The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics)

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “So far, all goes well,” said Mr. Pennywhiffe.

  “The bills are excellent in every point save one,” observed Greenwood.

  “Which is that?” demanded the caligrapher.

  “They look too new—the paper is too clean.”

  “I know it,” returned Mr. Pennywhiffe; “but the process is not entirely complete.”

  He rose and threw a quantity of small coal upon the fire, so as to smother the flame, and create a dense smoke. He then passed each bill several times through the smoke, until the documents acquired a slightly dingy hue. Lastly, he placed them between the leaves of a portfolio scented with musk, so as to take off the odour of the smoke; and the entire process was terminated.

  Mr. Greenwood now counted upon the table bank-notes to the aggregate amount of the two hundred pounds promised, and the price of the stamps; and in exchange he received the bills for twenty-three thousand two hundred and seventeen pounds, nine shillings, and sevenpence halfpenny.

  “This seems to be a most extraordinary neighbourhood, Mr. Pennywhiffe,” said Greenwood, as he placed the bills in his pocket-book. “I knocked by mistake at three houses before I came to yours, and the inmates of each seemed to be in difficulties.”

  “No doubt of it, my dear sir. This part of London swarms with members of the Swell Mob, broken-down tradesmen, fraudulent bankrupts, insolvents playing at hide-and-seek with the sheriff’s-officers, railway projectors, and swindlers of all kinds. I have got a very queer kind of a lodger in my attic: he has no visible means of living, but is out nearly all day long; and he dresses uncommonly well—gold chain—polished boots—figured silk waistcoat—and so forth. He only pays me—or ought to pay me—five shillings a-week for his furnished bed-room; and he is six months in arrears. But what is more remarkable still, I don’t even know his name; and he never receives any letters, nor has any friends to call. He is about thirty-six or thirty-eight years old, a good-looking fellow enough, and an Irishman.”

  “Perhaps he also is some railway projector,” said Mr. Greenwood, rising to take his departure.

  At this moment a double knock at the front-door was heard.

  “That must be my lodger,” exclaimed Mr. Pennywhiffe.

  Urged by curiosity to catch a glimpse of the mysterious gentleman alluded to, Greenwood hurried on his cloak, took leave of the caligrapher, and left the room.

  On the stairs he met the lodger, who was ascending to his attic, with a brass candle-stick, containing an inch of the commonest candle, in his hand.

  The moment he and Greenwood thus encountered each other, an ejaculation of surprise issued from the lips of each.

  “Hush! not a word!” said the gentleman, placing his fore-finger upon his lip. “And, of course, Greenwood,” he continued, in a whisper, “you will never mention this to a soul.”

  “Never—on my honour!” answered Greenwood.

  They then shook hands, and parted—the gentleman continuing his way to the attic, and Greenwood hastening to leave the house.

  “Wonders will never cease!” thought the latter, as he proceeded towards the cab-stand near Rowland Hill’s chapel in the Blackfriars Road: “who would have thought of one of the Irish Members of Parliament living in an attic in the New Cut?”

  CHAPTER CLXXXVII.

  THE FORGED BILLS.

  At half-past four o’clock on the following afternoon, Ellen Monroe was in the immediate vicinity of the Bank of England.

  She had been to receive a small sum of money which an old debtor of her father’s, residing in Birchin Lane, had written to state that he was in a condition to pay; and she was now on her return to Markham Place.

  The evenings of January are obscure, if not quite dark, at that hour; and the lamps were lighted.

  As she was proceeding along Lothbury, Greenwood suddenly passed her. He was walking rapidly, in a preoccupied manner, and did not perceive her.

  But she beheld him; and she turned to speak to him; for in spite of all the injuries which her parent, her benefactor Richard, and herself had sustained at his hands, he was still the father of her child!

  Scarcely had she thus turned, when he drew his handkerchief from his pocket—still hurrying on towards Tokenhouse Yard.

  Ellen quickened her pace; but in a few moments her foot encountered an object on the pavement.

