“To-morrow, my dear father—to-morrow, the moment the clock strikes ten, we will be with you,” said Isabella. “Oh! how miserably will pass the hours until that period!”
“Will you not now permit me, my dearest husband, to see the Envoy of Castelcicala, and—”
“No,” answered the Count firmly. “Did we not agree ere now to support with resignation all that fortune might have in store for us?”
“Ah! pardon me—I forgot,” said the countess, “I am overwhelmed with grief. Oh! what a blow—and for you!”
“Show yourselves worthy of your high rank and proud name,” cried the nobleman; “and all will yet be well.”
At this moment the bailiff returned to the room.
“I am now ready to accompany you,” said the count.
“So much the better,” cried Mr. Johnson. “Me and my man Tim Bunkins come down in a omnibus; I don’t know which vay you’d like to go, but I’ve heerd say you keeps a wery tidy cabrioily.”
“It would be a monstrous mockery for any one to proceed to a prison in his own luxurious vehicle,” said the count sternly. “As you came, so may you return. I will accompany you in an omnibus.”
The count embraced his wife and daughter tenderly and with much difficulty tore himself away, in order to leave a comfortable home for a miserable sponging-house.
CHAPTER LXXXV.
A FRIEND IN NEED.
TEN days after the arrest of Count Alteroni, a young lady was proceeding, at about eleven o’clock in the forenoon, down the Blackfriars Road.
She was dressed plainly, but with that exquisite taste which denotes a polished mind, and is in itself an aristocracy of sentiment. She looked neither to the right nor to the left: her pace was somewhat rapid, as if she were anxious to arrive at her destination:—and though there was something timid in her manner as she threaded her way along the crowded thoroughfare, few who passed her could help turning round to obtain another glimpse of the sylph-like form of that unassuming girl.
From the opposite direction advanced a young man of tall and handsome appearance, neatly dressed, and with a shade of melancholy upon his countenance.
In a few moments he met the young lady, and was about to pass her, when his eyes happened to catch a glimpse of her lovely features.
He started with surprise, exclaiming, “Signora! is it possible? Do we indeed meet again? Ah! it seems to me that it is an age since I saw you, dearest Isabella!”
“And since we last met, Richard, many unfortunate events have happened. My poor father—”
“Your father! what can have happened to him?” cried Markham, struck by the mournful tone of the beauteous Italian.
“He is in the Queen’s Bench Prison,” replied Isabella, her eyes filling with tears.
“In the Queen’s Bench! And you are going to him now? Oh! Isabella, you must tell me how all this happened: I will escort you a little way;”—and with these words, Richard offered his arm to the signora, who accepted it with a ready confidence in him whom she loved, and whose presence was by no means displeasing to her at that moment when she stood so much in need of consolation.
“You are aware,” resumed Isabella, “that my father entrusted a considerable sum of money to Mr. Greenwood.”
“The villain!” ejaculated Markham warmly.
“I cannot explain to you exactly how it was that my father accepted the security of Mr. Tomlinson, the banker, for that amount, as I am not acquainted with matters of business;—but he did so, and released Mr. Greenwood.”
“And Tomlinson failed—and your father lost all!”
“Alas! he did;—and he is now imprisoned for a sum for which he had become answerable to serve a friend,” said Isabella.
“How long has the count been in—in—”
“In prison,” added the signora mournfully. “He was arrested ten days ago; and, by the advice of a solicitor, he removed on the following day from the bailiff’s private house to the Bench.”
“And the countess?”
“My mother is very unwell to-day, and could not leave her room; and I am now on my way to visit my poor father. We have left Richmond altogether; and my mother and myself occupy lodgings in the Blackfriars Road, near the bridge.”
“Ten days ago this happened, Isabella,” said Richard reproachfully; “and you did not acquaint me with what had occurred?”
“Ah! Richard—you know well that circumstances forbade me;—or else—”
“Or else? Speak—dearest Isabella.”
“Or else I believe you would have given my father the best advice how to proceed. He is too proud to apply to his friends; and he cannot—he must not remain in prison. His health would sink under the idea of degradation that has taken possession of him.”
“That villain Greenwood!” said Markham, musing. “When will the day of retribution arrive for him?”
“We must now part, Richard,” observed Isabella, as they came in view of the dingy wall of the Queen’s Bench Prison, crowned by chevaux-de-frise.
“Yes—we must part again,” said Markham mournfully. “But how happy should I have been had we met this morning under other circumstances! How I should have blessed the accident that brought me thus early this morning on some business of my own, to this neighbourhood! Oh! Isabella, you know not how constantly I think of you—how unceasingly I dwell upon your dear image!”
“And can you suppose, Richard, that I never devote a thought to you?” said Isabella, in a low and plaintive tone. “But we must not talk upon such a subject at present. Let us hope for happier times.”
With these words the young lady returned the pressure of her lover’s hand, and hurried towards the Queen’s Bench.
