Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
THE LAPSE OF TWO YEARS
SHAKESPEARE said, "All the world is a
stage
;" we say, "All the
world is an
omnibus
."
The old and young - the virtuous and wicked - the rich and
the poor, are invariably thrown and mixed up together; and yet their interests
are always separate. Few stretch out a hand to help a ragged or decrepit man
into the vehicle; and the well-dressed draw back and avert their heads as the
impoverished wretch forces his way with difficulty past them up to the vacant
seat in the farthest corner. The moment a well-dressed individual mounts the steps
of the omnibus, every hand is thrust out to help him in, and the most
convenient seat is instantaneously accorded to him. And then the World's
omnibus hurries along. stopping occasionally at the gates of a church-yard to
put down one of its passengers, and calling at some palace or some cottage
indiscriminately to fill up the vacant seat.
Away - away thunders the World's omnibus again, crushing the
fairest flowers of the earth in its progress, and frequently choosing rough,
dreary, and unfrequented roads in preference to paths inviting, even, and
pleasant. Sometimes, by the caprice of the passengers, or by the despotic
commands of the masters of the World's omnibus, the beggar and the rich man
change garments and places; and then the former becomes the object of deference
and respect, while the latter is treated with contempt and scorn. In the
World's omnibus
might
makes
right
;- but
cunning
frequently secures a more soft
and comfortable seat than either.
If a dispute ensues, and the question at issue is referred
to the conductor for arbitration, he glances at the personal appearance of the
complainant and defendant, and decides in favour of him who wears the better
coat. When stones or other impediments obstruct the way of the World's omnibus,
the poor and the ragged passengers are commanded to alight and clear them away;
and yet, when the vehicle stops for dinner at the inn by the way side, the
well-dressed and the affluent appropriate to themselves the luxuries, while
those who cleared away the stones and who grease the wheels, get only a sorry
crust - and sometimes nothing at all.
And then, away - away the World's omnibus goes again, amidst
noise, dust, and all variations of weather. In the inclement seasons extra
garments are given to the well-dressed and the rich but none to the ragged and
the poor: - on the contrary, their very rags and tatters are frequently taken
from them to pay the prices of the hard crusts at the road-side inns. So goes
the World's omnibus; and the moment the driver and conductor, who are its
masters and owners, are deposited in their turn at the gates of some cemetery,
their sons succeed them, whether competent or not - whether infants in
swaddling-clothes, or old men
in their dotage. And few - very
few of those drivers know how to bold the reins ;- and thus is it that the
World's omnibus is frequently hurried at a thundering rate over broken ground,
even unto the very verge of some precipice, down which it would be inevitably
dashed, did not some bold intrepid passenger emerge from his obscurity in the
corner, rush upon the box, hurl the incompetent driver from his seat, and
assume the reins in his stead. But mark the strange opinions of those who
journey in the World's omnibus! The passengers, instead of being grateful to
him who has thus rescued them from ruin, pronounce him the usurper of a seat to
which he has no hereditary claim, and never rest till they have succeeded in
displacing him, and restoring the incompetent driver to his function.
So goes the World's omnibus! None of the passengers are ever
contented with their seats even though they may have originally chosen those
seats for themselves. This circumstance leads to a thousand quarrels and mean
artifices; and constant shiftings of positions take place. One passenger envies
the seat of another; and, when he has succeeded in working his way into it, he
finds to his surprise that it is not so agreeable as he imagines, and he either
wishes to get back to his old one or to shove himself into another. The passengers
in the World's omnibus are divided into different sects and parties, each party
professing certain opinions for the authority of which they have no better plea
than "the wisdom of their forefathers." Thus one party hates and
abhors another; and each confidently imagines itself to be in the right, and
all other parties to be in the wrong. And for those differences of opinion the
most sanguinary broils ensue ; and friendship, honour, virtue, and integrity
are all forgotten in the vindictive contention.
But the World's omnibus rolls along all the same and the
Driver and Conductor laugh at the contests amongst the passengers, which they
themselves have probably encouraged, and which somehow or another always turn
to their individual benefit in the long run.
So goes the World's omnibus;- so it has always hurried
onwards;- and in like manner will it ever go!
Oh! say not that Time his a leaden wing while it accompanies
the World's omnibus on its way!
Two years elapsed from the date of the Old Bailey trials described
in preceding chapters.
It was now the beginning of December, 1837.
The morning was dry, fine, and bright the ground was as hard
as asphalte; and the air was pure, cold, and frosty.
From an early hour a stout, elderly man well wrapped up in a
large great coat, and with a worsted "comforter" coming up to his
very nose, which was of a purple colour with the cold - was seen walking
up and down the front of the Giltspur Street Compter, apparently dividing his
attention between the prison entrance and the clock of Saint Sepulchre's
church.
At a quarter to ten o'clock, on that same morning, a private
carriage, without armorial bearings upon the panels, and attended by two
domestics whose splendid liveries were concealed beneath drab great-coats,
drove up to the door of the house inhabited by the Governor of Newgate. Inside
that carriage was seated a lady - wrapped up in the most costly firs, and with
a countenance whose beauty were enhanced by the smile of pleasure and satisfaction
which illuminated it.
Previously as the clock of Saint Sepulchre's Church struck
ten, the doors of the Compter and Newgate opened simultaneously, and with a
similar object.
From the Compter issued Richard Markham:- the portal
of Newgate gave freedom to Eliza Sydney.
They were both restored to liberty upon the same day - the
terms of their imprisonment dating from the commencement of the sessions during
which they were tried.
