LA PARISIENNE.
Gallant nation, now before you
Freedom, beckoning onward, stands:
Let no tyrant’s sway be o’er you—
Wrest the sceptre from his hands!
Paris gave the general cry,
“Glory, Fame, and Liberty!”
Speed, warriors, speed,
Though thousands bleed,
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:—
Conquest waits—your foemen die!
Keep your serried ranks in order:
Sons of France, your country calls!
Gory hecatombs award her—
Well she merits each who falls.
Happy day! the general cry
Echoed “Fame and Liberty!”
Speed, warriors, speed,
Though thousands bleed,
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:—
Conquest waits—your foemen die!
Vain the shot may sweep along you,
Banks of warriors now arrayed:
Youthful generals are among you,
By the great occasion made!
Happy day! the fervent cry
Echoed “Fame and Liberty!”
Speed, warriors, speed,
Though thousands bleed,
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:—
Conquest waits—your foemen die!
Foremost, who the Carlist lances
With the banner-staff has met?—
Freedom’s votary advances—
Venerable Lafayette!
Happy day! the fervent cry
Echoed “Fame and Liberty!”
Speed, warriors, speed,
Though thousands bleed,
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:—
Conquest waits—your foemen die!
Triple dyes again combining,
See the squadrons onward go:
In the country’s heaven shining,
Mark the bold tri-coloured bow!
Happy day! the general cry
Echoed “Fame and Liberty!”
Speed, warriors, speed,
Though thousands bleed,
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:—
Conquest waits—your foemen die!
Heroes of that banner gleaming,
Ye who bore it in the fray—
Orleans’ troops! your blood was streaming
Freely on that fatal day!
From the page of history
We have learnt the general cry.
Speed, warriors, speed,
Though thousands bleed,
Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:—
Conquest waits—your foemen die!
Muffled drum, thy music lonely
Answers to the mourners’ sighs:
Laurels, for the valiant only,
Ornament their obsequies!
Sacred fane of Liberty,
Let their memories never die!
Bear to his grave
Each warrior brave,
Who fell in Freedom’s cause, his country’s rights to save,
Crowned with fame and victory!
There was one more translation from the French in the packet which had been placed at Laura’s disposal: and this was a portion of Victor Hugo’s celebrated
ODE,
WRITTEN AFTER THE REVOLUTION OF 1830.
O friends of your country, immortal in story,
Adorned with the laurels ye won in the fight;—
When thousands around you fell covered with glory,
Ye turned not away from the enemy’s might;
But ye raised up your banners, all tattered and torn,
Like those which your sires had at Austerlitz borne!
Ye have rivalled those sires—ye have conquered for France:
The rights of the people from tyrants are saved:—
Ye beckoned to Freedom—ye saw her advance—
And danger was laughed at, and peril was braved.
Then, if they were admired who destroyed the Bastille,
What for you should not France in her gratitude feel?
Ye are worthy your fathers—your souls are the same—
Ye add to their glory, their pride, and renown;—
Your arms are well nerved—ye are noted by Fame,
That the laurel and oak may unite for your crown!
Your mother—’tis France! who for ever will be
The mother of heroes—the great—and the free!
E’en England the jealous, and Greece the poetic—
All Europe admired,—and the great Western World
Arose to applaud with a heart sympathetic,
When it marked the French banners of freedom unfurled.
Three days were sufficient to shake off the chain,
And ye proved yourselves friends to your country again!
’Twas for you that your ancestors traced round the earth
The circle of conquest, triumphant and glorious,
Which, extending to Cairo, from France took its birth,
And proceeded through slaughter, but ever victorious:—
’Twas for you they encountered the Muscovite snows,
Or in Italy plucked for their trophies the rose!
O offspring of heroes and children of Fame!
Applaud the achievements your sires did before you!
Extend their renown, while ye honour their name,
And fight for the banners that proudly wave o’er you.
Remember, Napoleon has oft cast his eye
Through the long serried ranks of the French chivalry!
Thou, Herald of Jupiter—Eagle of France!
’Tis thou that hast carried our thunders afar:
With thee for a sign did our armies advance—
With thee as their symbol, they went to the war!
Look around thee—rejoice! for the sons of thy land
Are worthy the sires that thou erst didst command!
And France has awakened from stupor profound,
And the watch-word has raised all her champions around;
And the din of their weapons struck loud on the ear,
As it hearkened the tread of the cavalry near.
But the tyrant has marshalled his warriors in vain,
And his culverins thundered again and again;—
For the stones that the citizens tore from the street,
Laid the cohorts of Royalty dead at their feet!
And their numbers increased—for they fought to be free,
And they poured on the foe like the waves of the sea,
While the din of the tocsin that echoed on high,
Was drowned in the fervour of Liberty’s cry!
The tyrant has left you with sorrow and anguish,
Fair city—the glory of France and the world:
Three days have elapsed since in chains you did languish—
You have fought—you have won—and your banners are furled!
And wise were your counsels succeeding the strife—
For Revenge even smiled with the rest,
When Clemency bade her surrender the knife
Ere ’twas plunged in the enemy’s breast!
The friends of the monarch with him are o’erthrown—
’Tis thus that a people its rights will defend;
For if Fate have determined the fall of a crown,
The schemes of the council accomplish the end.
The wretches! they deemed, in their insolent pride,
That France to their sceptre would bow;
But the Lord found them light when their balance was tried,
And reduced them to what they are now!
And, oh! let the lesson for ever remain—
When we raise up a King, we are forging a chain.
When we humble our necks to a monarch, we make
A bond that we leave for our children to break;
Since the breath of a King is the spark to the pan—
The musket explodes, and its victim is—man!
Now let the funeral dirge be said,
And let the priests lament the dead:
But let them come with modest vest—
No more in tinsel splendour drest;—
No more with ostentatious air
Need they commence a lofty prayer:
No sign of worldly pomp should be
Mingled with aught of sanctity;—
Less welcome to the Lord on high
Is grandeur than sincerity!
Henceforth to the priest be all splendour unknown—
Let his cross be of wood, and his cushion of stone:
The church is his refuge—the church is his rest—
In her arms he is safe—in her care he is blest!
For when the volcanic eruption is red,
Like the froth of the wine-press that Burgundy fed;
When the sides of Vesuvius are glowing and bright,
When Naples re-echoes with cries of affright—
’Tis then that the groans of the children resound,
And mothers despairingly fall to the ground—
’Tis then that in vain they expend to the air
The half-uttered words which are meant for a prayer;
While black lines of mist from the crater ascend,
And seem to foretell that the world’s at an end!
Those lines have divided—a lustre, that broke
From the bowels of the mount, superseded the smoke:
Then Naples, adieu to the grots in thy vales—
Adieu to thy ships—the flame spreads to their sails;
The lava has fall’n on the sides of the hill,
As the locks of a maiden float wildly at will!
And farther—oh! farther the lava rolls on—
O’er meadows—o’er streams—to the gulf it has gone:
The smoke forms a canopy sombre and dread,
Though the waves of the torrent be glowing and red.
And the homes of the great and the paladin’s hall
Were doomed in that deluge to totter and fall.
’Twas a chaos of ruin! The cinders were strewed
O’er a town late so lovely—now shapeless and rude:
From dwelling to dwelling proceeded th’ assail—
The houses ware burning in city and vale:
The earth was unsteady—the waves of the sea
Boiled white on the shore—and the tocsin rang free,
Though no human hand were the cause of the sound—
’Twas raised by the steeples that tottered around!—
’Twas a chaos immense! But the arm of the Lord,
That scattered such ruin and havoc abroad—
The arm of the Deity, powerful to kill,
And pour out the wrath of his thunder at will—
That arm, on the brink of the crater, can spare
The hermit who kneels to his Maker in prayer!
By the time Laura had completed the perusal of these poems, Rosalie reappeared: and the arch smile which the pretty lady’s-maid wore, seemed to indicate that success had crowned the task that had been entrusted to her.
“What tidings have you for me?” asked Laura.
“I think, mademoiselle, that you may safely reckon upon beholding Mr. Charles Hatfield, together with two or three of his comrades in the Grand Duke’s suite, in the Champs Elysées between four and five o’clock. But do not wait to ask me my reasons for giving you this assurance,” added Rosalie, hastily: “it is nearly three o’clock, mademoiselle—and you must think of your toilette.”
“Excellent Rosalie!” ejaculated Laura: “how deeply I am indebted to you for your proceedings in my behalf!”
Thus speaking, she repaired to her bed-chamber, whither the French abigail followed; and then the toilette commenced.
At about a quarter to four o’clock, Laura emerged from her private apartment, and descended to her carriage which was waiting for her. The equipage then moved rapidly away towards the Champs Elysées.
Glorious was the afternoon—and queen-like in her beauty was Laura Mortimer!
Contrary to her usual custom, she had her hair dressed in ringlets, which in a luxuriant shower framed her splendid countenance. There was a flush of health, heightened by her own heart’s emotions, on either cheek: but, by the admirable control which she was enabled to exercise over her features, her countenance was serene, and her eyes shone not with a lustre unmellowed by feminine softness. She reclined back in her carriage, in a species of half-voluptuous lassitude and abandonment; but every change of posture was characterised with an elegance of motion that might be denominated poetic.
The equipage and its appointments were in the best possible taste; and the liveries of the coachman and attendant footman were plain and neat, not glaring and obtrusive. Altogether, the “turn-out” was that which a well-bred person, who knew the distinction between elegant simplicity and gaudy ostentation, was likely to possess.
The principal drive in the Champs Elysées was crowded to excess: seldom was there seen such a quantity of carriages or such a number of gentlemen on horseback. The foot-ways were likewise thronged with loungers and with ladies enjoying the afternoon’s promenade.
Laura’s carriage speedily fell into the line of vehicles proceeding in the same direction;—and now its progress was slow. This was just what she wished: for not only was the multitude enabled to obtain a better view of her—but she likewise had more leisure to watch for the appearance of him whom she expected to behold amidst the gay throng. Thus both her vanity and her convenience were successfully consulted at the same time.
Her patience was not put to a very lengthy nor severe test: for, scarcely had her carriage reached the mid-way point in the splendid avenue, when her keen glance signalled out the object of her thoughts from amidst the loungers on foot. Yes—there indeed was Charles Hatfield—proceeding at a short distance in advance of the carriage, and in the same direction. The critical moment was now almost at hand—and, though Laura’s countenance still maintained its serenity, her heart palpitated with violence. While, too, she seemed to be reclining back in her carriage with a graceful ease which we might almost denominate an elegant languor,—and while she now more completely shaded herself with her parasol,—her eyes were fixed steadily and even intently in one direction.
“Yes—he has two friends with him,” she said to herself: “they are all three in plain clothes—or rather, in mourning—doubtless for the father-in-law of their illustrious master.”
Scarcely had these thoughts flashed through Laura’s brain, when Charles and his two companions stopped—turned round—and gazed up and down the avenue for a few moments: then they interchanged some observations, and pursued their way.
Charles had not noticed Laura;—but she had caught more than a partial glimpse of his face. During the quarter of a minute that her eyes were fixed upon him, she had as it were devoured him with that earnest gaze. It was not love,—no—-and it was not hate; but it was a species of ravenous longing to decypher his thoughts through the medium of his countenance. And she saw that he was pale and pensive—but also strikingly handsome: indeed, at that moment Laura fancied his manly beauty had never before seemed so perfect in her eyes—and it was with difficulty that she repressed the sigh which rose almost to her lips.
A few minutes elapsed—and still the procession of carriages moved on in the broad straight road; and the tide of loungers on foot rolled along the pathway. The distance between Laura and the object of her thoughts was gradually diminishing; and almost immediately her carriage would overtake him and his companions. Again they turned—these three gentlemen—and looked up and down; and this time Laura rapidly scanned Hatfield’s two friends. They were also young men of fine figure and attractive looks: natives of Castelcicala, they had the dark Italian complexion and the fine Italian eyes;—and as they wore moustaches, their appearance was more military than that of Charles. But they were not so handsome as he;—at least Laura thought so—and she was doubtless right.
The critical moment was now at hand: the carriage overtook Hatfield and his Italian companions—and it was just passing them, when Laura perceived that she was suddenly recognised by her husband. He started—stopped short—and kept his eyes fixed upon her, as if doubting their evidence; while his two friends, excited by his strange manner, looked also in the same direction and at the same object; and their gaze was likewise rivetted immediately upon the beauteous woman whose transcendent charms they naturally supposed to have produced such an effect on their companion. With a glance keen and rapid as lightning, Laura perceived that she was the idol of attention on the part of her husband and his two Italian friends, though the latter dreamt not that she was even known by name to Charles Hatfield: and while the eyes of all three were thus intently fixed upon her, her parasol suddenly escaped from her hand and fell within a few paces of the young men,—unobserved by the footman standing behind the carriage.
Of the two Castelcicalan officers, one was taller and more classically handsome than the other: and it was he that now darted forward to snatch up the parasol and restore it to its charming owner. So admirably had Laura managed the dropping of the parasol, that it had all the appearance of an accident to every one who observed the circumstance—save Charles Hatfield: and, quickly as the powder explodes after the match has been applied to it, did the conviction flash to his brain that the occurrence was intentional on the part of Laura. Al the same instant it struck him that never—never before had she appeared so marvellously beautiful—never so transcendently lovely as she now was,—with the flush of a gentle excitement upon her cheeks—her hair dressed in a style that he most admired—her pearly teeth partly revealed between the roses of her lips—her toilette so elegant and chaste, and setting off her splendid form to its greatest advantage—and her attitude so classically graceful, as she leant forward to receive the parasol that the handsome Castelcicalan now restored to her, after having carefully brushed off the dust with his white cambric handkerchief.
A thousand—thousand conflicting thoughts passed through the brain of Charles Hatfield during the few seconds that had elapsed from the escape of the parasol from her hand until its restoration by the Italian:—he saw his wife more beautiful than ever he had conceived her to be even when he was accustomed to worship her image—he remembered the witchery of her ways and the melting music of her voice—the joys he had experienced in her arms on the marriage night rushed to his mind—and as his eyes dwelt perforce upon the rich contours of her bust, he recollected that his head had been pillowed and his hand had wandered voluptuously there!
At the moment that Laura dropped her parasol, the carriage stopped, and she affected to perceive Charles Hatfield for the first time; and for a single instant she appeared struck by surprise and uncertain how to act:—then, immediately afterwards, she averted her eyes from him, and bent them on the handsome Castelcicalan who had sprung forward to recover the parasol. She purposely composed her countenance and modelled her behaviour, so that her husband should be left in a state of utter uncertainty and bewilderment as to what was passing in her mind, at least in regard to himself:—but when the Italian approached the carriage, took off his hat, and with a low bow, presented the parasol which he had so gallantly dusted with his cambric handkerchief, Laura bestowed so sweet a smile and so tender a look on the handsome foreigner, that the direst rage which jealousy can know was excited in a moment in the breast of Charles Hatfield.
A rapid glance—unseen even by her husband himself—made Laura aware of the effect produced upon him by her deportment towards the Castelcicalan; and the joy of a proud triumph filled her heart.
“I thank you, sir,” she said in French to the Italian gentleman;—for she had already learnt more than enough of the language to be enabled to give utterance to that common phrase;—and, as she spoke, she again smiled sweetly, though not in a manner which might be construed into indelicate encouragement.
Her husband caught the words that were addressed to the handsome foreigner, and also marked the smile that accompanied them; and, as the music of that voice flowed upon his ear, and the witchery of that smile met his gaze, his countenance became absolutely livid with the emotions that rent his soul.
“Beautiful lady,” said the Castelcicalan, enchanted by the condescending manner of the lovely woman, who was agreeably surprised and much delighted to hear him address her with the utmost facility in the English language,—“you have deigned to thank me for a thing so trivial that I am ashamed to merit your notice upon so slight a ground. Would that an opportunity could arise for so humble an individual as myself to perform some deed that might deserve your approval—and win your gratitude,” added the Italian, sinking his voice to a low tone.
“I know not, signor,” replied Laura, satisfying herself with another rapid glance that Charles Hatfield was still gazing with jealous fury upon this scene,—“I know not, signor,” she said, with all the witchery of tone and manner that she could summon to her aid, “how I can sufficiently thank you for the courteous behaviour which you demonstrate towards me. At the same time, I need scarcely be astonished at such chivalrous gallantry on your part—for, if I mistake not, you belong to that fine Italian clime which I shortly intend to visit.”
The young Castelcicalan gazed with the enthusiasm of adoration up into the enchanting countenance that was bending over him; and he felt as if he could have cheerfully consented to yield up the ten last years of his life to purchase the enjoyment of pressing his lips to the small plump mouth which looked redder than the rose moistened with the dew of morning.
“Oh! is it possible,” he exclaimed, in a joyous tone, “that you purpose to honour my native land with your presence! Be assured, lady,” he continued, “that if you visit Montoni, the Castelcicalan capital, you will become the object of a perfect idolatry.”
“Then should I do well to remain in France, signor—rather than lead your nation into such a crime,” said Laura, laughing gaily: and the rapid glance which she darted towards her husband convinced her that he was enduring the torments of the damned—torments which were increasing in proportion as she seemed to grow on more friendly terms with the young Italian officer.
“I should be wretched indeed, beauteous lady,” said he, in reply to her last observation, “did I think that any inconsiderate remark from my lips could deter you from carrying into effect a purpose already settled in your mind. Neither,” he added, with a sigh, “am I vain enough to suppose myself to be of sufficient importance to sway you in one way or another.”
“Nor am I vain enough to take in any sense save as a compliment the flattering observation you made just now relative to the reception I might expect at Montoni;”—and as Laura uttered these words, she cast down her eyes and blushed slightly.
The dialogue between the Castelcicalan and herself had been carried on in a low tone, and was therefore totally inaudible to the other Italian and Charles Hatfield, who were gazing, but with very different feelings, on the lovely woman. Neither had the conversation occupied one tenth part of the time which we have consumed in detailing it;—and in the interval, the carriages originally behind that of Laura, had passed hers by, so that the stoppage of her equipage caused no obstruction. The tide of pedestrian loungers was likewise still flowing on—there being nothing singular nor unusual in the fact of a gentleman on foot paying his respects to a lady who rode in her carriage.
But while the multitude, generally, saw naught peculiar in the scene which we are describing, it was nevertheless one of deep interest. By the carriage door stood the young Castelcicalan officer, his heart throbbing with the ineffable emotions which the wondrous beauty of Laura had excited, as it were by the wave of an enchanter’s wand;—in the vehicle itself sate the syren—bending forward towards that handsome foreigner as if she were already interested in him, though in reality she experienced not the slightest sensual feeling in his favour—other considerations occupying her thoughts:—at a little distance stood the other Italian officer, gazing upon her with an admiration which he could not conceal, and envying his comrade the privilege which a lucky accident had given him to address the houri;—and there also was Charles Hatfield—ghastly pale, his limbs trembling convulsively, and his lips white and quivering with rage.
Yes: terrible—terrible were the feelings which Laura’s husband experienced for the six or eight minutes that this scene lasted. There was a woman whose beauty excited universal admiration,—a woman in all the splendour of female loveliness;—and this woman was his wife—his own wedded wife,—a wife whom he could rush forward and claim in a moment, if he chose! And that woman was now coquetting before his eyes—coquetting with a studied purpose to annoy him. Oh! he could understand it all,—the means which had been adopted to induce him and his two companions to proceed to the Champs Elysées at that hour—the pretended accident of the parasol—and the smiles and tender looks which Laura now bestowed upon one who was entirely a stranger to her:—yes—all, all was now clear to Charles Hatfield,—and he was on the point of springing forward—not to catch Laura to his breast and claim her as his spouse—but to upbraid and expose her,—when he suddenly recollected that a portion of the agreement entered into between his father and her, was to the effect that she likewise was to be secure against molestation or recognition on his part, as well as he on hers. This reminiscence compelled the unhappy young man to restrain his feelings; and as he was forced to subdue his ire, his jealousy only became the more painful, because it required a vent of some kind or another. He writhed—he positively writhed before her eyes;—and now he was humiliated as well as tortured to such an intolerable degree!
Laura had cast down her looks and had called up a blush to her smooth cheeks, when she made to the handsome Castelcicalan the remark that we have last recorded: but almost immediately afterwards she raised her countenance again, and smiling with an archness so enchantingly sweet that it would have moved the rigid features of an octogenarian anchorite to admiration, she said: “At all events, signor, should I visit Montoni in the course of this summer, my stay would be very short—for I purpose to become a great traveller, and to travel very rapidly also. To-morrow I set out for Vienna.”
“Vienna!” repeated the Castelcicalan, in astonishment. “Surely Paris possesses greater attractions than the cold, dull, formal Austrian capital?”
“Oh! of that I must judge for myself,” exclaimed Laura, laughing—at the same time showing by her manner that she thought their conversation had lasted long enough.
The young Italian was too well-bred to attempt to detain her: but it was nevertheless with evident reluctance that he stepped back from the carriage-door and raised his hat in farewell salutation. Laura inclined her head gracefully in acknowledgment of his courtesy, and the vehicle drove on rapidly, the way before it being now comparatively clear.
Oh! what triumph was in her heart, as she threw herself back in the carriage and reflected upon all the incidents of the scene that had just occurred,—a scene which had not occupied ten minutes, and which had nevertheless stirred up so many and such varied feelings! Her vanity had been gratified by the homage paid to her beauty; and her malignity had for the time been assuaged by the contemplation of the almost mortal agonies endured by her husband. She had asserted the empire of her charms over even the very heart that ought to cherish hatred against her: she had inspired with the maddest jealousy the soul that was bound to think of her with loathing and abhorrence. She felt all the pride of a woman wielding a sceptre more despotic than that of a queen,—a sceptre which was as a magic wand in her hand, casting spells upon even those who detested, as well as those who admired her!
CHAPTER CLXIII.
LAURA AND ROSALIE.
Yes—it was a great triumph for Laura Mortimer,—a triumph all the greater, inasmuch as she knew that the agitation and rage of her husband could not speedily pass away; and that, when his friends had leisure to observe his emotions and seek an explanation, he would not dare to afford them any!
She had, moreover, made statements to the young Castelcicalan which he would doubtless repeat to Charles Hatfield, whom they were well calculated to mystify relative to her future proceedings; for the reader scarcely requires to be told that she had not the slightest intention to repair to Vienna nor to visit Italy.
In every respect she had ample reason to be well satisfied with the results of the scheme she had devised in the morning and so effectually carried out in the afternoon,—a scheme so wild and having so many thousand chances against its success, that none save the intrepid, resolute, far-seeing Laura could have possibly hoped to conduct it to a triumphant issue.
Having proceeded to the end of the avenue, she ordered the coachman to retrace his way and return home;—but she was not destined to reach the Rue Monthabor without experiencing another adventure, which may for the moment seem trivial, but which was nevertheless destined to exercise no mean amount of influence upon her future career.
As the carriage was emerging from the Champs Elysées, two gentlemen on horseback, just entering the fashionable lounge, were about to pass by, when one of them, recognising Laura, suddenly pulled up and made her a low bow. She immediately ordered the carriage to stop; for it was her courteous and obliging friend the professor of music, who had thus saluted her—and she was anxious to express to him the delight she had experienced from a perusal of the translations he had sent to her the preceding evening. After the exchange of the usual complimentary remarks, the professor, turning towards his companion, said, “My lord, permit me to introduce you to one of my fair pupils—my fairest pupil, I should rather observe,” he added, in a good-tempered manner: “Miss Laura Mortimer—the Marquis of Delmour.”
Laura was startled for an instant at finding her music-master in such aristocratic society; and as she inclined gracefully in acknowledgment of the nobleman’s courteous salutation, she observed that his lordship was an elderly, if not actually an old man, but that his countenance was far from disagreeable.
A brief conversation ensued; and although the marquis had no opportunity of speaking more than a dozen words, and even those on common topic Laura nevertheless saw enough of him to be convinced that his manners were of polished elegance, and that his disposition was frank and unassuming.
It was not therefore without emotions of secret pleasure that she heard herself thus addressed by the professor of music:—
“Miss Mortimer, his lordship, and myself, are old acquaintances, and he permits me to call him my friend. His lordship will honour my humble abode with his presence, to-morrow, evening: there will be a musical soirée of the same unpretending kind as that which you yourself graced with your company the evening before last. My wife will doubtless send you the formal card; but may I in a less ceremonial fashion, solicit you to favour us with your presence?”
Laura signified the pleasure she should experience in accepting the invitation; and all the time she was listening to the professor and replying to him, she had the agreeable consciousness that the marquis was gazing upon her with an admiration which he could not repress. She however affected not to be in the slightest degree aware that she was undergoing such an impassioned survey; and when she turned towards his lordship to make the parting bow, it was with the formal reserve and yet graceful dignity of a lady to whom a stranger has only just been introduced.
The carriage rolled on in one direction—the horsemen pursued their way in another;—and while the Marquis of Delmour was putting innumerable questions to his friend relative to the houri whom they had thus met, Laura was on her side resolving that Rosalie should without delay institute all possible inquiries respecting the position, fortune, and character of that nobleman.
We should here remind the reader that the professor of music was a man eminent in his special sphere, of high respectability, and great moral worth; and, moreover, he was a native of a country where talent is prized and looked up to, instead of being merely tolerated and looked down upon. It is not, therefore, extraordinary if we find him moving in the best society, and having his entertainments attended by the elite of the residents or visitors in the gay city of Paris.
On her return home to her splendid apartments in the Rue Monthabor, Laura was immediately waited upon by her lady’s-maid; and while the mistress was changing her attire in preparation for dinner, the dependant explained the means by which she had induced Charles Hatfield and the two Italian officers in the suite of the Grand Duke to repair to the Champs Elysées in company, and at the hour specified by Laura.
“When you first mentioned your desire to me this morning, mademoiselle,” began Rosalie, “I must confess that I was somewhat embarrassed how to accomplish the scheme; although I did not despair. But when I saw the paragraph in the paper, and ascertained the hotel at which the Grand Duke and his suite had taken up their temporary abode, I suddenly remembered that a day or two ago I met a young woman who had formerly been my fellow-servant, and that she was now filling a situation in that very hotel. This circumstance inspired me with a hope of success; and we Frenchwomen look upon an intrigue as being as good as carried successfully out, when it affords a hope to encourage us. Therefore did I promise you so confidently; and I lost no time in proceeding to the hotel. I soon found my friend, who is a chamber-maid there; and I told her just sufficient—without, however, mentioning your name or even alluding to you, mademoiselle—to induce her to afford me her assistance. Some of the officers of the Grand Duke’s suite were lounging in the court-yard of the hotel at the time; and my friend pointed them out to me one by one, naming each as she proceeded. I resolved to choose the two youngest and handsomest to be Mr. Charles Hatfield’s companions, mademoiselle; because,” continued Rosalie, with an arch smile, “I tolerably well understood the entire nature of the project which you had in contemplation.”
“You are marvellously sharp-witted and keen-sighted, Rosalie,” said Laura, laughing good-humouredly. “But pray proceed. What step did you adopt next, after having thus passed the Grand Duke’s suite in a review of which they were however unconscious?”
“I must confess, mademoiselle,” resumed Rosalie, “that I was somewhat puzzled how to act. But suddenly an idea struck me; and, however ridiculous the plan may now appear to you, your own lips can proclaim whether it succeeded or not. In fact, I calculated upon the romantic disposition which the Italians are known to possess; and I also reflected that as Mr. Charles Hatfield, whom I likewise saw at the hotel (though he saw not me) appeared pensive and thoughtful, he would embark in any adventure that promised to wean his thoughts from their melancholy mood, and that offered some excitement of a novel character. I accordingly penned a note, addressed to Mr. Charles Hatfield, Captain Barthelma, and Lieutenant Di Ponta——”
“What is the name of the taller and handsomer of the two officers who accompanied Charles?” asked Laura, with a slight kindling of sensual feeling as she recalled to mind the pleasing features of the Italian who had picked up her parasol, and with whom she had exchanged the few complimentary observations already recorded.
“That one is Captain Barthelma,” answered Rosalie.
“Proceed,” said Laura. “You were telling me that you penned a note——”
“To the three gentlemen collectively,” added the lady’s-maid;—“and, as nearly as I can remember, the contents ran thus:—‘To Mr. Charles Hatfield, Captain Barthelma, and Lieutenant Di Ponta, an unhappy Spanish refugee ventures to address himself, having certain excellent reasons for being well aware that they will not refuse to listen to his sad tale, and interest themselves in his behalf. But as he is an object of suspicion to the French government, he dares not make his appearance at the hotel where a prince, who is known to be the redresser of wrongs, has taken up his abode. He will therefore walk this afternoon, from four to five, on the right hand of the central avenue of the Champs Elysées; and if the three gentlemen to whom he now addresses his humble but earnest application, will be at the place and time appointed, the unhappy writer of this petition will make himself known to them—will explain his business frankly—and will indicate the means by which he can be restored to wealth and happiness. Those means consist in one word which it will be for His Sovereign Highness the Grand Duke to speak, and which can only be spoken at the instigation of the three gentlemen to whom this letter is addressed.’”
“Upon my word, I give you credit for your stratagem!” exclaimed Laura, laughing heartily. “I have no doubt that Charles sees through it now: but he will not dare to give any explanations to his friends,” she added, in a musing tone. “They will imagine that they have been duped by some humorous person—and he will affect to fall into the same way of thinking.”
“Or else the two Italian gentlemen will suppose that the poor refugee was prevented, by some misadventure, from keeping the appointment,” observed Rosalie, now giving way to her mirth to such a degree that the tears came into her eyes.
“Well—make an end of your story,” said Laura, who had nearly completed her toilette; for, although she expected no one that evening, she nevertheless made it a rule to dress herself with the utmost care in case of a visit on the part of any of those persons whose acquaintance she had recently formed.
“I have little more to tell you, mademoiselle, responded Rosalie. “My friend, the chambermaid, left the note, which was duly sealed and properly addressed to the three gentlemen, upon the table of Captain Barthelma’s private apartment; and soon afterwards that officer went to his room. I waited at the hotel in the hope of ascertaining the effect that the billet would produce; and in a short time the captain returned in haste to his companions, who were still lounging in the court-yard—some of them giving directions to their grooms, and others smoking cigars. From the window of my friend’s chamber, I beheld Captain Barthelma draw Mr. Charles Hatfield and Lieutenant Di Ponta aside, and show them the letter. They evidently perused it with great attention; and I felt assured by their manner that they treated the affair seriously. I now requested my friend to hurry down stairs, and traverse the yard as if in pursuance of her avocations—but to pass as near the little group as possible, and endeavour to catch any remarks that they might be exchanging at the moment. This she did; and she heard quite enough to convince her that the appointment would be kept. I then retraced my way homeward, and was happy in being able to give you the assurance, mademoiselle, that your wishes would be fully gratified so far as the result depended upon me.”