Markham loitered about the spot for five minutes, and then proceeded to the lobby of the prison. There he inquired into the particulars of Count Alteroni’s detention; and ascertained that he had been arrested for eighteen hundred pounds, with costs.
He then left the gloomy precincts of the debtors’ gaol, and retraced his steps towards the City.
“Eighteen hundred pounds would procure the count’s liberation,” he said to himself: “eighteen hundred pounds, which he does not possess, and which he is too proud to borrow,—eighteen hundred pounds, which would restore him to his family, and make Isabella happy! My property is worth four thousand pounds:—if I raise two thousand pounds upon it, I shall curtail my income by exactly one half. I shall have one hundred pounds a-year remaining. But my education was good—my acquirements are not contemptible: surely I can turn them to some account?”
Then it suddenly struck him that he had already raised five hundred pounds upon his estate at the period when the Resurrection Man endeavoured to extort that sum from him; and half of this sum had already disappeared in consequence of the amount given to Talbot (alias Pocock) in the Dark-House—the assistance rendered to Monroe and Ellen—his journey to Boulogne—and other claims. Then there would be the expenses of deeds to reckon. If he raised two thousand pounds more, his property would only remain worth to him about fifteen hundred pounds. His income would therefore be reduced to seventy-five pounds per annum.
But not for one moment did this noble-hearted young man hesitate relative to the course he should pursue; and without delay he proceeded to the office of Mr. Dyson, his solicitor, in the City.
There the business was speedily explained and put in train. It would, however, require, said the solicitor, four days to terminate the affair; but Markham did not leave him until he had fixed the precise moment when the deeds were to be signed and the money paid over.
Richard returned home in a state of mind more truly happy than he had known for some time past. He had resolved upon an immense sacrifice, to benefit those whom he esteemed or loved; and he was prepared to meet any consequences which it might produce.
This is human nature. We may inure ourselves to the contemplation of any idea, however appalling or alarming it may appear at first sight, without a shudder and almost without a regret. The convict, under sentence of death in the condemned cell, and his ears ringing with the din of the hammers erecting the scaffold, does not experience such acute mental agony as the world are apt to suppose. We all have the certainty of death, at some date more or less near, before our eyes; and yet this conviction does not trouble our mental equanimity. The convict who is doomed to die, is only worse off than ourselves inasmuch as the precise day, hour, and moment of his fate are revealed to him; but his death, which is to be sudden and only of a moment’s pain, must be a thousand times preferable to the long, lingering, agonising throes of sickness which many of those who pity him are eventually doomed to endure before their thread of existence shall be severed for ever!
Yes—we can bring our minds to meet every species of mortal affliction with resignation, and even with cheerfulness;—and there is no sorrow, no malady, no pang, which issued from Pandora’s box, that did not bear the imprint of hope along with it!
True to the appointed time, Richard proceeded to the office of Mr. Dyson, on the fourth day from the commencement of the business.
He signed the papers and received two thousand pounds.
The lawyer shook his head, implying his fears that his client was improvident and wasteful.
He was, however, speedily undeceived.
“Will you have the kindness to accompany me in a cab?” said Markham. “You can render me a service in the way in which I am about to dispose of this money.”
“Certainly,” returned Mr. Dyson. “Are you going far?”
“Not very,” answered Richard; and when they were both seated in the vehicle, he told the driver to proceed towards the Queen’s Bench Prison, but to stop at some distance from the gates.
These directions were obeyed.
“Now, Mr. Dyson,” said Richard, “will you have the kindness to repair to the office of the prison, and inquire the amount of debts for which a certain Count Alteroni is detained in custody?”
Mr. Dyson obeyed the instructions thus given to him, and in ten minutes returned from the prison with a copy of causes in his hand.
“Count Alteroni is a prisoner for eighteen hundred and twenty-one pounds,” said the lawyer.
“Are there any fees or extra expenses beyond the sum specified in that paper?” asked Richard.
“Yes—merely a few shillings,” replied the solicitor.
“I wish, then, that every liability of Count Alteroni be settled in such a way that he may quit the prison without being asked for a single shilling. Here is the necessary amount: pay all that is due—and pay liberally.”
“My dear sir,” said the lawyer, hesitating, “I hope you have well reflected upon what you are about to do.”
“Yes—yes,” answered Richard impatiently: “I have well reflected, I can assure you.”
“Two thousand pounds—or nearly so—is a large sum, Mr. Markham.”
“I have weighed all the consequences.”
“At least, then, you have received ample security—”
“Not a scrap of paper.”
“Had I not better call and see this nobleman, and obtain from him a warrant of attorney or cognovit—”
“So far from doing any such thing,” interrupted Markham, “you must take especial care not to mention to a soul the name of the person who has employed you to effect the count’s release—not a syllable must escape your lips on this head; nor need you acquaint the clerks whom you may see, with your own name. In a word, the affair must be buried in profound mystery.”
“Since you are determined,” said Mr. Dyson, “I will obey your instructions to the very letter. But, once again, excuse me if I request you to reflect whether—”
“My dear sir, I have nothing more to reflect upon; and you will oblige me by terminating this business as speedily as possible.”
