The Marquis made no reply; but taking the delicate white hand of the Irish girl, as he lay pillowed upon her palpitating breast, he gently slipped upon one of her taper fingers a ring of immense value.
He then squeezed her hand to enjoin silence: and this act was not perceived by the other ladies, who were too busily employed in feasting their eyes upon the Bank-notes to pay attention to aught beside.
“Come—fill the glasses!” suddenly exclaimed the Marquis, after a short pause: “I feel that my strength is failing me fast—the sand of my life’s hour-glass is running rapidly away!”
The French girl—to whose mind there was something peculiarly heroical and romantic in the conduct of the Marquis—hastened to obey the order which had been specially addressed to her; and the sparkling juice of Epernay again moistened the parched throat of the dying man, and also enhanced the carnation tints upon the cheeks of the five youthful beauties.
“And now, my charmers,” said the nobleman, addressing himself to the French and Spanish women, “gratify me by dancing some pleasing and voluptuous measure,—while you, my loves,” he added, turning his glazing eyes upon the Scotch and English girls, “play a delicious strain,—so that my spirit may ebb away amidst the soothing ecstacies of the blissful scene!”
The Marquis spoke in a faint and tremulous voice, for he felt himself growing every moment weaker and weaker; and his head now lay, heavy and motionless, upon the bosom of the Irish girl, whose warm and polished arm was thrown around him.
The Scotch and English girls hastened to place themselves, the former before a splendid harp, and the latter at a pianoforte, the magnificent tones of which had never failed to excite the admiration of all who ever heard them.
Then the French and Spanish women commenced a slow, languishing, and voluptuous dance, the evolutions of which were well adapted to display the fine proportions of their half-naked forms.
A smile relaxed the features of the dying man; and his glances followed the movements of those foreign girls who vied with each other in assuming the most lascivious attitudes.
By degrees, that exciting spectacle grew indistinct to the eyes of the Marquis; and the music no longer fell upon his ears in varied and defined tones, but with a droning monotonous sound.
“Kathleen—Kathleen,” he murmured, speaking with the utmost difficulty, “reach me the glass—place the goblet to my lips—it will revive me for a few minutes——”
The Irish girl shuddered in spite of herself—shuddered involuntarily as she felt the cheek of the Marquis grow cold and clammy against her bosom.
“Kathleen—dear Kathleen,” he murmured in a whisper that was scarcely audible; “give me the goblet!”
Conquering her repugnance, the Irish girl, who possessed a kind and generous heart, reached a glass on the table near the sofa; and, raising the nobleman’s head, she placed the wine to his lips.
With a last—last expiring effort, he took the glass in his own hand, and swallowed a few drops of its contents:—his eyes were lighted up again for a moment, and his cheek flushed; but his head fell back heavily upon the white bosom.
Kathleen endeavoured to cry for aid—and could not: a sensation of fainting came over her—she closed her eyes—and a suffocating feeling in the throat almost choked her.
But still the music continued and the dance went on, for several minutes more.
All at once a shriek emanated from the lips of Kathleen: the music ceased—the dance was abandoned—and the Irish girl’s companions rushed towards the sofa.
Their anticipations were realised: the Marquis was no more!
The hope which he had so often expressed in his life-time, was fulfilled almost to the very letter;—for the old voluptuary had “died with his head pillowed on the naked—heaving bosom of beauty, and with a glass of sparkling champagne in his hand!”
CHAPTER CCLIII.
THE EX-MEMBER FOR ROTTENBOROUGH.
It was now the middle of April, 1843.
The morning was fine, and the streets were marked with the bustle of men of business, clerks, and others repairing to their respective offices, when Mr. George Montague Greenwood turned from Saint Paul’s Churchyard into Cheapside.
He was attired in a plain, and even somewhat shabby manner: there was not a particle of jewellery about him; and a keen eye might have discovered, in the tout ensemble of his appearance, that his toilette had been arranged with every endeavour to produce as good an effect as possible.