  She stooped, and picked it up.

  It was a pocket-book.

  Conceiving that Greenwood might have dropped it, as she had found it on the very spot where she had seen him take his handkerchief from his pocket, she ran in the direction which she supposed him to have pursued; but as, in the mean time, he had turned into the narrow alley called Tokenhouse Yard, and as she continued her way along Lothbury towards Throgmorton Street, she did not of course overtake him.

  Finding that her search after him was unavailing, she determined to examine the contents of the pocket-book, and ascertain if it really did belong to him; in which case, she resolved to proceed straight to Spring Gardens, and restore it to him.

  Retracing her steps along Lothbury, she entered Cateaton Street; and turning into the Old Jewry, which was almost deserted, she stopped beneath the light of a lamp to open the pocket-book.

  It contained several letters, addressed to “G.M. Greenwood, Esq., M.P.;” and thus her doubts were cleared up at once. But as she was thus investigating the interior of the pocket-book, her eye fell upon a number of bills of exchange, all drawn and endorsed by Mr. Greenwood, and accepted for large sums by noblemen, well-known landowners, and eminent merchants. A rapid glance over these documents convinced Ellen that the aggregate amount which they represented could not fall far short of twenty-five thousand pounds; for, in addition to the fictitious bills obtained from Pennywhiffe, Greenwood had placed in his pocket-book several genuine ones which he legitimately possessed.

  Miss Monroe’s scrutiny did not altogether occupy a minute; and, carefully securing the pocket-book about her person, she hurried towards Cheapside, where she entered a cab, directing the driver to take her to Spring Gardens.

  She did not forget Greenwood’s former conduct in having her carried away to his house in the country, but she did not apprehend any ill-usage at his hands in a part of London where succour would be so readily obtained as in Spring Gardens. It was therefore without hesitation that she resolved to proceed direct to his own dwelling in that quarter.

  In due time the vehicle stopped at Greenwood’s house in Spring Gardens.

  With a beating heart Ellen knocked at the door, which was almost immediately opened by Filippo.

  “Ah! Miss Monroe!” he exclaimed, as the light of the hall-lamp fell upon her beautiful countenance.

  “Yes—it is I at Mr. Greenwood’s house,” she answered, with a smile: “is he at home?”

  “No, Miss—he has gone into the City; but he will be back at six o’clock at the latest.”

  “Then I will wait for him,” said Ellen.

  Filippo conducted her up stairs.

  In the window of the staircase still stood the beautiful model of the Diana, holding a lamp in its hand,—that model which was the image of her own faultless form.

  On the landing-place, communicating with the drawing-room, was also the marble statue, the bust of which was sculptured in precise imitation of her own.

  And, when she entered the drawing-room, the first object which met her eyes was the picture of Venus rising from the ocean, surrounded by nereids and nymphs,—that Venus which was a faithful likeness of herself!

  Oh! how many phases of her existence did these permanent representations of her matchless beauty bring back to her memory!

  When Filippo left her, and she found herself alone, she fell upon a sofa, and gave way to a violent flood of tears.

  Then she felt relieved; and she began to ask her
self wherefore she had come thither? Was it because she was glad to have found an excuse for calling upon him who was the father of her child? was it because she was anxious to receive his thanks—from his own lips—for restoring to him his pocket-book? She scarcely knew.

  Half an hour passed in reflections of this nature—reflections which branched off in so many different ways, and converged to no satisfactory point—when a cab suddenly drove up to the house.

  In another minute hasty steps ascended the stairs—they approached the drawing-room—and Greenwood rushed in, banging the door furiously behind him.

  “My God! what have I done?” he exclaimed, frantically—for he did not immediately perceive Ellen, whom a screen concealed from his view. “The pocket-book is lost—gone! I am ruined—should those forged bills——”

  He said no more, but threw himself upon a chair, and buried his face in his hands.

  Ellen instantly comprehended it all:—the bills which she had seen in the pocket-book were forgeries!