“You are a good girl, Rosalie,” said Laura; “and I shall not be unmindful of the service you have thus rendered me. But I now require your aid in another matter——”
“Speak, my dear lady: I am entirely at your disposal,” observed the dependant, who, in proportion as she obtained a farther insight into the character of her mistress, felt the more certain of reaping a fine harvest of rewards, bribes, and hush-money.
“There is in Paris at this moment an English nobleman concerning whom I am desirous that you should obtain as much information as you can possibly glean, without creating any suspicion or in any way compromising me. I allude to the Marquis of Delmour,” continued Laura: “but I know not where he is residing; nor can I offer the least suggestion to guide you in instituting your inquiries.”
“Leave all that to me, mademoiselle,” said Rosalie.
“There is no time to be lost,” observed Laura, “this evening, or in the course of to-morrow, must I have the information which I seek.”
“I am not in the habit of letting the grass grow beneath my feet,” replied the French dependant, with an arch smile. “The moment you have sat down to dinner, mademoiselle, I will sally forth; and should I not return until a somewhat late hour——”
“No matter,” interrupted Laura: “I shall know that you are employed in my interests. Unless, indeed,” she added, laughing, “you possess a lover whose company may prove more agreeable to you than the task with which I have entrusted you.”
“I have no lover in Paris—at present, mademoiselle,” observed Rosalie.
“Then you admit that you have had a lover in your life-time?” said Laura.
“Oh! certainly, mademoiselle,” exclaimed the pretty Frenchwoman: “and—to speak candidly—I could not without some trouble reckon the number of those who have proclaimed themselves my admirers.”
“The name of your lovers is Legion, then?” cried Laura, again laughing: but it was the natural sensuality of her disposition which impelled her thus to interrogate her servant;—for a licentious woman experiences a voluptuous enjoyment in learning that another is as amorously inclined or as downright abandoned as herself. And now that Laura’s spite against Charles Hatfield was for the time appeased, and she had leisure to ponder upon the handsome countenance and elegant figure of Captain Barthelma, her imagination was becoming inflamed, and wanton ideas and aspirations rose up in her brain.
“Oh! mademoiselle,” exclaimed Rosalie, with an archness of expression that made her countenance particularly interesting at the moment; “you must think me very vain and very silly for having made the remark which fell so inconsiderately from my lips!”
“Not at all,” observed Laura: “you are pretty enough to have captivated many hearts. And now tell me, my dear girl—have you passed through such an ordeal without leaving your virtue behind? Be frank and candid: I wish to know you thoroughly, that I may determine how far I can trust you.”
“I dare say, mademoiselle, that you can form a tolerably accurate guess in that respect,” said Rosalie, in a low tone and with a blushing countenance. “Were I to tell you that I am pure and chaste, you would not believe me, mademoiselle—and—and, you would be right.”
“Suppose, then, that you had suddenly conceived a great fancy for a very handsome young man, Rosalie?” said Laura, her bosom heaving voluptuously as she gradually approached the aim and object of the present conversation.
“I should take care to let him perceive that if he chose to solicit, it would not be in vain,” answered Rosalie, who already comprehended that her mistress was not giving the discourse this turn without some definite end in view.
“And you would be deeply grateful,” continued Laura, in a low but significant tone, “to any friend who might assist you in the management of the intrigue?”
“Decidedly, mademoiselle” replied the Frenchwoman: “the more so that I myself should delight in rendering my aid when and where the services of so humble a being as I am could prove available.”
“Those services may be made available this very evening,” said Laura, a voluptuous glow spreading over her fine countenance, while her eyes became soft and melting in expression. “You must aid me, Rosalie, in gratifying an ardent longing which has sprung up within my bosom during the last few minutes, and which I may vainly struggle to subdue. But the intrigue requires so much delicate management——”
“I can anticipate all you would say, mademoiselle,” interrupted Rosalie: then, in a significant tone, she added, “Captain Barthelma is decidedly one of the handsomest men I ever saw in my life.”
“You have conjectured rightly,” said Laura; “you have penetrated my thoughts! Can you—will you serve me in the gratification of this caprice of mine? But, remember—I must not be compromised in respect to a living soul save Barthelma and yourself.”
“You know, mademoiselle, that you can trust to my fidelity, my sagacity, and my prudence,” said Rosalie. “At what hour shall the handsome Italian visit you?”
“At nine—this evening,” answered Laura: then referring to her watch, she added, “It is already six—and you have plenty of work upon your hands!”
“I will neglect nothing,” observed the lady’s-maid, in a tone of confidence. “Would it not be prudent to send the cook out of the way for the evening? For as the men-servants are on board-wages and sleep elsewhere, and the cook is therefore the only dependant who could possibly observe your proceedings, mademoiselle——”
“I leave all this to you, Rosalie,” interrupted Laura;—“and now we have nothing more to say to each other for the present. Order the dinner to be served up at once—and then must you hasten to fulfil the commissions with which you are charged.”
Having thus given her parting instructions, Laura repaired to the dining-room, where an elegant repast was speedily spread upon the table; and a glass of sparkling champagne soon enhanced the brilliancy of the voluptuous woman’s eyes, and heightened the rich glow that suffused her countenance.
When the meal was over, a choice dessert was served up; and Laura was now left alone.
She was almost sorry that she had gone so far in respect to the intrigue which was to bring the handsome Castelcicalan to her arms: she had admitted Rosalie too deeply into her confidence—placed herself too completely in the power of her dependant. Even while she was conversing with the wily Frenchwoman, she perceived and felt all this;—but her sensuality triumphed over her prudence—her lascivious temperament carried her on with a force which she could not resist, much less subdue.
“And, after all,” she now reasoned to herself, “wherefore should I not follow my inclinations in this respect? I am free to act according to the impulse of my passions and the prompting of my desires. The night that I passed with Charles—that one night of love and bliss—has revived those ardent longings, those burning thoughts that demand gratification. Besides, Rosalie will be trustworthy so long as she is well paid; and I shall take care to keep her purse well filled. Sooner or later she must have obtained a complete insight into my character: why not, then, at once as well as hereafter? And the more firmly I bind her to my interests, the less shall I need the services of my crafty, selfish old mother. Would that I could manage my affairs and execute my plans without my parent’s aid altogether! And who knows but that even this consummation may be reached? Something tells me that the Marquis of Delmour and I shall yet be more intimately acquainted. He is old—but that is of little consequence. Wealth and a proud position are my aims—and I care not by what means they are acquired. Oh! the happiness of possessing such beauty as that wherewith I am endowed,—a beauty which can never fail to crown me with triumph in all my schemes!—in all my projects!”
She now regarded her watch, and discovered that it was eight o’clock.
“In another hour he will be here,” she thought within herself; and her bosom heaved voluptuously. “Yes—in another hour that handsome Italian will be in my presence—at least, if Rosalie fulfil her task with her wonted sagacity and prudence. What will he think of me? Oh! let him entertain any opinion that he may: I will bind him to secrecy by the most solemn oaths—and I read enough in his countenance to convince me that he is a man of honour!”
In this strain did the lovely but wanton creature pursue her reflections, until it was nearly nine o’clock.
She then rose from her seat, and repaired to the kitchen, which was on the same floor as her suite of apartments. The cook was not there; and Laura was consequently satisfied that Rosalie had not forgotten the precaution herself had suggested.
The syren now proceeded to the drawing-room, where with her own fair hands she arranged wine, fruits, and cakes upon the table. She then drew the curtains over the window, lighted the wax candles upon the mantel, and scattered drops of delicious perfume upon the carpet and the drapery.
Scarcely were these preparations completed, when the bell of the outer door of the suite rang as if pulled by a somewhat impatient hand; and Laura hastened to answer the summons.
She opened the door—and Captain Barthelma, the handsome Castelcicalan, appeared upon the threshold.
“Is it possible that this can be true!” he exclaimed, his joy amounting to a delirious excitement as his eyes fell upon the heroine of the afternoon’s adventure in the Champs Elysées.
Laura smiled archly as she placed her finger upon her lip to impose silence, at least until he should have entered her abode; and, having closed the door carefully, she conducted him into the drawing-room.
CHAPTER CLXIV.
LAURA’S AMOUR.
Seating herself upon the sofa, Laura motioned the Italian to place himself by her side—an invitation which he obeyed with a species of enthusiastic alacrity. But all the time he was unable to take his eyes off her—as if he still doubted whether it were indeed a fact that his good fortune had conducted him into the presence of her whose image had never once been absent from his mind since he first beheld her that afternoon in the Champs Elysées.
“Is it possible?” he again ejaculated, after a few minutes’ silence. “The young woman promised me that if I were discreet, I might expect the happiness of meeting you—yes, you, sweetest lady—again: but I confess that I doubted her—and I came that I might not throw away a chance of felicity, rather than in the sanguine hope of attaining it.”
“And, when you have leisure for reflection” said Laura, casting down her eyes and blushing, “you will despise me for my imprudence—my indelicacy of conduct in thus sending to invite a stranger to visit me.”
“Adorable woman!” exclaimed the impassioned Italian; “I shall think of you with gratitude—with devotion—with love,—and never lightly. Oh! be assured of that!”—and, seizing her hand, he conveyed it to his lips, and covered it with kisses.
“Nevertheless, you must be surprised at my boldness in directing my servant to seek you, and to make this appointment with you,” pursued Laura, her bosom heaving so as almost to burst from its confinement, as she felt the warm mouth of the Castelcicalan glued to the hand which she did not attempt to withdraw.
“I am only surprised at my own happiness,” observed the young officer. “Sweetest Laura—for I now know your name—tell me how I have thus been deemed worthy of a favour of which a prince might envy me the enjoyment!”
“An accident threw us together for a few minutes this afternoon,” said Laura; “and I was struck by your personal appearance—your manners—your conversation——”
“And, oh! how profoundly was I impressed by the magic of your beauty, Laura!” interrupted the ardent Italian; “how earnestly I longed to hear once more the music of that melodious voice—to look again into the depths of those magnificent eyes—to contemplate that glorious countenance—that admirable form;—and now—oh! now the desire is realised—and no human language has words powerful enough to convey to you an idea of the happiness which I experience at this moment!”
As he thus spoke he threw his arms around her waist, and drew her towards him.
“Charming creature!” he exclaimed, after a few moments’ pause, during which he gazed upon her with a rapture which can only be conceived and not explained: “how can I make thee comprehend the extent of my love—my adoration—my worship? I have travelled much—have seen beauties of all climes and of all varieties of loveliness;—but never did mine eyes settle upon one so transcendently charming as thou! When I parted from thee this afternoon in the Champs Elysées, it was as if I were tearing myself away from some one whom I had loved all my life, and whom I was never to see again. I was a second Adam, expelled from another Eden! And now—now, I behold thee once more—I am seated in thy presence—thou smilest upon me——oh! it is heaven—it is heaven!”—and, as if in a transport of fury—so impassioned was his soul—he drew her still closer towards him, and literally seizing her head with both his hands, glued his lips to hers—sucking in her very breath.
Intoxicated with sensual happiness, Laura offered no resistance to the ardour of the handsome young man; but ere she completely yielded herself up to him, she remembered that something was due to prudence as well as to the delights of love.
Accordingly, withdrawing herself from his embrace, though still permitting his arm to encircle her waist, she said, “I can refuse you nothing; but first swear, by all you deem most sacred, that you will never betray me!”
“Never—never!” ejaculated Barthelma; “I take God to witness that my lips shall never breathe a word injurious to your honour! On the contrary,” he cried, in a tone of deep sincerity, “should I ever hear a man speak lightly of you, I will provoke him to a duel that shall terminate only in the death of one—if not both; and should a woman dare to mention your name irreverently, I will even fabricate a tale injurious to her honour, that I may avenge you!”
“Thanks—a thousand thanks, my generous friend!” murmured Laura, one of her white hands playing with the long, dark, curling hair of the Castelcicalan. “But may you not—in an unguarded moment—when carousing, perhaps, with your brother-officers,—may you not inadvertently allude to the adventure which happened to you in Paris, and then be unconsciously drawn out—under the influence of wine—to make revelations which will prove the ruin—the utter ruin—of the weak, but confiding woman who trusts so much to your honour this night?”
“May my tongue blister—may lightnings strike me—may I be cast down a corpse at the feet of those to whom I ever open my lips to speak irreverently or ungratefully of thee!” exclaimed the Italian, with a terrible energy. “No—my adored Laura! you have not the slightest ground for apprehensions of that nature. I am a man of honour—and I would rather shed the last drop of my blood to serve thee, than raise a finger to harm thee. Beautiful creature—adorable woman! who that possesses a spark of human feeling, could do aught to bring a tear into thine eye or chase away the smile from thy lips? I am thy slave, Laura—and I rejoice in wearing the chains which thy magic loveliness has cast around me!”
In this impassioned strain did the Italian pour forth his adoration; and, as Laura gazed upon him with eyes swimming in very wantonness, she thought that he was far more handsome than she had fancied him to be in the afternoon, or even when he had first appeared before her that evening.
He, too, on his part, found the syren a thousand times more witching—more beauteous—more attractive than she had seemed in her carriage; and yet even then he had been ready to fall down and worship her. Now he beheld her in a light evening toilette—with naked neck and naked arms,—no scarf—not even the most transparent gauze veiling her shoulders of alabaster whiteness,—and with her hair dressed in massive curls, instead of hyperion ringlets;—now, too, he could perceive, by the undulations of her attire, that her limbs were turned with a symmetry that was elegant and yet robust—admirable in shape, though full in their proportions.
“I thank you most sincerely for the assurances of secrecy which you have given me,” said Laura, in the sweetest, most melting cadence of her delicious voice; “likewise for the chivalrous professions with which you have coupled them. You declare yourself to be my slave,” she added; “but it will be for this night only!”
And she hid her countenance on his breast, as if ashamed of the invitation which her words implied—an invitation that welcomed him at her abode until the morning!
“In one sense I understand you, my charmer,” he said, kissing her beauteous head as it lay reclining on his bosom; “and that alone ought to be happiness sufficient for me! But I am greedy—I am covetous; and I demand more! Listen, adored Laura—grant me your patience for a few minutes.”
She raised her head, and gazed tenderly up into his animated countenance as he spoke.
“I am not a rich man,” he continued; “but I possess a competency—nay, a handsome competency; and I care not how soon I abandon the service of even so good and excellent a prince as his Sovereign Highness—in order to devote myself wholly and solely to you. I know not who you are—I only know that you are the loveliest creature on the face of God’s earth, and that your name is Laura Mortimer. Neither do I seek to know more. But I am ready and anxious to join my fortunes with yours—to marry you, if you will accept me as your husband,—or to become your slave—your menial! Tell me not, then, that we must part to-morrow: oh! let me remain with you, my charming Laura, until death shall separate us!”
“It cannot be, my handsome Barthelma!” murmured Laura. “But let me call you by your Christian name——”
“Lorenzo,” said the Castelcicalan.
“You are, then, my handsome Lorenzo for this night—and for this night only,” continued Laura, throwing her warm, plump, exquisitely modelled arms about his neck, and pressing her lips to his glowing cheek.
“Cruel—cruel Laura!” he exclaimed, returning the ardent caress.
“Oh! would that circumstances permitted——”
“No circumstances can separate us, if you should decide that we are to remain together,” interrupted the Castelcicalan, in an impassioned tone.
“Alas! you know not——”
“If you are already a wife, I will kill your husband,” cried Lorenzo, again speaking with vehement abruptness: “If you are engaged to wed one whom you dislike, I will dare him to wrest you from my arms;—and if you have relations—father or brothers—whom you imagine yourself bound to consult, you may rest well assured that in preferring my love to that of kith and kin you will be receiving the purest gold in exchange for comparative dross.”
“Dear Lorenzo, I must seal your eloquent lips with kisses,” said Laura, with an arch playfulness that was also full of wantonness: “yes—I must seal those red, moist lips,” she murmured, after having pressed her mouth to his; “or you will persuade me to give an affirmative answer to your endearing solicitations—and that would only be to record a promise to-night which I most break to-morrow.”
“Are you, then, my angel, the mistress of some man on whose wealth you are dependent, or in whose power circumstances have placed you?” demanded the impassioned Italian, with more fervid frankness than considerate delicacy.
“I am not—I never was—and I never shall be a pensioned mistress, Lorenzo!” answered Laura, her manner becoming suddenly haughty.
“Pardon me—Oh! I implore you to pardon me, my angel!” exclaimed the young officer, straining her to his chest. “Not for worlds would I offend you—not even to save my soul from perdition would I wrong you by word or deed! Tell me, Laura—tell me—Laura—tell me—am I forgiven?”
She raised her countenance towards his own, and when their lips met she sealed his pardon with a long, burning kiss.
“And now,” she said, “do not ask me again to do that which is impossible. I cannot marry you, although I am not married—I cannot be your mistress, although I am not the mistress of another—I cannot hold out any hope to you, although I am pledged to none other.”
“You are as enigmatical as you are charming—you are as mysterious as you are beautiful!” exclaimed Lorenzo, contemplating his fair companion with the most enthusiastic rapture.
“And it is not now for you to mar the pleasure which we enjoy in each other’s society, by seeking to render me less enigmatical or less mysterious,” observed the syren. “At the same time I cannot be otherwise than flattered by the proposals you have made to me, and the generous manner in which you have expressed yourself in my behalf. Come—let us drink a glass of champagne to enhance the happiness of the moment, and drown careful reflections.”
“Be it so, my charmer,” said Lorenzo: “and if I no more torment you with my entreaties—if I resolve to content myself with the amount of bliss which you have promised me,—nevertheless, my dearest—ever dearest Laura, I shall take leave of you to-morrow morning with the fervent hope that we shall shortly meet again. You told me this afternoon that you proposed to visit Montoni in the course of the ensuing autumn——”
“Yes—I have no doubt that I shall be enabled to fulfil that promise,” interrupted Laura, by way of changing the topic of discourse. “And now that you have given me to understand that you will not revive the useless but flattering, and, in some sense, agreeable proposals you made me just now, let us think only of the enjoyment of the present.”
“It shall be as you say, my angel,” returned Lorenzo; and he forthwith filled a glass with sparkling champagne, which he handed to his fair companion.
She quaffed it at a draught, and a flood of light seemed to suffuse her entire countenance, and render her eyes brilliant as diamonds: her lips, too, moist with the generous juice, acquired a deeper red—and her bosom panted with amorous longings.
Lorenzo beheld the effects of the rich fluid, and hastened to fill the glass again: then, ere he drained it of its contents, he studiously placed to his lips the side which Laura’s mouth had touched.
“You had two friends with you this afternoon in the Champs Elysées?” said the syren, interrogatively, when they were once more seated, half-embraced in each other’s arms, upon the sofa.
“Yes: one was a fellow-countryman of mine—the other a native of your land, my beloved,” answered Lorenzo. “But I must tell you the singular adventure that occurred to us: and, indeed,” he added, with a smile, “I am deeply indebted to a certain anonymous correspondent—for had it not been through him, I should not have this day visited the scene where I was fortunate enough to encounter you.”
“A singular adventure!” exclaimed Laura, with an admirable affectation of the most ingenuous curiosity.
“Judge for yourself, my angel,” replied Lorenzo then, taking Rosalie’s letter from his pocket, he handed it to Laura, who, consuming with strong desires though she were, could scarcely suppress a laugh as she perused the billet, with the contents of which she was already so well acquainted.
“And did you see the poor man who addressed you and your friends in this wild, romantic style?” she asked, restoring him the note.
“He did not make his appearance,” responded Barthelma. “But even if that letter were the production of some mischievous wag, or of a crazy person, I could not possibly feel otherwise than rejoiced at having been made the dupe of either a humourist or a madman: for, as I just now observed, the anonymous letter led to my meeting with you.”
And, as he spoke, he smoothed down her glossy, luxuriant hair with his open palm.
“But doubtless your two companions found more difficulty in consoling themselves for the disappointment?” said Laura.
“Faith! dear lady,” exclaimed Lorenzo, “they spoke but little on the subject: for, to tell you the truth, your beauty had not failed to produce a very sensible effect on them as well as upon myself.”
“Flatterer!” cried Laura, playfully caressing the handsome Italian.
“Oh! you know that you are lovely—transcendently lovely!” he exclaimed, in an ardent tone; “and you can well believe me when I assure you that my two friends escaped not the magic influence of your charms. But how different were the effects thus produced! Di Ponta—that is the name of my fellow-countryman—was enthusiastic and rapturous in your praise; whereas Charles Hatfield—the Englishman—became gloomy, morose, and sullen——”
“A singular effect for the good looks of a woman to produce!” cried Laura, laughing—while her heart beat with the joy of a proud triumph.
“Such, nevertheless, was the case in this instance, my angel,” said Lorenzo. “I do firmly believe that Hatfield was jealous of me in being the happy mortal who perceived the loss of your parasol, and had the honour of restoring it;—yes—jealous, dear lady, because that happy accident introduced me to your notice, and privileged me to address you.”
“Your English friend must be a very weak-minded young man,” observed Laura; “and I am truly delighted that it was not he whose acquaintance I was destined to make this day.”
“Nevertheless, he is very handsome,” said Lorenzo, gazing upon the syren with a playful affectation of jealousy.
“Not so handsome as you, my Barthelma,” replied Laura, with simulated enthusiasm; and, in order to dispel the partial coldness which a digression from amorous topics had allowed to creep over her, she cast her arms around Lorenzo’s neck and fastened her lips to his.
Then the blood began once more to circulate like lightning in her veins,—and her voluptuous bosom panted against the young Italian’s chest.
Here shall we leave the amorous pair; for, after a little tender dalliance and another glass of the exciting juice of Epernay, they retired to the chamber whose portal we must not pass to follow them.
At eight o’clock in the morning Lorenzo Barthelma took his departure; and shortly afterwards Rosalie entered Laura’s room.
The Frenchwoman, who was as discreet as she was an adept at intrigue, wore the usual calm and respectful expression of countenance; and not even by a sly smile nor an arch look did she appear as if she devoted a thought to the manner in which her mistress had passed the night.
“Did the captain depart unperceived?” inquired Laura, who, although she had given no instructions to that effect, was nevertheless well assured that her intelligent abigail had superintended the egress of the handsome Italian.
“Entirely unobserved, mademoiselle,” was the answer. “I amused the porter and his wife in their lodge for a few minutes while Captain Barthelma slipped out into the street. Three persons alone are acquainted with last night’s adventure,—you, the captain, and myself.”
“Good!” exclaimed Laura: then, drawing aside the curtain of the bed in which she was voluptuously pillowed, she said, “And now, my dear Rosalie, give me an account of your proceedings relative to the Marquis of Delmour.”
“I have learnt but a few facts, mademoiselle,” was the reply: “those, however, are of some importance. He is enormously rich—very generous—bears an excellent character——”
“Is he married?” demanded Laura, hastily.
“Yes: but he has been living apart from his wife for many years;—and respecting the cause of their separation, there is a great mystery which not even his best friends can penetrate, and into which, therefore, a casual inquirer like myself could not obtain the least insight.”
“And this is all you could ascertain concerning him?” said Laura, interrogatively. “Did you not think of asking if he had any family by his wife?”
“I did not forget to make that inquiry, mademoiselle,” answered Rosalie; “and I was assured that his lordship is childless.”
“You are a good and faithful creature,” observed Laura; “and your services will prove invaluable to me. That purse which lies on the toilette-table, contains no insignificant sum in gold. It is yours—a recompense for the work of yesterday. But as you now know more of me than you did before, and as in a few short hours I permitted you to obtain a deeper reading of my secret soul than you could possibly have acquired, had I shut myself up in a studied reserve, it is as well that you should understand me thoroughly. I mean this, Rosalie—that I can be a good friend, or an implacable enemy—”
“I shall never provoke your enmity, mademoiselle,” observed the abigail.
“I do not think you will, Rosalie,” resumed Laura: “but, as I said ere now, it is as well that you should comprehend my character in all its details—in all its phases. You will benefit yourself by serving me faithfully: you would only injure yourself by playing me false. When once I have said upon this subject all that I mean to say, I shall not again refer to it: but the better we understand each other, the more permanent will be our connexion. Reckon, then, on my friendship so long as you deserve it;—deceive me, and I will risk my very life to be avenged.”
“Oh! mademoiselle,” exclaimed Rosalie, absolutely frightened by the vehemence with which her mistress spoke,—“have I done anything to render you suspicious of me?”
“On the contrary,” said Laura, with a smile; “you have done all you could to serve me—and you see that I have not forgotten to reward you. But within the last twelve or eighteen hours I have permitted you to read all the weaknesses of my soul—and now it is requisite that you should understand its strength: I have made you my confident—but I deemed it prudent to convince you that I know how to punish treachery. That is all, Rosalie: I have no more to say upon the subject;—and now, let me see your pretty face cheer up and wear a smile.”
The Frenchwoman was reassured by these last words; and, finding that her mistress had only intended to give her a salutary warning, and not to upbraid her for any actual misconduct, she speedily recovered her wonted gaiety and good spirits.
CHAPTER CLXV.
LORD WILLIAM TREVELYAN.
The scene changes to the residence of Lord William Trevelyan in Park Square.
It was evening, and the young nobleman was pacing up and down in an elegantly furnished parlour, which was lighted by means of a brilliant gas-jet enclosed in a pale red glass globe—so that the lustre which filled the room was of roseate hue. The curtains, sofas, and cushions of the chairs were of a rich crimson; and the paper on the walls was of a kindred colour and splendid pattern. In each corner of the apartment stood a marble jar, filled with flowers recently gathered, and rendering the atmosphere cool and fragrant.
Lord William was tall and handsome, his complexion was somewhat dark, giving him the appearance of a Spaniard rather than of an Englishman; and yet the ruddy hues of health were upon his cheeks. His hair was black as jet, silky as that of a woman, and parted above a brow high, intellectual, and expressive of a noble mind. His eyes were large and dark, and full of the fire of genius; and there was something peculiarly pleasing—almost winning in his smile.
In disposition Lord William was amiable—in manners unassuming: his character was unimpeachable—and his political opinions were of the most liberal tendency. His charity was extensive, but entirely unostentatious: his dependants revered him as a good master, and his acquaintances loved him as a sincere friend.
He was in his twenty-fourth year; and, until he had set eyes upon Agnes Vernon, he had never experienced the influence of the tender passion. But one day, while on a visit to a friend at Norwood, he was strolling alone in the vicinity, and accident led his footsteps towards the cottage, in the garden belonging to which he beheld the beauteous creature whose image had ever since filled his soul.
Truly had he said to Mrs. Mortimer that he adored the fair recluse of the cottage—that he worshipped the very ground upon which she trod: his love amounted almost to an idolatry;—and yet he had never exchanged a word—scarcely even a look, with the object of his affection!
It could be no world-contaminated heart that entertained such a passion as this—no selfish soul that could cherish such a pure and holy attachment.
But it was a generous—upright—noble-minded young man, who was now anxiously waiting the arrival of the woman with whom he had made an appointment for the evening in question.
Were the English aristocracy to be judged generally by such nobles as the Earl of Ellingham and Lord William Trevelyan, the term of its existence would not now perhaps be within the range of prophecy.
But, as matters now stand,—as the aristocracy is corrupt, selfish, and cruel—self-sufficient and ignorant—proud and intolerant—unprincipled, profligate, and tyrannical,—it is not difficult to predict its speedy downfall.
Therefore is it that we boldly proclaim our conviction that Monarchy and Aristocracy will not exist ten years longer in enlightened England; but that a Republic will displace them!
The hereditary principle, either in Monarchy or Aristocracy, is the most detestable idea that ever entered the brains of knaves, or was adopted by fools.
In respect to Monarchy, we are gravely assured that the principle of hereditary succession guarantees a nation against the civil wars that may arise from the pretensions of numerous claimants to the supreme power. But the history of every monarchical country in the world gives the lie to this assertion. Crowns have been bones of contention from time immemorial, and will continue to be so until they be crushed altogether beneath the heel of Republicanism. Take the history of England, for instance—that England, where the hereditary principle is said to be admirable and efficacious beyond all question: thirty-three Kings or Queens and two minors have reigned in this country since the Conquest by the Norman ruffian—and during that period we have had eight civil wars and nineteen rebellions!
The Laws of God, moreover, bear testimony against Monarchy. What said the Prophet Samuel when the Jews insisted upon having a King? “I will call unto the Lord, and he shall send thunder and rain, that you may perceive and see that your wickedness is great which you have done in the sight of the Lord, in asking you a King. So Samuel called unto the Lord, and the Lord sent thunder and rain that day; and all the people greatly feared the Lord and Samuel. And all the people said unto Samuel, Pray for thy servants unto the Lord thy God, that we die not; for we have added unto our sins this evil, to ask a King.”
Either the Bible is true or false. If true—as assuredly it is—then is the institution of Monarchy a positive crime, tolerated by an entire nation!
And no wonder that Heaven itself should protest against a system which is nothing more nor less than setting up an idol for the millions to worship,—an idol as useless as an Indian pagod, but often as terrible and slaughterous in its baleful influence as Juggernaut in its fatal progress.
Never did Satan contrive a scheme more certain of promoting idolatry than the raising up of Kings and Queens as rivals to the Majesty of Heaven;—for the root of Monarchy is in hell—the laws of God denounce the institution as a sin—and the history of the whole world proclaims that blood inevitably attends upon it!
All men were originally equal; and in no country therefore, could any privilege of birth give one family a right to monopolise the executive power for ever: neither can one generation bind that which is as yet to come. The existing race of human beings has no property in the one unborn: we of the present day have no right to assume the power of enslaving posterity:—and, on the same principle, our ancestors had no right to enslave us. If those ancestors chose to make one set of laws for themselves, we can institute another code for our own government. But of course such a change as this can only be made by the representatives of the People; and in order that the people may have a fair representation, the following elements of a constitution become absolutely necessary:—
Universal Suffrage;
Vote by Ballot;
No Property Qualification;
Paid Representatives;
Annual Parliaments; and
Equal Electoral Districts.
Give us these principles—accord us these institutions—and we will vouch for the happiness, prosperity, and tranquillity of the kingdom.
The French now stand at the head of the civilisation of Europe. They are on the same level as the fine people of the United States of America; and England occupies an inferior grade in the scale.
Alas! that we should be compelled to speak thus of our native land: but the truth must be told!
As yet almost every country in Europe has demanded and obtained something of its rulers, in consequence of the French Revolution;—whereas England has as yet obtained nothing in the shape of Reform!
Oh! shame—shame! what has become of our national spirit?—are we all willing slaves, and shall we not agitate—morally, but energetically agitate—for our rights and liberties?
The aristocracy and the men in power treat the people’s assemblies with ridicule, and denominate the working-classes, when so assembled, as “a mob.” They will not discriminate between honest politicians and the respectable working-classes on the one hand, and the ragamuffinry of society on the other. They confound us all together in the sweeping appellation of “the mob!”
The insensates! Do they not reflect that if ten or fifteen thousand persons meet for the purpose of discussing some grand political question, some five or six hundred pickpockets and mischievous boys are certain to intrude themselves into the assemblage? Why—black sheep even find their way into the Houses of Parliament—aye, and into the very suite of Royalty itself.