The moment Richard set foot in the street, he was caught in
the arms of the faithful Whittingham, who welcomed him with a kind of paternal
affection, and whimpered over him like a child.
Eliza Sydney entered the carriage awaiting her at the door
of Newgate, and was clasped to the bosom of Mrs. Arlington. The vehicle
immediately drove rapidly away in a north-easterly direction.
"Mr. Monroe is waiting for you at your own house at
Holloway," said Whittingham to his young master, when the first ebullition
of joy was over. "He has been ailing lately - and he thought that this
happy and fortitudinous event would be too much for his nerves."
"Let us make haste home, my excellent friend,"
observed Markham. "I am dying to behold once more the haunts of my
childhood."
Whittingham summoned a cab; and he and his young master were
soon rolling along the road which led to home.
Two years' imprisonment had produced a great effect upon
Richard Markham. The intellectual cast and faultless beauty of his countenance
still remained; but the joyous expression, natural to youth, had fled for ever;
and in its place was a settled melancholy which proclaimed an early and
intimate acquaintance with misfortune. His spirit was broken; but his
principles were not undermined :- his heart was lacerated to its very core, but
his integrity remained intact. Even though the gate of his prison had closed
behind him, he could not shake off the idea that his very countenance
proclaimed him to be a
Freed Convict.
At length the cab reached Markham
Place.
Richard glanced, with a momentary gleam of satisfaction upon
his pale countenance, towards the hill on which stood the two trees - the
rallying point for the brothers who had separated, more than six years back,
beneath the foliage. Tears started to his eyes; and the ray of sunshine upon
his brow gave place to a cloud of deep and sombre melancholy. He thought of
what he was when he bade adieu to his brother at that period, and what he was
at the present moment.
Then
all was blooming and encouraging
in his path; and
now
he felt as if the mark of Cain
was upon him!
He alighted from the vehicle, and entered the library, where
Mr. Monroe awaited him. He and his guardian were at length alone together.
But how altered was Monroe since Richard had last seen him!
His form was bowed down, his countenance was haggard, his eyes were sunken and
his brow was covered with wrinkles. He glanced furtively end anxiously around
him the instant the young man entered the room; and instead of hastening
forward to welcome him, he sank upon a chair, covering his face with his hands.
The tears trickled through his fingers; and his breast was convulsed with deep
sobs.
"In the name of heaven, what ails you, sir?"
demanded Richard
"My boy - you have come back at last", exclaimed
the old gentleman, scarcely able to articulate a wind, through the bitterness
of his grief;- "and the much-dreaded day has at length arrived!"
"Much-dreaded day," repeated Markham, in unfeigned
astonishment. "I should have thought, sir," he added coldly,
"that you, who professed yourself so convinced of my innocence, would have
received me with a smile of welcome!"
"My dear - dear boy," gasped the old man,
"God knows I am rejoiced to hail your freedom; and that same Almighty
power can also attest to my sincere conviction of your innocence. Believe me, I
would go through fire and water to serve you,- I would lay down my life,
miserable and valueless as it is, to benefit you ;- but, oh! I cannot - cannot
support your presence!"
And the old gentlemen seemed absolutely convulsed with agony
as he spoke.
"I presume," said Richard, leaning over him, so as
to be enabled to whisper its his ear, although there was no-one else at hand to
listen,- "I presume that you scorn the man who has been convicted of
felony? It is natural, sir - it is natural; but such a demonstration of
aversion is not the less calculated to wound one who never injured you."
"No, - no, Richard; you never injured me; and that
makes me feel the more acutely now. But - hear me. I take God to witness that I
love you as my own son, and that I am above such unnatural conduct as that
which you would impute to me."
"My God!" cried Markham, impatiently, "what
does all this mean? Are you ill? Has anything unpleasant occurred? If so, we
will postpone all discussion upon my affairs until a period more agreeable to
yourself."
As Markham uttered these words, he gently disengaged the old
man's hands from his countenance, and pressed them in his own. He was then for
the first time struck by the altered and care-worn features of his guardian;
and without thinking of the effect his words might produce, he exclaimed,
"My dear sir, you have evidently been very - very ill!"
"Ill!" cried the old man, bitterly. " When
the mind suffers, the body is sympathetically affected; and this has been my
case! If you have suffered much Richard, during the last two years - so have I;
and we have both only the same consolation - our innocence!"
"You speak in enigmas," ejaculated Markham.
"What can you have to do with innocence or guilt - you who never wronged a
human being ?"
So strange became the expression of the old man's
countenance, as Richard uttered these words, that the young man was perfectly
astonished, and almost horrified; and undefined alarms floated through his
brain. He was in a painful state of suspense; and yet he was afraid to ask a
question.
"Richard!" suddenly exclaimed the old man, now
looking our hero fixedly arid fearlessly in the face, "I have a terrible
communication to make to you."
"A terrible communication!" repeated Markham :
"is it in respect to my brother? If so, do not keep me in suspense - let
me know the worst at once - I can bear anything but suspense!"
"I have never heard
from
nor
of
your brother," answered Mr.
Monroe; "and cannot say whether he is dead or living."
"Thank God, you have nothing terrible to communication
relative to
him
," exclaimed Markham ; for he always had and still
entertained a presentiment that the appointment on the hill, beneath the two
trees, would be punctually kept ;- and this hope had cheered him during his
horrible imprisonment.
"But I will not keep you in suspense, Richard,"
said the old man; "it is better for me to unburthen my mind at once. You
are ruined!"
"Ruined! said Markham starting as that dread word fell
upon his ears; for the word