  Rapid as lightning a train of new reflections passed through her brain:—a project suggested itself;—she hesitated for a moment—but only for a moment:—she thought of her child—and she was resolved.

  Assuming all her calmness, and calculating in an instant all the chances of her scheme, she rose from the sofa, and slowly approached the chair on which Greenwood was seated.

  He heard a step in the room, and raised his eyes.

  “Ellen!” he exclaimed, starting back in surprise.

  She murmured a Christian name—but it was not George.

  “Call me not that, Ellen!” cried Greenwood, fiercely: “the time is not come! But tell me,” he added, speaking thickly, and at the same instant casting upon her a glance which seemed to pierce her inmost soul,—“tell me—were you here—in this room—when I came in?”

  “I was,” answered Ellen, gazing, in her turn, fixedly upon him.

  “And you heard——”

  “I heard every word you uttered,” continued Miss Monroe, keeping her eyes still bent upon him.

  “And then you know——”

  “That you have committed forgery,” added Ellen, in an emphatic tone; “and that you are ruined!”

  “Damnation!” ejaculated Greenwood. “What did you come for? why are you here? To gloat over my falling fortunes—to make yourself merry at my ruin—to taunt me with the past—to laugh at me in my adversity—to——”

  “Then it is true,” thought Ellen, within herself: “these bills are forgeries—and he is in my power.—No,” she exclaimed aloud; “such was not my object.”

  “Then, go—leave me—depart!” cried Greenwood, frantically. “I am in no humour to listen to you now! But, Ellen,” he added, suddenly becoming cool—desperately cool:—“tell me—speak—you will not betray me?”

  “No—that is, on one condition,” answered Ellen.

  “One condition!” repeated Greenwood: “name it!”

  “That you make me your wife,” was the steady reply.

  “My wife!” exclaimed Greenwood, laughing hysterically. “Do you know whose wife you would become—the wife of a forger! Have you not learnt that dread secret! But, perhaps, it is to mock me that you offer to become my wife! Oh! I understand you full well, Ellen! When I was rich and beyond the reach of the law, I would not marry you;—and now you mean me to comprehend that since I am ruined, and every moment in danger of being dragged to a station-house, you would scorn the alliance! The jest is good:—no—the revenge is just! But it is not the less bitter to me, Ellen!”

  “By heavens, you wrong me!” cried Ellen. “Listen with calmness—with composure—if you can!”

  “I cannot, Ellen—I cannot! I am mad! A few months—nay, even a few weeks ago, I was happy—wealthy—prosperous:—now I am ruined—miserable—lost! Oh! the grand prospects that were so lately open before me!”

  “Again I say, listen. All is not so bad as you imagine,” said the young lady, in a hasty tone.

  “What do you mean, Ellen? what can you mean?” he exclaimed, bewildered. “Do you not understand the nature of a forgery—the consequences which it entails? True—I did not perpetrate the forgery with my own hands;—but the bills are all drawn—all endorsed by me! Oh! it is dreadful—it is terrible!”

  “I will not keep you any longer in suspense,” said Ellen. “Your pocket-book is found——”

  “Found!” repeated Greenwood, electrified by that word, and not knowing whether it imported good or evil to him: “found! Did you say——”

  “Yes—found,” answered Miss Monroe;—“and by me!”

  “By you, Ellen?” cried Greenwood, “No—it is impossible!”

  “How, then, should I know that you had lost a pocket-book?” asked the young lady.

  “True! And you have found it? Oh! then I am saved—I am saved! Give it to me, Ellen—give it to me!”

  And he advanced towards her, with outstretched hands.

  “No—not yet,” exclaimed the young lady, in a firm tone. “In this room—yes, in this very room—I went down upon my knees, and implored you to save me from disgrace—to give a father’s name to the child who was then as yet unborn. And you refused my supplication—you turned a deaf ear to my agonising entreaties. Oh! I remember that scene but too well. You would not do me justice—and I told you that you might live to repent your cruelty towards me!”