But after recording all the above observations, we must once more declare that we do not recommend violence: we insist upon the necessity of a grand moral agitation—an agitation which shall pervade the entire country, as an ocean is roused by the storm into a mass of mighty waves. The people must assume an imposing attitude; and let the memorable words of Lafayette be repeated by every tongue:—“For a nation to love liberty, it is sufficient that she knows it; and for a nation to be free, it is sufficient that she wills it!”
And, oh! my fellow-countrymen, let not this glorious thesis be used in vain! By the misery and starvation which millions of ye endure—by the hopeless entombment to which the Poor Law Bastilles condemn ye, when work fails—by the denial of an honest recognition of the rights of labour, which is insolently persisted in—by the spectacle of your famished wives and little ones—by the naked walls of the wretched hovels in which the labouring population dwells—by the blinding toil of the poor seamstress—by the insults heaped on ye by a rapacious aristocracy and an intolerant clergy—by the right which a despicable oligarchy usurps to hold the reins of power—by the limited suffrage which leaves the millions unrepresented—by the oppressive weight of taxation laid upon the productive classes—by the sorrows which the hard-working operative endures throughout his virility, and the misery that attends upon his decrepitude—by the badge of pauperism that the sons and daughters of toil are compelled to wear in the accursed Union-houses,—by all your wrongs, we adjure ye not to remain at rest—not to endure the yoke which ye can cast off in a moment—not to stand still and gaze listlessly, while all the rest of the civilised world is in motion!
Returning from this digression to the thread of our narrative, we will suppose that Mrs. Mortimer has at length arrived at the house in Park Square, and that she is already seated with the young nobleman, who little suspected the infamous character of the woman whom he had admitted to his confidence.
“I have been looking forward with much impatience and anxiety to your coming,” said Lord William: “but even now that you are here, I know not in which manner you can assist me.”
“Faint heart never won fair lady, my lord,” returned the old woman; “and you must take courage. The maxim which I quoted is a good one.”
“I do not despair, madam,” said the young nobleman: “and yet I seem as if I were involved in a deep mist, through which I cannot even grope my way. Alone and unassisted, I cannot hope to obtain access to that charming creature; and, if assisted, I will do nothing that shall violate the respect due to one so pure of heart as I believe her to be.”
“I should have proposed to become the bearer of a letter from your lordship to Miss Vernon,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer, coldly: “but, perceiving beforehand that your scruples are over nice and your notions somewhat of the most fastidious, I really do not see how I can serve you.”
“I am afraid to write to her—she would perhaps be offended to an extent that might be irremediable,” exclaimed Lord William, a prey to the most cruel bewilderment.
“And yet your lordship once endeavoured to bribe the servant-girl to become the bearer of your amatory epistle,” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone of sarcasm—almost of disgust.
“Now you are offended with me,” cried the young nobleman. “It is true that I did pen a letter to Agnes—telling her how much I loved her and how honourable were my intentions—imploring her likewise to grant me a few moments’ interview, and to pardon the means that I thus adopted of accosting her, having no other mode of procuring an introduction. Such a letter I did indeed write,” continued Trevelyan: “but it was in a fit of despair—of madness—of insensate recklessness.—I know not how to explain myself! The servant refused to deliver that note—and my eyes were immediately opened to the impropriety of the proceeding which I had adopted.”
“And you therefore decline to entrust me, who am well acquainted with Agnes, to deliver a similar letter into her hand? Your lordship is wrong in thus refusing to be guided by me,” continued the crafty old woman. “Think you that with one so innocent, so artless as Agnes, I cannot prepare the way to render your letter acceptable—at least to prevent it from producing a sudden shock to her notions of maidenly propriety?”
“Much as I should be rejoiced could you accomplish that aim,” said Trevelyan, “I should be ten thousand times happier were you able to procure me an interview with her.”
“This is madness!” exclaimed the old woman. “Can I not more easily induce her to read a letter from a stranger, than to receive that stranger in person? Is not the letter the first and most natural step to the visit? Trust to me, my lord: I know the disposition of Agnes—I understand affairs of this nature—and I am also well aware that love blinds you to the ways of prudence.”
“Be it, then, as you propose,” said Lord William, after a long pause, during which be reflected profoundly. “I will write the letter this evening: will you call for it early to-morrow morning?”
“I will,” answered the old woman: “and in less than twenty-four hours I will undertake to bring you tidings calculated to encourage hope—or I am very much mistaken,” she added emphatically.
“You do not believe—you have no reason to suppose that the father of Agnes already destines her to become the bride of some person of his own choice?” asked Trevelyan, now for the first time shaping in words an idea that had haunted him for some days past. “Because,” he continued, speaking with the rapidity of excitement, “I cannot possibly comprehend wherefore he compels her to dwell in that strict seclusion.”
“I do not believe that you have any such cause for apprehension,” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone of confidence—as if she were well able to give the species of assurance which she so emphatically conveyed. “There is a mystery—a deep mystery attached to the fair recluse,—and what that mystery is, I am myself completely ignorant. But that the father of Agnes has no such intention as the one you imagined, and that Agnes herself has as yet never known the passion of love,—these are facts to which I do not hesitate to pledge myself most solemnly.”
“Oh! then there is indeed room for hope!” exclaimed Lord William, his countenance brightening up and joy flashing in his eyes.
“A nobleman in your position—blessed with wealth and a handsome person—endowed with agreeable manners and a cultivated mind,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “need not despair of winning the love and securing the hand of a maiden dwelling in utter obscurity and totally unacquainted with the world.”
“I would rather that she should learn to love me for my own sake, madam,” observed Lord William, in a serious tone, “than for any adventitious advantages of rank or social position that I may possess.”
“Well, my lord—we shall see,” said Mrs. Mortimer, rising to depart. “To-morrow morning I will call for the letter; and I shall proceed straight over to the cottage: In the afternoon, or evening, I will do myself the honour of waiting upon your lordship again.”
“I shall expect you with impatience, madam,” returned Trevelyan, as he politely hastened to open the door for her.
Mrs. Mortimer took her leave; and the young nobleman sate down to pen a letter to Agnes Vernon.
But this was not so easy a matter as he had anticipated. Sheet after sheet of paper did he spoil,—a hundred times did he commence—and as often did he throw aside his pen in despair. Now he fancied that his style was too bold—then he conceived it to be too tame and vague: now he imagined himself to be too complimentary in his language towards one possessing a mind so chaste and pure—then he felt assured that he was acting indiscreetly to write at all. In the course of an hour he was swayed by such an infinite variety of conflicting sentiments and impressions that he was almost inclined to throw up the task in despair.
At length, however, he made a beginning which pleased him; and his pen then ran fluently enough over the paper, until the letter was composed in the following manner:—
“Pardon a stranger who dares to address you, beautiful Miss Vernon, in a strain that might give you offence, were he not sincere in his language and honourable in his intentions:—pardon me, I implore you—and refuse not to read these few lines to the end! He who thus writes is the individual that you have observed occasionally in the vicinity of your dwelling; and you will perceive by the signature to this letter that he is not a man without ostensible guarantees for his social position. That his character is unimpeachable he can proudly declare; and that he will not address to you, Miss Vernon, a single word which he will fear to repeat in your father’s presence, he solemnly declares.
“Let me, however, speak of myself in the first person again: let me assure you that your beauty has captivated my heart—and that, if anything were wanting to render me your slave, the description which the bearer of this letter has given me of your amiable qualities, would be more than sufficient. I am rich—and therefore I have no selfish motive in addressing you, even if you be rich also: but I would rather that it were otherwise with you, so that my present proceeding may appear to you the more disinterested. Had I any means of obtaining an introduction to you, beautiful Miss Vernon, I should not have adopted a measure that gives me pain because I tremble lest it should wound or offend you. But mine is an honest—a sincere—and a devoted attachment; and I shall be happy indeed if you will permit me to open a correspondence with your father on the subject. Were he to honour me with a visit, I should be proud to receive him. But if, in the meantime, you seek to know more of me—if I might venture to solicit you to accord me an interview of only a few minutes, you cannot divine how fervently I should thank you—how delighted I should feel! Let this interview take place in the presence of Mrs. Mortimer, if you will: I have nothing to communicate to you that I should hesitate to say before your father or your friends. Oh! how can I convince you of my sincerity?—how can I testify my devotion?—how can I prove the extent of my love?
“I beseech you to reflect, Miss Vernon, that my happiness depends upon your reply. Am I guilty of an indiscretion in loving you? Love is a passion beyond mortal control! He who knows no other deity, deserves not blame for worshipping the sun, because it is glorious and bright; and my heart, which knows no other idol, adores you, because you are beautiful and good. Treat not my conduct, then, with anger: let not your pride be offended by the proceeding which I have adopted in order to make my sentiments known to you;—and scorn not the honest—the pure—the ardent affection which an honourable man dares to proffer you. I do not merit punishment because I love you;—and your silence would prove a punishment severe and undeserved indeed! Again, I conjure you to remember that the happiness of a fellow-creature depends upon you: your decision will either inspire me with the most joyous hope, or plunge me into the deepest despair. At the same time, beauteous Agnes,—(the words—those delightful words, ’beauteous Agnes,’ are written now, and I cannot—will not erase them)—at the same time, I say, if your affections be already engaged—if a mortal more blest than myself have received the promise of your hand,—accept the assurance, sweet maiden, that never more shall you be molested by me—never again will I intrude myself upon your attention. For with my love is united the most profound respect; and not for worlds would I do aught to excite an angry feeling in your soul.
“Your ardent admirer and devoted friend,
“WILLIAM TREVELYAN.”
With this letter the young nobleman was satisfied. He considered it to be sufficiently energetic, and at the same time respectful: he saw nothing in it against which the purest mind could take exceptions; and, in the sanguine confidence natural to his age, and to the honourable candour of his disposition, he already looked upon his aims as half accomplished—his aspirations as half gained.
Having sealed and addressed the letter, he placed it upon the mantel-piece ready for Mrs. Mortimer when she should call in the morning: then, fetching a portfolio from an inner room, he opened it, and from amongst several drawings in water-colours, selected one on which his gaze was immediately rivetted with deep and absorbing interest.
For that painting—executed by his own hand—was a portrait of Agnes Vernon; and even the most fastidious critic, if acquainted with the original, must have pronounced it to be a living likeness.
Yes: on that paper was delineated, with the most perfect accuracy, the fair countenance of the Recluse of the Cottage,—every feature—every lineament drawn with a fidelity to which only a first-rate artist, or an amateur whose pencil was guided by the finger of Love, could have possibly attained. There were the eyes of deep blackness and melting softness,—there was the high, intelligent forehead,—there was the raven hair, silken and glossy, and seeming to flow luxuriantly even in the very picture,—and there was the rich red mouth, wearing a smile such as mortals behold upon the lips of angels in their dreams. How charming was the entire countenance!—how amiable—how heavenly the expression that it wore!
And no wonder that the likeness was so striking—so accurate—so faithful;—for the young nobleman had touched and retouched it until he had delineated on the paper the precise counterpart of the image that dwelt in his mind. Hours and hours had he devoted to that labour of love:—on each occasion when he returned home after contemplating, from behind the green barrier of the garden, the idol of his adoration, he addressed himself to the improvement of that portrait. At one time he had beheld the maiden to greater advantage than at another; and then he studied to convey to the card-board the last and most pleasing impression thus made upon his mind; until he produced a likeness so faithful that not another touch was required—no further improvement could be effected.
And, like Pygmalion with his Galatea, how Lord William Trevelyan worshipped that portrait! No—the simile is incorrect; because the sculptor learnt to adore the statue that was cold and passionless—whereas the young nobleman was blest with the conviction that there was a living original for the image he had so faithfully traced upon his paper,—and it was that living original whom he made the goddess of his thoughts.
The clock had struck ten, and Lord William was still bending over the portrait that lay upon the table, when a footman entered the room to announce that a lady who declined to give her name solicited an interview with the young nobleman.
Lord William, hastily closing the portfolio, desired that she might be immediately shown into his presence.
The domestic bowed and retired.
In a few minutes he returned, ushering in the unknown visitor, who wore a veil over her countenance: but the moment the footman had withdrawn, she raised the veil, and disclosed a face that was strikingly handsome, though pale and careworn. She was apparently about thirty-six or thirty-seven years of age—with dark hair, fine hazel eyes, and good teeth. Tall and well-formed, her figure, which was rather inclined to embonpoint, was set off to advantage by the tasteful—indeed elegant style of her dress; and in her deportment there was an air of distinction denoting the polished and well-bred lady.
Lord William received her with becoming courtesy, requested her to be seated, and then awaited an explanation of her business.
“Your lordship is doubtless surprised at receiving a visit at so unseasonable an hour, and on the part of a complete stranger,” began the lady, in a pleasing though mournful tone of voice: “but I know not to whom else to address myself for the information I now seek—and if you cannot afford it to me, I shall be unhappy indeed.”
“Madam,” said Lord William, somewhat astonished at this mysterious opening of the conversation, “if it be in my power to serve you, I shall render that service cheerfully.”
“You are well acquainted, I believe, my lord, with Sir Gilbert Heathcote?” observed the lady, somewhat abruptly, as she bowed her thanks for the assurance the young nobleman had given her.
“Sir Gilbert Heathcote, though much older than I, is an intimate friend of mine,” observed Trevelyan.
“Do you know where he is—what has become of him?” demanded the lady, in a still more anxious tone than before.
“I really do not, madam,” was the reply.
“Merciful heavens!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in a paroxysm of sorrow.
“I have not seen him for this week past,” continued Trevelyan. “But—are you ill, madam? Can I offer you anything?—shall I summon assistance?”
And, as he spoke, the nobleman rose from his seat and approached the bell-pull.
“No—no, my lord!” cried the lady. “Do not ring—do not call your servants! I shall be better presently. But pardon me if I could not control my feelings,” she added, wiping the tears from her eyes.
The young nobleman, in spite of the adjuration to the contrary, hastened into the adjoining room and speedily returned with a decanter of spring water and a tumbler. He then filled the glass and presented it to his afflicted visitor, who thanked him for his delicate attention with a look expressive of gratitude—the words that she would have uttered being stifled in her throat.
Refreshed with the cooling beverage, she said, after a short pause, “My lord, have you the slightest conception where your friend Sir Gilbert Heathcote is? Did he intimate to you his intention to leave London? did he hint at the probability of his departure from England? Oh! I conjure you to tell me all you know: for—for—you cannot divine how much—how deeply I love him!”
Trevelyan was struck with astonishment at these last words,—words that were uttered in a tone of such convincing, such profound sincerity, that he could not for an instant question their import. And yet—though since the days of childhood Trevelyan had known Sir Gilbert Heathcote—he had never heard that the baronet was married: on the contrary, he had invariably understood him to be a single man. If this latter belief were the true one, then, was the lady now in his presence the mistress of his friend?—for assuredly she had not spoken with the confidence of a sister, but with the hesitation of one who reveals a fact that is in some way associated with shame.
The lady perceived what was passing in the mind of Trevelyan; and in a low but fully audible tone, she said, “My lord, circumstances compel me to reveal myself to you as your friend’s mistress. Yes: though I love him more than ever wife could love—yet am I only his mistress,—for, alas! I am the wife of another! And now, my lord,” she added, with deep feeling, “you may spurn me from you—you may command your lacquey to thrust me from your dwelling: but I implore you to give me tidings of Sir Gilbert!”
“Madam,” exclaimed Trevelyan, the moment he could recover from the bewilderment into which this impassioned address plunged him, “not for worlds could I do or say aught to augment year affliction—much less to insult you. I declare to you most solemnly that I have neither heard nor seen anything of Sir Gilbert Heathcote for a week. I called at his chambers in the Albany the day before yesterday, and was simply informed that he was not at home. I left my card without thinking to make further inquiries—not suspecting that his absence had been for days, instead of hours.”
“Oh! yes—upwards of a week has elapsed since I saw him,” exclaimed the lady, with difficulty subduing a fresh outburst of grief. “Each day have I been to the Albany—and still the answer is the same—‘He has not returned!’ No—he has not returned,” she added, clasping her hands together; “and he has not written to me! O God! I fear that some fatal accident has befallen him!”
“Do not give way to such a distressing belief,” cried Trevelyan, feeling deeply for the unfortunate woman, whose grief was so profound and so sincere. “Shall I make inquiries—immediate inquiries—concerning him? Perhaps I may learn more than a lady possibly can.”
“Generous-hearted nobleman!” exclaimed the visitor; “how can I ever repay you for this kindness towards an utter stranger?”
“Remember also, madam,” said Trevelyan, “that, apart from my readiness to serve you or any lady whom affliction has overtaken, I begin to experience some degree of anxiety on behalf of a gentleman who has ever shown a sincere friendship towards me. Not another minute will I delay the inquiries which, alike for your sake and his, I now deem it necessary to institute.”
Thus speaking, the young nobleman rose from his chair.
“My lord,” said the lady, rising also, and speaking in a tone indicative of deep emotion, “may I hope to receive a communication from you as early as possible? My suspense will be great—it is even now intolerable——”
And she burst into tears.
“Madam,” interrupted the young nobleman, profoundly touched by her affliction, which was evidently most unfeigned, “you can either accompany me, or remain here until my return. Perhaps the latter will be the more desirable—at least if you can restrain your impatience, so natural under the circumstances, for a couple of hours. But perhaps,” he added, an idea striking him,—“perhaps you live at some distance——”
“I am the occupant of a house in Kentish Town,” said the lady; “and therefore my dwelling is not very far from your lordship’s. If you see no impropriety in it—if there be no one here whom my presence would offend,” she continued, speaking in a subdued and almost timid tone, “I would rather—oh! much rather wait until you return.”
“By all means, madam,” exclaimed the generous-hearted young noble. “Should you require anything during my absence, the servants will obey your summons; and they will receive my orders, ere I depart, to pay you every attention.”
“I shall not trouble them, my lord,” was the reply: “but I return you my deepest—sincerest thanks for the kind consideration with which you treat me.”
Trevelyan bowed, and then quitted the room.
CHAPTER CLXVI.
A SKETCH OF TWO BROTHERS.—A MYSTERY.
The nobleman’s cab was got ready in a very few minutes; and while he is driving rapidly along towards Piccadilly, we will place on record some particulars respecting Sir Gilbert Heathcote.
The baronet was a man of about forty years of age, and of very handsome countenance, as well as of tall, commanding figure. He had never married; and report stated that a disappointment in love, experienced when he was very young, had induced him to make a vow to the effect that, as he had lost the idol of his heart’s devotion, he would never accompany another to the altar. Such was the rumour which had obtained currency at the time amongst his friends, and was even repeated at the period whereof we are writing, whenever astonishment was expressed that a man enjoying all the advantages of personal appearance and social position should not have sought to form a brilliant matrimonial alliance. For the baronet was not only very handsome, as remarked above, but he also possessed the superior attraction of four thousand a year. His habits were nevertheless inexpensive: he lived in chambers at the Albany, and had no country seat. Indeed, he seldom quitted London, and was altogether of quiet—even retired habits. He was fond of reading, and was also an admirer of the fine arts: he used often to observe that the only extravagance of which he was ever guilty, consisted in the purchase of a fine picture or of articles of virtû;—but these he seldom retained—giving them as presents to his friends or to museums. Not that he was whimsical or capricious, and grew tired to-day of what he had bought yesterday: but he was pleased at the thought of rescuing good paintings and real curiosities from the auction-room or from Wardour-street; and he was wont to observe that he experienced more delight in seeing them in the possession of friends who could appreciate their value, or in museums where their safety was ensured, than in having them left to the mercy of servants in his “bachelor apartments.” The fact was, that his disposition was naturally generous; but this generosity was displayed in a particular fashion—and as he himself admired objects of virtû, he fancied that they must likewise prove the most welcome gifts he could bestow upon his friends.
Sir Gilbert had a brother, who was very unlike himself. James Heathcote was an attorney—grasping, greedy, avaricious, unprincipled—and therefore rich. He was only two years younger than Sir Gilbert; but close application to business, evil passions, and parsimonious habits had exercised such an influence upon his personal appearance, that he seemed ten years older. His hair was grey—that of Sir Gilbert was quite dark: his form was slightly bowed—that of the baronet was erect as a dart. James also was unmarried—but not through any disappointment in early life. Indeed, he possessed a heart that might be susceptible of desire, but could not possibly experience the pure feeling of love. He lived in a handsome house in Bedford-row, Holborn; and his apartments were elegantly furnished;—for he was wont to observe that persons who are anxious to get on in this world, must make a good appearance, and that a mean office frequently turns away a person who might prove an excellent client. But his aim was to amass money—his object was to increase his wealth, no matter how: still he had always contrived matters so cunningly, that no one could positively and unequivocally prove him to be a rogue.
With such a dissimilitude of character between the two brothers, it cannot be supposed that any extraordinary degree of intimacy existed on their part. Indeed, they seldom saw each other—although the more generous nature of Gilbert would have cheerfully maintained a more consistent and becoming feeling: but the cold, reserved, matter-of-fact disposition of James proved absolutely repulsive and forbidding in this respect. So great, in fine, was the discrepancy between these men, that people were surprised when they learnt for the first time that the money-making, hard-hearted attorney was the brother of the urbane, amiable, and polished baronet.
These hasty outlines will afford the reader some idea of Sir Gilbert Heathcote on the one hand, and Mr. James Heathcote on the other. We shall see more of them both hereafter; and their characters will then become more fully developed. In the meantime we must return to Lord William Trevelyan, whom we left hastening in his cab, at half-past ten at night, towards the Albany.
On arriving at that celebrated establishment, the young nobleman instituted various inquiries concerning Sir Gilbert; but not the least particle of information of a satisfactory nature could he obtain. It appeared that the baronet had been absent for eight days, and that no communication had been received from him—neither had he given any previous intimation of his intended departure. His brother had been informed of this unaccountable absence; but it seemed that the attorney had taken no step to solve the mystery. This was the only fact which Lord William succeeded in gleaning in addition to the meagre knowledge he already possessed relative to the matter; and he returned homeward with a heavy heart, and experiencing strange misgivings in respect to his friend.
It was near midnight when he re-entered the room where he had left the lady. The moment he appeared on the threshold of the door, she rose from her seat and hastened forward to meet him, her looks revealing the intensity of the anxiety and the acuteness of the suspense which she experienced. But when she saw by his countenance, even before a word fell from his lips, that he had no good news to impart, a ghastly pallor overspread her face, and she would have fallen had he not supported her and led her back to her chair.
“I grieve to say, madam,” he at length observed, “that I have learnt nothing more than what you already know—unless indeed it be the fact that a communication respecting Sir Gilbert’s disappearance has been made to Mr. James Heathcote, and that he has treated the matter with unpardonable levity—if not with heartless indifference.”
“I do not know that brother—I never saw him,” said the lady, speaking in a broken voice: “but I have heard enough of his character to make me dread him.”
“At the same time, madam,” remarked Lord Trevelyan, in a tone of firm though gentle remonstrance, “there is not the slightest ground for suspicion against Mr. James Heathcote; and such an observation as that which a moment ago fell from your lips, might act most seriously to the prejudice of an innocent man. I likewise am unacquainted with Mr. Heathcote, otherwise than by name——”
“And your lordship is well aware that his reputation is not the most enviable in the world!” exclaimed the lady in an impassioned tone.”
“I have never heard any definite charges against him, madam,” said Trevelyan.
“No—not positive charges which may fix him with the perpetration of a special and particular deed of guilt,” she cried, as if determined to level her suspicions against the attorney: “but your lordship has doubtless heard a thousand vague accusations—usury—extortion—grinding down the poor to the very dust—hurrying on law proceedings with merciless haste—unrelentingly sweeping away the property of his victims——”
“All these charges I have certainly heard, madam,” said Trevelyan; “but I will not admit that they warrant the darkest, blackest suspicion which one human being can possibly entertain towards another. Understand me, madam—I have no motive in defending James Heathcote, beyond the true English principle of never judging a person through the medium of prejudices. For your satisfaction I will call upon Mr. Heathcote to-morrow—I will speak to him relative to the mysterious disappearance of his brother—I will hear his replies—I will even watch his countenance and observe his manner as he speaks. And believe me, madam,” proceeded the young nobleman, emphatically,—“believe me when I assure you that if there should transpire the least cause of suspicion—if there should appear aught to warrant the belief that James Heathcote could have possibly practised or instigated foul play in respect to his brother,—believe me, madam, I repeat, that I will pursue the investigation—I will leave no stone unturned—I will prosecute my inquiries until I shall have brought home that deep guilt to his door. But not for an instant—no, not for a single moment can I believe——”
“Act as you have said, my lord—and, depend upon it, you will find in the sequel that my opinions are not so unjust—so uncalled for—so reprehensible, as you now conceive them to be. But, oh!” exclaimed the lady, clasping her hands wildly together,—“it is terrible—terrible even for a moment to entertain the idea that he whom I love so devotedly may be no more!”
“Compose yourself, madam—tranquillise your feelings, I implore you!” cried Lord William Trevelyan. “We must not give way to despair—we must not harbour the dreadful thought that Sir Gilbert Heathcote has met with foul play, and that he ceases to exist. No—no: let us hope——”
“Oh! my lord, how can we hope in the face of such strange—such mysterious—such suspicious circumstances?” demanded the lady, with mingled grief and bitterness. “Even if he did not choose to acquaint his friends with his intended absence and its motives, he would not be equally reserved towards me. No—he would have seen me ere his departure—or he would at least have written. For you must now learn, my lord, that we have loved each other for upwards of twenty years,” she continued, in a low and plaintive tone. “For twenty years and more have our hearts beat in unison;—and never—never was love so devoted as ours! Alas! mine has been a strange and romantic life; and the influence that has swayed all its incidents was that passion which the worldly-minded treat so lightly. For my father was a worldly-minded man; and, though he knew how fondly I loved and how ardently I was beloved,—though I knelt before him and conjured him by all he held most sacred, and by the spirit of my mother who died in my childhood, not to sacrifice me to the object of his choice, and tear me away from the object of mine,—nevertheless, he ridiculed my prayers—he made naught of my beseechings—and I was immolated upon the altar of a parent’s sordid interest. Your lordship has perhaps already understood that the one whom I adored was Gilbert Heathcote. Never—never was love’s tale told with more enchanting sweetness than by his lips: never—never did woman cherish more devotedly than I that avowal of a sincere passion! At that time his personal beauty was sufficient to ensnare the heart of any maiden, though far less susceptible than mine;—and I loved him—loved him madly. But a wealthy noble had seen me; and my father beheld with joy the impression that I had been so unfortunate as to make upon that patrician’s fancy. Moreover, at that period, my sire was suffering cruel pecuniary embarrassments; and the brilliant marriage which he hoped to accomplish for his daughter, appeared the only means of extricating himself from his difficulties. Thus the suit of the nobleman was encouraged by my father—and I was induced by the menaces, the prayers, and the specious reasoning which he employed by turns to move me,—I was induced, I say, to tolerate the visits of the peer, although heaven knows I never could encourage them. Not that his personal appearance was disagreeable—nor that I paused to reflect that his age was more than double my own: no—for he was handsome—very handsome; and, though his years were twice mine, yet he was but in the prime of life. Wherefore, then, did I receive his addresses with loathing?—wherefore did I implore my father to save me from an alliance which was so desirable and so brilliant in every worldly point of view? Oh! it was because my heart was irrevocably given to another—because Gilbert Heathcote possessed all my love!”
The lady paused, and wiped away the tears which so many varied reminiscences had wrung from her eyes,—while profound sobs convulsed her bosom.
Lord William Trevelyan felt the embarrassment and awkwardness of his position; for it was now past midnight—and he began to reflect that his servants might look suspiciously upon the fact of this protracted visit on the part of a lady who was still young enough, and certainly handsome enough to afford food for scandalous tongues. Not that Lord William was either a rigid saint or a stern anchorite in respect to the female sex: but, although unmarried, he behaved with the utmost circumspection, and would never have outraged decency so far as to make his own abode the place of an intrigue or gallant rendezvous. Moreover, the love which he entertained for Agnes Vernon had exercised such a purifying—such a chastening influence upon his soul, that he shrank from the idea of compromising himself by any real impropriety, or of becoming compromised by means of any indiscretion which scandal might think fit to attribute to him.
The lady was however too much absorbed in her own thoughts and emotions to mark how rapidly time was slipping away, or to reflect upon the imprudence of prolonging her visit. Her feelings were painfully excited, not only by the fears which she entertained on account of the absence of Sir Gilbert Heathcote—but likewise by the reminiscences which had been stirred up in her soul, and the outpouring of which to sympathetic ears seemed a necessary vent for a bosom so full of sorrow.
“Yes, my lord,” she resumed, after a short pause, her voice still being characterised by a tone of the most touching melancholy; “my father forced me into that hated marriage—and though I gained rank and a proud position, yet hope and happiness appeared to have forsaken me for ever. But I cannot tell you all,” she exclaimed, hastily, as if a sudden thought had struck her, warning her that she was about to be led by her feelings into revelations of a nature which she would repent, or which would at least be unbecoming and injudicious.
“Madam,” said Lord William, emphatically,—“I do not seek your confidence—I do not even desire it: but you have to do with a man of honour, by whom everything you may impart, whether with premeditation or unguardedly, will be held as sacred.”
“I thank your lordship for this kind assurance,” observed the lady. “Do not imagine that I wish to force you into becoming the depositary of my secrets, in order to establish a species of claim upon your friendship. No—my lord: I am not selfish—neither am I an intriguer,—only a most unhappy—a most unfortunate woman! But it is because you have manifested some little interest in me—because you have so generously promised to aid me in clearing up the mystery which surrounds the sudden disappearance of one so dear to me,—it is for these reasons, my lord, that I am anxious to explain so much of the circumstances of my connexion with him, as will convince you that nothing but the sincerest affection on my part could have placed me in a position which the world generally would regard with scorn. I have told your lordship how, loving Gilbert Heathcote, I was forced into a most inauspicious marriage with another: but the name of that other I need not mention. My father saw, when it was too late, that he had indeed sacrificed my happiness on the altar of his own selfishness; and he died of remorse—of a broken heart! My husband—my noble husband—was kind and generous towards me: but I could not love him—and he knew it. Then he grew jealous—and other circumstances,” she added, casting down her eyes and blushing deeply, “embittered our lives. At length—or, I should rather say, at the expiration of a few short years, I fled from him—fled from the husband who had been forced upon me—and sought refuge with the object of my heart’s sole and undivided affection. From that moment I have dwelt under the protection of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,—dwelt in the strictest privacy—happy in the possession of his love—a love which, as well as my own, has known no diminution with the lapse of years. To one of your generous soul—of your enlightened mind, my position may not appear so degrading—so humiliating, as it would to one incapable of distinguishing between the heart’s irresistible affection and a mere sensual depravity. Pardon me, my lord, for having thus obtruded this slight, and, I fear, rambling sketch, upon your notice: but I could not endure the conviction that I must appear in your eyes to be nothing more nor less than the pensioned mistress of your friend. The length of time that his love for me has endured, may be alone sufficient to persuade you that I am not to be confounded amidst the common mass of female degradation and immorality.”