The solicitor returned to the prison; and Markham, whom he now considered to be foolish or mad, instead of improvident and extravagant, threw himself back in the vehicle, and gave way to his reflections. His eyes were, however, turned towards the road leading to the Bench; for he was anxious to watch for the re-appearance of his agent.
Ten minutes had elapsed, when his attention was directed to two ladies who passed by the cab, and advanced towards the prison-gate.
He leant forward—he could not be mistaken:—no—it was indeed she—the idol of his adoration—the being whom he loved with a species of worship! She was walking with the countess. They were on their way to visit the count in his confinement; but Richard could not catch a glimpse of their countenances—though he divined full well that they wore not an expression of joy. It was not, however, necessary for him to behold Isabella’s face, in order to recognise her—he knew her by her symmetrical form, the elegant contours of which even the ample shawl she wore could not hide: he knew her by her step—by her graceful and dignified gesture—by her lady-like and yet unassuming gait.
Oh! how speedily, thought he within himself, were she and her parents to be restored to happiness again!
In about a quarter of an hour after the ladies had entered the prison, Dyson returned to his client.
“Is it all settled?” demanded Markham.
“Every thing,” answered the lawyer.
“And when can the count leave the prison?”
“Almost immediately,” replied Dyson, as he entered the vehicle once more.
Markham then ordered the driver to return to the City.
In the mean time the countess and Isabella repaired to the room which the noble exile occupied in the prison. As they ascended the steep stone stair-case which led to it, they wondered within themselves when he whom they loved so tenderly would be restored in freedom to them.
The count was seated at a table covered with books and papers, and was busily occupied in arranging the latter when the countess and signora entered the room. They were instantly welcomed with the most affectionate warmth by the noble prisoner; and he endeavoured to assume a cheerful air in their presence.
“Any letters?” said the count, after the usual inquiries concerning health and comfort.
“None this morning,” answered the countess. “And now, my dear husband, tell me—have you settled any plan to effect your release?”
“No,” said the count. “I must trust to events. Were Armstrong alive, I should not hesitate to accept a loan from him;—but to none other would I apply.”
At this moment a knock at the door of the prison chamber was heard; and the two inseparables, Captain Smilax Dapper and Sir Cherry Bounce, made their appearance.
“My dear count, you don’t mean to say that it is really true, and that you are here on your own account—strike me!” ejaculated the gallant hussar.
“The newth wath twue—too twue, you thee, Thmilackth,” said Sir Cherry, shuddering visibly, and without any affectation too as he glanced around him.
“True indeed!” cried the count bitterly.
“I wonder whether they will let uth out again?” said Sir Cherry, gazing from the window. “But, I declare, they have got wacket-gwoundth here, and no leth than thwee pumpth. What can the pwithonerth want with tho muth water?”
“What, indeed—confound me!” exclaimed the captain. “For my part, I always heard that they lived upon beer. But tell me—how much is there against you?”
“Yeth—how muth?” echoed Sir Cherry Bounce.
“A mere trifle,” answered the count evasively. “I have been cruelly robbed, and my present position is the result.”
“Well,” continued the captain, with remarkable embarrassment of manner, “we are all here together—and so there is no harm in speaking openly, you know�
��and Cherry isn’t anybody, strike him!—I was thinking that a very satisfactory arrangement might be made. Always strike when the iron’s hot! I have long entertained a high respect for your family, count: my late uncle the general, who introduced me and Cherry to you, always spoke in the best possible terms of you, although he never said much about your past life, and even hinted that there was some mystery—”
“To what is all this to lead, Captain Dapper?” exclaimed the count, somewhat impatiently.
“Simply that—why do you stand there, laughing like a fool, Cherry?”
“Me, Thmilackth?”
“Yes—you. Well, as I was saying when Cherry interrupted me—I have always entertained the highest possible opinion of your family, count, and especially of the signora; and if she would accept my hand and heart—why, strike me! an arrangement could be made in four-and-twenty hours—”
“Captain Dapper,” interrupted the count, “no more of this. I believe that you would not wantonly insult either my daughter or myself; but I cannot listen to the terms to which you allude.”
“My dear count—”
“Silence, sir! No more of this!” exclaimed the noble Italian.
There was a pause, which was broken by the entrance of one of the turnkeys.
“Sir, I have the pleasure to inform you that you are discharged,” said that functionary.
“Discharged!” ejaculated the count: “impossible! How could I be discharged?”
The countess and Isabella surveyed the turnkey with looks of the most intense and painful anxiety.
“A stranger has sent his solicitor to pay every thing against you at the gate; and all the fees and the little donations to us and the criers are paid also.”
“You are bantering me, sirrah!” cried the count. “You are mistaken. The Envoy from my native land, who alone of all my acquaintances is capable of doing an action of this generous nature, and in so delicate a manner, has been absent from London for the last ten days, and is even unaware of my situation. Who then could have paid my debts?”
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 86