George W. M. Reynolds - The Mysteries of London

"I am at a loss to understand how I should have deserved these harsh words, Cecilia," replied Greenwood, with a somewhat supercilious smile; "but perhaps my inability to supply you with the means of gratifying your extravagances has given you offence."

"Your cool indifference of late has indeed given me a bitter lesson," said Lady Cecilia.

"And yet I manifested every disposition to serve you, madam," rejoined Greenwood haughtily, "when I consented to compromise your husband's felony."

"Yes—you generously abandoned your claim to a thousand pounds," exclaimed Cecilia, with cutting irony, "in order to hush up an intrigue with the wife of the man whom you had inveigled into your net. But think not, Mr. Greenwood, that I attempt to justify my husband's conduct: I know him to be a heartless—a bad—an unprincipled man;—and yet, Mr. Greenwood, I do not conceive that you would shine the more resplendently by being placed in contrast with him . One word more. Had you refused to deliver up that bill, I was prepared to pay it. Some unknown friend had heard of this transaction—heaven alone knows how; and that friend forwarded last evening the means wherewith to liquidate this debt. Here is the letter which contained a Bank-note for a thousand pounds: it fell into my hands, and my husband knows naught concerning it;—can you say whose writing that is?"

Greenwood glanced hastily at the letter, and exclaimed, "Yes—I know that writing well: Mrs. Arlington is your husband's generous friend!"

"Mrs. Arlington!" exclaimed Cecilia: "Oh!—now I recollect that rumour points to that woman as having once been my husband's mistress."

"The same," said Greenwood, struck by this noble act on the part of the fair one whom he himself had first seduced from the paths of virtue.

"It would now be difficult to decide," observed Cecilia, in a tone of profound contempt, "which has acted the more noble part—the late mistress of Sir Rupert Harborough, or the late lover of his wife."

Greenwood only answered with a satirical curl of the lip.

Lady Cecilia rose from her seat, bowed coldly to the capitalist, and withdrew.

Thus terminated the amours of the man of the world and the lady of fashion—ending, as such illicit loves usually do, in a quarrel.

But the reader must not suppose that the same sentiments of pride which had thus induced Lady Cecilia to break off abruptly a connexion which her paramour had been for some time dissolving by degrees, influenced her in the use to which she appropriated the handsome sum supplied for an especial purpose by Mrs. Arlington. The lady knew no compunction in this respect, and she therefore devoted the thousand pounds so generously forwarded by her husband's late mistress, to her own wants!

* * * * *

The Italian valet had overheard the entire conversation between Lady Cecilia Harborough and Mr. Greenwood, which we have just described.

In the course of the day the whole details of that interview were communicated to Mrs. Arlington, who thus learnt that Lady Cecilia had intercepted the money intended for Sir Rupert Harborough, and had settled the forged bill without being compelled to disburse it.

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IT was the 1st of January, 1840.

The tide of Time rolls on with the same unvarying steadiness of motion, wearing off the asperities of barbarism, as the great flood of ocean smooths the sharp edges of rugged rocks.

But as the seasons glide away, vainly may we endeavour to throw a veil upon the past;—vainly do we lament, when Winter comes, that our Spring-dreams should be faded and gone, too beautiful to endure;—vainly, vainly do we pray that the waves of a Lethean sea may overwhelm the memories of those years when Time cast flowers from his brow, and diamonds from his wing!

Time looks down upon the world from the heights of the Pyramids of Egypt; and, as he surveys the myriad cities of the universe swarming with life—marks the mighty armies of all states, ready to exterminate and kill—views the navies of great powers riding over every sea—as he beholds all these. Time chuckles, for he knows that they are his own!

For the day must come when the Pyramids themselves, the all but immortal children of antiquity, shall totter and fall; and Time shall triumph over even these.

The strongest edifices crumble into dust, and the power of the mightiest nations fritters into shreds, beneath the hand of Time.

The glories of Sesostris are now a vague dream—the domination of Greece and Rome has become an uncertain vision: the heroes of the Crusades have long since mouldered in the earth;—the crescent of the Ottomans menaces Christendom no more: the armadas of Spain are extinct;—the thrones that Napoleon raised are cast down: of the millions that he led to conquest, during his meteor-like career, what numbers have left this busy scene for ever and how varied are the climes in which they have found their graves!

Oh, Time! what is there that can strive with thee—thou that art the expression of the infinite existence of God himself!

Alas! if Time were a spirit endowed with intellect to comprehend, and feelings to sympathise, how would he sorrow over the woes of that human existence, which has now occupied nearly sixty centuries!

Year after year rolls away; and yet how slowly does civilization accomplish its task of improving the condition of the sons and daughters of toil.

For in the present day, as it was in the olden time, the millions labour to support the few; and the few continue to monopolize the choicest fruits of the earth.

The rights of labour are denied; and the privileges of birth and wealth are dominant.

And ever, when the millions, bowed down by cares, and crushed with incessant hardships, raise the voice of anguish to their taskmasters, the cry is, " Toil ! toil "

And when the poor labourer, with the sweat standing in large drops upon his brow, points to his half-starved wife and little ones, and demands the increase of his wages which will enable him to feed them adequately, and clothe them comfortably, the only response that meets his ears is still, " Toil! toil! "

And when the mechanic, pale and emaciated, droops over his loom, and in a faint tone beseeches that his miserable pittance may be turned into a fair remuneration for that hard and unceasing work which builds up the fortunes of his employer, the answer to his pathetic prayer is, " Toil! toil! "

And when the miner, who spends his best days in the bowels of the earth, hewing the hard mineral in dark subterranean caves at the peril of his life, and in positions which cramp his limbs, contract his chest, and early prostrate his energies beyond relief—when he exalts his voice from those hideous depths, and demands the settlement of labour's rights upon a just basis, the only echo to his petition is, " Toil! toil! "

Yes—it is ever " Toil! toil! " for the millions, while the few repose on downy couches, feed upon the luxuries of the land and water, and move from place to place in sumptuous equipages!

It was the 1st of January, 1840.

Another New Year's Day—commemorated with feasting by those who had no reason to repine, but marked as the opening of another weary epoch of care and sorrow by those who had nothing for which to be grateful, either to heaven or to man!

The first day of January, 1840, was inclement and severe. The air was piercing cold, and the rain fell in torrents. The streets of the great metropolis were swept by a wintery wind that chased the poor houseless wanderers beneath the coverings of arches and doorways, and sent the shivering mendicants to implore an asylum at the workhouse.