Thus his neckcloth was tied with a precision seldom bestowed upon a faded piece of black silk: his shirt-cuffs were drawn down so as to place an interval of snowy white between the somewhat threadbare sleeve of the blue coat and the common grey glove of Berlin wool:—a black riband hung round his neck and was gathered at the ends in the right pocket of the soiled satin waistcoat, so as to leave the beholder in a state of uncertainty whether it were connected with a watch or only an eye-glass—or, indeed, with any thing at all;—and the Oxford-mixture trousers, rather white at the knees, were strapped tightly over a pair of well-blacked bluchers, a casual observer would certainly have taken for Wellingtons.
In his hand he carried a neat black cane; and his gait was characterised by much of the self-sufficiency which had marked it in better days. It was, however, far removed from a swagger: Greenwood was too much of a gentleman in his habits to fall into the slightest manifestation of vulgarity.
His beautiful black hair, curling and glossy, put to shame the brownish hue of the beaver hat which had evidently seen some service, and had lately been exposed to all the varieties of weather peculiar to this capricious climate. His face—eminently handsome, as we have before observed—was pale and rather thin; but there was a haughty assurance in the proud curl of the upper lip, and a fire in his large dark eyes, which showed that hope was not altogether a stranger to the breast of Mr. George Montague Greenwood.
It was about a quarter past nine in the morning when this gentleman entered the great thoroughfare of Cheapside.
Perhaps there is no street in all London which presents so many moral phases to the eyes of the acute beholder as this one, and at that hour; inasmuch as those eyes may single out, and almost read the pursuit of every individual forming an item in the dense crowd that is then rolling onward to the vicinity of the Bank of England.
For of every ten persons, nine are proceeding in that direction.
Reader, let us pause for a moment and examine the details of the scene to which we allude: for Greenwood has slackened his pace—his eye has caught sight of Bow clock—and he perceives that he is yet too early to commence the visits which he intends to make in certain quarters.
And first, gentle reader, behold that young man with the loose taglioni and no undercoat: he has a devil-me-care kind of look about him, mingled with an air of seediness, as if he had been up the best part of the night at a free-and-easy. He is smoking a cigar—at that hour of the morning! It is impossible to gaze at him for two seconds, without being convinced that he is an articled clerk to an attorney, and that he doesn’t care so long as he reaches the office just five minutes before the “governor” arrives.
But that old man, with a threadbare suit of black, and the red cotton handkerchief sticking so suspiciously out of his pocket, as if he had something wrapped up in it,—who is he? Mark how he shuffles along, dragging his heavy high-lows over the pavement at a pace too speedy for his attenuated frame: and see with what anxiety he looks up at the clock projecting out far over-head, to assure himself that he shall yet be at his office within two minutes of half-past nine—or else risk his place and the eighteen shillings a week which it brings him in, and on which he has to support a wife and large family. He is a copying clerk in a lawyer’s office—there can be no doubt of it; and the poor man has his dinner wrapped up in his pocket-handkerchief!
Do you observe that
proud, pompous-looking stout man, with the large yellow cane in his hand, and the massive chain and seals hanging from his fob? He is a stockbroker who, having got up a bubble Railway Company, has enriched himself in a single day, after having struggled against difficulties for twenty years. But see—a fashionably-dressed gentleman, with a little too much jewellery about his person, and a rather too severe swagger in his gait, overtakes our stout friend, and passes his arm familiarly in his as he wishes him “good morning.” There is no mistake about this individual: he is the Managing-Director of the stockbroker’s Company, and was taken from a three-pair back in the New Cut to preside at the Board. Arcades ambo—a precious pair!