“Madam, I thank you for this explanation—and I comprehend all the delicacy and peculiarity of your position,” said Lord William Trevelyan, rising from his seat, the lady herself having set the example—for it now struck her that she had remained until a very late hour.
“You will pardon me, my lord,” she said, “for having thus occupied so much of your time. But I know you to be one of Sir Gilbert’s best friends—indeed, the one of whom he was principally accustomed to speak, and whom he loved and relied upon the most. May I hope that you will favour me with a communication, so soon as you shall have seen Mr. James Heathcote? Although, in virtue of my marriage, I bear a proud and a great name, yet for years and years have I been known only as Mrs. Sefton—and by that appellation must I be known to you.”
The lady then mentioned her address in Kentish Town; and, extending her hand to the young nobleman, renewed her thanks for the kindness which he had shown her.
He offered to escort her to her home: but this she declined with a firmness, at the same time in such delicate terms, as to convince him that she would neither compromise herself, nor allow him to be compromised by a courtesy which he could not well have refrained from proposing, although he might not have been well pleased to carry it into effect.
He promised to call upon her as soon as he had anything important to communicate; and Mrs. Sefton then took her departure, Trevelyan ringing the bell in order that the servant might attend her to the door, so that there should be nothing clandestine nor stealthy in the appearance of the visit.
When Trevelyan was once more alone, he threw himself in an arm-chair, and gave way to his reflections—for the evening’s adventure had, in all its details, furnished ample food for thought. In the first place, there was the strange—the unaccountable disappearance of Sir Gilbert Heathcote—a man to whom the young patrician was much attached, and whose friendship he valued highly. Then, in spite of the remonstrances which he had addressed to Mrs. Sefton, he found suspicions existing in his mind relative to James Heathcote—suspicions of a nature which he dared not attempt to define even in the secresy of his own soul; but which nevertheless every moment grew stronger, vague though they were. Next, he pondered upon the particulars of the slight autobiographical sketch the lady had given him; and he dwelt with a yet unsubdued surprise on the fact that his friend Sir Gilbert had maintained, for so long a time and entirely unsuspected, a connexion that fully accounted for his bachelor-life. Lastly, Trevelyan meditated upon the course which he must adopt to discover the baronet’s fate, unless he should speedily re-appear and relieve from their cruel suspense and uncertainty those who were interested in him.
The young nobleman felt not the slightest inclination to retire to rest, although it was now one o’clock in the morning. The adventures of the evening had excited and unsettled him;—but having pondered on the various topics above enumerated, his thoughts insensibly reverted to his beloved Agnes.
Suddenly his eyes caught the portfolio that he had left upon the table; and, opening it, he took forth the portrait of the Recluse of the Cottage. But, ah! why did he start?—what did he see?
Rising from his chair, he held the picture in such a manner that the light gave him a perfect view of it: and, sure enough—beyond all possibility of mistake—there was a mark upon the dress,—a spot, as if a drop of water—perhaps a tear—had fallen upon it.
What could this mean?—how could such an accident have happened?
Again and again he looked,—looked steadfastly—earnestly; and the longer he gazed, the more convinced did he become that his eyes did not deceive him—that he saw aright—and that the stain or the spot was there!
Yet he had not noticed it when, after Mrs. Mortimer’s departure, and previous to Mrs. Sefton’s arrival, he had so long and so ardently contemplated that portrait. No: the mark was not there then; or else he—the lover, devouring the entire portrait,—he, the artist, scrutinising with satisfaction every minute detail of his own drawing,—oh! yes—he could not have failed to observe the slightest speck—the least, least spot that marred the general effect of that pleasing delineation!
Was it possible, then, that Mrs. Sefton had inspected the portfolio? Yes—such a supposition was natural enough. She was left alone in that room for nearly two hours; and, in spite of her sorrow, the time must have seemed so irksome to her as to induce her to have recourse to any means to while it away, if not to divert her thoughts into a less melancholy channel.
Yes—yes: he had divined the truth now, no doubt! At least such was his idea;—and then the tear—oh! It was easily accounted for. She was overwhelmed with grief at the mysterious and alarming absence of the man whom she loved; and she was weeping while she turned over the contents of the portfolio.
“Well—it is no matter,” thought Trevelyan, as he arrived at these conclusions: “It would have been far worse had the tear fallen on the face of the portrait,—for I might labour for hours—nay, for days, without being enabled to catch and delineate so faithfully again that sweet expression of countenance which Agnes wears, and which I have succeeded in conveying to my paper. But the mark is upon the dress—and a single touch with the brush will repair the injury. Alas! poor woman,” he added, in his musings, and alluding to Mrs. Sefton, “you have indeed enough to weep for, if you have lost all you love on earth—and, even had you spoilt the portrait altogether, I would have forgiven you!”
Trevelyan now returned the drawing to the portfolio, which he conveyed to the little room adjoining; and then, retracing his way into the parlour, he approached the mantel-piece to take the letter which he had written to Agnes.
But he was astounded—stupified by the conviction which burst upon him that the letter was gone!
Gone!—it might have dropped upon the floor—on the rug—in the fender? No:—vainly did he search—uselessly did he pry into every nook and corner he could think of;—the letter had disappeared!
He rang the bell furiously.
“Did any one enter this room during my absence just now, and while that lady was here?” he demanded of the domestic, who responded to the summons.
“No, my lord,” was the answer.
“You are certain?” said Trevelyan, with interrogative emphasis.
“I am positive, my lord,” replied the man; then, after a pause, he observed, “I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred, my lord?”
“Yes—no—you may retire,” said the nobleman, abstractedly; and, when the domestic had left the room, he threw himself into a chair, overcome with amazement and grief at the mysterious circumstance that had occurred.
Could Mrs. Sefton have taken the letter? No: the idea was ridiculous. She was too much absorbed in her own sorrows to have leisure for the gratification of an idle and impertinent curiosity. Besides, was she a common thief?—for, let a lady be possessed with ever so prying a disposition, she would not carry her mania to such a point as to steal a letter—a sealed letter—unless she were absolutely dishonest and unprincipled. Surely this could not be the character of the woman whom he had seen in such deep affliction that evening,—a woman who was assuredly what she had represented herself to be, and whose appearance, manners, and language all forbade the idea that she was an abandoned wretch.
“No—I wrong her by entertaining such an injurious suspicion even for an instant!” thought Lord William, when those reflections had passed through his brain. “It is impossible that this afflicted lady can have taken my letter. Besides, had she done so, would she have waited until my return? And again, of what use—of what benefit could the letter be to her?”
He glanced around, and beheld several articles of value lying about in their accustomed places. He had gone out in such a hurry that he had left a purse containing gold upon the mantel—and, remembering the precise amount, he reckoned it and found it to be correct. Lying upon the table was a splendid gold seal, which he had used in closing the letter that was now missed:—in fine, there were numerous objects, either costly or curious, which an ill-disposed person might have self-appropriated, but all of which had been left untouched.
How, then, was it possible to suppose that Mrs. Sefton had purloined the letter?
Nevertheless, it had disappeared; and therefore some one must have taken it?—or else some accident must have happened whereby it was lost?
Trevelyan racked his brain to discover whether it was possible that he himself had removed it from the mantel after he had placed it there: but he felt assured that during the interval which elapsed between the writing of that letter and the arrival of Mrs. Sefton, he had not quitted the apartment.
The affair was most mysterious: nay—it was also alarming;—for how could he possibly account for the disappearance of a sealed letter? If it had indeed been taken by an ill-disposed person, the contents might be made known—perhaps to the prejudice of his suit with Agnes. But he was assured that no one had entered the room during his absence;—and he was so reluctant to fix the deed on Mrs. Sefton, and had so many reasons against such a supposition, that he became equally confident she was in no way connected with the strange occurrence.
At length he reasoned himself into the belief that he must have deposited the letter in some place which he could not recollect; and, as he had in the first instance made a rough draught, he resolved to write a fair copy all over again. This was soon accomplished; and, having sealed and addressed it, he took the new letter with him to his own bed-chamber, so that he might retain it in security until Mrs. Mortimer should call for it in the morning.
It was past two o’clock when Lord William retired to rest; but, though much fatigued, he could not immediately close his eyes in slumber. The affair of the letter haunted him—filled him with vague and undefined misgivings—and assumed an aspect the more mysterious, the longer he contemplated it. He endeavoured to persuade himself that the belief to which he had ere now temporarily lulled his mind was the real solution of the theory: but then would come the evidence of memory, proclaiming that he had placed the letter on the mantel in the parlour, and that he had not touched it afterwards.
In fine, he was bewildered amidst a variety of conflicting thoughts—and his brain grew wearied with the agitation which their jarring contention produced,—so that at length sleep stole upon him insensibly: but though it sealed his eyes in slumber, it did not protect him against the troubled dreams that visited his pillow.
At about nine o’clock in the morning he was awakened by the entrance of his valet, who came to inform him that Mrs. Mortimer had called for a letter which was to be in readiness for her.
Trevelyan started up and glanced anxiously towards the night-table, almost dreading lest that second billet should have disappeared as well as the first:—but it was there in safety—and he now desired his dependant to deliver it to Mrs. Mortimer.
CHAPTER CLXVII.
THE LAWYER.
Mr. James Heathcote, the attorney, was seated at a writing-table covered with papers, in his private office. He was wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, and his feet were thrust into large buff slippers. His grey hair was uncombed and his beard unshaven that morning; and his shirt was none of the cleanest. Indeed, his appearance denoted that, on awakening, he had risen hastily, thrown on a few clothes, and repaired straight to his office, where he immediately became absorbed in the study of certain documents in which he was deeply interested.
The countenance of this individual was by no means pleasing. A malignant light shone in his small, restless, dark eyes; and he had a habit, when vexed or irritated, of frowning—or rather contracting his brow to such a degree, that he brought them as it were to cover his very eye-lids: but, if pleased—especially when he had solved a difficult question or was struck by an idea that seemed particularly lucid or valuable—he would then elevate his brows to such a height that the movement displayed the whites all round his eyes, while the upper part of his forehead gathered into innumerable small wrinkles.
A superficial observer would have pronounced the expression of his pale features to be intellectual: but a more experienced phrenologist would be enabled to draw the proper distinction between an air of noble intelligence and one of profound cunning, shrewdness, and selfish watchfulness. These latter qualities were the real characteristics of James Heathcote: but with his clerks, and amongst the generality of his clients, he passed as a man of very fine intellect and great talents.
The room in which he was seated had what is usually called “a business-like air” about it. The grey drugget that covered the door would have sustained no harm from a vigorous application of a carpet-broom; and the window, which looked into a little yard at the back of the house, might have lost much of its dinginess if only cleaned once a week. But the panes appeared as if they had been purposely tinged a dirty yellow, so incrusted were they with the dust that had gathered upon them.
On one side of the room were rows of shelves containing a number of law-books, the relative ages of which were marked by the colour of the leather binding—there being a perfect ascending scale, from the bright buff, indicating the most recent purchase, to the deepest, dirtiest brown that characterised the long-standing and well-thumbed volume of remote date. Along the edges of these shelves were nailed long slips of dark-green serge—a meagre kind of drapery meant to protect the upper part of the volumes from the dust, and impart to the whole arrangement somewhat of the air of a regular book-case.
On another side of the room were rows of shelves much deeper and also much wider apart; and on these were huge japanned tin boxes, with names painted on them in yellow letters. To every box there was a little padlock; and the whole seemed to tell of title-deeds to vast estates—and mortgages—and bonds—and charges—and rent-rolls, contained in those sombre-looking repositories. But, alas! how few of the persons whose names were still recorded on the outside of those boxes, had any longer an interest in the deeds preserved within: how many had lodged their parchments in those usurious chests, never to recover them!
Over the mantel-piece was a portrait of Lord Eldon—a lawyer whom thousands and thousands were doomed to curse, but whom the “profession” still continues to cry up as the greatest of modern judges. Yes—for if clients complain of the law’s delays, the lawyers themselves rejoice; and he who is an execrable judge in respect to the former, is an admirable one in the eyes of the latter.
Stuck into the frame of that portrait was an infinite number of visitors’ cards, all covered with dust, as if that assemblage of bits of pasteboard were something sacred which the profane hand of a housemaid or charwoman dared not touch. On the mantel itself was an old time-piece, the mechanism of which was exposed; and how the wheels could move at all, clogged with dust as they were, must have appeared marvellous to any one who, entering that room, gave himself the trouble to devote a thought to the matter.
We have already stated that the table was covered with papers. Along that side opposite to the one at which the lawyer sate, were piles of those documents, all tied up in the usual fashion with tape that once was red, but which was now so faded that in many instances it was of a dirty white. They seemed to have been undisturbed for a long, long time; and perhaps were kept for show. Those papers that referred to matters actually pending, were placed more conveniently within the attorney’s reach, and were fresher in appearance, the tape also being of a livelier red. Three or four files, two feet long, and covered with letters densely packed one above another, lay upon the drugget; and near the lawyer’s feet was a waste-basket overflowing with letters crumpled up, and looking uncommonly like appeals for mercy and delay on the part of unfortunate debtors, but which had been tossed with cool contempt into that receptacle for all such useless applications!
It was now ten o’clock in the morning; and Mr. James Heathcote was, as we have represented, completely absorbed in the study of the documents that lay spread before him upon the table. A thin, yellow hand supported his head; and every now and then he ran his long fingers through his iron-grey hair, as if that action aided him in the solution of a difficult subject.
Presently a low and timid knock at the door fell on the lawyer’s ears; and he said “Come in” without raising his head or desisting from his occupation.
Thereupon a middle-aged man, dressed in a suit of rusty black—his office garb—made his appearance, holding in his hand a long thin book which was the diary of the business-proceedings of the establishment. This individual had a pale, sinister countenance, with brown hair combed sleekly down over his low forehead. He was, however, an important personage in many respects—being Mr. Heathcote’s head clerk, and exercising despotic sway over half-a-dozen subordinates in the front office. With them and towards poor clients or unfortunate debtors he was cold—stern—harsh—and inexorable; but in the presence of his employer he was cringing—mean—sycophantic—and spaniel-like.
Advancing slowly and with noiseless steps—or rather creeping up towards the table, he stood in a respectful attitude—no, with a servile demeanour and in deep silence until it should please his master to take notice of him.
“Well, Green—what have you to say to me this morning?” at length demanded Mr. Heathcote, raising his head and throwing himself back in his capacious arm-chair.
“Gregson the upholsterer, sir, cannot meet the third instalment due this day on his warrant-of-attorney for eight hundred pounds,” said Mr. Green, referring to the diary; “but he called just now and told me that if you would give him till next Monday——”
“Not an hour, Green,” interrupted Mr. Heathcote, imperiously. “Let execution issue. He has enough property to satisfy the greater portion—and, as his brother-in-law is his security, we shall slap at him without delay for the residue. He is a toiling, striving man, and will beat up amongst his friends to raise the necessary amount by the time we have run him up some twenty pounds’ costs. What is the next?”
“Sir Thomas Skeffington’s bill for five hundred pounds comes due to-day, sir,” continued the head clerk; “and he proposes to renew it.”
“Let me see?” mused Mr. Heathcote. “It was originally two hundred pounds that I lent this young spendthrift baronet; and he has already renewed six times. Well—let him give another bill—for five hundred and fifty, mind—don’t forget to tack on the fifty, Green. His uncle will pay the debt eventually—it is all safe. Go on.”
“Thompson, sir, the defendant in Jones’s case, has let judgment go by default,” continued Mr. Green: “he says that he would do anything rather than run up expenses; and he has been here this morning to beg and implore that time may be granted. His wife has just been confined, and his eldest child is at the point of death. The debt is a hundred and eleven pounds with costs—and he proposes to pay it at five pounds a week.”
“No such thing!” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote, almost savagely. “Let him go to prison! He will be writing imploring letters, and his father-in-law will call to make terms. Those letters and visits, Green, will be another six or seven pounds in my pocket: and then we will let him out on his warrant-of-attorney to pay the five pounds a-week. It is always better to send a man in his case to prison first, although you mean all the time to accede to his proposal in the long run. He is an industrious, enterprising fellow—and his father-in-law is a highly respectable man. So he will not knock up for this little affair. Go on.”
“Beale’s wife called last evening, sir,” resumed Mr. Green, “and says that her husband is lying in a sad state in the infirmary at Whitecross-street prison. She and her children are starving—and she begs you for the love of God to let her husband out. It is their only chance; and he will pay you when he can.”
“When he can!” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote, in bitter contempt. “And that will be never. I am surprised, Mr. Green, that you should have bothered me with such a trifle, instead of telling the woman at once that her husband may rot in gaol until he pays me every farthing.”
“I should not have thought of troubling you, sir, in the matter,” observed the clerk, in a tone of servile contrition; “only the woman did seem so very, very miserable—and she cried so bitterly—and she had a young child that looked half-famished in her arms——”
“And you pitied her, I suppose?” interrupted Mr. Heathcote, in a tone of cool irony. “You have been in my service for twelve years to some purpose.”
“Pray forgive me, sir: but—but—I happen to know that Beale’s wife and family are really starving,” said the clerk, whose heart was a trifle less hardened than that of his master.
“Let them starve!” rejoined the latter, with an air of brutal indifference. “Now, what have you next upon your list?”
“William Fox, the ironmonger, sir, has called a meeting of his creditors,” resumed Mr. Green, now regretting that he should have allowed himself to be carried away by a scintillation of humane feeling so far as to merit a rebuke at Mr. Heathcote’s hands.
“Well—I know that,” observed the lawyer. “But I never attend meetings of creditors—I never accept compositions, Mr. Green. But has the fellow been here? and what does he say?”
“It appears, sir, that he laid a full and complete account of his affairs before his creditors,” continued the clerk; “and that they were well satisfied with the statement. He showed them that his embarrassments arose from no fault of his own, but simply from the failure of a large house in Birmingham.”
“And what did he offer?” demanded Mr. Heathcote.
“He asked for two years to pay off all his liabilities,” was the answer. “He did not propose a composition, but will settle everything in full. His brother has offered to become security for him.”
“Well, he must pay me at once—within twenty-four hours—or I shall sign judgment, Green,” exclaimed the lawyer. “Or stop—it will be better to sign judgment at once, and issue execution. I shall then, get my money directly—and his other creditors may wait the two years. If he calls again to-day, tell him that I am out—and mind and have a seizure in his house by the evening.”
“It shall be done, sir,” said the head clerk: then, again referring to the diary, he proceeded thus:—“You remember that affair of Williamson, sir? He called and left seventy-two pounds the other evening to take up his bill, which had been sent back; and as you were out at the time, he could not have the bill delivered over to him. I offered him a receipt for the money: but he left it without taking any acknowledgment—saying, ‘Oh! I can trust to your honour,’—or words to that effect. Well, sir, he has called two or three times since for the bill——”
“Do the other clerks know that he paid the money?” demanded Mr. Heathcote, fixing his keen eyes significantly upon Green.
“No, sir,” was the answer, accompanied by a look of intelligence showing that the man comprehended his master’s meaning. “They were all gone—and I was just on the point of leaving likewise when Williamson called.”
“Then issue a writ this very day for the recovery of the amount,” said the lawyer. “Of course, Green, you will know nothing at all about having received the money from him?”
“Of course not, sir,” replied the clerk.
“And should he go to trial, you will swear that he never paid you?” continued the lawyer, speaking with the imperious authority of a man who knew that the other was in his power.
“It would not be the first time, sir, that I have perjured——”
“Well—well!” cried Mr. Heathcote, hastily; for though he did not mind suborning his clerk to commit a crime, yet he did not like to have the deed designated in plain terms and exhibited to his eyes in all its dreadful nakedness and reality. “Let this be done, Green: and take a guinea for yourself—charging it in the office-expenses of the week. You are a faithful servant—and I am pleased with you,” he added, in a patronising manner.
“I am truly grateful, sir, for your kindness and for your good opinion,” said the clerk, with a low bow: but at the same time he was compelled to stifle the sigh that rose to his very lips at the idea of being so dependent upon his master, and so enthralled by circumstances as to be compelled to submit to be made the tool—the base instrument—the despicable agent of that master’s hidden villany.
“Have you anything more in the diary?” demanded Mr. Heathcote.
“Nothing, sir,” responded the clerk: “unless it be that the two doctors are to call to-day for the second halves of the reward promised them for signing the certificate.”
“Good! pay them each immediately, the affair having been attended with complete success,” said the lawyer: “and indeed, you may give them each five guineas beyond the sum originally promised.”
“It shall be done, sir,” returned Mr. Green. “Have you any farther commands?”
“I am at a loss how to proceed with respect to that woman,” said Mr. Heathcote, his brows lowering in token of vexation, while at the same time he ran his skinny fingers through his wiry hair.
“You mean Mrs. Sefton, sir?” said the clerk.
“Mrs. Sefton—as she calls herself,” observed Mr. Heathcote, with a grim smile. “Ah! little thought Gilbert,” he continued in a musing, but also triumphant tone, “that for years past I have known all and everything connected with him! Little did he imagine that his liaison—his amour with that lady was no secret to me, secure and safe as he deemed it to be from all the world! But what am I do with regard to her, Green?” he demanded, as he abruptly turned towards the clerk, who stood like a menial in his presence.
“Your wisdom, sir, can doubtless suggest some plan,” was the sycophantic reply. “Do you imagine that she is likely to be dangerous?”
“She loves my brother, Green,” answered the lawyer: “she entertains for him that passion which never has warmed my breast—and never shall,” he continued, in a contemptuous tone. “Oh! how I hate the very name of love! It is a sickly sentimentalism—a maudlin feeling, which is derogatory to the character of a man of the world, but which makes a woman dangerous indeed, when the object of her passion is outraged or wronged. Yes, Green—I do fear this Mrs. Sefton, as we will call her—since thus she chooses to denominate herself: I do consider her to be dangerous—and I know that she is of an intrepid, resolute character. She will leave no stone unturned to have what she will call justice done towards my brother; and by some means must I take from her the power of doing me an injury.”
“And those means, sir?” asked the clerk, timidly.
“I have thought of many plans, Green,” replied Mr. Heathcote: “but not one appears to be sufficiently decisive to meet the exigencies of the case. Could I only get her out of the country, or else have her locked up in some place of security, for a few weeks, I should in that interval have all my schemes so effectually carried out, as to be able to defy not only that woman, but likewise all the world.”
“And is it so very difficult, sir, to encompass one or the other of the two aims you have mentioned?” inquired Green.
“On what pretence can I imprison her?” demanded Mr. Heathcote, impatiently. “But I might be able to induce her to quit the country,” he added, in a more measured tone, and with a steadfast look at his clerk—a look which seemed to say, “Can I trust you?”
“Is there any way, sir, wherein my humble services will avail?” asked the man, thoroughly understanding the intent of that look.
“Yes—on you must I rely in this matter,” said the lawyer, after a few minutes’ deep cogitation. “Mr. Green,” continued Heathcote, again fixing on him his small, malignant, soul-reading eyes, “you will excuse me for a moment if I recall the past to your recollection——”
“But why, sir—why!” exclaimed the clerk, his pale face suddenly becoming paler still and his limbs trembling convulsively.
“Because I choose,” returned his master, brutally: “because it suits my present purpose to remind you how much you are in my power.”
The wretched clerk moaned audibly, but uttered not another word.
“Twelve years ago, Mr. Green,” resumed Heathcote, with deep emphasis and in a measured tone, as if he were determined that not a syllable which he intended to say should be lost on the unhappy man who was thus undergoing a painful—agonising infliction,—“twelve years ago, Mr. Green, you were an attorney in practice for yourself. An accident, the particulars of which it is not necessary for me to recite, made me acquainted with a fact which placed you entirely at my mercy. You and a gentleman named Clarence Villiers had been left the joint guardians of a boy then a little more than eight years old; and a thousand pounds were invested in the funds in the name of yourself and the said Clarence Villiers. It had been agreed that you should be the acting trustee. You wanted money—you forged the name of Clarence Villiers to the necessary deed—and you sold out the thousand pounds.”
The miserable clerk groaned again, more audibly than before: but his master heeded not the intense agony his words inflicted.
“Yes—you sold out the money, and appropriated it to your purposes,” continued the remorseless attorney. “The fact came to my knowledge,—and I offered to save you, on condition that you should serve me—that you should devote yourself to me, body and soul—that you should see only with my eyes, hear only with my ears, and use your hands and your intellectual powers as I directed. I required a person of this description: I was looking out for such an one at the moment when accident thus placed you in my power. We soon came to terms. You gave up a business that was not worth retaining—and you became my head clerk. I have paid you two guineas a week with the most scrupulous regularity—and I have often made you little presents, as even this very morning have I done. But what more have I been generous enough to do for you? Why—I have regularly paid the interest of the thousand pounds for you, as if it were still in the Bank of England; and your ward suspects not that his capital is gone. Neither does your co-trustee Clarence Villiers suspect it, Mr. Green,” added Heathcote, emphatically. “But in six weeks’ time, the youth will have completed his twenty-first year; and he will apply to Mr. Villiers and yourself for his thousand pounds. Mr. Villiers will ask to accompany you to the Bank to make over the money in due form—for Mr. Villiers is an honourable man. But the money will not be there—unless I replace it for you, and thus save you from transportation for life!”
“And you have promised that you will replace it, kind sir—you have undertaken to save me from exposure, degradation, and punishment!” exclaimed the clerk, his voice and manner becoming almost wild in the earnestness of their appeal.
“Yes—and I will keep my word, Green,” responded Heathcote. “If I have now recapitulated circumstances which are necessarily so indelibly stamped upon your memory, it was merely to convince you that I have it in my power to save you from a terrible fate—or to crush you as I would a viper beneath my heel. We shall not be the worse friends because we understand our relative positions; and mark me—never, never would I place myself in the power of a man unless he were ten thousand times more entangled in my meshes than I could possibly be in his.”
“Surely—surely, sir, you do not suspect my fidelity?” said the clerk, the workings of whose pale countenance were dreadful to behold; “surely you do not think that I should be ungrateful or mad enough to breathe a word to your prejudice? If you have done much for me, sir, I have served you faithfully; and this I can assert without fear of contradiction. I am ever at your disposal—ever in readiness to obey your commands, without questioning their propriety.”
“All this I know, my friend,” said Heathcote, his brows now elevating themselves with triumph; for he saw that the trembling wretch before him was docile, pliant, and obedient as a deaf and dumb slave following the signals made by an oriental despot: “all this I know,” repeated the lawyer;—“but there is no harm in occasionally setting forth the grounds on which our connexion is based. This being accomplished in the present instance, we may at once revert to the business that we have now in hand.”
“Relative to Mrs. Sefton, sir?” remarked Green, anxious to convince his master that he was mindful of the grave and important interests now involved in connexion with that lady’s name.
“Yes—relative to Mrs. Sefton,” said Heathcote. “I have already observed that there are only two ways of dealing with her: either to lock her up in a place of security for a time, or to get her out of the country. The latter alternative must be adopted; and it is for you to play a part which, if ingeniously enacted, cannot fail of success.”
Mr. Green placed himself in an attitude of deep attention—for all this while, as the reader will observe, he had remained standing, his master never desiring him to be seated, however long their conference might last.
“The impatience of this Mrs. Sefton is doubtless growing intolerable,” continued the lawyer: “a week has now passed since Sir Gilbert disappeared—and she will speedily initiate active measures to discover what has become of him. There is not therefore another moment to lose;—and her own affection shall be made the means of which we will avail ourselves in order to baffle and defeat her. Do you repair at once to Kentish Town and seek an interview with her. She does not know you—she never saw you: she will suspect nothing—but believe everything. You will tell her that you have just arrived from Liverpool—that you are an intimate friend of Sir Gilbert—and that he has embarked for America, in consequence of serious pecuniary embarrassments. You must assure her that those embarrassments came on him so suddenly, menacing his person with arrest—and that he was so bewildered and excited by the danger and disgrace which thus threatened him, that he fled without having time to communicate even with her. You will then go on to say that he sent you up to London to break these news to her—to supply her with money—and to implore her to hasten after Sir Gilbert, whom she will join at New York. All this must you tell her;—and if you play your part properly, it is, as I have already observed, certain to experience success.”
“You may rely upon me, sir,” said the clerk.
“All your presence of mind—all your readiness of invention—all your impudence, will be requisite in the matter,” continued Heathcote: “for Mrs. Sefton is an intelligent woman—and the least hesitation in giving a reply to any of her questions, will assuredly awaken her suspicions, and spoil all. But if you be wary and cautious, you must come off triumphant. Believing that her connexion with Sir Gilbert is a profound secret, she will at once receive you as a friend of her lover’s, from the mere fact of your knowledge of their liaison: because she will suppose that you could not have become aware of it, unless he had in reality made you his confident. Then, again, the circumstance of your being the bearer of fifty guineas—which I will presently give you—as the means to defray the expenses of her voyage to New York, will confirm all you have stated and give a complete colouring to all your representations. Do you thoroughly understand me, Green?—and do you consider yourself competent to undertake this mission?—for I can assure you that it is of the highest importance for me to remove that dangerous woman from England for a few weeks.”
“I do not hesitate to charge myself with the enterprise, sir,” said Green, meekly,—“delicate though its management may be;—and, should it fail, it will be through no fault on my part.”
“Then it will not fail, sir!” cried Mr. Heathcote, emphatically. “And now I will give you the money necessary for your purpose—and you must accompany the lady to Liverpool, remember. If a packet be not about to start immediately, then lodge her at an hotel, alleging that you are an unmarried man as an apology for not inviting her to stay at your own house until her departure. You can put up at another hotel. But all these minor details I leave to your judgment and discretion.”
Mr. Heathcote now placed a quantity of notes and some gold in the hands of his clerk, who forthwith took leave of his wily master: ere he departed, however, he stopped in the outer office to issue instructions relative to the various matters entered in the diary. At length he was ready to issue forth on the mission entrusted to him; but at that moment a cab stopped at the door, and a tall, handsome, well-dressed gentleman alighted.
Entering the clerk’s office, the visitor inquired if Mr. Heathcote was at home.
“What name shall I say, sir?” asked Green.
“That is of no consequence,” was the hasty reply: “my business is of great importance.”
“Walk in, then, if you please, sir,” said Green: and, having shown the visitor into the lawyer’s private apartment, the head clerk was at length enabled to hurry away to his own lodgings, in order to make some change in his toilette ere he proceeded to Kentish Town.
CHAPTER CLXVIII.
THE NOBLEMAN AND THE LAWYER.
