The Mysteries of London Volume 1

by Reynolds, George W. M.

  The servant led the way up a wide staircase, and conducted the visitors into a library fitted up in the most luxurious and costly manner. Cases filled with magnificently bound volumes, statues of exquisite sculpture, and pictures of eminent artists, denoted the taste of the aristocratic possessor of that lordly mansion.

  Two individuals were seated at a table covered with papers and legal documents. One was a fine, tall, middle-aged man, with a noble and handsome countenance, polished manners, and most kind and affable address:—the other was an old gentleman with a bald head, sharp features, and constant smile upon his lips when he addressed the personage just described.

  The first was the Earl of Warrington; the other was his solicitor, Mr. Pakenham.

  The Earl rose and greeted Mr. Stephens cordially; then, turning towards Walter, he shook her kindly by the hand, and said, “I need not ask if you are the young gentleman to whom I am to be introduced as Mr. Walter Sydney.”

  “This is my ward, your lordship,” said Mr. Stephens, smiling. “I think it is scarcely necessary to call your lordship’s attention to the striking resemblance which he bears to his lamented father.”

  “Yes—it would be impossible to mistake him,” said his lordship hastily, while a cloud passed over his brow. “But sit down—pray sit down; and we will proceed to business. I presume that gentleman is your professional adviser?”

  “Mr. Mac Chizzle,” observed Stephens, introducing the lawyer. “Mr. Pakenham, I have had the pleasure of seeing you before,” he added, addressing the nobleman’s attorney with a placid smile.

  Mr. Pakenham acknowledged the salutation with a bow; and his eye wandered for a moment, with some surprise, towards Mac Chizzle,—as much as to say, “I am astonished to see a person like you employed in so important an affair.”

  When every one was seated, the Earl of Warrington referred to some papers placed before him, and said, “The object of this meeting is known to everyone present. The duty that devolves upon me is to transfer to Walter Sydney, the only son and heir of the late Stanford Sydney, upon being satisfied with respect to the identity of the claimant, the sum of forty-one thousand pounds now invested in certain stocks in the Bank of England.”

  “It is needless, I presume,” said Mr. Pakenham, “to enter into the particulars of this inheritance. We on our side admit our liability to pay the amount specified by his lordship, to the proper claimant.”

  “Quite satisfactory,” observed Mac Chizzle, to whom these observations were addressed.

  “The proofs of identity are, then, all that your lordship now requires?” said Mr. Stephens.

  “And I only require them as a mere matter of necessary form and ceremony, Mr. Stephens,” returned the Earl of Warrington. “I am well aware of your acquaintance with the late Mrs. Sydney, and of the fact that the deceased lady left her children to your care.”

  “My lord, here are the various certificates,” said Stephens, placing a small packet of papers before the Earl. “In the first instance you have the marriage certificate of Stanford Sydney and Letitia Hardinge, the natural daughter of the late Earl of Warrington, your lordship’s uncle.”

  “Well—well,” exclaimed the nobleman, somewhat impatiently, as if he were anxious to get rid as soon as possible of a business by no means pleasant to him. “That certificate is beyond all dispute.”

  “Here,” continued Stephens, “is the certificate of the birth of Eliza Sydney, born October 12th, 1810; and here is the certificate of her death, which took place on the 14th of February, 1831.”

  “This certificate is not necessary,” observed Mr. Pakenham; “as in no case, under the provisions of these deeds,” he added, pointing to a pile of documents before him, “could that young lady have instituted even a shadow of a claim to this money.”

  “We had better possess one deed too many, than one too few,” said Mr. Stephens, with another bland smile.

  “Oh! certainly,” exclaimed the Earl. “And this precaution shows the exact condition of the late Mr. Stanford Sydney’s family. The daughter is no more: the son lives, and is present.”

  “Here, then, my lord,” continued Stephens, “is the certificate of the birth of Walter Sydney, on the 25th day of November, 1814.”