Glance a moment at that great, stout, shabbily-dressed man, whose trousers are so tight that they certainly never could have been made for him, and whose watery boiled-kind of eyes, vacant look, and pale but bloated face, denote the habitual gin-drinker. He rolls along with a staggering gait, as if the effects of the previous night’s debauch had not been slept off, or as if he had already taken his first dram. He is on his way to the neighbourhood of the Bank, where he either loiters about on the steps of the Auction Mart, or at the door of Capel Court, or else proceeds to some public-house parlour “which he frequents.” His business is to hawk bills about for discount; and, to hear him speak, one would believe that he could raise a million of money in no time—whereas he has most likely the pawn-ticket of his Sunday’s coat in his pocket.
And now mark that elderly, sedate, quiet-looking man, whose good black suit is well-brushed and his boots nicely polished. He compares his heavy gold watch with the clock of Bow church, and is quite delighted to see that his time is correct to a second. And now he continues his way, without looking to the right or the left: he knows every feature—every shop—every lamp-post of Cheapside and the Poultry too well to have any farther curiosity about those thoroughfares—for he has passed along that way every morning, Sundays excepted, during the last twenty years. Are you not prepared to make an affidavit that he is a superior clerk in the Bank of England?
But we must abandon any farther scrutiny of the several members of the crowd in Cheapside—at least for the present; because it is now half-past nine o’clock, and Mr. Greenwood has reached Cornhill.
Here he paused—and sighed,—sighed deeply. That sigh told a long and painful history,—of how he had lately been rich and prosperous—how he had lost all by grasping at more—how he was now reduced almost to the very verge of penury—and how he wondered whether he should ever be wealthy and great again!
“Yes—yes: I will be!” he said to himself—speaking not with his lips, but with that silent though emphatic tongue which belongs to the soul. “My good star cannot have deserted me for ever!—But this day must show!”
Then, calling all his assurance to his aid, he turned into the office of a well-known merchant and capitalist on Cornhill.
The clerks did not immediately recognise him; for the last time he had called there, it was at four in the afternoon and he had alighted from an elegant cab: whereas now it was half-past nine in the morning, and he had evidently come on foot. But when he demanded, in his usual authoritative tone, whether their master had arrived yet, they recollected him, and replied in the affirmative.
Greenwood accordingly walked into the merchant’s private office.
“Ah! my dear sir,” he said, extending his hand towards the merchant, “how do you find yourself? It is almost an age since we met.”
The merchant affected not to perceive the outstretched hand; nor did he return the bland smile with which Mr. Greenwood accosted him. But, just raising his eyes from the morning paper which lay before him, he said in a cold tone, “Oh! Mr. Greenwood, I believe? Pray, sir, what is your business?”
The ex-member for Rottenborough took a chair uninvited, and proceeded to observe in a confidential kind of whisper,—“The fact is, my dear sir, I have conceived a magnificent project for making a few thousands into as many millions, I may say; and as on former occasions you and I have done some little business together—and I have put a few good things in your way—I thought I would give you the refusal of my new design.”
“I am really infinitely obliged to you, Mr. Greenwood——”
“Oh! I knew you would be, my dear sir!” interrupted the ex-member. “The risk is nothing—the gains certain and enormous. You and I can keep it all to ourselves; and——”
“You require me to advance the funds, I presume?” asked the merchant, eyeing his visitor askance.
“Just so—a few thousands only—to be repaid out of the first proceeds, of course,” returned Greenwood.
“Then, sir, I beg to decline the speculation,” said the merchant, drily.
“Speculation! it is not a speculation,” cried Greenwood: “it is a certainty.”
“Nevertheless, sir, I must decline it; and as my time is very much occupied——”
“Oh! I shall not intrude upon you any longer,” interrupted Greenwood, indignantly; and he strode out of the office.
“The impertinent scoundrel!” he muttered to himself, when he had gained the street. “After all the good things I have placed in his way, to treat me in this manner. But, never mind—let me once grow rich again and I will humble him at my feet!”
In spite of this attempt at self-consolation, Greenwood was deeply mortified with the reception which he had experienced at the merchant’s office: his anger had, however, cooled and his spirits revived by the time he reached Birchin Lane, where dwelt another of his City acquaintances.