On entering into the presence of Mr. Heathcote, the handsome visitor tendered his card; and the moment the lawyer cast his eyes upon it, a cloud passed hastily over his countenance—for he knew that Lord William Trevelyan, whose name appeared on that card, was an intimate friend of Sir Gilbert. He however composed himself in an instant, and, pointing to a chair, said, “Be seated, my lord.”
The young nobleman accepted the invitation, and then observed, “I have to apologise for intruding myself upon you——”
“Not if you come on matters of business, my lord,” interrupted the lawyer, in a tone which was intended to imply that his time was nevertheless very precious.
“I fear that you will scarcely consider my visit to be connected with business in the sense you would have me infer,” said Trevelyan, courteously: “at the same time, you will give me credit for the best intentions——”
“Pray, my lord, come to the point,” exclaimed Heathcote, impatiently. “I have a vast amount of work upon my hands—several appointments to keep—and my toilette not yet performed.”
“In one word, sir,” said Trevelyan, “may I inquire if you have received any tidings concerning your brother, who is a dear and valued friend of mine?”
“I have heard that my brother is absent, my lord,” answered Heathcote, coldly: “but I have no control over his movements—and he is not in the habit of consulting me respecting his actions.”
“At the same time, sir——”
“Pardon me, my lord: I have answered you—and I have not a moment to spare.”
“But as your brother’s friend, sir—his intimate friend——”
“I do not know you, my lord: neither do I trouble myself with my brother’s friendships.”
These last words were uttered so rudely—almost brutally, that the young nobleman’s countenance became the colour of scarlet, and he felt that were the lawyer a man less advanced in years, he would have knocked him down for his insolence.
“I am aware, sir,” he said, subduing his indignation as well as he was able, “that I have no claim upon your courtesy, beyond that which social conventions establish: but I regret to find that you should think it necessary to treat with such extreme incivility a person who has never offended you.”
“Then wherefore does your lordship force yourself into my presence, and persist in remaining here, when I tell you that I am occupied with serious matters?” demanded the lawyer, rising from his seat, while his brows were bent in such a way as to render his countenance particularly displeasing and sinister at that moment.
“Serious matters, indeed!” ejaculated Lord William, also rising; “is it not a serious matter that your brother—your own brother—has suddenly disappeared——”
“I have already told your lordship that I have no control over the actions of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,” said the lawyer; “and I am not to be forced into a discussion on any subject with one who is a complete stranger to me.”
“I repeat, sir, that I am your brother’s intimate friend,” cried the young patrician, indignantly.
“But I repeat, on my side, that you are no friend of mine—nor likely to be,” responded Heathcote. “Will your lordship, therefore, leave me to those pursuits which have better claims upon my time and attention?”
“Better claims! And yet you must surely have some of the ordinary feelings of human nature,” urged the nobleman, in a tone of mingled remonstrance and earnest appeal. “One word more, if you please, sir,” he continued, seeing that Heathcote was again about to interrupt him: “this matter is becoming serious! For eight days has your brother been missed from his place of abode and from the circle of his friends: an investigation into so mysterious an occurrence must necessarily take place—and without delay, too. What will the world think of you, sir—you, the nearest living relative of one who may perhaps be no more—if you refuse your co-operation in this endeavour to ascertain what has become of him? I will even go farther, sir, and declare that a certain degree of odium will attach itself to you——”
“Young man, by what right do you thus insult me?” demanded the lawyer, completely unabashed, and measuring Lord William Trevelyan from head to foot with his keen, searching eyes. “Do you for a single instant dare to assert that if my brother should have met with foul play—as your words just now implied such a suspicion,—do you dare to assert, I ask, that the world would couple the slightest imputation with my good name? Though not of an aristocratic rank, my social position is an honourable one; and such as it is, my own talents—my own energies—my own hard toils, have made it. But because I can see nothing extraordinary in the absence of a man who has no domestic ties to bind him to one place, and who, acting upon a sudden caprice or fancy, may choose to depart from the metropolis, perhaps,—because I behold nothing remarkable in all this, am I to be reproached, vituperated, and even insulted by you, who adopt another view of the matter? Why, my lord, you are far more intimate with Sir Gilbert Heathcote than I, even though he is my brother;—and what would you say, were I to repair to your house—force myself into your presence—refuse to leave when solicited—and actually level the most injurious language, amounting almost to positive imputations, at your head? I appeal to your good sense, if you possess any, to consider the impropriety of your conduct here this morning, and to take your departure at once, before you irritate me more deeply than you have already done.”
“I have listened, sir, with respectful attention to all you have said,” returned Lord William Trevelyan; “and I declare emphatically that I am not satisfied with your reasoning. I impute nothing to you—because I know not what suspicions to entertain in the case. I frankly confess that I am bewildered, not only by the fact of my friend’s unaccountable disappearance, but also by the manner in which you treat that circumstance. You declare that you cannot bring yourself to look seriously on this disappearance: surely it ought to alarm you, when I, who am so well acquainted with your brother, solemnly aver that I have particular reasons for knowing that he would not leave the metropolis in obedience to any sudden fancy or whim, without previously making a communication in a certain quarter.”
“To you, I presume?” said Heathcote, fixing his eyes searchingly upon the patrician.
“No—not to myself,” was the reply: “but to another.”
“And that other?” observed the lawyer interrogatively: for he now began to fear that Trevelyan alluded to Mrs. Sefton, in which case he might repair straight to her abode after quitting that office—he might there meet the clerk whom he had seen on his arrival just now—and he might mar the entire scheme that had been concocted for the purpose of inducing the lady to leave England.
“Unless you yourself are acquainted with that other person to whom I alluded—or at least have some knowledge to whom I could so allude—I am not at liberty to make any revelations,” observed Lord William.
“Oh! this is admirable!” ejaculated the lawyer, reseating himself and appearing no longer in a hurry to break off the conference: for he now perceived the necessity of detaining the nobleman as long as possible, so as to afford Green ample time to carry the deeply-concocted scheme into effect.
“You are pleased to be jocular at something, sir,” said Trevelyan, biting his lip with vexation at an insolence which he could not chastise: and leaning against the mantel-piece, he surveyed the attorney with mingled anger and aversion.
“Yes—I am jocular,” exclaimed the latter; “and I again declare that your conduct is admirable! You come to me to aid you in investigating what you are pleased to denominate a most mysterious occurrence; and, by way of inducing me thus to co-operate, you yourself start fresh mysteries, and make enigmatic allusions to unintelligible matters, concerning which you refuse to enter into any explanations.”
“There may be certain circumstances, sir, which a man of honour dares not reveal,” said Lord William, sternly; “and such is the case in the present instance.”
“You have therefore a positive proof that Sir Gilbert’s friends were more in his confidence than his own brother,” replied the lawyer, in a sarcastic tone; “and this is tantamount to what I told you just now.”
“Yes, sir—but the circumstances to which I allude have no reference to the mysterious disappearance of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,” rejoined Trevelyan; “nor do they in any way relieve you from your responsibility as a brother.”
“But, since you yourself are acquainted with some mysterious and unmentionable circumstances connected with my brother,” said the lawyer, still in a tone of bitter sarcasm, “I have much more reason to accuse you of possessing a clue to the causes of his disappearance, than you have to level the same charge at me. Now, from your words—for I am a man of the world, my lord—I naturally infer that the other person to whom you so emphatically alluded, must be a lady——”
“I did not say so, sir—I gave you no reason for entertaining such an opinion,” exclaimed Trevelyan fearful of now compromising a matter of great delicacy.
“But I choose to think so,” said the lawyer, elevating his brows to an extraordinary degree, while a malignant light gleamed in his restless eyes: “and is it strange—is it unusual in the world, for a man to absent himself suddenly and even mysteriously, in order to break off a connexion of which he is wearied, and which no longer has any charms for him?”
“One word, sir,” interjected Trevelyan, annoyed with himself for having made any allusion to his friend’s connexion with Mrs. Sefton: “your brother has undertaken no sudden journey—of that I am well assured. Would he quit his residence without leaving even a message behind him? Would he depart without even so much as a change of raiment—without the necessaries of the toilette?”
“Pooh! pooh!” ejaculated the lawyer, now throwing an expression of sovereign contempt into his tone. “A man with money can purchase a carpetbag or a portmanteau at the first town he stops at, and can stock it well, too, with linen and hairbrushes for a few shillings. Really, my lord, you compel me to treat you as an inexperienced child, who, having got some wild or romantic notion into his head, is determined to maintain it by any argument, no matter how preposterous or far-fetched.”
Trevelyan bit his lip again: for he saw that the lawyer had really the advantage of him now; and he more than ever blamed his own indiscretion in having alluded to the affair of Mrs. Sefton.
“Come, my lord, be reasonable,” proceeded Heathcote, in a conciliatory tone; “and I will pardon you the rudeness—or I will rather call it the brusquerie, of your first proceedings with regard to me. You cannot deny that there is a lady in the case: I am far-sighted enough to have made that discovery. Well, my brother is tired of her, or has quarrelled with her—or something of that sort; and he has therefore taken a sudden trip, heaven only knows where. Do you really imagine that if I had any serious fears, I would refuse to co-operate with you in instituting the necessary inquiries? Depend upon it, Sir Gilbert will re-appear again shortly amongst his friends; and he would not be over-well pleased if he found on his return, or if the newspapers wafted to him the fact, that a terrible hubbub had taken place in consequence of his sudden departure. I am a much older man than you, my lord,—and I look at these matters more calmly—more deliberately.”
Trevelyan knew not how to reply to these observations. Though they did not dissipate the alarm which he experienced at the absence of Sir Gilbert, yet he began to think that the lawyer was really sincere in giving utterance to them. He, on one side, was disposed to view the affair seriously: Heathcote, on the other, put his own interpretation on it;—and, in the same way that Trevelyan could not resist the impressions made upon himself, he felt bound to allow the merit of equal conscientiousness on the part of the attorney.
At all events, there was no utility in protracting the discourse; and the young nobleman accordingly resolved to take his leave, suspending for the present any opinion relative to the conduct of Mr. James Heathcote.
“I am sorry, sir,” said he, “that I should have intruded so long upon your valuable time: I am likewise sorry if, at the commencement of our interview, I should have been hurried by the excitement of my feelings into anything uncourteous or rude.”
“Now that you speak in the manner that best becomes a nobleman and a gentleman,” observed Heathcote, adopting the part of one who has something to forgive and overlook, “I am most anxious to welcome you as my brother’s friend. Will you step up into the drawing-room, and honour my humble abode so far as to partake of such refreshment as at the moment I can offer you?”
This proposal was only made with a view to gain as much time as possible: for the lawyer in his heart had cordially hated the young nobleman from the instant that he had read his name upon the card.
“I return you my best thanks, sir,” said Trevelyan; “but I am compelled to decline your hospitality on the present occasion.”
Thus speaking, the young nobleman bowed and retired; and the moment the door closed behind him, the lawyer’s countenance assumed an expression of such malignant triumph, that it seemed as if he were suddenly animated with the spirit of a fiend.
“Green has got her off by this time—there can be no doubt of that,” he muttered to himself, as he rubbed his mummy-like hands gleefully together. “The woman loves my brother—and she will start away directly. Even her vanity will not induce her to tarry to pack up all her things, unless they are ready to hand; for the love of a woman who is sincere in her passion, rises superior to every other consideration. Oh! I know the human heart well; I know all its intricacies—its ins and its outs—the ravellings and unravellings of its smallest, most delicate fibres! It has been my business to study my fellow-creatures, in order that I might make them my instruments—my tools—my slaves. And I have succeeded!” he continued, with a chuckling laugh, while his brows were elevated with joy. “Otherwise I should not be the rich man that I am now. But if my wealth be already great—it must be greater. I must possess countless treasures—riches beyond computation; and until I have gained them I shall not be satisfied—neither shall I cease from toiling. That young aristocratic fool who was with me ere now—he affected to bully me, did he? I got the better of him. He affected to reason with me: I beat him with pure sophism,—and he has gone away entertaining a better opinion of me than when he first entered my presence. But I must examine these abstracts thoroughly,” he added, still in a muttering tone, as he bent his eyes upon the documents which he had been studying; “I must note every point in these copies of the titles by virtue of which my brother holds his estates—for the management of these estates is already as good as in my own hands: and who knows—who knows how soon they may be mine altogether—yes—lands, messuages, tenements—aye, baronetcy and all?”
And as these last thoughts passed through his brain,—for he had not dared to give audible utterance to them,—there came such a diabolical expression—an expression of dark menace strangely mingled with the confidence of approaching triumph—over his countenance, that had any one been by at the time, the beholder must have dreaded lest that terrible man were about to throw off the mask of humanity and reveal himself in all the horrors of a demoniac nature.
We must however take leave of him for the present, and return to one whose generous and noble character forms such a striking contrast with this bad, designing man.
CHAPTER CLXIX.
A SCENE.
Lord William entered his cab, and drove rapidly away towards Kentish Town.
It was mid-day when he reached the abode of Mrs. Sefton—for his interview with the attorney had been a very long one: but at length his equipage stopped at the gate of a beautiful little villa standing in the midst of a garden well laid out, and having iron railings along the side adjoining the main-road.
Leaping from the vehicle, Lord William opened the gate and hastened up to the front door, which was immediately opened to his summons, by a little page in a plain but neat livery.
To his inquiry whether Mrs. Sefton were at home, an answer in the affirmative was given—the boy however adding that his mistress was engaged at the moment.
Scarcely was the response thus conveyed, when the lady herself, having caught the sound of the young patrician’s voice, came forth from a parlour opening from the hall; and, tendering him her hand, she said, “Oh! I am so glad you are come, my lord—for I am cruelly bewildered how to act!”
“Has anything new transpired, madam?” asked Trevelyan, unable to gather anything decisive from the expression of her countenance, which seemed to denote mingled hope and uncertainty—a gleam of satisfaction shining from amidst dark clouds of suspense.
“Come with me, my lord,” she said; “and you will advise me how to act.”
Thus speaking, she led the way into the parlour, followed by Trevelyan.
A man rose from a chair on his entrance; and the sinister countenance of that individual appeared to be not altogether unfamiliar to the young patrician, who could not however conjecture at the moment where he had seen or met that person before.
The individual himself seemed to recognise the nobleman—or at least to be troubled by his presence: but, almost immediately recovering his self-possession, he bowed low and resumed his seat.
“This gentleman, my lord,” said Mrs. Sefton, “is a Mr. Green of Liverpool,—and he has brought me strange—nay, the strangest tidings relative to Sir Gilbert.”
“And what may those tidings be, madam?” asked Trevelyan, addressing his words to the lady, but keeping his eyes fixed suspiciously on Mr. Green all the time.
“Remember, madam, that all I have said has been in the strictest confidence!” exclaimed the latter hastily, and with a manner which only tended to increase the young nobleman’s suspicions.
“But Lord William Trevelyan is an intimate—a very intimate friend of Sir Gilbert,” said Mrs. Sefton.
“It matters not, madam,” observed Mr. Green: “my instructions were positive——”
“It matters greatly, however, sir,” interrupted the lady. “Your tale appeared to me strange and inconsistent from the very first—though Heaven knows what motive you can have in deceiving me so cruelly, if deceit it be: but now my suspicions are painfully increased——”
“Madam, you know not what you are saying,” exclaimed Green: “you are insulting me, after all the trouble I have taken in this matter. But have your own way—my presence is no longer necessary here.”
And, rising from his seat, he was moving towards the door, when a light suddenly broke in upon Trevelyan’s mind—and it flashed to his recollection that he had encountered this individual that very forenoon in the office of Mr. James Heathcote, the attorney.
“Stop, sir!” he cried, seizing the clerk by the collar of his coat, and forcibly detaining him: “we have met before—I know you now! Scarcely two hours have elapsed since you conducted me into the presence of Mr. Heathcote, who is doubtless your master.”
“Mr. Heathcote!” ejaculated Mrs. Sefton, a deadly pallor covering her countenance. “Ah! then my suspicions are to be confirmed—and he is persecuting me now!”
“Be seated, sir,” said Trevelyan, pushing the discomfited clerk back into the chair which he had so recently left. “And now, madam,” he continued, turning towards the lady, “will you have the kindness to explain to me all that this man has told you—the object of his visit, in fine?”
“Oh! my lord, what hideous treachery is at work!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, sinking upon a sofa, almost overcome by the varied emotions that agitated in her bosom. “This man introduced himself to me as Mr. Green of Liverpool, and as having brought me tidings of Sir Gilbert. He represented that Sir Gilbert, seized with a sudden terror through pecuniary difficulties, had fled to America——”
“’Tis false! false as ever diabolical deceit could be!” cried Trevelyan, emphatically. “I will stake my existence that so far from being in any financial embarrassment, Sir Gilbert Heathcote owes not a farthing in the world, and does not live even up to his income.”
“Your lordship takes too much upon yourself in making such random statements,” said Green: “since I am well assured of the exact truth of the story I have told the lady.”
“This is a singular way for a man to express himself, if he be an actual emissary from Sir Gilbert,” observed Trevelyan. “You are well assured of the exact truth of your story—are you? Then you would have us infer that you had received it second-hand. But pray continue, madam:—what else did this fellow tell you? We shall unmask him altogether presently—and perhaps his next move will be from hence to the presence of a magistrate.”
Mr. Green endeavoured to assume as much composure as he could possibly call to his aid: but he did not at all admire the aspect that things were taking—nor did he feel comfortable under the threat so plainly held out.
“Oh! my lord, what a snare has been spread for me!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, clasping her hands together in profound thankfulness that she had escaped the danger. “This bad man who now trembles in your presence, would have induced me to accompany him with the least possible delay to Liverpool,—thence to embark by myself in order to rejoin Sir Gilbert in New York. He has even about his person the funds to bear the expenses of my voyage:—and he would at once have hurried me away to Liverpool,—only, in the first place, a vague suspicion was excited in my mind,—and, secondly, I had particular—oh! very particular reasons for remaining in London at least a few hours longer——”
Mrs. Sefton suddenly checked herself: she was being hurried away by her excited feelings into allusions or positive revelations, on the verge of which she thus stopped short. Trevelyan did not, however, comprehend the motive of the abrupt pause which she made, but attributed it to the influence of her over-wrought emotions.
“Mr. Green—or whatever your real name may be,” exclaimed the nobleman, turning round upon the clerk, “what explanation can you give, sir, in respect to all this?”
“I know not by what right you demand any explanation, my lord,” said the man, determined to put as good a face upon the matter as possible.
“I will tell you by what right,” returned the patrician: “by the right which every man has to protect and defend a lady against the machinations of her enemies—by the right that every honest member of society has to unmask a villain——”
“Do you allude to me, my lord?” demanded Green, rising from his seat.
“I do, sir,” replied Trevelyan. “You are a villain, because you have lent yourself to an infamous trick. You cannot have been imposed upon—inasmuch as you have told many deliberate and wilful falsehoods. You pretend to have arrived straight from Liverpool, whereas you are undoubtedly a clerk in the office of Mr. James Heathcote—for you enacted the part of a clerk when I called there ere now. You would have induced this lady to quit London and repair to a foreign country, where nothing but disappointment—perhaps beggary—would have awaited her; and this act is so vile—so atrocious—so horribly base, that I can scarcely control my feelings—I can scarcely restrain my patience, while I thus upbraid you with your infamy. Were you a younger man, sir——”
But the nobleman stopped short, ashamed of wasting a menace upon one so unworthy of the honest ire of a generous soul.
“Now that your lordship has lavished all your abuse upon me, perhaps I may be permitted to depart,” said Green, with much apparent coolness, though in reality he was terribly alarmed.
“Not until you have explained the meaning of this atrocious proceeding in which you have borne so prominent a part,” replied Lord William. “Make up your mind to answer my questions in a way that shall carry truth upon the face of your words—or prepare to give an account of your conduct to the proper authority.”
“What—what would you have me do, my lord?” asked the miserable wretch, now unable to conceal his terror—unable also to subdue the trembling of his limbs.
“Has foul play been adopted with regard to Sir Gilbert Heathcote?” demanded Lord William, speaking in a measured tone, and fixing his eyes keenly upon the clerk.
“Good God! Does your lordship suspect that he is murdered?” exclaimed Green, horrified at the bare idea. “No—no: thank Heaven—it is not so bad as that!”
“Thank Heaven also!” murmured Mrs. Sefton, her heart experiencing a relief so great and sudden—for the man was evidently speaking the truth—that she felt as if she were about to faint through excessive joy.
“I scarcely apprehended such a frightful alternative as my words may have seemed to imply,” said Trevelyan. “But delay not, man—speak—tell me—tell this afflicted lady also—where is Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”
“My lord, I dare not——”
“Hesitate not another moment, sir,” cried the nobleman, grasping the clerk violently by the collar of his coat: “hesitate not, I say—or I will drag you into the presence of the magistrate. Tell me—where is my friend?—where is Sir Gilbert?”
“My lord—my lord”—stammered the affrighted wretch, his countenance rendered hideous by its workings.
“Speak—sir—I command you!” exclaimed Trevelyan, in a tone of terrible excitement. “Trifle not with me—or I shall do you a mischief. Where—where, I ask for the last time, is Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”
“In——But you will kill me, my lord——”
“Speak, villain! Where is he?” demanded the infuriate noble.
“In a mad-house!” was the reply, absolutely wrung by terror from the clerk.
A piercing scream burst from the lips of Mrs. Sefton—and in another moment she fell heavily upon the carpet, with a dead sound as if it were a corpse that had rolled from the sofa.
Trevelyan—stupified by the astounding words that had fallen upon his ear—let go his hold on the wretched clerk, on whom he stood gazing for a few moments as if he had become petrified—turned into a statue—paralysed—motionless. But suddenly he seemed to be struck with the conviction that Mrs. Sefton needed his assistance; and, forgetting in the agitation and excitement of his feelings to keep a watch upon the clerk, he hastened to raise the prostrate lady from the floor.
He placed her upon the sofa, and sprinkled water (of which there happened to be a decanter full on the table) upon her countenance. In a few minutes she opened her eyes, and gazed wildly around her.
Trevelyan drew back a few paces so that the air might circulate freely about her—when, suddenly remembering the clerk, he looked hurriedly round.
But the villain had stolen away!
At this moment a bitter groan burst from the lips of Mrs. Sefton; for a remembrance of all that had just occurred came rapidly to her mind—and the horrible word “mad-house” seemed to echo in her ears and touch a chord that vibrated with a feeling of anguish to her very brain.
She covered her face with her hands, while her bosom heaved convulsively.
“Compose yourself, madam, I implore you,” said Trevelyan. “Even this certainty which we have acquired, is preferable to the suspense previously endured.”
“But is there hope, my lord—is there any hope left for me?” she inquired, removing her hands from her countenance—now so pale—and gazing up at the young patrician in a beseechful manner.
“Assuredly there is hope, my dear madam,” returned Trevelyan, emphatically. “I am confident that Sir Gilbert is in the possession of his intellects as completely as ever, and that he is a victim—but not a maniac. Indeed, I see through it all!”
“Oh! now you inspire me with hope!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, taking his hand and pressing it with fervent gratitude: and as her face was upturned towards his own, it suddenly struck him,—struck him like a flash of lightning,—that there was in that countenance an expression reminding him of Agnes Vernon,—although he had never beheld the features of the Recluse of the Cottage otherwise than tranquil, calm, and serene. Nevertheless, that idea seized upon him: but in the next moment he said to himself, “It is mere fancy!”—and as Mrs. Sefton at that instant settled herself in such a manner upon the sofa that her back became turned to the window and the variation of light produced a change in the expression of her countenance, that idea was immediately absorbed in other and more important considerations in the mind of the young patrician.
“Oh! now you inspire me with hope!” Mrs. Sefton had said; and her face brightened up—so that it was at the moment when this sudden lustre of joy was suffused upon her features, that the above mentioned idea had struck the nobleman.
“Yes, madam—there is every reason to hope,” he responded. “The entire plot, in all its terrible iniquity, is now before me as clear as the noon-day sun. I can read it as plainly as if it were in a book. The brother is at the bottom of it all.”
“Did I not tell your lordship that he was a villain?” asked Mrs. Sefton.
“Yes, my dear madam,” replied Trevelyan: “but I am slow to form injurious opinions of any man. Now, however, I have the conviction of his turpitude—and I hesitate no longer to proclaim him to be all that you represented him.”
“But—merciful heavens! while we are wasting time in words,” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, seized with a sudden access of wild excitement, “Gilbert is in a horrible predicament—and we should be acting—not talking.”
“Haste and precipitation will effect no good in this matter, my dear madam,” said Trevelyan.
“But we must find out the place where he is confined—we must apply to the officers of justice—we must release him!” cried the lady, her excitement increasing.
“Pray, my dear madam, listen to me with some degree of composure,” said the young nobleman; “and I will explain to you how we must proceed, and why nothing can be done with that speed which would naturally be most consonant with your feelings.”
“I am composed—I am tranquil now, my dear friend—for in such a light you will permit me to consider you,” observed Mrs. Sefton, exercising as strong a control over her emotions as she possibly could command.
“In the first place I must tell you that I saw Mr. James Heathcote this morning,” resumed Trevelyan “and when I think of his cool villainy—his unblushing effrontery—his matchless impudence, I could tear my hair with rage at the idea of how I was duped. For though I entered his office with a strong suspicion—in spite of the remonstrance which I last night made to you—I quitted his presence with a very different impression.”
“And that man who was ere now with us, is his clerk?” said Mrs. Sefton. “But what could be the motive of their base attempt to induce me to quit the country with such extraordinary precipitation?”
“The reason is apparent enough, my dear madam,” answered Trevelyan; “and I will now explain to you the whole matter, as I understand it. James Heathcote has suborned two unprincipled villains, calling themselves medical practitioners, to grant a certificate of the insanity of his brother. The law of England permits such a proceeding——”
“Then the law of England is worthy only of barbarians!” exclaimed the lady, emphatically.
“You are not the only person in the country who entertains the same conviction,” observed Trevelyan, with a smile: then, instantly resuming a serious expression of countenance, he said, “By virtue of that certificate, Sir Gilbert is suddenly seized upon and carried off to a madhouse.”
“Oh! it is horrible!” cried the lady, in a tone of extreme bitterness mingled with anguish, while a convulsive shudder passed over her from head to foot.
“The iniquity is tremendous—and yet it is legal,” said Lord William. “Yes—I blush for my country when I declare such to be the fact,—I blush also for my fellow-countrymen that they should tolerate a system which savages themselves would regard with abhorrence! Well, madam, the deed is done—the atrocity is consummated—and Sir Gilbert Heathcote, though in the complete enjoyment of his intellects, is borne off to a lunatic-asylum. James—his vile brother—will obtain the control over his property; and that is the aim and object of his wickedness. But knowing that you are interested—deeply interested in Sir Gilbert’s welfare——”
“Oh! heaven can witness how deeply!” exclaimed the lady, clasping her hands with fervour.
“Knowing, I repeat, how profoundly you are interested in all that concerns my valued friend,” continued Trevelyan, “James Heathcote sought to expatriate you at least for a season—so that he might prevent you from adopting any measures to restore the victim to the enjoyment of freedom.”
“But of what avail would a few weeks’ delay be, even supposing that the plot devised against myself had succeeded?” asked Mrs. Sefton. “If I had gone to America, I should have found that Sir Gilbert was not in New York—and I should have forthwith returned to London. Unless, indeed,” she added, with a shudder, “my heart had broken with the immensity of its sorrow!”
“Ah! madam—and it was perhaps upon this catastrophe that the vile man reckoned!” said Lord William, his blood growing cold at the extent of the turpitude which he was contemplating. “And yet a more terrible suspicion still has come into my mind—a suspicion so dreadful——”
“Name it! Keep me not in suspense!” cried the lady, observing that her young friend was himself becoming painfully excited now.
“During your absence, madam,” returned he, his countenance darkening,—“during your absence, I say—supposing that you had been induced to depart—sufficient time would be gained to drive Sir Gilbert mad in reality; and then, on your reappearance in London, the lawyer would have defied all that you could possibly attempt or devise!”
“Merciful heaven!” ejaculated the horror-stricken woman; “can so much black iniquity exist in the human breast?”
“Alas! such schemes as these are of frequent occurrence in this land which vaunts a consummate civilisation!” said Trevelyan. “Could we but penetrate into the mysteries of the mad-house, we should behold scenes that would make our hair stand on end—our blood run cold in our veins—our very souls sick! Yes, madam—too often, indeed, is the lunatic asylum rendered the engine of the most hideous cruelty: too often does it become a prison for the sane!”
“You will drive me mad, my lord!” cried Mrs. Sefton, dreadfully excited: “I shall myself become an inmate—and deservedly so—of one of those awful places!”
“Pardon me, dear madam—pardon me,” said Trevelyan, deeply afflicted at having suffered his excited feelings to hurry him into those passionate exclamations which had so terrified her. “I was wrong thus to dwell on the subject.”
“No—no: it is better that I should learn the worst,” she cried, with a strong spasmodic shuddering, while horror—ineffable horror—convulsed her countenance. “But how shall we rescue him from that living tomb?”
“Abandon not yourself to despair,” replied Trevelyan. “In the first instance I must discover the place where our friend is confined: and then, trust to me to effect his deliverance!”
“Excellent man!—generous-hearted noble!” cried Mrs. Sefton, in a tone indicative of the most fervent gratitude. “But will not the law aid us in all this?”
“I have already explained to you, my dear madam, that every thing has doubtless been done by James Heathcote under colour of the most monstrous law that disgraces our statute-book,” responded Lord William. “Were I to apply to a magistrate, I could obtain no redress: he would be unable to assist me. The Commissioners in Lunacy would view the matter in the ordinary light, and tell me that when the time for the usual periodical visit to the various asylums arrived, due inquiries should be instituted. No—the lawyer must be assailed by other weapons: cunning must be met by cunning;—and much as I abhor duplicity, I will not fail to use it, if necessary, in this case. Believe me when I assure you that no time shall be lost, and that I will without delay adopt measures to discover the place where our friend is imprisoned.”
“God send you success!” murmured Mrs. Sefton, faintly: then, in a higher tone and with renewed excitement, she said, “But how can I calm my feelings—how can I tranquillize myself even for a moment, while this state of suspense shall last? And when I think of what his feelings must be——Oh! it is enough to drive him mad in reality where he is, and me likewise mad here!”
“But you must endeavour to exercise some degree of command over your emotions,” said Trevelyan. “Consider—reflect—I may require your aid in this work of deliverance; and——”
“Oh! now indeed you hold out an inducement calculated to calm me—to give me courage!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “Yes—I will be tranquil: I will exercise a greater control over my feelings. I will throw aside the weakness of a woman, and become strong in the hope of Sir Gilbert’s rescue, and in the endeavour to accomplish it.”
“This frame of mind becomes you, my dear madam,” said Trevelyan. “And now permit me to take my departure—for there is no time to be lost.”
“Farewell for the present,” responded Mrs. Sefton, offering him her hand; “and accept my most unfeigned gratitude for your noble conduct towards me and your generous intentions in behalf of Sir Gilbert Heathcote.”