  The nobleman examined this document with far more attention than he had devoted to either of the former. He then handed it to Mr. Pakenham, who also scrutinized it narrowly.

  “It is quite correct, my Lord,” said this gentleman. “We now require two witnesses as to identity.”

  “I presume his Lordship will receive me as one,” observed Mr. Stephens, “considering my intimate acquaintance with all—”

  “Oh certainly—certainly,” interrupted the Earl hastily.

  “And Mr. Mac Chizzle will tender his evidence in the other instance,” said Stephens.

  “I have known this young gentleman for the last six years,” exclaimed Mac Chizzle, pointing towards Walter, “and I knew his mother also.”

  “Is your Lordship satisfied?” enquired Mr. Pakenham, after a short pause.

  “Perfectly,” answered the nobleman, without hesitation. “I am, however, in your hands.”

  “Oh! as for me,” returned Mr. Pakenham, “I have no objection to offer. Your Lordship is acquainted with Mr. Stephens.”

  “Yes—yes,” again interrupted the Earl; “I have known Mr. Stephens for some years—and I know him to be a man of honour.”

  “Then there is nothing more to be said,” observed Pakenham.

  “No—nothing,” added Mac Chizzle; “but to complete the business.”

  “I will now read the release,” said Mr. Pakenham.

  The solicitor settled himself in a comfortable manner in his chair, and taking up a deed consisting of several folios, proceeded to make his hearers as much acquainted with its contents as the multifarious redundancies of law terms would allow.

  The disguised lady had now time for reflection. She had been more or less prepared for the assertion of Mr. Stephens that Eliza Sydney was dead, and that Walter was living:—but the bare-faced falsehood uttered by Mac Chizzle (who, so far from having been acquainted with her for years, had never seen her until that morning), shocked and astounded her. She had also just learnt for the first time, that her late mother was the natural daughter of an Earl; and she perceived that she herself could claim a distant kinship with the nobleman in whose presence she then was. This circumstance inspired her with feelings in his favour, which were enhanced by the urbanity of his manners, and the readiness with which he admitted all the proofs submitted to him by Mr. Stephens. She had expected, from the arguments used by this gentleman to convince her that she should not hesitate to fight the law with its own weapons, &c., that every obstacle would be thrown in the way of her claims by him on whom they were to be made;—and she was astonished when she compared all the specious representations of Stephens with the readiness, good-will, and alacrity manifested by the Earl in yielding up an enormous sum of money. Now also, for the first time, it struck her as remarkable that Stephens had promised her ten thousand pounds only—a fourth part of that amount to which, according to his own showing, she alone was justly entitled.

  All these reflections passed rapidly through her mind while the lawyer was reading the deed of release, not one word of which was attended to by her. She suddenly felt as if her eyes were opened to a fearful conspiracy, in which she was playing a conspicuous part:—she trembled, as if she were standing upon the edge of a precipice;—and yet she knew not how to act. She was bewildered: but the uppermost idea in her mind was that she had gone too far to retreat.

  This was the impression that ruled her thoughts at the precise moment when Mr. Pakenham brought the reading of the long wearisome document to a termination. The buzzing, droning noise which had filled her ears for upwards of twenty minu
tes, suddenly ceased;—and she heard a voice say in a kind tone, “Will you now please to sign this?”

  She started—but immediately recovered her presence of mind, and, taking the pen from the lawyer’s hand, applied the signature of Walter Sydney to the document. It was next witnessed by Pakenham, Stephens, and Mac Chizzle, and handed to the Earl.

  The nobleman then took several papers—familiar to all those who have ever possessed Bank Stock—from an iron safe in one corner of the library, and handing them to the disguised lady, said, “Mr. Walter Sydney, I have much pleasure in putting you in possession of this fortune; and I can assure you that my best—my very best wishes for your health and prosperity, accompany the transfer.”