This individual was a capitalist who had once been saved from serious embarrassment, if not from total ruin, by a timely advance of funds made to him by Greenwood; and though the capitalist had paid enormous interest for the accommodation, he had nevertheless always exhibited the most profound gratitude towards the ex-member for Rottenborough.
It was, therefore, with great confidence that Greenwood entered the private office of the capitalist.
“Ah! my dear fellow,” cried the latter, apparently overjoyed to see his visitor, “how have you been lately? Why—it is really an age since I have seen you! Pray sit down—and now say what I can do for you.”
Greenwood addressed him in terms similar to those which he had used with the merchant a few minutes previously.
“And so you actually have a scheme that will make millions, my dear Greenwood?” said the capitalist, his entire countenance beaming with smiles.
“Just as I tell you,” answered the ex-member.
“And you have considered it in all its bearings?”
“In every shape and way. Success is certain.”
“Oh! what a lucky dog you are,” cried the capitalist, playfully thrusting his fingers into Greenwood’s ribs.
“Well—I can’t say that I am lucky,” observed the latter, in a measured tone. “I have had losses lately—serious losses: but you know that I am not the man to be long in remedying them.”
“Far from it, my boy!” exclaimed the capitalist. “You will make an enormous fortune before you die—I am sure you will. And this new scheme of yours,—although you have only hinted darkly at it,—must succeed—I am convinced it must.”
“Then you are prepared to join me in the project?” said Greenwood.
“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, my dear friend,” ejaculated the capitalist: “but it is impossible.”
“Impossible! How can that be, since you think so well of any thing which I may devise?” asked Greenwood.
“God bless your soul!” cried the other; “money is money now-a-days. For my part I can’t think where the devil it all gets to! One hears of it—reads of it—but never sees it! In fact,” he added, sinking his voice to a mysterious whisper, “I do believe that there is no such thing now as money in the whole City.”
“Ridiculous!” exclaimed Gre
enwood. “Complaints from you are absurd—because every one knows that you have made an enormous fortune since that time when I was so happy to save you from bankruptcy.”
“Yes—yes,” said the capitalist: “I remember that incident—I have never forgot it—I always told you I never should.”
“Then, in plain terms,” continued Greenwood, “do me the service of advancing two or three thousand pounds to set my new project in motion.”
“Impossible, Greenwood—impossible!” cried the capitalist, buttoning up his breeches-pockets. “Things are in such a state that I would not venture a penny upon the most feasible speculation in the world.”
“Perhaps you will lend me a sum——”
“Lend! Ah! ha! Now, really, Greenwood, this is too good! Lend, indeed! What—when we are all in the borrowing line in the City!”—and the capitalist chuckled, as if he had uttered a splendid joke.
“In one word, then,” said Greenwood, relishing this mirth as little as a person in his situation was likely to do; “will you assist my temporary wants—even if you do not choose to enter into my speculation? You know that I am proud, and that it must pain me thus to speak to you: but I declare most solemnly that fifty pounds at this moment would be of the greatest service to me.”
“Nothing gives me more pain than to refuse a friend like you,” answered the capitalist: “but, positively, I could not part with a shilling to-day to save my own brother from a gaol.”
Greenwood rose, put on his hat, and left the office without uttering another word.
He felt that he was righteously punished—for he had, in his time, often treated men in the same manner,—professing ardent friendship, and yet refusing the smallest pecuniary favour!
Having walked about for nearly half an hour, to calm the feelings which the conduct of the capitalist had so painfully excited, Greenwood repaired to the office of a great bill-discounter and speculator in Broad Street. This individual had been a constant visitor at Greenwood’s house in Spring Gardens—had joined him in many of his most profitable speculations—and had gained considerable sums thereby. He was, moreover, of a very enterprising character, and always ready to risk money with the hope of large returns.
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 130