“You shall thank me when I have succeeded in my endeavour to restore him to you,” said Trevelyan pressing the lady’s hand with the cordiality of that friendship which, short as their acquaintance had been, circumstances had established and even cemented between them.
He then hastened away from her dwelling, and drove to his own house in Park Square.
CHAPTER CLXX.
AGNES AND MRS. MORTIMER.
In the meantime Mrs. Mortimer had not been idle.
Possessed of the letter which had been entrusted to her, she repaired in a hired vehicle to the immediate vicinity of the cottage, and alighted in the lane which was bounded on one side by the thick and verdant hedge that enclosed the garden.
The old woman had not precisely made up her mind how to proceed in the business which she had taken in hand: she knew that the task was a difficult one,—and she trusted rather to the chapter of accidents than to any settled or preconceived project.
For she naturally reasoned within herself that Mr. Vernon had doubtless warned his daughter not to hold any further communication with strangers: she had seen enough, on the evening of her visit to the cottage, to enable her to judge that her presence there was regarded suspiciously by that gentleman, and that her tale was not believed by him;—and she therefore calculated that Agnes had been duly and impressively counselled not to receive her again. Indeed, it was likewise probable that the young lady might have been taught to look upon her as a person having some evil object in view, and that the servants had been charged to maintain a strict watch upon her movements should she make her appearance in that neighbourhood again.
All these reflections were duly weighed by Mrs. Mortimer; and, under the circumstances which they suggested, she found it to be totally impossible to devise beforehand any particular method of carrying out her aims.
She, however, more than hoped that, as the morning was remarkably fine, with a warm summer sun rendering the face of Nature bright and joyous, Agnes would be certain to walk in her garden, if not farther abroad. Nor was she mistaken in the former portion of her expectation: for scarcely had she reached the verdant boundary of the enclosure, when she beheld, through the high hedge, the light drapery of the young lady, who, clad in a morning-dress, was advancing slowly along a gravel-walk, with a book in her hand.
How beautiful did she appear, even to the gaze of the old harridan who now surveyed her from behind the hedge! There was an æsthetic grace in her movements—an enchanting sweetness expressed in her countenance—a gentle refinement in her bearing—and a halo of innocence around her, which rendered her a being with whom it was impossible to associate ideas of sensuality, but whom the heart might worship with the purest, holiest poetic sentiment, as if hers were an ethereal nature.
Her eyes were bent upon the volume which she held in her delicate, white hands; and her little feet moved slowly along the gravel-walk—for she was absorbed in the perusal of the book. She had not fastened the white ribbons of the straw-bonnet that she had evidently put on with a hasty negligence; and those ribbons were thrown back over her shoulders, thus allowing a shower of raven curls to descend on each side of the fair face down to the bosom of her dress.
Around that charming creature streamed the flood of sun-light, making her tresses, dark though they were, glitter like hyperions, and imparting a dazzling whiteness to her drapery, which appeared in strong relief amidst the luxuriant green of the trees and shrubs.
Mrs. Mortimer was rejoiced when she beheld the young lady in the garden—still more rejoiced when she observed that Agnes was approaching that part of the hedge behind which the harridan was concealed.
Several minutes however elapsed before the beauteous creature was sufficiently nigh for Mrs. Mortimer to address her; because she not only advanced slowly, but stopped two or three times when she met with a passage of more than ordinary interest in the work she was reading. It was the novel of “Ivanhoe” that thus rivetted her attention; and she was in the midst of the exalting scene of the combat between Brian de Bois-Gilbert and Wilfred of Ivanhoe.
Suddenly she was startled by hearing her name mentioned;—and she glanced around almost in affright—but no one met her view.
“Miss Vernon—dear Miss Vernon,” repeated the voice: “approach nearer to the hedge—’tis a friend who thus addresses you.”
The maiden instantly recognised the peculiar tones of the old woman who had called upon her nearly a week previously; and, without giving any response, she stood undecided how to act.
“Pray do not refuse to hear me—pray do not go away, Miss Vernon,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer, whose form the young lady could now distinguish through the hedge. “I have something of importance to communicate—and not for worlds would I injure a hair of your head.”
“But I promised my father not to hold discourse with any one who came not with a letter from him,” said Agnes, at length breaking silence: “and moreover,” she added, with some degree of hesitation, “I am afraid that you do not mean any good towards me.”
“Alas! Miss Vernon, can you entertain such cruel suspicions regarding me?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, as if deeply afflicted at the mistrust implied in the maiden’s words. “Of what benefit would it be for me to injure you? or, indeed, how could I possibly injure you?”
“I know not—and yet——”
“Ah! you hesitate, my dear young lady—and you will accord me a hearing,” exclaimed the old woman, eagerly. “In fact, I appeal to your sense of justice not to refuse me this opportunity of vindicating myself against the suspicions which, I am well aware, your father entertains concerning me. But, tell me—what book is that which you hold in your hand?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, half-suspecting that it might be a novel, and in that case hoping to find a pretext for giving the conversation a turn towards the topic of love.
“It is ‘Ivanhoe,’ madam,” said Agnes. “But really I must not remain here any longer: I should be sorry to suspect you—and yet my father——”
“Dearest lady, not even your parent’s prejudices should render you capable of an act of injustice,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, with an emphasis that made Agnes pause as she was on the point of retreating. “You are engaged in the perusal of one of the finest tales in the English language,” she continued, abruptly diverting the conversation into another channel: “and doubtless you have sighed over the hopeless affection which the beautiful Jewess cherished for him whose heart was given to the Lady Rowena?”
“I have wept for the interesting and charming Rebecca,” said Agnes, in the natural ingenuousness of her character: “although I am well aware that she is only the heroine of a romance, and I cannot precisely understand wherefore she should have been so much attached to Wilfrid.”
“The description is so life-like—is it not?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.
“I know not—and yet it appears to me as if it were all true—as if I could easily persuade myself that such incidents really occurred, and such sentiments could positively exist,” responded Agnes. “But I must leave you——”
“One word, Miss,” interrupted the old woman. “You say that you could easily persuade yourself that such sentiments as those experienced by Rebecca for Wilfrid, and by Wilfrid and Rowena mutually, could actually exist. Believe me, then, when I assure you that although the incidents of that tale are a fiction, the sentiments are the very reverse—and that what the author denominates love is a passion felt and acknowledged throughout the universe.”
“Yes—the love of a father towards his children, and of children towards their parents,” said Agnes. “Oh! I am well aware that such a blessed feeling animates the mortal breast.”
“And there is another phase of that sentiment,” resumed the old woman, immediately: “or rather, the love which you described, is a feeling—whereas the love which Rebecca experienced for Ivanhoe, is a passion.”
“I cannot comprehend you, madam,” observed Agnes, who gradually grew more and more interested in this conversation, because Scott’s novel had made a deep impression on her mind, and had raised up a sentiment of curiosity which, through the very ingenuousness of her disposition, sought for an elucidation of those descriptions that were entirely unintelligible or only dimly significant to her.
“Suppose that Rebecca had addressed a letter to Ivanhoe, explaining the sentiments which she entertained towards him,” said the wily old woman: “would not Wilfrid have been unkind—ungenerous—even harsh and brutal, not to have perused that narrative of her feelings?”
“But his character was generous,” exclaimed Agnes, emphatically; “and he would not have refused to read such a letter.”
“Precisely so,” continued Mrs. Mortimer. “And now, my sweet young lady, let us suppose that it was Wilfrid who experienced an attachment for Rebecca, and that Rebecca suspected it not;—and suppose, likewise, that Wilfrid penned a letter, in respectful and proper language to the Jewess, describing the sentiments that animated him—what course should the beautiful Israelite have pursued?”
“She would have proved as generous on her side as we have already agreed that Wilfrid of Ivanhoe would have been generous on his part,” answered Agnes, without an instant’s hesitation.
“Such is your opinion, sweet maiden?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, interrogatively.
“I have no reason to think otherwise,” was the immediate response.
“Then, Miss Vernon,” said the old woman, in a tone of mingled triumph and solemnity, “I implore you to peruse the letter of which I am the bearer, and which is intended for you—and for you alone!”
Thus speaking, Mrs. Mortimer thrust Trevelyan’s missive through the hedge; and Agnes received it mechanically, though startled and bewildered by so sudden and unexpected a proceeding.
“Read it, Miss Vernon—read it,” cried the old woman: “there is nothing in its contents to offend you—but perhaps much to please and delight.”
Thus adjured, the young maiden—innocent, artless, and unsophisticated as she was—hesitated no longer, but, opening the letter, commenced its perusal.
The first paragraph, as the reader will remember, ran thus:—
“Pardon a stranger who dares to address you, beautiful Miss Vernon, in a strain that might give you offence, were he not sincere in his language and honourable in his intentions:—pardon me, I implore you—and refuse not to read those few lines to the end! He who thus writes is the individual that you have observed occasionally in the vicinity of your dwelling; and you will perceive by the signature to this letter that he is not a man without ostensible guarantees for his social position. That his character is unimpeachable he can proudly declare; and that he will not address to you, Miss Vernon, a single word which he will fear to repeat in your father’s presence, he solemnly declares.”
At first the maiden’s countenance wore an expression of profound astonishment when she found herself addressed by a person who avowed himself to be “a stranger,” and who proceeded to speak of sincerity of language and honourable intentions. What intentions, then, had he? This was the thought that flashed to her mind. In the next moment she discovered that the letter came from the gentleman whom she had observed, on more occasions than one, in the neighbourhood of the cottage; and now it struck her, as if with a ray of light darting into her soul, that he must have had some object, beyond that of a mere lounge, in so frequently loitering about the precincts of the garden. Something—a something that was nevertheless incomprehensible—told her that she ought to read no more; but at that instant the concluding words of the paragraph above quoted met her eyes—and she murmured to herself, “There can be no harm in perusing the words that he would speak to me in my father’s presence.”
She accordingly read on, until she came to the termination of the next paragraph:—
“Let me, however, speak of myself in the first person again: let me assure you that your beauty has captivated my heart—and that, if any thing were wanting to render me your slave, the description which the bearer of this letter has given me of your amiable qualities, would be more than sufficient. I am rich—and therefore I have no selfish motive in addressing you, even if you be rich also: but I would rather that it were otherwise with you, so that my present proceeding may appear to you the more disinterested. Had I any means of obtaining an introduction to you, beautiful Miss Vernon, I should not have adopted a measure that gives me pain because I tremble lest it should wound or offend you. But mine is an honest—a sincere—and a devoted attachment; and I shall be happy indeed if you will permit me to open a correspondence with your father on the subject. Were he to honour me with a visit, I should be proud to receive him. But if, in the meantime, you seek to know more of me—if I might venture to solicit you to accord me an interview of only a few minutes, you cannot divine how fervently I should thank you—how delighted I should feel! Let this interview take place in the presence of Mrs. Mortimer, if you will: I have nothing to communicate to you that I should hesitate to say before your father or your friends. Oh! how can I convince you of my sincerity?—how can I testify my devotion?—how can I prove the extent of my love?”
While she perused this portion of the letter, the following thoughts and ideas ran rapidly through her mind:—
“My beauty has captivated his heart——Oh! then he believes me to be beautiful! Mrs. Mortimer has spoken well of me to him: in this case, she cannot be a bad woman, and she cannot mean me any harm. Assuredly my dear papa was wrong to suspect her. He has no selfish motive in addressing me—even if I be rich: then, whatever his intentions be, they must be honourable, as he says—because all wickedness is undertaken for the sake of gold. He is afraid of offending me. Oh! how can I be offended with one who addresses me in such a respectful manner, and who seems to fear that the simple fact of thus writing to me will excite my anger? ‘A sincere and a devoted attachment!’ Ah! such was the attachment that Rebecca entertained for Wilfrid, and that Wilfrid experienced for Rowena;—and now I perceive something different between their attachment and that which the Templar harboured towards the beautiful Jewess. He wishes to see my father—he wishes to obtain an interview with me!”—And the maiden’s heart began to palpitate, she knew not why: but at this moment it struck her that the writer of the letter was of agreeable person, and that he must be what the author of “Ivanhoe” would have denominated handsome. With a gradually increasing fluttering in her bosom, the artless maiden read on—until she suddenly found the paragraph close with the mystic name of love!
Then a gentle flush appeared upon her damask cheek; and a veil rapidly fell from her eyes. She now comprehended how it was possible for Rebecca to be attached to Wilfrid of Ivanhoe:—Agnes had already learnt by heart the alphabet of love! At the same time, her soul retained all its chaste purity, though it lost a trifle of its girlish artlessness:—love began to be comprehensible to her as a refined and poetic sentiment—and not as a less divine passion or earthly sensuousness. A dreamy and unknown joy was stealing into her bosom—as if she had just been blessed with a glimpse of the realms of ethereal bliss;—and, under the influence of these feelings, she read the letter on to its close:—
“I beseech you to reflect, Miss Vernon, that my happiness depends upon your reply. Am I guilty of an indiscretion in loving you? Love is a passion beyond mortal control! He who knows no other deity, deserves not blame for worshipping the sun, because it is glorious and bright; and my heart, which knows no other idol, adores you, because you are beautiful and good. Treat not my conduct, then, with anger: let not your pride be offended by the proceeding which I have adopted in order to make my sentiments known to you;—and scorn not the honest—the pure—the ardent affection which an honourable man dares to proffer you. I do not merit punishment because I love you;—and your silence would prove a punishment severe and undeserved indeed! Again, I conjure you to remember that the happiness of a fellow-creature depends upon you: your decision will either inspire me with the most joyous hope, or plunge me into the deepest despair. At the same time, beauteous Agnes,—(the words—those delightful words, ‘beauteous Agnes,’ are written now, and I cannot—will not erase them)—at the same time, I say, if your affections be already engaged—if a mortal more blest than myself have received the promise of your hand, accept the assurance, sweet maiden, that never more shall you be molested by me—never again will I intrude myself upon your attention. For with my love is united the most profound respect; and not for worlds would I do aught to excite an angry feeling in your soul.
“Your ardent admirer and devoted friend,
“WILLIAM TREVELYAN.”
While she perused this last paragraph in the letter, Agnes more than once felt an involuntary sigh stealing from her bosom—as if it were called up by a strain of music familiar to her childhood, and reviving many pleasing reflections.
The last portion of the letter became clearly intelligible to her, in consequence of the suggestive incidents which she had been reading in Scott’s novel. For would not Rebecca have received Wilfrid’s hand, had his love not been already plighted to Rowena? It was evident, then, that William Trevelyan sought her—yes, her—Agnes Vernon—as his wife; and that he feared lest she should be engaged to wed another! Oh! now she comprehended the full intent—the full meaning of that letter which he had addressed to her: she perceived that he loved her—that he had loitered about the cottage in order to behold her—that he wrote to her, because he feared to offend by accosting her—and that he dreaded no refusal on the part of her father, provided that she was not already pledged to become the wife of another suitor!
“You have read the letter, my child?” asked the old woman, who, even through the verdant foliage of the hedge, had watched every change in the expression of the maiden’s countenance, and had thereby obtained a complete insight into what was passing in her mind.
“Yes, madam,” murmured Agnes, in a tone that was scarcely audible—for she now felt embarrassed, bashful, and timid, she knew not wherefore.
“And you are not offended with Lord William Trevelyan——”
“Lord William Trevelyan!” exclaimed the beauteous girl, now seized with surprise: “is he indeed a nobleman? Oh! I am sorry for that!” she added, giving vent in her artlessness to an expression which confirmed the old woman’s already existing suspicion that her employer was by no means indifferent to the Recluse of the Cottage.
“You are sorry that he is a nobleman, my sweet child?” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Are you afraid that he is too proud to make a humble maiden his wife?”
Agnes blushed deeply, and remained silent.
“Fear nothing on that head,” continued the old woman. “He is no deceiver: his intentions are honourable. And now tell me frankly and candidly—has his letter displeased you?”
“I should be deceiving you were I to answer in the affirmative,” responded Agnes; “and yet I feel—at least, it seems as if I feel that I ought to be displeased, although I cannot in truth declare that I am. But I will send this letter to my dear father, who is in Paris——”
“Ah! Mr. Vernon is in France,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, delighted to find the way thus cleared for the furtherance of the projects which she had in hand; for she was resolved to make herself particularly useful to Lord William in his suit with the beautiful Agnes, so that her claims upon him might be all the more considerable. “However, my dear child,” she continued, “you would do well not to trouble your father at present, since he is doubtless engaged in particular business on the Continent——”
“Oh! my father will be delighted to find that I communicate to him everything that occurs,” interrupted Agnes; “and since Lord William Trevelyan so especially alludes to my dear parent in his letter——”
“Miss Vernon—Miss Vernon,” exclaimed the old woman, impatiently, “this is a matter of so much delicacy, that I must implore you to be guided by me——”
“Would you counsel me not to forward this letter to my father?” asked the maiden, in a tone so low and tremulous that it afforded no aid to the reading of the thoughts that dictated the question.
“Such is the advice that I should assuredly give you, my dear child—at least for the present,” was the response.
“And do you think,” continued Agnes, in a tone still lower and still more tremulous than before,—“do you think that Lord William Trevelyan would proffer me the same counsel?”
“I have no doubt of it, sweet maiden,” hastily replied Mrs. Mortimer. “For his sake—for your sake it were best that none save myself should become acquainted with the secret of your love——”
“Oh! madam,” exclaimed Agnes, in a voice of touching remonstrance and pathetic reproach, “if this love of which you speak be a feeling that must alienate me from the sympathies of my father, and compel me to cherish a secret that I dare not impart to him, I can have no hope that happiness will be the result! Farewell, madam; restore the letter to him who honoured me by addressing me in those terms that for an instant dazzled and bewildered me—and tell him that it were better for him to think no more of Agnes Vernon!”
Having thus spoken, the maiden tossed the letter hastily, but not insultingly, over the hedge, and hurried away towards the cottage.
Mrs. Mortimer was for a few minutes stupified by this decisive and most unexpected proceeding. She had imagined that Agnes had become a complete dupe to the specious arguments she had used to ensnare her; and she was astounded to find that fair creature, so innocent and artless asserting an energy of volition which was inspired by the purest sentiments of rectitude, and which dominated over the nascent feelings of affection evidently engendered in her bosom by the suit of Lord William Trevelyan.
The old woman knew not how to act. She perceived that it was useless to endeavour to obtain another interview with Agnes—at least on the present occasion; and she was unwilling to return to her employer with the acknowledgment that her policy had rather marred than forwarded his interests. She therefore now began to reflect whether it were not better to abandon the business altogether, and return to Paris, where her daughter’s affairs might afford scope for her intriguing qualifications and likewise augment her pecuniary resources. She was already possessed of between five and six thousand pounds—the amount wrung from the hands of her miserable husband; and she came to the conclusion that it was scarcely worth her while to waste any more time in a matter which, even were she successful, would only bring her a recompense of a few hundreds.
Having made these hasty reflections, Mrs. Mortimer thrust Trevelyan’s letter into her reticule,—for she never destroyed documents that related to private affairs; and, returning to the hackney-coach, desired to be driven to the Borough.
She alighted in Blackman Street, and, having dismissed the vehicle, repaired to the coffee-house where she had taken up her abode.
As she was passing by the bar-parlour, in order to reach the staircase leading to her own chamber, the mistress of the establishment came forth and beckoned her into the room: then, closing the door, the woman said, in a tone savouring somewhat of cool insolence, “I tell you what it is, Mrs. Mortimer—the sooner you accommodate yourself with other lodgings, the better: ’cos, though I ain’t over partickler and makes no imperent inquiries about them as paytronises my house—yet, for all that, I can’t abide such wisitors as come on your account just now. Leastways, I’d rayther be vithout ’em.”
“My good woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, surveying the landlady with an astonishment the most real and unfeigned, “you must be labouring under some mistake. I hope that I’m a respectable person; and I am sure that I shall bring no discredit on your house. As for any visitors who have called on my account, I expect none—and therefore there is an error in the matter.”
“No such a thing!” cried the landlady, her choler rising. “There was two men which come just now: and, what’s more, they was officers with a search-warrant—and I couldn’t perwent them from doing their dooty.”
“Officers!—a search-warrant!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, now becoming frightened—although she could not conceive what feature of her recent conduct could have excited any suspicion on the part of the myrmidons of justice:—but suddenly a fear of an appalling nature seized upon her—for her money was all concealed in her chamber up-stairs. “Oh! it’s wery well on your part, ma’am, to put a good face on the bisness,” said the landlady: “but it’s nevertheless true for all that. A great tall hulking feller and a seedy-looking old man——”
“An old man!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, now becoming sick at heart.
“Yes—an old man,” proceeded the coffee-house-keeper’s wife; “and he said he was a officer with a search-warrant, and that t’other was his assistant——”
“’Tis a trick—a vile trick! I see it all—I understand it now!” cried the wretched Mrs. Mortimer, staggering towards a chair and gasping for breath:—but in a few moments she seemed to be endowed with a sudden energy, and, bursting from the room, she rushed up-stairs to her own chamber—the landlady, who was a stout and therefore less active woman, following as quickly as she could.
Mrs. Mortimer entered her room, and darted towards her trunk. The lid resisted not her attempt to raise it—for the lock had been forced. She plunged her hand amidst the clothes that the box contained, and felt for something underneath:—but the object of her anxious—her desperate search, was not there;—and, with a groan as it were of mortal agony, she sank upon the floor.
The landlady, who entered the room at this moment, and who was not naturally a bad-hearted being, hastened to raise the miserable woman. She placed her on a chair, and tore off, rather than quietly removed, her bonnet and shawl: but Mrs. Mortimer’s jaw fell—her countenance was ghastly pale—she seemed to be dying.
On water being sprinkled on her face, she came to herself; and the landlady said, “What is the matter with you? I can’t understand the meaning of all this.”
“I have been robbed—foully robbed,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, in a hoarse and hollow tone: but she did not reflect that, no matter how her husband had obtained his money, she had played the part of a foul robber or extortioner towards him.
“Robbed!—what do you mean?” cried the landlady. “Wasn’t them real officers as come just now?”
“No—a thousand times no,” ejaculated the old woman, growing infuriate as her energies revived. “It was a base plot—a vile design:—but I will be avenged—terribly avenged! He must have found someone to advise him—some one to assist him in all this! They watched me—they marked when I went out—and, under pretence of being officers, they succeeded in searching my box—and, what is worse,” she added, with a demoniac contortion of the countenance,—“they succeeded in robbing me!”
“Was it the old man who did this?” asked the landlady.
“Yes: that ancient villain, with the pale face,” was the reply. “But tell me—was not his countenance pale and wrinkled?—and did he not seem nervously excited while speaking to you?”
“Just so,” answered the landlady.
“Ah! I thought that I was not mistaken!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone that indicated a concentration of the most ferocious rage and diabolical hate in her savage breast. “But leave me now—I must be alone for a short time—I must ponder upon all this, and determine how to act. I am not altogether without friends—nor yet without resources.”
“Well, ma’am,” said the landlady, “I hope you won’t think no more of what I told you just now—I mean, about leaving the place. Since those fellers wasn’t officers, and you ain’t a suspicious person, I’m sure I don’t want to get rid of you.”
“I shall not leave you quite yet, my good woman,” responded Mrs. Mortimer; “and I am not angry on account of what you said just now. But pray let me be alone for the present.”
The landlady withdrew in obedience to this request; and Mrs. Mortimer sate down upon the bed to ruminate on the misfortune that had produced so sudden and deplorable a change in her position.
Scarcely, however, had she brought her mind to reflect with some degree of calmness on the situation of her affairs, when she heard heavy and hasty footsteps ascending the staircase.
Dreading lest some new calamity were about to overtake her, she started to her feet in trepidation and nervous excitement: nor was she reassured when the door was unceremoniously opened, and a man of most repulsive appearance bounced into the chamber.
CHAPTER CLXXI.
JACK RILY, THE DOCTOR.
The individual who thus intruded himself upon the presence of the affrighted woman, was about forty years of age—of middle height—somewhat stout—and of powerful form. He was not corpulent; but his build denoted immense strength,—his shoulders being broad and massive, and his limbs of large proportions. His neck was short and thick, like that of a bull; and his huge hands, when clenched, appeared as if they could fell an ox or batter down a wall.
His countenance was perfectly hideous. It was of dark complexion; and on the right cheek was a large scar of livid red, as if the flesh had been seared with a hot iron and left to heal without any surgical assistance. The low but broad forehead was overshadowed with coarse, black, matted hair, which the man wore long, and which he evidently much neglected—so that it had a dirty appearance, in spite of its jetty hue. His eyes were small and dark; and the whites—for we know not what other name to give them—were of a yellow hue,—so that an ominous fire seemed to animate those eyes, as if they reflected all the bad passions of a polluted soul. The nose, which was large, thick, and coarse, projected all on one side, and had enormous nostrils. Add to all these elements of ugliness a hare-lip, with an opening so large that it displayed two of the man’s large white teeth up to the very gum, and the reader may form a tolerably accurate idea of the repulsive aspect of this individual.
He was dressed in a greasy velveteen shooting-jacket, a rusty black waistcoat, corduroy trowsers, and heavy high-lows; a blue cotton handkerchief was negligently tied round his neck;—and his shirt, which was none of the cleanest, was open in front, the buttons being deficient—so that a portion of his hirsute chest was visible. On his head he wore an old fur cap of a tawny colour, but sadly stained with grease, as if it were tossed in any dirty nook or corner when not in use.
As the man had no whiskers, and his complexion was so dark, it might have been supposed that he had some African blood in his veins. Such was not, however, the case;—he was born in England and of English parents—aye, and had received an English education likewise. But nature had given him a hideous aspect; and circumstances had imbued his soul with the ferocity of a hyena and the subtlety of a serpent.
It is not often that the savage disposition is characterised by a profound and latent cunning—because the violence of furious passions usually absorbs all reflection in its sudden impulses and outbursts. But this man was ferocious by nature, and subtle in consequence of possessing a powerful intellect and having received a good education. Not that intelligence and mental cultivation engender craft and cunning: no—but they teach the necessity of consideration and forethought;—and the result, in respect to the individual whom we are describing, was that he knew the world so well as to be fully aware that intrigue and machination frequently succeeded where brute force could accomplish nothing.
Thus, when there was no need to have recourse to artifice, this man appeared as a very demon let loose upon society: but when cunning could gain an end, he was enabled to control his savage propensities and exercise a complete domination over his ferocious instincts.
Such was the person who burst upon the view of the terrified Mrs. Mortimer in the abrupt manner already described.
She had risen from her seat on the bed, and now stood gazing on him in speechless apprehension and amazement: but he, not heeding the alarm which his presence inspired, closed the door carefully behind him, and then, throwing his greasy cap on a chair, approached the old woman, saying, “So I understand you have been robbed, ma’am? Well—don’t give way to despair: I think I can help you to the recovery of your money.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, considerably relieved by the hope thus abruptly held out, and at the same moment animated by the conviction that the man could not mean her any harm—as she had never seen him before in her life; and, moreover, the house was neither deserted nor lonely, and it was now the broad noon-day,—under which circumstances crimes of violence were seldom perpetrated.
“Yes—I think I can help you,” repeated the man. “But there is plenty of time before us—and we must have a chat over the matter in the first instance.”
Thus speaking, he seated himself in a free and easy fashion; and Mrs. Mortimer likewise took a chair—for she had now become deeply interested in the present visit, despite the revolting ugliness of the visitor.
“Who are you?” she asked: “and in what manner do you think you can aid me?”
“One question at a time, my dear madam,” returned the fellow, with cool familiarity. “First then, as to who I am. My name is Rily—Mr. Rily amongst mere acquaintances—John Rily in a police-sheet—and Jack Rily amongst intimate friends. But those who know me best call me the Doctor, because, you see, I was brought up to the medical profession. That was against my tastes, and only in obedience to the wishes of my parents; and so, as soon as they hopped the twig—which was when I was about two-and-twenty—I gave up mending broken legs, and took to breaking into houses. Instead of feeling pulses, I fingered purses—and found the new profession more profitable. Such a hand as this,” he continued, with a horrible grin, as he extended his broad and horny palm, “was rather intended to wield a crow-bar than a lancet, or grasp a pistol in preference to a scalpel. Now, my dear ma’am, I think you may begin to suspect who and what I am.”
“A burglar and a thief,” said Mrs. Mortimer, who had by this time recovered all her wonted calmness. “Well—you are the more likely to aid me in my present embarrassment—I mean, in the recovery of my money: and, of course, you can dictate your own terms.”
“I am perfectly assured of that,” responded the Doctor, again grinning maliciously with his horrid hare-lip, which seemed as if it were about to split completely up his cheek. “But, at that same time, I admit with all possible candour that I cannot act alone in this business: and therefore you have that guarantee for my good faith.”
“But in what way do you propose to act?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, anxious to arrive at a more satisfactory understanding with her hideous visitor.
“I will tell you,” answered Rily. “I am not known at this coffee-house; and therefore I came in just now to take some refreshment and read the paper. I saw you enter, and thought that yours was a countenance which denoted a soul alive to mischief. That was the impression you made upon me; for I must tell you that I am a bit of a phrenologist in my way. However, I had almost ceased to think of you, when I saw you come rushing out of the bar-parlour and bolt up-stairs like a mad woman. Then I marked your countenance again—and I was seized with admiration towards you on account of the horrible expression of your features. I said to myself that if ever I had beheld a she-fiend, I had seen one then.”
“I am much obliged to you for the compliment,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, drily.
“Let me tell my story in my own way, my dear madam,” exclaimed Jack Rily, with mock politeness. “Well, I saw you bolt up-stairs, and the landlady after you; and I knew that there must be something queer in the wind. So I waited quietly reading the paper until the landlady came down again; and then I went to the bar to pay my money. A question or two that I put elicited the information that you had been robbed by two fellows pretending to be officers having a search-warrant; and the landlady, in her garrulity, gave me a description of those individuals. One of them—the old man—I know nothing of: he is a complete stranger to me;—but the other I do know,—and what is more, I owe him a grudge—it matters not why or for what. I thereupon told the landlady that I thought I could help you in the matter; and before she had time to make any answer, I rushed up to your room to introduce myself to your notice.”
“Now I begin to understand you, Mr. Rily,” said the old woman. “You are acquainted with one of the robbers—you probably know his haunts—and you have a spite to vent upon him. Is this it?”
“Just so,” answered the burglar. “You must also learn that the reading which I had of your countenance convinced me that I might with safety tell you who and what I am: because I never have any child’s play in the business I am engaged in. If you want to get back your money, you must put confidence in me and act as I tell you; and the only way to make you trust me, is to let you know my real character. You see in me, then, a cracksman and a prig: but I am stanch to the back-bone amongst pals.”
“And on what terms do you propose to aid me?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.
“How much have these fellows robbed you of?” asked Rily.
The old woman hesitated for a few moments: she knew not whether it were prudent to tell the truth to her new friend, who so deliberately announced himself as a gentleman exercising a profession which could not possibly be characterised by any particular scruples or punctilios.