  Walter received the documents mechanically as it were and murmured a few words of thanks and gratitude.

  “Perhaps, Mr. Stephens,” said the Earl, when the ceremony was thus completed, “you and your friends will do me the honour to accept of a slight refreshment in an adjoining room. You will excuse my absence; but I have a few matters of pressing importance to transact with my solicitor, and which cannot possibly be postponed. You must accept this as my apology; and believe in my regret that I cannot keep you company.”

  The Earl shook hands with both Stephens and Sydney, and bowed to Mac Chizzle. These three individuals then withdrew.

  An elegant collation was prepared for them in another apartment; but Mac Chizzle was the only one who seemed inclined to pay his respects to it. Walter, however, gladly swallowed a glass of wine; for she felt exhausted with the excitement she had passed through. Stephens was too highly elated either to eat or drink, and too anxious to complete the business in the City, to allow Mac Chizzle to waste much time over the delicacies of which the collation consisted.

  They were, therefore, all three soon on their way to the Bank of England.

  “Well, I think we managed the job very correctly,” said Mac Chizzle.

  “Everything passed off precisely as I had anticipated,” observed Mr. Stephens. “But you, Walter—you are serious.”

  “I do not look upon the transaction in the same light as I did a couple of hours since,” answered she coldly.

  “Ah! my dear friend,” cried Stephens, “you are deceived by the apparent urbanity of that nobleman, and the mildness of his solicitor. They assumed that appearance because there was no help for them;—they had no good to gain by throwing obstacles in our way.”

  “But the certificate of my death was a forgery,” said Walter, bitterly.

  “A necessary alteration of names—without which the accomplishment of our plan would have been impossible,” answered Stephens. “But let me ease your mind in one respect, my dear Walter. That nobleman is a relation of yours—and yet until this day his name has never been mentioned to you. And why? Because he visits upon you the hatred which he entertained for your deceased mother! Did you not observe that he interrupted me when I spoke of her? did you not notice that he touched with extreme aversion upon the topics connected with your revered parents?”

  “I did!—I did!” exclaimed Walter.

  “He hates you!—he detests you!” continued Stephens, emphatically; “and he will not countenance any claim which you might advance towards kinship with him. His duties as a nobleman and a gentleman dictated the outward civility with which he treated you; but his heart gave no echo to the words of congratulation which issued from his lips.”

  “I believe you—I know that you are speaking the truth,” cried Walter. “Pardon me, if for a moment I ceased to look upon you as a friend.”

  Stephens pressed the hand of the too-confiding being, over whom his dangerous eloquence and subtle reasoning possessed an influence so omnipotent for purposes of evil; and he then again launched out into glowing descriptions of the sources and means of happiness within her reach. This reasoning, aided by the hope that in a few hours she should be enabled to quit London for ever, restored the lady’s disposition to that same easy and pliant state, to which Stephens had devoted nearly five years to model it.

  At length the hackney-coach stopped at the Bank of England. Stephens hurried to the rotunda to obtain the assistance of a stock-broker, for the purpose of transferring and selling out the immense sum which now appeared within his reach, and to obtain which he had devoted his time, his money, and his tranquillity!

  Walter and the lawyer awaited his return beneath the porch of the entrance. After the lapse of a few moments he appeared, accompanied by a broker of his acquaintance. They then all four proceeded together to the office where the business was to be transacted.

  The broker explained the affair to a clerk, and the clerk, after consulting a huge volume, received the documents which Lord Warrington had handed over to Sydney. Having compared those papers with the entries in the book, the clerk made a sign to three men who were lounging at the upper end of the office, near the stove, and who had the appearance of messengers, or porters.

  These men moved hastily forward, and advanced up to Stephens, Mac Chizzle, and Walter Sydney.

  A deadly pallor spread over the countenance of Stephens; Mac Chizzle appeared alarmed; but Walter remained still unsuspicious of danger.