  “What! you will now avenge your alleged wrongs!” cried Greenwood, his countenance becoming livid with mingled fear and rage: “you will deliver me up to justice? No—I will tear the pocket-book from you—I will destroy the proofs of my folly—my crime; and then—but why should I waste time in idle words like these; I must act! Give me the book!”

  And he rushed towards her, as a tiger springs upon its victim.

  But Ellen, light as the fawn, glided away from him, and took such a position that a table was between them, and a bell-pull within her reach.

  “Dare to attempt violence towards me,” she exclaimed, “and I summon your servants. Then—in their presence—I will proclaim their master a forger! Provoke me not—my spirit is roused—and your fate hangs upon a thread!”

  “Damnation!” cried Greenwood, grinding his teeth with rage. “Can nothing move you, Ellen?”

  “Yes—the one condition that I ere now named,” she answered, drawing herself up to her full height, and assuming all the influence of her really queenly beauty.

  “Agreed!” ejaculated Greenwood. “Give me the pocket-book—I take God to witness that I will make you my wife within a week from this day.”

  “You regard an oath no more than a mere promise,” replied Ellen, calmly, and with a slightly satirical curl of the lip.

  “I will give you the promise in writing, Ellen,” persisted Greenwood, urged to desperation.

  “Neither will that satisfy me,” said the young lady. “When our hands are joined at the altar, I will restore you the proofs of your crime; and God grant,” she added solemnly, “that this peril which you have incurred may serve as a warning for you against future risks of the same fearful kind.”

  “You have no faith in my word—you have no confidence in my written promise, Ellen,” cried Greenwood: “how, then, can you be anxious to have me as a husband?”

  “That my child may not grow up with the stain of illegitimacy upon him—that he may not learn to despise his mother,” answered Ellen, emphatically; “for he need never know the precise date of our union.”

  “But you know, Ellen,” again remonstrated Greenwood, “that there are circumstances which act as an insuperable barrier to this marriage. Could you tell your father that you have espoused the man who ruined him—ruined Richard,—and also admit, at the same time, that this man was the father of your child! Consider, Ellen—reflect——”

  “There i
s no need of consideration—no need of reflection,” interrupted Miss Monroe. “I care not about revealing the fact of my marriage for the present. In a few years—when our child can comprehend his true position,—then it would be necessary to declare myself a wife.”

  “But there is another difficulty, Ellen,” persisted Greenwood: “my name——”

  “Let us be wedded privately—in some suburban church, where you stand no chance of being recognised as George Montague Greenwood, and where your right name may be fearlessly inscribed upon the register.”

  “A woman who is determined to gain her point, annihilates all difficulties,” muttered Greenwood to himself.

  “How do you decide?” asked Ellen. “Remember that I am firm. I have these alternatives before me—either to obtain a father’s name for my child, or to avenge the wrongs of my own parent and myself. Consent to make me your wife, and the proofs of your crime shall be returned to you at the altar: refuse, and to-morrow morning I will prepare the way for vengeance.”

  “Ellen, I consent to your proposal,” said Greenwood, in a tone of deep humiliation; “but upon condition that our marriage shall never be proclaimed until that day, when——”

  “I understand you; and I cheerfully agree to the proposal,” interrupted Miss Monroe. “You can believe my word:—besides, you must know that I also should have reasons to conceal our union, until you chose to declare your real name.”

  “Then be it as you propose, Ellen. To-morrow morning, early, I will procure a special license, and we will be united at Hackney. You can meet me at the church precisely at ten o’clock in the morning: I will have every thing in readiness. But whom will you ask to accompany you?”

  “Marian—the faithful servant who has been so devoted to my interests,” answered Miss Monroe.

  “I think that I should prefer the wife of that surgeon—Mrs. Wentworth, I mean—as the witness to our union,” said Greenwood. “I dislike the idea of domestics being entrusted with important secrets. Besides, Mrs. Wentworth has never seen me—knows not that I am passing by the name of Greenwood—and, in a word, is a lady.”