“Well—just as you like, ma’am,” said Jack, rising from his seat. “By declaring on to the swag,[16] I may get my reglars[17] from the two prigs, whom I can easily trace out; and therefore, if you are afraid to trust me, I shall be off at once. In this case, mind, you will never see a penny of the money you have lost.”
“Stay, Mr. Rily—stay!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, who perfectly comprehended the man’s meaning, which was to the effect that he might obtain some of the booty for himself without her co-operation; whereas she could not recover a shilling unless assisted by him.
The burglar coolly reseated himself.
“You asked me of how much I was robbed?” she said, interrogatively.
“Yes,” was the laconic response.
“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” observed Mrs. Mortimer.
“My stars! is it possible?” exclaimed Rily, his horrible countenance expanding with delight.
“It is the truth, I can assure you,” rejoined the old woman.
“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” repeated the burglar, in a slow and measured tone, as if to prolong the enjoyment of the sweet music which the mention of such a sum made for his auricular sense.
“It is a serious loss—is it not?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, anxiously watching his countenance, its expression denoting hope—nay, even indicating a certainty of success in the endeavour to recover the amount: but that same tablet of the mind gave no assurance that the man would act honourably towards her in the end, and content himself only with a share.
“Five thousand four hundred pounds!” he again repeated, in a musing tone. “Yes—’tis a serious loss! The recovery, however, would be two thousand seven hundred a-piece: would that suit you?” he demanded, turning abruptly towards her.
“What?” she said, affecting not to comprehend the question.
“Will you agree to give me one half of the sum, if I recover the whole?” asked Rily. “That is plain English, I believe—and now it depends on you whether our conversation shall be prolonged or not.”
“Yes—I will cheerfully give you one half,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, making up her mind to keep to the bargain only in the case of her inability to depart from it with safety to herself.
“Well and good,” resumed Rily. “I must now inform you that the tall fellow who was with the old man is one of the most noted cracksmen in London—a desperate ruffian, who would think no more of shooting a person through the head than of eating his dinner. What his real name is, I don’t know—I never heard—although he and I have been acquainted for years past: but he is called Vitriol Bob, from a little peculiarity which he has introduced into his professional mode of doing business.”
“I do not catch your meaning,” said Mrs. Mortimer—though not without a shudder; for she did entertain a vague suspicion of the frightful origin of that singular pseudonym.
“I’ll explain myself more fully, ma’am,” returned the Doctor, “since we have all the day before us, and may chatter a bit to while away the time. You see that the individual of whom we are speaking, has an awkward knack of lurking about in bye-streets and secluded neighbourhoods, to way-lay gentlemen who happen to have gold chains hanging over their waistcoats or out of their fobs: for those little articles are pretty faithful evidences that the purses of such folks are not entirely empty. Well, in case of a struggle, our friend is apt to break a phial of vitriol over the face of his opponent, so that he may get away, and also that the said opponent may be blinded, and unable to identify him on any future occasion. Hence his name of Vitriol Bob; and such is the terror he has inspired throughout the districts of Kennington, Camberwell, Peckham, and thereabouts, that the moment any gentleman returning home from a party or from the tavern hears the ominous sound of ‘Your money or your eyes,’ he exclaims, ‘Don’t throw the vitriol, and I’ll give up everything.’”
“Is this possible?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, with a shudder that was colder and more perceptible than the former one.
“Oh! quite possible, ma’am, I can assure you,” said the Doctor, calmly. “You shall see Vitriol Bob to-night—and then judge for yourself whether he looks like a fellow who could do such a thing, or not. A more hang-dog countenance you never saw in your life. I know that I am not particularly handsome,” he added with a horrible grin and leer: “but I don’t look quite such a bravo as he does.”
Mrs. Mortimer thought that if Vitriol Bob were more hideous in outward appearance than Jack Rily, he must be frightful indeed.
“This is the chap we shall have to deal with to-night,” continued the burglar; “and therefore, as you perceive, we must go well prepared to play the game properly. Who his companion is in the robbery, I can’t make out——”
“But I know,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, hastily: “he is a poor—weak—emaciated—nervous old man, whom I will undertake to subdue and even bind with cords in a few moments. Oh! he shall find me a very tiger-cat let loose upon him!” she added, her countenance suddenly expressing a hyena-like ferocity.
“Now you do seem handsome—royally handsome—although in reality you are so infernally ugly!” exclaimed Jack Rily. “That is the way in which I like to see a woman look. Why—perdition seize me! but I could almost love you. What a splendid couple we should make!”
And the idea tickled the wretch’s fancy to such an extent, that he laughed until the tears streamed from his yellow eyes, and ran down his dark countenance, while his hare-lip opened so wide that all his upper teeth—large, perfect, white, and even—were displayed to the gums.
“Cease this disgusting mirth, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, unable to restrain her feelings: for—ugly, criminal, and morally degraded as she knew herself to be—the observations of the monster and his consequent hilarity outraged her cruelly.
“Come—come; we must not be bad friends,” said Jack Rily, extending his huge palm towards the old woman, who proffered her hand in return through fear of offending the wretch that had become too useful for her to lose him until the contemplated business should have been accomplished. “There—that’s right,” he added, as he shook her hand with a violence that made her wince: “now there is no ill-feeling between us. But really you must pardon me for what I said, and also forbear from taking offence so easily should I fall into such remarks again. For, look you, madam,—I do not care about female beauty—neither is old age disgusting to me. What I admire in a woman is her disposition—her mind: and when I see you flaring up like a hell-rat—when I behold you waxing infuriate as a beldame—I love you better than if you was the most lovely virgin on the face of the earth. However—enough of that——”
“Enough indeed!” cried Mrs. Mortimer, who experienced the most ineffable repugnance—the most profound loathing for the monster that thus dinned his hideous idiosyncrasies in her ears: but, veiling her abhorrence as much as she could, she said, “And now, perhaps, you will have the goodness to inform me how you intend to proceed in order to recover this large sum of money.”
“The explanation is simple enough,” responded the Doctor. “Vitriol Bob has a particular haunt—a certain lurking-hole, not a hundred miles from here; and I happen to know where the place is. In fact, Bob and I have been pals for a long, long time——”
“I thought you told me just now that you had a spite against him?” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, fixing her eyes keenly upon the Doctor, as if to read the secrets of his inmost soul and learn whether he were deceiving her.
“Ah! you may look, ma’am—and look as searchingly as you like,” exclaimed Jack Rily, who understood what was passing in her mind: “but you won’t find me out in any contradiction—nor yet to telling you any lies. I said that Vitriol Bob and I had been friends for a long time—and I said truly. But that doesn’t prevent me from having a hankering to be avenged for a trick he played me, and which he does not think I even suspect. The fact is, we robbed a house together; and Bob in ransacking a chest of drawers, got hold of a bag full of sovereigns. He stuck to them, and never uttered a word about them when we afterwards divided the swag. I found it out through an advertisement that appeared in the papers offering a reward for the apprehension of the burglars, and specifying the things stolen. He never saw that advertisement, I know; and I did not tell him of it. I however swore to have my turn against him sooner or later;—and I bided my time. That time is now come—and I shall let him know it before many hours are over his head.”
“But are you certain that you can find him? and, even supposing that you do succeed in tracing him to his lurking-hole, how do you know that the old man will be there also?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.
“There is no tracing out Vitriol Bob in the matter,” exclaimed Jack Rily. “The moment he has committed a robbery, he always goes straight to his usual haunt, and remains there for a few days till the storm has blown over. As a mere precaution, he will compel his pal—this old man—to go with him; because if the latter was taken up by the Detectives, he might be induced to peach against Bob—and all that. So I am sure we shall find them together: unless, indeed,” added the Doctor, in a tone of diminishing confidence,—“unless, I say, the old man knows that you dare not raise a hue and cry touching this robbery.”
“On the contrary,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, “that old man, whose name is Torrens, has every reason to believe that I would persecute him with the most implacable vengeance which a human being is capable of experiencing or inflicting.”
“So much the better!” cried Jack Rily, grinning joyously: “in this case we are sure of our prey.”
“And is the game to be played by violence, or by cunning?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.
“By violence, my good lady—by violence, to be sure!” responded the burglar, his eyes glowing savagely, with their ominous yellow lustre—as if the orbs of a tiger were glaring upon the woman: and, though the gorgeous sun-light was flooding the small chamber with its golden haze, still shone that yellow lustre apart—distinct—and sinister.
“By violence?” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, awful thoughts relative to Vitriol Bob’s peculiar mode of proceeding rushing in upon her soul.
“How can it be done otherwise?” demanded Jack Rily. “When I first came up to you just now, I was going to propose to enlist in the service a pal of mine—and of Vitriol Bob’s also—who would aid and assist: but then he would require his thirds as a matter of course. Since, however, you have informed me that Bob’s companion in the robbery is an old, emaciated, feeble man, and that you can master him by yourself, you and I will keep the business in our own hands. I will undertake to tackle Vitriol Bob, if you will make sure of the other.”
“And supposing that your opponent should overpower you?” said Mrs. Mortimer.
“I will take care that he does not,” returned Rily. “Trust me to subdue him——”
“And without bloodshed?” observed the old woman, shuddering—for, depraved and wicked as she was, she grew cold and her heart sank within her at the idea of murder.
“Come, if you’re squeamish, you had better abandon the project and leave it all to me,” said the Doctor. “If Vitriol Bob should place my life in danger, at that moment he is a dead man. Self-preservation, ma’am, is the first law of nature. At the same time, I shall not kill him, unless it is to save myself: of this you may be assured.”
The old woman remained silent for some moments. Should she embark in an enterprise so replete with danger?—should she incur the risk of becoming an accomplice in a murder? She trembled at the thought: and yet her money—the money that she had come over to England to obtain—would be totally lost to her were she to shrink from the endeavour to recover it. It was true that, even if it were regained, one half would pass into the hands of a stranger: but was it not better to return to Paris with two thousand seven hundred pounds in her pocket, than with an empty purse? The stake was worth venturing;—and her indecision vanished.
“I am not squeamish in the matter,” she said at length. “Our bargain and our arrangements hold good in all respects. That villain Torrens shall not have the laugh against me: on the contrary, I must be avenged upon him!”
“There!—now you are my fine old hyena—my adorable tiger-cat, once again!” cried the Doctor. “I long to see you pounce upon old Torrens, as you call him; and I would give the best five years of my life, could I endow you with a complete set of claws, instead of those comparatively harmless finger-nails! Wouldn’t you tear his eyes out of his head? wouldn’t you strike them deep into his flesh? Do you know that Satan will obtain a glorious acquisition when the time comes for him to make a fiend of you?”
And again the monster’s horrible hilarity rang through the little chamber, as he threw himself back in the chair and laughed with the most savage heartiness.
“For mercy’s sake! cease this unnatural gaiety,” exclaimed the old woman, scarcely able to subdue her rage.
“Oh! I must laugh,” cried the wretch, sputtering through his frightful hare-lip,—“if it is only to make you look as ferocious as you do now.”
Mrs. Mortimer turned towards the window with disgust; and the wretch’s mirth died away in guttural sounds.
“Come, now—I told you that you must not be angry with me, madam,” he said, at length. “It is my nature to laugh heartily at times—and surely you won’t check such an innocent propensity. But I will take my leave of you now; and at half-past ten to-night we must meet at some place as near Stamford Street as you choose.”
“Where shall it be?” asked the old woman. “Name the spot—and I shall be punctual to the moment.”
“There is a narrow lane running along the side of Christ Church burial-ground,” responded the burglar, after a few moments’ reflection: “it leads from the Blackfriars Road into Collingwood Street——I suppose you know London well——”
“Oh! perfectly. Go on,” said Mrs. Mortimer.
“Well—we will meet in that crooked lane at half-past ten exactly,” continued Jack Rily. “By the by,” he added, rising from his chair, “you had better tell the landlady down stairs that you found out I could do nothing for you, and that you have resigned yourself to put up with your loss. It will prevent her from suspecting anything queer on account of your going out so late and remaining away an hour or so.”
“Leave that to me,” replied Mrs. Mortimer: “I shall know how to make all the excuses that are necessary. Indeed, if we are successful, I shall not return again to this place,” she observed, sinking her voice to a low whisper.
“Well—that is your business. And now good-bye for the present: at half-past ten we meet in the place appointed.”
Mrs. Mortimer spoke a few words of assent; and the Doctor took his departure, bestowing upon the woman a familiar nod, accompanied by a grin and a leer, before he crossed the threshold and closed the chamber-door behind him.
When Mrs. Mortimer was left alone, she began to ponder deeply upon the particulars of this interview which had just terminated.
The man knew the hiding-place where it was presumed that Vitriol Bob and Torrens had taken refuge; and it was doubtless some cellar or dangerous place, where a crime might be committed with impunity, as well as where the perpetrators of crime might conceal themselves. Then, what guarantee had she that Rily would not make her his victim, after availing himself of her services in subduing the plunderers and recovering the stolen treasure?
She shuddered as she thought of the peril into which she was about to precipitate herself: she trembled from head to foot as she pondered upon the desperate character of the man who was to be her companion in the night’s enterprise.
And yet—in spite of his revolting ugliness and his avowal of a dark career of turpitude—there was something like fairness in his speech respecting a partner in any enterprise in which he might be engaged: moreover, had he not shown, by the mere fact of the spite which he cherished against Vitriol Bob, that his ideas of the honour that ought to prevail even amongst thieves, were of a fixed and positive nature? Lastly, had he not stipulated upon the precise amount that he was to retain for his services? And would he be thus minute and nice in details, if he cherished the intention of self-appropriating the whole?
These arguments, which Mrs. Mortimer seriously revolved in her mind, may not perhaps appear very convincing nor very satisfactory to the reader; for, after all, they were only so many suppositions placed in juxta-position with the atrocious character of an avowed desperado. But let it be remembered that we often reason ourselves into what we wish to believe, rather than into what we ought to believe; and we tutor our minds to put faith in those opinions that best suit our interests rather than our safety. This is like “hoping against hope:” still it is a general characteristic of human nature; and Mrs. Mortimer’s case proved no exception to the general rule.
In fine, she came to the conclusion that Jack Rily was a monstrous rogue in respect to the world, but an honest man towards his pals—that he would strip society, were society a single individual, of its last shirt, but would not lay his finger on the costliest robe if on the back of an accomplice—and that he meant to act, with regard to herself, in the fairest way possible.
Whether her expectations were fulfilled, will shortly appear.
We cannot, however, close this chapter without recording a few comments upon that extraordinary disposition in human nature to reason one-self into the belief which one wishes to adopt, to the repudiation of that which one ought to adopt. For instance, the man who is floundering about in a perfect morass of pecuniary troubles, from which he cannot possibly see any chance of emerging, incessantly dins in his own mental ears the most absurd sophisms to convince himself that his position is not so desperate as it appears. “Well, something must turn up,” he says: “things are sure to take a turn soon. I can get Jones to renew the bill which he holds of mine, when it becomes due—Tomkins will hold his bill over for a few weeks—and Brown will lend me the money to satisfy Smith.” In this manner does the poor devil go on with his castle-building, until he can no longer blow from his imagination’s pipe another soap-bubble wherewith to amuse himself. Jones positively refuses to renew—Tomkins proves inexorable in his demand for instantaneous payment—Brown, having heard of his difficulties, will not lend him a farthing—and Smith, anything but satisfied, puts a clencher on the whole through the medium of the sheriffs’-officer. Then, when the self-deluded wretch awakes from his dream, on finding himself in gaol or on his way to the Bankruptcy Court, he says to himself in the bitterness of his spirit, “I always knew it would come to this!”—although for years he had been straining every effort of the imagination to lull his mind into a contrary belief!
In the same way does the bashful lover, who has not as yet proposed to the object of his affections, but who nevertheless longs to do so, yet fears, because he has seen her smile more sweetly upon a handsomer youth than ever she did on him,—in the same way does he strive to persuade himself that she does really love him—that he has observed stealthy glances cast from her brilliant eyes towards him—that her hand has trembled in his own—that her voice has faltered when she has responded to his common-place remarks upon the weather, the opera, and the new novel—that it is a mere flirtation between herself and the other handsome youth,—in fine, that she is dying to receive the proposal which he has not the courage to make. And in this manner does he tutor himself to lead a life of “pleasing pain,” though all the while aware that the sorest misgivings lie at the bottom of his heart, beneath the superstructure of delusive hopes and fond imaginings which perforce he has conjured up there. Then, when at last he hears from some kind friend that the beautiful Miss So-and-so was married yesterday morning to the handsome young gentleman whom she had loved all along, the self-deluded wretch exclaims, “Ah! I never thought that she cared a fig for me!”
But worse—oh! far worse is it with the criminal! Let us take, for instance, the confidential clerk, who, for the sake of a mistress or through love of fine clothes and ostentatious display amongst his acquaintances, pilfers from his master’s till. At first his peculations were small and insignificant; but, being undiscovered, he grows bolder and more deeply guilty,—while he endeavours to reason himself out of the agonising fears that haunt him day and night—pursue him like the spectres of murdered victims—and turn his wine into gall, and the sweets of Beauty’s lip into bitterness. “It is impossible that I can be detected,” he mentally exclaims a thousand times in an hour: “my precautions are so well devised. In a large business such as this, a few shillings are not missed. Besides, I so arrange the entries in the books that the expenditure and the receipts are proportionate. My employer, too, is kinder towards me than ever: I possess his confidence—not for an instant would he suspect me! And even if I were found out,—not that I can be,—but, I say, even if I were, he would not suffer me to be disgraced—he would hush it up: he would never let me be dragged into the felon’s dock.” Thus will the infatuated being reason on, although he sees that his master is growing cold in his manner, and that there is a suspicion of foul play somewhere,—until at length the explosion takes place—the self-deluded mortal is hurried to a felon’s gaol—his employer proves inveterate and inexorable—he is doomed to transportation—and in the convict-ship he exclaims in terrible anguish of mind, while writhing as if in mortal agony upon his hard pallet, “Fool that I was not to have stopped short while it was yet time: for I always foresaw that this must inevitably be the end of it all!”
Gentle reader—never against your own settled convictions endeavour to set up a fabric of delusion: you may at length succeed in throwing the former into the background, and persuading yourself to believe that the latter is a substantial truth;—but you will in the long run discover to your cost that you have stepped out of the broad and straight highroad to flounder amidst the perils of an interminable bog.
CHAPTER CLXXII.
A MAIDEN’S FIRST LOVE.
The day, the incidents of which we are describing, and which are so numerous and diversified, was destined to be a memorable one in the life of Agnes Vernon.
The young maiden, on abruptly quitting Mrs. Mortimer, returned to the cottage; and, seating herself at the table in the elegant parlour, she arranged her drawing materials with the intention of continuing a landscape which she had commenced a few days previously.
But she was unsettled and restless: new sensations stole upon her—new feelings were excited in her bosom.
The solitude of the cottage suddenly appeared to be irksome; and she felt discontented with her condition—she knew not why.
Laying down her pencil, she rose from her seat, approached the window, and gazed forth upon the open country.
A carriage passed by: in it were two young ladies and two young gentlemen—and they were all in high spirits, conversing cheerfully and laughing gaily. Agnes sighed—for the thought struck her that she too might be happy, and she too might laugh gaily, if she only had friends and companions!
Presently a lady and gentleman, each on horseback, passed along the road in front of the cottage. They were proceeding at a very gentle pace, and were engaged in conversation. The veil was raised from the fair Amazon’s countenance, and was thrown back over her riding-hat; her cheeks were blooming with a carnation tinge, and her eyes were bent with melting tenderness on her companion, whose face was turned towards her, and whose language was doubtless pleasing to her ears. The countenance of that lady indicated such real pleasure—denoted such pure and genuine happiness, that again did a sigh escape from the bosom of Agnes Vernon, as she marvelled why she herself was retained in the prisonage of solitude, while other maidens of her own age had their acquaintances and their associates, and were allowed to divert themselves in walking or riding about the rural lanes and the roads that stretched amidst the green fields.
Never before had anything in the form of repining—never until this time had a sentiment partaking of discontent, arisen in the breast of Agnes Vernon. She endeavoured to conquer the feeling: she turned away from the window and played with a beautiful canary bird that fluttered from its perch towards the front of its handsome cage the moment she approached it;—but its chirping sounded no longer as sweet music in her ears—and, in the natural goodness of her gentle soul, she reproached herself for her indifference to the joyous testimonials offered by the little feathered chorister to its mistress.
She resumed her seat, and once more directed her attention to her drawing: but she felt in no humour for an employment that until now was amongst her most favourite recreations. Closing her portfolio, she took up “Ivanhoe,” in order to read the concluding pages of the tale: she however found her thoughts speedily wandering to other subjects,—the letter of Lord William Trevelyan—the discourse of Mrs. Mortimer—and the abrupt termination of her interview with that female. Throwing aside the book, she seated herself at the piano, and ran her taper fingers over the keys: but the music had no cheering influence upon her—produced no soothing effect on her restless soul.
Vexed and annoyed with herself for what she could not help, and almost alarmed at the change which had come over her, despite of her exertions to the contrary, the bewildered maiden returned to the garden and gathered fresh flowers wherewith to fill the vases in the parlour: but the tulip seemed less beautiful, the rose less fragrant, and the pink less sweet than she had ever before known them;—and her task was accomplished hurriedly and even neglectfully.
At length she sought an arbour in the most shady and retired part of the garden; and there—alone with her own thoughts—she fell into a profound reverie upon her secluded life, the mystery that enveloped her condition, the letter of Lord William Trevelyan, and the explanations that Mrs. Mortimer had given her respecting the passion of love.
For, oh! the gentle Agnes loved now:—hence this restlessness—hence this change which had come upon her!
She did not blame herself for the part she had enacted in respect to Trevelyan’s letter: her conscience told her that she had behaved with prudence and propriety;—but she was grieved to think that any words which had fallen from the lips of Mrs. Mortimer should have cast suspicion upon the sincerity of the individual who had penned the contents of that missive.
Then she thought within herself that perhaps the old woman had deceived her—that Trevelyan could not possibly empower his messenger to contradict with her lips the assurances he had committed to paper!
“Did he not say in his letter that he sought no secresy nor concealment in respect to my father?” she asked herself, in the course of her musings: “how, then, could he prompt his agent to enjoin the necessity of such secresy and such concealment? Ah! she has deceived me—and I have wronged him!”
A feeling of bitterness smote the tender heart of Agnes as she came to this conclusion: but, in the course of a few moments, the idea struck her that if Lord William Trevelyan received a faithful report of the particulars of her interview with Mrs. Mortimer that morning, he would recognise the propriety of her conduct in returning the letter.
But, ah! had she not bade Mrs. Mortimer desire the young nobleman to think no more of Agnes Vernon?—and might he not obey the injunction?
Poor, innocent Agnes! thine own love is as yet only in its infancy—and therefore thou comprehendest not the extent of that devotion which Trevelyan’s bosom harbours with regard to thee! Although within the space of a few hours thou hast learnt thy first lesson in the school of love, and though thy mental vision has obtained some insight into the mysteries of that passion which has at length shed its influence on thee,—although a portion of the veil has fallen from thine eyes, and thou canst now read more of the human heart than ever thou could’st before,—nevertheless, it is but a nascent flame—a germinating affection that animates thee,—a feeling as yet vague and undefinable: for thou art still so much the child of natural simplicity and artless ingenuousness, that thou canst not entertain a conception of the lasting and persevering nature of love;—thou knowest not enough of its essence and its power to initiate in thine imagination the thought that Trevelyan would no more heed thine injunction, even if it reached his ears, than the tempest will obey the human voice which dares to order its fury to subside!
For some hours did the beauteous Agnes remain in the arbour, plunged in love’s first reverie; and when the pretty housemaid appeared to inform her that dinner was served up, Miss Vernon started from the seat, exclaiming, “Is it possible that it can be four o’clock? I did not suppose that it was more than an hour past mid-day?”
Jane cast a look of surprise upon her mistress—but said nothing; and almost immediately afterwards the servant ceased to remember that there had been anything peculiar in the young lady’s manner—for Agnes composed her countenance, recalled her scattered thoughts, and hurried back to the cottage,—so that this very haste on her part was mistaken by the domestic for her usual gleesomeness of disposition.
The afternoon repast was soon disposed of; and Agnes returned to the garden, where she roamed about until the hour of sunset approached. The evening was warm and beautiful—the air was fragrant with the perfume of the flowers—and the hum of insect life was heard around. The scene had a soothing effect upon the young maiden’s soul; and, though she was wearied, she was unwilling as yet to return to the cottage. She felt less lonely in the spacious garden than she should be, as she well knew, in that parlour where she had vainly endeavoured in the morning to divert herself with her drawings, her music, and her books.
We know not how it was—but more than once during this evening ramble in her garden, did Agnes Vernon pass by that very spot where she had stood in the morning when held in conversation with Mrs. Mortimer. Those who love, or who have loved, will probably assert that it was the influence of some vague and undefined hope which thus occasionally directed the maiden’s footsteps thither,—a hope which nature prompted, although thus dimly, and in spite of the virgin purity and immaculate candour of her soul,—a hope, in fine, which whispered, softly as zephyr’s breath, in her ear, that Trevelyan’s messenger might return with an assurance from him that no instructions which he had given to that emissary in any way militated against the honourable, frank, and straightforward declarations contained in his letter.
And now, then, behold the beauteous Agnes standing on the very spot where in the morning she had read the letter that first awoke a scintillation of love’s fire in her bosom: behold her, motionless as a statue, amidst the foliage of that secluded part of the garden—her white dress delineating the soft and graceful outlines of her symmetrical form—and the rays of the sun, now low in the western horizon, playing upon her angelic countenance, as they penetrated through the trees that skirted the lane overlooked by the hedge.
Suddenly the maiden starts and listens—like the timid roe disturbed in the forest by a far-off sound resembling the bay of the hound.
The noise of wheels and of horses’ hoofs falls upon her ear: nearer and nearer that noise approaches—the vehicle is evidently coming down the lane!
Yet why does her heart palpitate?—why seems it like the fluttering bird in its cage? Is it an unusual thing for a carriage or a cart to pass that way? No: but there is in the maiden’s soul a presentiment that the occurrence now is not altogether unconnected with her destinies.
The sounds cease: the vehicle, whatever it may be, has stopped—and silence once more reigns around.
The sun is sinking lower and lower in the western horizon: yet it is still quite light;—but the ruddy lustre of the setting orb imparts a deep autumnal hue to the foliage—brings out into bolder relief the ripening apples, the yellow pears, and the crimson cherries that gem the boughs with their fruitage—and imparts a delicate glow to the beauteous countenance of the young lady, as, with lips apart and in attitude of suspense, she listens to catch the slightest sound that may indicate the approach of a human being.
And now there is a rustling as of silk and a tread as of light footsteps; and Agnes, who, in consequence of the surface of the garden being much higher than the lane on the other side of the hedge, can look over that verdant boundary,—Agnes beholds a lady advancing rapidly down the narrow thoroughfare.
A feeling of disappointment seizes upon her: she sees that it is not Mrs. Mortimer—and something tells her that Trevelyan would not employ another female emissary.
Then it strikes her that she ought to rejoice that no farther progress should be made in the young nobleman’s suit during her father’s absence; and she feels that she has done wrong even to remain standing in that spot under the influence of a contrary expectation and of a tender though dimly significant hope.
With a sigh, the beauteous creature is about to turn away and re-enter the cottage, when,—oh! wonder and amazement!—with renewed suspense and reviving hope, she hears herself called by her name—called, too, in the tenderest, most melting tones of a woman’s voice.
“Agnes—dearest Agnes! Stay—oh! stay—if only for a few moments! Stay—I implore you—beloved girl: you know not who it is that thus addresses you!”
These words were uttered in a voice of warm and passionate affection—so that a deep and absorbing interest was at once created in the bosom of Agnes towards that lady of whose handsome countenance she had now a full view, and the earnest, appealing expression of whose features gave additional import to her enthusiastic exclamations.
“Madam—I will stay—I will not depart immediately,” faltered Agnes, forgetting her father’s injunctions relative to the caution which she was to exercise in regard to strangers: “but how do you know who I am?—and who are you?”
“Oh! that she should ask me who I am!” cried the lady, clasping her hands together in deep anguish. “But how beautiful she is!” exclaimed the stranger, in an altered and rejoicing tone: “how faithful, too, is the portrait! Agnes—dearest Agnes—I have much to say to you—much to impart that you will be delighted to learn: but must we continue to discourse thus, with this barrier between us? Can you not come to me?—or will you permit me to come to you? I long—oh! how I long to embrace you, dear girl that you are; and though we are but a few feet apart—yet does this garden-boundary separate us most cruelly!”
“Madam—I know not how to answer you,” murmured Agnes, strange feelings of mingled pleasure, apprehension, and hope agitating in her heart, as if that heart were a well of deep, inexhaustible, and yet incomprehensible emotions. “Your words seem to move me more than I can explain——”
“Yes—Agnes—dear Agnes,” ejaculated the lady, stretching out her arms in an appealing manner towards the maiden: “’tis the voice of nature that speaks within you! But you hesitate to trust yourself with me? Ah! doubtless you have been warned—doubtless you have been urged to act with caution——Oh! my God—that you should look with an eye of suspicion upon me!”
And with these words, which were uttered in a tone indicative of the most acute anguish, the lady burst into a flood of tears.
Agnes stood blanched, and trembling, and speechless,—having a deep conviction that the lady’s fate was in some way linked with her own—yet not daring to form a conjecture as to the nature of the tie that thus mysteriously bound them together. A secret impulse appeared to urge her towards the weeping stranger; and she felt that were the arms again extended towards her, and were there no barrier in her way, she should precipitate herself upon that stranger’s bosom, that they might mingle their tears together and interchange the sympathies that already drew them to each other.
“Agnes—dearest Agnes,” exclaimed the lady, suddenly breaking silence and wiping away the traces of her grief,—speaking, too, in a voice of heart-touching appeal,—“I implore you to come to me—or to show me how I may enter those precincts without being observed by the inmates of the dwelling! But, say—tell me,” she added, a sudden thought striking her,—“is he—your father—there?”
“My father is in Paris,” replied Agnes: “he——”
“Thank God!” ejaculated the stranger, with an enthusiasm that astonished and even startled the maiden. “But Mrs. Gifford—is she still alive?—is she still in attendance on you?”
“She is in the house at this moment,” returned Agnes, more and more surprised at these questions—not only on account of their nature, which showed that the lady was acquainted with many circumstances regarding her condition; but also in consequence of the vehemence with which they were put.
“Then how can I join you in that garden?” demanded the lady, in a tone of bitter disappointment. “Oh! Agnes, you know not how ardent are the yearnings—how intense the longings that prompt me even to dash through this hedge and fold you to my bosom! Cruel girl—keep me not thus in an agony of suspense; but come—come to my arms—as if I were your mother!”
