The Mysteries of London. George W. M. Reynolds
Calcutta, Sydney——"
"Greenwood, have you come back to mock a miserable—ruined man?"
"Quite the contrary. Listen! You leave money and securities to the amount of ninety-two thousand, three hundred, and forty-seven pounds—or any odd sum, to look well—safe in the strong box, together with the cash-books. You and Michael come in the morning—or perhaps it would be better to allow one of the clerks to arrive first—and, behold! the bank has been broken into during the night—the money, the securities, and the books are all gone—and the bank stops as a natural consequence!"
"Impossible—impossible!" exclaimed Tomlinson: "it could never be done! I could not proclaim such a fraud without a blush that would betray me. What say you, Michael?"
The old cashier answered only with a grunt, and took snuff as it were by handfuls.
"What say you, Michael?" repeated Tomlinson, impatiently.
"I say that it can be done—ought to be done—and must be done," replied the old man. "I would sooner die than see the honour of the house lost—and that will save it."
"Well said, Michael," exclaimed Greenwood. "Now, Tomlinson, your decision?"
"It is a fearful alternative—and yet—and yet, it is preferable to infamy—disgrace——"
"Then you agree?"
"And if I agree—where are the means of executing the scheme? Who will rob—or affect to rob the premises?"
"That must be arranged by yourselves. The back of this house looks upon a court. The thieves can have effected their entrance through these parlour windows: the parlour doors will be found forced; the safe will have been broken open. Nothing can be more simple."
"Yes—I know how to manage it all," exclaimed old Martin, who had been ruminating more seriously than ever for the last few moments. "Mr. Greenwood, you have saved the honour of the bank, which I love as if it was my own child;"—and the cashier wrung the hand of the member of Parliament with a warmth indicative of an amount of feeling which he had never been known to demonstrate before.
"Well—I have given you the hint—do you profit by it," said Greenwood; and with these words he departed.
And as he drove back to the West-End, he said to himself, "Tomlinson will now be completely in my power, and will never dare confess the real nature of the transaction relative to Count Alteroni's fifteen thousand pounds. According to the first arrangement proposed, a bullying counsel or an astute Commissioner might have wormed out of him the exact truth; whereas, now—now his lips are silenced on that head for ever!"
The moment Greenwood had left the bank-parlour, old Michael accosted Tomlinson, and said "Have you full confidence in me?"
"I have, Michael: but why do you ask me that question?"
"Will you place yourself in my hands?"
"I will—in every way."
"Then you will leave the establishment as usual at five this evening; and trust to me to manage every thing. I have my plan ready arranged; but you shall know nothing to-day:—to-morrow—to-morrow——"
The old man stopped short, and had recourse to his snuff-box.
"Be it as you say, Michael," cried Tomlinson, always bewildered by the terrors of his situation, and still half shrinking from the daring plot which Greenwood had opened to his view; "I know that you are my faithful friend—my best, my only friend:—it shall be as you desire!"
CHAPTER LXXVI.
COUNT ALTERONI'S FIFTEEN THOUSAND POUNDS.
ON the Saturday morning following the Thursday on which the above-mentioned conversation took place, the count and his family were seated at breakfast.
The morning paper was late; and his lordship was one of those persons who cannot enjoy their repast without the intellectual association of a journal.
At length the wished-for print arrived; and the count was soon buried in the preceding night's debate in the House of Commons—for he felt deeply interested in all political affairs, no matter to which country they referred.
"Really this Greenwood is a very clever man," he observed, after a long interval of silence. "He acquitted himself well last evening, notwithstanding the erroneous course he is pursuing in the political sphere. The Tories of this country have obtained a powerful auxiliary in him. It is a pity he is so unprincipled a villain—for, I repeat, he is really very clever."
"It is astonishing how men of his stamp contrive to push themselves forward in the world," said the countess, "while those of honest principles and upright minds are either misunderstood, or vilely persecuted."
"And yet vice only prospers for a time," observed Isabella; "and virtue becomes triumphant at last. Those who are misunderstood to-day will be comprehended and honoured to-morrow."
She thought of Markham as she uttered these words: indeed, the image of her lover was ever uppermost in the mind of the charming and affectionate girl.
"I am afraid," said the count, after a pause, "that the moral you have just advanced, Bella, is rather that of the stage and the romancist than of real life. And yet," he added fervently, "to entertain such an idea as mine is to question the goodness and the justice of Providence. Yes—I must believe in earthly rewards and punishments. You are right, my child—you are right: the wicked man will not ever triumph in his turpitude; nor may the virtuous one be oppressed until the end."
"No—or else were there small hope for us," said the countess solemnly. "The great men of Castelcicala must some day perceive who is their real friend."
"Alas!" exclaimed Isabella, "It is hard to be mistaken and suspected by those whose good opinions we would fain secure."
The count resumed the perusal of the newspaper; but his eyes had not dwelt many minutes upon the page ere he uttered a loud exclamation of mingled astonishment and alarm.
The ladies looked towards him in a state of the most painful suspense: and this feeling was not immediately removed, for the count, with an ashy pale face, continued to read the article that had caught his eyes, for some moments, ere he explained the cause of his emotion.
"Heavens!" exclaimed the countess, "are there any bad tidings from Italy?"
"No—the hand that strikes the blow which ruins us, is not so far distant," answered the nobleman, throwing the paper upon the table. "Ah! we were premature," he continued bitterly, "in founding our hopes upon the justice with which virtue is rewarded and vice punished!"
"The blow which ruins us?" said the countess, a prey to the most acute anxiety.
"Yes—Tomlinson has stopped payment," cried the Italian exile; "and—and we are ruined!"
"My dear father," said Isabella, hastening to fling her arms around the neck of her much-loved sire, "all may not be so bad as you imagine!"
"Ruined!" repeated the countess; and, taking up the newspaper, the following article instantly met her eyes:—
"ROBBERY AND STOPPAGE OF TOMLINSON'S BANK.
"The City was yesterday morning thrown into a state of the greatest fermentation by a rumour which prevailed at about eleven o'clock, that the above-mentioned old-established and well-known banking establishment had been plundered to an enormous amount, and had suspended its payments. Unfortunately the rumour was but too true; and our reporter, upon repairing to Lombard Street, found an immense crowd collected in front of the bank. The doors were closed; and the following notice was posted up;—'James Tomlinson