"We must now separate, dear Richard," said Isabella: "I have already remained too long away from home! But one word ere you depart:—that miscreant who made so fearful an accusation against you on the fatal night when you left my father's dwelling——"
"He is no more, Isabella," answered Markham: "at least I have every reason to believe that when the police, instructed by me, discovered his dwelling, three months ago, the villain terminated his existence in a manner that corresponded well with the whole tenour of his life. The den of infamy which he inhabited, was blown up with gunpowder, the moment after the officers of justice entered it; and there can be no doubt that he, together with one of his accomplices, perished in the ruin that was produced by his own hand. Several constables met their death at the same time; and, according to information gathered from the neighbours, an old woman—believed to be the miscreant's mother—was also in the house at the time of the explosion."
"How fearful are the ways of crime!" said Isabella, with a shudder. "May God grant that in future you will have no enemies to cross your path! And now, farewell, Richard—farewell. We shall meet again soon—Providence will not desert us!"
Richard pressed his lips to those of that charming girl, and bade her adieu.
She tore herself—now reluctantly!—away from him, and hastily retraced her steps towards the mansion.
But ere she passed the angle of the grove, she turned and waved her handkerchief to her lover.
The young man kissed his hand fondly to the idol of his heart: and in another moment Isabella was out of sight.
That one half-hour of bliss, which Richard had thus passed with the Italian lady, was a reward for weeks—months—years of anguish and of sorrow!
CHAPTER LXXV.
THE CRISIS.
DURING the ensuing three months nothing occurred worthy of record, in connexion with any character that has figured upon the stage of our narrative.
The month of July arrived: and found Tomlinson, the banker, more deeply involved in difficulties than ever. The result was that the consultations between him and old Michael, the cashier, were of very frequent occurrence; and the latter grew more morose, more dirty, and more addicted to snuff in proportion as the affairs of the bank became the more desperate.
One morning, in the first week of July, Tomlinson arrived at the banking-house half an hour earlier than usual. He had taken home the cash-books with him on the preceding evening, for the purpose of ascertaining his true position; and he brought them back again in the morning before any of the clerks had arrived, with the exception of old Michael Martin, who was already waiting for him when he entered the parlour.
"Well, Michael, my old friend," said Tomlinson, on whose countenance the marks of care and anxiety were now too visibly traced, "I am afraid that the establishment cannot possibly exist many days longer. Mr. Greenwood will be here presently: and he is my only hope."
"Hope indeed!" growled Martin, plunging his fore-finger and thumb into his capacious snuff-box: "how he left you to shift for yourself after you gave that security to Count Alteroni."
"Which security fell due a few days ago; and a note from the count, received yesterday, tells me that he shall call upon me next Saturday at twelve o'clock for the amount."
"He is very welcome to call—and so are a good many others," said Michael; "but they will go back as empty as they came."
"Good God! can nothing be done?" exclaimed Tomlinson, with an expression of blank despair upon his countenance. "Say, Michael—is there any resource? do you know of any plan? can you suggest any method—"
"Not one. You must go to the Bankruptcy Court, and I must go to the workhouse;"—and the old man took a huge pinch of snuff.
"To the workhouse!" cried Tomlinson; "no—impossible! Do not say that, my good old friend."
"I do say it, though;"—and two tears rolled slowly down the cashier's cheeks.
This was the first time that Tomlinson had ever beheld any outward and visible sign of emotion on the part of his faithful clerk.
Tomlinson was not naturally a bad man—at all events, not a bad-hearted man: the cashier had served him with a fidelity rarely equalled; and that announcement of a workhouse-doom in connexion with the old man touched him to the soul.
"Michael," he said, taking the cashier's hand, "you do not mean to tell me that you are totally without resources for yourself? Your salary has been six hundred a year for a long time; and surely you must have saved something out of that—you, who have no family encumbrances of any kind, and whose expenses are so very limited."
The old man slowly opened one of the cash-books, pointed to the page at the head of which stood his own name, ran his finger down a column of payments made to himself, and stopping at the total, said, "That amount runs over nine years; and the amount is £540."
"What—is it possible?" cried Tomlinson: "you have only paid yourself £60 a-year."
"And that was too much for the state of the bank," said the cashier drily, taking a pinch of snuff at the same time.
"Now of all things which combine to make me wretched at this moment," said Tomlinson, "your position is the most afflicting."
"Don't think of me: I'm not worth it," returned Michael. "What will you do yourself?"
"What shall we both do?" cried the banker. "But so long as I have a crust, you shall not want."
"Well—well, there's enough of that," almost growled the cashier, though his furrowed cheeks were still moist with tears. "I am an old man, and my wants are few. A bit of bread and a pinch of snuff are enough for me. But you—you, who have always lived like a gentleman—how can you stand it?"
"And is it literally come to this? Is there no resource?"
"Do you see any? I do not. Will your father help you?"
"Not with another sixpence."
"Will Greenwood?"
"Here he comes to answer for himself."
Mr. Greenwood entered the parlour, and old Michael, taking his cash-books under his arm, withdrew.
The member of parliament threw himself into a chair, and observed what a beautiful morning it was.
Tomlinson made a movement of impatience, and yet dared not ask the question that trembled upon his tongue, and the answer to which would decide his fate.
"Yes," continued Greenwood, "it is a lovely morning: all nature seems enlivened, and every body is inspired with a congenial feeling."
"What nonsense is this, Greenwood?" cried the banker. "Do you come to taunt a man upon the brink of ruin, with the happiness of others?"
"Oh! I beg your pardon, my dear Tomlinson. I really was waiting for you to question me upon matters of business; and in the mean time made use of some observations of common courtesy and politeness."
"The fact is, that since you obtained a seat in Parliament your manners have altogether changed. But please to put me out of suspense at once:—have you considered my proposal?"
"I have—maturely."
"And what is your decision?"
"That I cannot agree to it."
"I thought as much," said Tomlinson. "Well—now I have no alternative. I must close the bank and appear in the Gazette."