  “Those are the persons,” said the clerk, significantly, as he pointed to the three conspirators, to whom he observed, almost in the same breath, “Your plans are detected—these men are officers!”

  “Officers!” ejaculated Sydney; “what does this mean?”

  “We are here to apprehend you,” answered the foremost of these functionaries. “Resistance will be vain: there are others outside in readiness.”

  “Merciful heavens!” cried Walter, joining her hands in agony: “Oh! Stephens, to what have you brought me!”

  That unhappy man hung down his head, and made no reply. He felt crushed by this unexpected blow, which came upon him at the very instant when the object of his dearest hopes seemed within his reach.

  As for Mac Chizzle, he resigned himself with dogged submission to his fate.

  The officers and their prisoners now proceeded to the Mansion House, accompanied by the clerk and the stockbroker.

  Sydney—a prey to the most dreadful apprehensions and painful remorse—was compelled to lean for support upon the arm of the officer who had charge of her.

  Sir Peter Laurie[108] sat for the Lord Mayor.

  The worthy knight is the terror of all swindlers, mock companies, and bubble firms existing in the City of London: wherever there is fraud, within the jurisdiction of the civic authorities, he is certain to root it out. He has conferred more benefit upon the commercial world, and has devoted himself more energetically to protect the interests of the trading community, than any other alderman. Unlike the generality of the city magistrates, who are coarse, vulgar, ignorant, and narrow-minded men, Sir Peter Laurie is possessed of a high range of intellect, and is an enlightened, an agreeable, and a polished gentleman.

  It was about three o’clock in the afternoon, when Stephens, Mac Chizzle, and Sydney were placed in the dock of the Mansion House Police-office.

  The solicitor of the Bank of England attended for the prosecution.

  “With what do you charge these prisoners?” demanded the magistrate.

  “With conspiring to obtain the sum of forty-one thousand pounds from the hands of the Earl of Warrington, and the Governor and Company of the Bank of England.”

  “Is his lordship present?”

  “Your worship, he is, at this moment, unaware of the diabolical fraud that has been contemplated, and in part perpetrated upon him. He has given up to the prisoners certain documents, which constituted their authority for transferring and selling out the sum I have mentioned. By certain means the intentions of the prisoners were discovered some time ago; and secret information was given to the Bank directors upon the subject. The direct
ors were not, however, permitted to communicate with the Earl of Warrington, under penalty of receiving no farther information from the quarter whence the original warning emanated. Under all circumstances, I shall content myself with stating sufficient to support the charge to-day, so that your worship may remand the prisoners until a period when the attendance of the Earl of Warrington can be procured.”

  “State your case.”

  “I charge this prisoner,” said the solicitor, pointing towards Sydney, “with endeavouring to obtain the sum of forty-one thousand pounds from the Governor and Company of the Bank of England, under pretence of being one Walter Sydney, a man—whereas the prisoner’s name is Eliza Sydney, and she is a woman!”

  An immense sensation prevailed in the justice-room at this announcement.

  The disguised lady moaned audibly, and leant against the bar of the dock for support.

  “And I charge the other prisoners, Robert Stephens and Hugh Mac Chizzle, with aiding and abetting in the crime,” added the solicitor, after a pause.

  The unhappy lady, yielding to emotions and feelings which she was now no longer able to contain, threw herself upon her knees, clasped her hands together in an agony of grief, and exclaimed, “It is true! I am not what I seem! I have been guilty of a fearful deception—a horrible cheat: but it was he—he,” she cried, pointing to Stephens, “who made me do it!”

  There was an universal sentiment of deep sympathy with the female prisoner, throughout the court; and the worthy alderman himself was affected.

  “You must remember,” he said, in a kind tone, “that anything which you admit here, may be used against you elsewhere.”

  “I am anxious to confess all that I have done, and all that I know,” cried the lady; “and in so doing, I shall in some measure atone for the enormity of my guilt, which I now view in its true light!”