subscriber to all charitable institutions which published a list of its supporters; President of a Bible Society which held periodical meetings at Exeter Hall; one of the stanchest friends to the Society for the Suppression of Vice; a great man at the parochial vestry; a patron of Sunday Schools; a part-proprietor of an influential newspaper; an advocate for the suppression of Sunday trading and Sunday travelling; a member of half a dozen clubs; a great favourite at Tattersal’s; a regular church-goer; a decided enemy to mendicity; an intimate friend of the Poor Law Commissioners; and an out-and-out foe to all Reform. All this Richard knew; for he took some interest in watching the career of a person who had risen from nothing to be so great a man as Mr. Greenwood was. Then, while he reflected upon these facts, our hero was compelled to admit that his brother Eugene might appear, upon the appointed day, the emblem of infinite prosperity, and yet a being from whom the truly honest would shrink back with dismay.
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 16