“My mother!” exclaimed Agnes, in a voice of mingled hope and amazement—while such indescribable emotions started into existence in her bosom, that she felt overpowered by their influence, and staggering back a few paces, would have fallen to the ground had she not leant against a tree for support.
“Agnes—Agnes!” cried the lady, imploringly: “give not way to thoughts that will deprive you of your presence of mind—for you need all your self-possession now! Agnes—dear Agnes—answer me——”
“Who are you? O heaven! such strange ideas—such wild hopes—such bewildering presentiments crowd upon my soul,” exclaimed the beauteous maiden, “that I know not how to act nor what to conjecture!”
And, again approaching the hedge, she passed her hand across her brow, throwing from her face the shower of curls that had fallen in disorder over that charming countenance—the luxuriant locks having been disturbed by the movement given to the neat little straw bonnet when she staggered against the tree.
“You ask me who I am,” said the lady: “oh! pity my suspense—have mercy upon me—come to my arms—and I will tell you all.”
“Stay there, madam—dear madam,” cried Agnes, without another instant’s hesitation—so earnest, so pathetic was that last appeal: “and I will join you at all risks!”
CHAPTER CLXXIII.
HOPES FULFILLED.
Without pausing to reflect upon the step which she was taking—forgetful of all the injunctions she had received from her father, and all the promises of prudence and caution which she had made to him—obedient only to the irresistible impulse of her feelings—as if nature’s voice rose dominant above a sire’s mandates,—the Recluse of the Cottage disappeared from the view of the lady, who remained in the path outside the garden, a prey to the most torturing fear lest the young maiden should be intercepted by the inmates of the dwelling.
But Agnes was not compelled to pass through the house in order to gain egress from the premises. From the stable-yard a gate opened into the lane; and by this avenue did she proceed—so that there was no necessity to exercise any wariness or precaution. Had the contrary been the case—had she been compelled to pause in order to reflect how she was to escape the notice of the servants, her artlessness of character and purity of soul would have prompted her to wait and reflect whether she were acting in accordance with her father’s counsels. She would then have flown straight to consult Mrs. Gifford; and the result would have been inimical to the hopes and wishes of the lady who was so anxiously expecting her in the lane.
But as nothing impeded the maiden’s progress, nor forced her to stay her steps even for a single instant,—the gate being always left open during the day-time for the convenience of the gardeners, and these men being engaged in front of the house on the present occasion,—the current of her thoughts, impelling her towards the lady, received no hindrance—no check; and in a few moments Agnes was speeding along the lane, with a heart influenced by emotions of hope, curiosity, suspense, and wild aspiration.
For that word “Mother”—that dear, delightful word, which had so seldom fallen on her ears, and which in an instant excited so many pleasurable reflections—so many ineffable feelings in her soul,—that word which, as if with electric inspiration, had suddenly opened to her view an elysium of the affections which she had never known before, and which gave promises of felicity the holiest and the purest,—that word, so fraught with the tenderest sympathies to one who had hitherto lived in a semi-orphan state,—that word it was which exercised a magic influence upon the maiden—absorbed all other considerations—and rendered her impatient to hear more from the same lips whence this word had come.
And yet she could not have accounted, had she paused to search, for the spring of the excitement that now ruled her actions. It was not that she cherished the conviction of finding a mother in the lady who was waiting to embrace her; but she did half suspect that such would be the case,—and she certainly hoped—oh! most fervently hoped that she was not destined to experience disappointment. The very artlessness of her disposition made her sanguine;—and under these influences did she hasten along.
The lady advanced to meet her;—and in a few moments they were clasped in each other’s arms.
“My child—my dearest child!” murmured the fond mother, who had indeed recovered a daughter in Agnes Vernon.
“Oh! Is it possible?” exclaimed the beautiful creature, in an ecstasy of joy: “is it possible that you are my parent?”
“I am, my beloved Agnes—I am: and heaven can attest that, though separated from thee since thine infancy, I have never ceased to think of thee—never ceased to love thee!”
A faintness now came upon Agnes;—and her mother felt that she was clinging the more firmly to her in a convulsive effort to prevent herself from falling.
“Lean on me, my child—here—let me sustain you, my darling Agnes!” cried the lady. “Oh! how happy am I at this moment—with thee in my arms! But——My God! she faints!”
And the maiden, overcome by her emotions, fell into a state of insensibility.
The lady carried her in her arms along the lane: great was the strength which now animated the mother who had just recovered a long-lost daughter;—and in a few minutes a hackney-coach, that was waiting higher up the avenue, received the precious burthen.
When Agnes came to herself, she started as if, on waking from a delicious dream, she feared that it might prove all a delusion: but when, by the rays of the setting sun which streamed through the open windows of the vehicle, she beheld the handsome, pleasing, and yet mournful countenance of her mother bending over her, a glow of joy suffused the charming creature’s face—and, throwing her arms around her parent’s neck, she exclaimed, “Oh! tell me that it is not a dream! assure me once more who you are!”
“I am your mother, Agnes dearest—your own fond and loving mother, who has languished after you for years, and who will never separate from you again, unless by your own consent, or through the stern decree of an iron tyranny! Yes, Agnes—I am your mother;—and, beautiful though you be, I may without vanity declare that the stamp of nature proclaims you to be my child?”
“Yes—and my own heart’s emotions assure me that you are indeed my parent,” said the lovely girl. “But you observed that we should not part without my consent. Oh! can you suppose, dear mother, that I should ever ask to leave you—ever seek to separate myself from you?”
“No, my child—I am sure that you will not!” exclaimed the lady. “At the same time, Agnes,” she added, in a different and mournful tone, “it is my duty to inform you that if you choose to live with me, you must resign all hope of seeing your father again—at least for two years——”
“Oh! say not so!” ejaculated Agnes, bursting into tears. “Surely it must be with my father’s knowledge that you came to see me—that you are taking me away with you. And yet,” she added, a sudden reminiscence flashing to her mind, and causing her to start painfully,—“and yet, I recollect now that I left the garden stealthily—that you urged me to come round to you in the lane, unperceived by the servants—that you knew not my father was in Paris. Oh! mother, mother,” cried the young girl, again interrupting herself, and speaking with a burst of anguish,—“what does all this mean? Whom am I to obey—you or my father?—for it is clear to me that in yielding deference to the counsel of the one, I must prove disobedient to the other!”
“Tranquillise yourself, dearest Agnes—tranquillise yourself, I implore you!” exclaimed the lady, straining the trembling—almost affrighted maiden to her breast.
“Ah! dearest mother, when I hear your voice and receive your kisses, I have no thought save for you,” murmured the young girl. “Oh! and now your tears fall upon my cheek. Mother—dear mother—forgive me for what I said ere now—I will obey you—and you only. But do not—do not weep, my beloved parent!”
“May God Almighty bless you, Agnes!” fervently exclaimed the lady, her tears streaming in blinding torrents from her eyes.
“Oh! do not weep—I implore you!” cried Agnes, in a tone of the most tender affection. “Are you unhappy, dear mother? If so, tell me the cause of your sorrow!”
“I am both happy and unhappy, Agnes,” was the response, almost choked with sobs. “I experience ineffable pleasure and acute pain, all at the same moment! But your words soothe me—your voice descends into my soul like sweet music—your caresses are as a balm to my bruised and weltering spirit!”
“Dear mother, let me embrace you closer still!” murmured Agnes, clinging to her parent in that narrow chaise as if there were an imminent danger of their immediate separation. “But wherefore are you happy and unhappy at the same time?”
“I am happy because I have this evening recovered you, and thus seen accomplished the hope of long, long years,” returned the lady; “and I am unhappy because I fear that some untoward circumstance will part us again.”
“Oh! what circumstance can part us, dear mother?” asked Agnes, her bosom filled with vague alarms. “May I not dwell with you, if I choose—and if you choose to have me with you?”
“Yes—oh! yes, Agnes,” replied her mother, earnestly and in an impassioned tone. “But will you not pine—when the excitement of these new feelings shall have passed away,—will you not pine, I say, for your secluded cottage—your beautiful garden—and—and your father?” she added, her voice suddenly becoming low and tremulously plaintive.
“What is that lovely cottage—what are the choicest flowers of that garden, in comparison with thy love, my dearest—dearest mother?” exclaimed Agnes: “and, oh! if I must decide between you, on the one hand, and my father on the other——And yet he has been so kind—so very kind to me—that it goes to my very heart——”
“Agnes—Agnes—you love your father better than me!” exclaimed the mother, in a voice of the most piercing, rending anguish. “But it is natural—oh! it is natural—for you never knew me until now—at least not since your infancy! Yes, it is natural, I say! Oh! fool that I was to hope that you could love me well enough to consent to dwell beneath my roof in future! No—no—it is impossible: I see it all, Agnes—you would be wretched—miserable, were you to part from your father! I will take you back to your cottage, then, my child—I will leave you then—and we must separate upon its threshold, never—never to meet again, perhaps, in this life!”
“No, dearest mother—speak not thus despairingly—or you will kill me—you will break my heart!” cried Agnes, her voice choking with sobs. “You are unhappy—and it is my duty to remain with you——Oh! and God forgive me for saying it, if it be a crime—but—but—it is also my wish!”
And with these words, the maiden again threw herself upon her mother’s bosom and wept plenteously, while her arms clasped that parent’s neck with almost convulsive violence—as if she feared to lose her.
“Now, Agnes, I am happy—oh! supremely happy!” exclaimed the fond woman. “You will remain with me—and I shall not again submit your feelings to a painful test by proposing the alternatives which have already rent your bosom. Listen, however, to me for a short space. I am a lonely and desolate woman, and have experienced a recent affliction of an almost overpowering nature. Indeed, I should have succumbed beneath its weight, had not accident—an accident of a most extraordinary character—last night revealed to me the place where you dwelt in such seclusion. Then I suddenly felt that I had something worth living for—and I came to you this evening, with the hope of seeing you—yes—and also with the hope of inducing you to accompany me, that we might dwell together in future. For, oh! Agnes, you cannot divine how tender—how lasting—how invincible is the love of a mother for her child. Years and years have passed since I saw you; and I have pictured to myself my darling daughter growing up in beauty and in virtue—endowed with elegant accomplishments, and trained in all that she ought to learn or that would become her—save a knowledge of her mother! Now, my dearest Agnes, you repay me for that immense—that boundless love which I have ever cherished for you: now you reward me for the anxious years—the age of sorrow, as I may term the period which has elapsed, for me, between your infancy and the present time. Your father is rich—is possessed of many resources for recreation and pleasure in the world, which a woman cannot enjoy. He has many, many friends;—and, deeply though he loves you, he will not miss you so much as I have missed you, and should miss you still, were you now to be separated from me. It is, then, a mother who implores her daughter to give her a daughter’s love—to yield her a daughter’s affection—and perform towards her a daughter’s duty. All this, my Agnes, I see that you are prepared to accomplish—even at the sacrifice of your feelings in respect to your sire. Moreover, that sire has been blessed with your smiles ever since your birth—or at least has had you under his guardianship and control: and now—oh! now, am I asking too much when I beseech you to devote a few years of love to me,—to me who am your mother—who am unhappy—and who, without you, should now feel so lonely and desolate that the sooner the cold grave were to close over me, the better!”
“I will not leave you—I will die sooner!” murmured Agnes, her eyes streaming and her bosom heaving with convulsive sobs. “But you will not leave my father—nor that kind and good Mrs. Gifford—in ignorance of what has become of me?”
“I could not be guilty of such cruelty, my darling child,” responded the mother. “And now,” she continued, after a rapid glance from the window of the vehicle, which was at this moment passing by Kennington Common,—“and now listen again to what I have to say to you. My own house is in the northern suburb of London; and it is possible that Mrs. Gifford may be acquainted with the place of my abode. I know not whether she be; and I should conceive that she is not—nevertheless, there is the possibility, as I observed—and, in that case, she would adopt measures to tear you from my arms. For this night, then, you must consent to remain at the house of some ladies of my acquaintance. They will take care of you—they will be rejoiced to have you with them, though only for a few hours; and by to-morrow evening I shall have a dwelling fitted up for our reception. It is my intention to give up my villa which I now possess—and I know of a sweet cottage, with a beautiful garden, in the neighbourhood of Bayswater, which I shall hire at once. All these arrangements can be effected in the course of to-morrow—for by means of money incredible things are accomplished in London.”
“Be it as you say, my dear mother,” observed Agnes. “But you will remain with me this night?—you will not leave me with strangers?” she exclaimed anxiously.
“Certainly, my child, if you wish it, I will stay with you,” returned her mother. “Listen, however, to me once again. The friends in whose care I propose to place you, are two elderly ladles, who will receive you as the daughter of one whom they sincerely love—for they are as devoted to me as if I were a near and dear relative, and are acquainted with much that concerns me. You will be as safe in their charge as if I myself were with you: for, remember,—by to-morrow night I must have a home—a good home—prepared for my Agnes,—and it will occupy me until a late hour this night to make the arrangements for the removal of all my furniture and other property in the morning. In addition to all this, Agnes, I should be compelled in any case to return to my house this evening,—as there may be a communication of importance for me there,—a communication from a generous friend—noble by nature as well as by name—and who is interesting himself for me and for another——”
“Say no more, my dearest parent,” interrupted Agnes. “I am ready to obey you in all things and to follow your counsel: but promise to return and take me away with you as early as you can to-morrow,” she added imploringly.
“Fear not, my darling Agnes,” replied the mother: “I shall be as anxious to embrace you to-morrow as you possibly can be to see me.”
While this conversation was in progress between the two ladles in the hackney-coach, the sun had set—twilight had become absorbed in the shades of night—but the vehicle was now proceeding along the Blackfriars-road, which was brilliant with the gas-lamps stretching away in two approximating lines, and ultimately becoming confounded together on the arching bridge in the distance.
At length the hackney-coach passed out of the Blackfriars-road into Stamford-street; and Agnes, looking from the left-hand window, saw that the three first houses on that side of the way, towards which her eyes were turned, were in a condition so ruinous and dismantled as to strike a chill to her susceptible heart. But the unpleasant sensation almost instantly vanished, when the coach drew up at the door of a house in excellent repair, and presenting, in outward appearance, a remarkable contrast to those dilapidated buildings.
Here Agnes and her mother alighted; and the young maiden no longer thought of the sinister-looking ruins adjoining, when she found herself in a comfortable parlour, where both herself and parent received a cordial welcome from two elderly ladies whose benevolent countenances, agreeable manners, and kind speech were calculated to inspire confidence at once.
The name of these maiden sisters was Theobald; and they were indeed possessed of excellent dispositions and endowed with the most amiable qualities. The moment that Agnes’ mother entered the room, they rose to embrace her with the warmth of an unfeigned friendship; and even before the young maiden was introduced to them, they exclaimed, as if suddenly struck by the same sentiment, “Ah! this is the dear girl whom you have so long pined to recover? We need not wait to be told that she is your daughter: the likeness between you proclaims the fact!”
And then they embraced Agnes in her turn.
The young lady’s mother drew the elder Miss Theobald aside, and said, “I propose to leave my beloved child with you for this night. Circumstances compel me to return home without delay. I have decided upon taking your beautiful little villa at Bayswater, and shall remove all my furniture thither the first thing in the morning. It is fortunate that the sweet dwelling should have been thus in want of a tenant at this moment.”
“I am delighted for your sake, my dear friend,” responded Miss Theobald, “that the villa is unoccupied. We will send one of our servants at day-break to make all the necessary preparations for your reception. Oh! how sincerely—how deeply do I congratulate you upon having recovered your long-lost daughter!” added the kind-hearted woman, in a tone of profound feeling.
“It is indeed a source of indescribable solace to my wounded spirit, as you, my dear friend, may well conceive—for you are acquainted with the principal events of my chequered existence. But I must now depart: it is growing late—and ere I seek my couch this night, I shall have arranged everything for my removal to Bayswater to-morrow.”
With these words the lady turned towards Agnes, saying, “My dearest child, I leave you in the care of these excellent friends, whom it is only necessary to know in order to love.”
“I feel that I do already love them, my dear mother,” responded the young maiden, as she threw herself into her parent’s arms.
“Farewell—till to-morrow, my sweet Agnes: soon after mid-day you may expect me—and the Miss Theobalds can tell you that the new home to which you are then to accompany me, will leave you nothing to regret in reference to your own little secluded cottage and beautiful garden in Surrey.”
“Wherever I may dwell with you, dear mother—there shall I enjoy contentment,” answered Agnes, tenderly embracing her whom in two short hours she had thus learnt to love with an affection that seemed to have existed for years.
“Adieu, my darling child,” murmured the fond mother; and she then took her departure.
Agnes listened until the sounds of the retreating wheels were no longer audible—or rather, until they were absorbed in the din of the numerous vehicles passing in the immediate neighbourhood of the house: and then a sudden chill seized upon her heart—a damp fell upon her spirits—her feelings, powerfully excited by the incidents of the day, experienced a rapid revulsion—and, unable to control her emotions, she burst into tears.
CHAPTER CLXXIV.
A NIGHT OF TERRORS.
The two ladies hastened to console—or, speaking with greater accuracy, endeavoured to console the weeping girl. But, although she knew how friendly disposed they were towards her—although she felt the full extent of their kindness, and even reproached herself with her inability to yield to its soothing influence,—yet it seemed as if the departure of her mother had left her more alone in the world than ever she was before.
“Dry those tears, my sweet Agnes,” said the elder Miss Theobald, pressing the maiden’s delicate white hand with cordiality and tenderness.
“Oh! do not give way to a sorrow for which you have no real cause,” urged the younger of the two ladies. “A few hours will soon pass, my dear child, and your fond parent will return.”
But Agnes, though acknowledging by her gestures the kindness of the sisters, could not subdue her grief; and her sobbing became more convulsive.
For a tide of conflicting and painful reflections rushed in upon her soul. She remembered all her father’s goodness towards her—the strong injunctions he had given her not to hold intercourse with any one who was not the bearer of a letter from him—and the grief that he would experience when he heard of her departure. She thought, likewise, of the terror and dismay which must even already reign at the cottage on account of her mysterious absence: she beheld, in imagination, the excellent-hearted Mrs. Gifford and the good-natured Jane inconsolable at her loss;—and, apart from all these ideas, she now felt certain misgivings arise in her bosom relative to the step she had taken. Vainly did she endeavour to persuade herself that, acting by the counsel and in obedience to the prayers of her mother, she could not have done wrong: a secret voice appeared to reproach her—an unknown tongue seemed to whisper ominous things in her ears. Terror gained upon her; and, under its influence, her grief became less violent. But her thoughts grew confused—there was a hurry in her brain: she felt as if she had just awakened from a wild and painful dream, and was still unable to collect her scattered ideas;—and still amidst that confusion, flashed, with vivid brightness to her memory, the warning which her sire had so emphatically given to her respecting the snares that were set by the wicked to entrap the artless and the innocent. At length, overcome by the terror which thus rapidly acquired a complete empire over her soul, and forgetting all that was re-assuring and consolatory in her present petition, Agnes Vernon fell upon her knees before the two amazed ladies, exclaiming, as she extended her clasped hands wildly towards them, “Take me home again to my cottage—take me home again, I implore you!”
“My dearest child,” said the elder Miss Theobald, accompanying her soothing words with the tenderest caresses; “what do you fear?—wherefore do you wish to leave us? Are we not your mother’s friends?—and can you not persuade yourself to look upon us in the same light?”
“Oh! yes, madam—I know—I feel that you are my friend—that you wish me well!” cried Agnes, her apprehensions dissipating, but only to allow scope for her anguish to burst forth again.
“Why, then, do you thus give way to your grief?” asked Miss Theobald, raising the young maiden gently, and as gently leading her to a seat.
“I cannot explain my sensations,” sobbed the poor girl: “and yet I feel very—very unhappy.”
“You have doubtless been much excited this evening, my love,” was the reply: “but a good night’s rest will tranquillise you. And remember—you are beneath a friendly roof, and where harm cannot reach you.”
“But I tremble lest I have done wrong, madam,” exclaimed Agnes. “How is it that my father ordains one thing, and my mother counsels another? Oh! I am bewildered with misgivings—I know not what to think, nor how to act?”
“Are you not pleased at having at length embraced a mother?” said the younger Miss Theobald, in a tone of gentle reproach.
“Yes—oh! yes!” ejaculated Agnes, fervently: then, in a mournful voice, she observed, “But I have fled—surreptitiously fled from the home provided for me by a fond and trusting father!”
The two ladies fully comprehended the nature of the conflicting thoughts that were agitating in the breast of Agnes Vernon; and they exchanged rapid glances of mingled sorrow and apprehension. They saw that on one side was a suddenly awakened and ardent love for a mother; and that on the other was a sense of the deference and obedience, as well as of the gratitude, due to an affectionate father. They were, therefore, filled with regret that family circumstances should have placed that pure, artless, and innocent girl in a position which compelled her to balance between the two; and, although they would have moved heaven and earth to induce her to decide in favour of the maternal parent, they recognised the difficulty of the task, and entertained the deepest alarm for its results.
“To-morrow evening, long before this hour, my dear Agnes,” said the elder of the ladies, “you will be comfortably settled in your new home. The villa which your mother intends to inhabit at Bayswater, belongs to my sister and myself. It is a neat little dwelling—neither too much secluded, nor too near to the neighbouring houses; and a large, well-cultivated, and delightful garden is attached to it. Then, my dear child, reflect—remember, that you will possess a constant, a devoted, and a loving companion in your mother: you will no longer pass many, many hours—indeed, the greater portion of your time—in solitude and loneliness, nor be thrown upon the incompatible society of servants, who, however good in heart and well-intentioned, are not such associates as you would select of your own free will.”
“Ah! madam—your words console me,” said Agnes, endeavouring to stifle her sobs. “But how happens it that you should be acquainted with my late mode of life?”
“I did but guess what that mode of life must have been,” returned Miss Theobald; “and I see that I was not far wrong. I knew that your father did not—could not dwell with you entirely—that he could only be a visitor at your place of abode, wherever it might be—and, therefore, I naturally conjectured that you were thrown almost completely upon your own resources.”
“And can you tell me, madam,” asked Miss Vernon, ingenuously, as the thought suddenly struck her,—“can you tell me how it is that my father should wish me to dwell under his guardianship only, and my mother wishes me to rely solely upon her? Or, indeed,” she added, after a few moments’ pause, “I should rather inquire the reason which prevents my parents from living together beneath the same roof, and having me with them? for, according to all the books I have ever read——”
“Ah! my dear Agnes,” interrupted the elder sister, “you would not seek to penetrate into those mysteries which so unhappily belong to the destinies of your parents?”
“Oh! no—no—if it be improper for a child to ask an explanation of such secrets!” exclaimed Miss Vernon, the natural purity of her soul instantly absorbing the sentiment of curiosity that had prompted her queries. “And now let me implore your pardon for having testified so much excitement——”
“It was to be expected, dear child,” said Miss Theobald; “and you have no pardon to solicit. We are delighted to perceive that you have at length recovered some degree of calmness. Rest assured that you will be happy in the society of your mother, whom we have known for years—yes—many, many years, and whom we love as much as if she were a near relative. You will be surprised to learn, Agnes, that when you were a babe, we often fondled you in our arms. Yes: you may regard me with surprise—but it is nevertheless the fact, that my sister and myself have frequently—very frequently nursed and dandled you for hours together.”
“Oh! I was wrong to exhibit so much mistrust and want of confidence in you just now!” exclaimed Agnes, her affectionate soul being deeply touched by assurances so well calculated to move her, and which were indeed strictly consonant with truth.
“Think not of what has gone by, my dear child,” said the younger sister. “We make all possible allowances for the excited state of your mind; and we sincerely hope, as we believe, that happiness awaits you. But it is growing late; and you doubtless stand in need of refreshment ere you retire to rest.”
Then, without waiting for an answer, she rang the bell; and the servant was ordered to bring in the supper-tray. Agnes was in no humour to partake of the meal: indeed, she was in that state of mind when the individual rather loathes the idea of eating, through a total suspension of the appetite. But so delicate were the attentions of the kind-hearted sisters, and so persevering were they in their endeavours to render their guest as much “at home” as possible, that Agnes sate down with them to table; and, if she scarcely ate anything, yet her spirits revived somewhat from the sociable nature of the evening repast.
It was a little after eleven when the Misses Theobald conducted the young lady to the bedchamber which had been prepared for her reception; and, having embraced her affectionately, the good sisters left her, as they hoped, to the enjoyment of that repose of which they knew she must stand much in need.
The moment she found herself alone, the maiden felt unpleasant thoughts returning to her mind; and, in order to escape from them, if possible, she began to lay aside her apparel with unwonted haste. Everything necessary for her toilette had been provided; and the chamber, which was at the back of the house and on the second floor, was elegantly furnished—having an air of comfort that would have been duly appreciated by one in a more settled state of mind than was the amiable girl at the time. In a few minutes she retired to rest; and, contrary to her expectation, sleep soon fell upon her eye-lids—for she was worn out and exhausted by the exciting incidents of the day.
Her dreams were not, however, of a tranquillising description.
In the first place, she fancied that she was roving in her garden, and that she beheld Lord William Trevelyan approaching down the lane. In a few moments he stood by her side; though how he passed the verdant boundary was not quite clear to her. She did not retreat,—yet she felt that she ought to retire: but her feet were rivetted to the ground;—and when he took her hand, the same unknown and invisible influence which nailed her to the spot, forbade her to withdraw that hand which trembled in his own. Then she imagined that the young nobleman began to address her in a style similar to the contents of his letter: she cast down her eyes—she felt herself blushing—and, though she knew that she ought to retreat, she nevertheless listened with emotions of pleasure never experienced before. He pressed her to be allowed to visit her again; and she was raising her eyes bashfully towards his countenance, to read his sincerity in his looks, ere she murmured the affirmative reply that already trembled upon her tongue, when she was suddenly shocked to perceive a marvellous and signal change taking place in him. His face grew wrinkled—the handsome features became distorted and frightful—his clothes took another appearance—and, as she gazed upon him in speechless wonder and alarm, she saw standing in his place a hideous old woman, whom she at length recognised as Mrs. Mortimer. Agnes strove to cry out—but could not: a spell was upon her lips;—and the harridan’s eyes glared upon her with savage malignity. The maiden felt herself sinking in terror to the ground—when the whole scene experienced a sudden variation; and she was now in the parlour of the cottage, with her father seated by her side.
Neither was this second dream of a tranquillising description.
Agnes fancied that her sire was angry with her—that he uttered reproaches for a disobedience of which she had been guilty. At first she could not comprehend the nature of the offence that had entailed upon her this vituperation, and rendered her father’s manner so unusually severe towards her—but at last it flashed to her mind that she had been incautious in receiving at the cottage evil-intentioned visitors;—and then she suddenly found her father engaged in a violent dispute with Mrs. Mortimer, whose countenance seemed more than ever hideous and revolting. How this dispute originated, or how Mrs. Mortimer had got into the room, Agnes knew not: there she however was—and the quarrel waxed warmer and warmer. At length the old woman took her departure: but ere the door closed behind her, she turned on Agnes a look of such fiend-like malignity, that a shriek would have expressed the young maiden’s affright, had not her lips been mysteriously sealed. When the harridan had disappeared, Mr. Vernon renewed his reproaches; and Agnes fancied that, on falling on her knees in the presence of her sire to demand pardon, he spurned her from him—upbraided her with her disobedience and ingratitude—and warned her, in a tone of solemnly prophetic meaning, that her readiness to repose confidence in strangers would bring down some terrible calamity on her head. She was about to promise never more to prove guilty of the disobedience which had elicited all these reproaches and produced all that unwonted harshness on her father’s part, when a third person appeared on the scene;—and this third person was her mother!
But this new dream which now visited the sleeping maiden, was not of a tranquillising description.
She fancied that an earnest appeal was now made to her on either side, placing her in the difficult and most distressing condition of a child who had to decide as to which of her parents she would cling to, and which abandon. Here was her father, reminding her of all he had done for her: there was her mother, proclaiming herself to be unhappy and to need the society and solace of her daughter. On her right hand stood the sire whom she had always known: on her left was the maternal parent whom she had never known before. The countenance of the former expressed misgivings amounting almost to despair: that of the latter was bathed in tears, and indicative of all the agonies of a cruel suspense. Agnes felt that her heart was rent by this scene; and yet it appeared to her that she was bound to decide, and that promptly, in one way or the other. She looked towards her father; and he held out his arms to receive her—his countenance assuming an expression so profoundly wretched that it seemed to say, “If I lose you, I lose all I love or care for on earth.” She turned towards her mother, in order to breathe a last farewell, for that she must accompany her father,—when she beheld her maternal parent on her knees, and extending her clasped hands imploringly, while the pale but beauteous face indicated that life or death was in the decision which was about to be pronounced. Agnes could not resist this earnest—silently eloquent appeal on the part of a mother who had proclaimed herself to be unhappy; and the maiden fancied that she threw herself into that mother’s arms. A cry of misery burst from her father’s lips; and Agnes awoke with a wild start,—awoke, to feel her entire frame quaking convulsively, and her heart palpitating with alarming violence.
For a few moments—nay, for nearly a minute, she lay stretched upon her back, endeavouring to compel her thoughts to settle themselves in their proper places, so that she might attain the assurance whether she had just beheld realities, or had only been the victim of distressing dreams;—and when she was enabled to arrive at the latter conclusion, she started up in her bed, exclaiming, “Nevertheless, this is more than I can endure!”
Then came the consciousness of where she was, and why she was there,—how she had fled from the home that her father had provided for her, and in spite of all his solemn injunctions and prudential warnings,—how her mother had left her in a strange place, and with persons who were strangers to her,—and how Mrs. Gifford would be certain to send to Paris without delay and communicate the afflicting tidings to Mr. Vernon.
The maiden’s brain reeled, as these thoughts flashed through it;—and at this moment, when her senses appeared to be leaving her, the clock of Christ Church, in the Blackfriars-road, proclaimed the hour of one!
The sound came booming—rolling—vibrating through the air, like a solemn warning: at least, so it seemed to the disordered fancy of Agnes Vernon;—and, with feelings worked up to an intolerable pitch, she leapt from her couch.
To obtain a light was an easy matter—for the necessary materials were at hand; and when the flame burst from the tip of the lucifer match, Agnes cast a hurried and affrighted glance around, as if she dreaded to meet some hideous countenance or horrible form in the chamber. Not that she was naturally timid: no—far from it;—her very innocence and purity rendered her courageous on ordinary occasions. But she was now under the influence of emotions powerfully wrung—of feelings strained to an unusual tension;—and she had no control over her imagination, which was disordered and excited.
One idea dominated all the rest. This was to escape from the house—to escape, at any hazard and at all risks. Not for worlds, she thought, could she return to that bed where such distressing visions had rent her soul;—and she could not pass the rest of the night alone, and in a strange place. No: she must return to the cottage—retrace her way to the home which her father had provided for her—and endeavour to reach that friendly threshold in time to prevent Mrs. Gifford from transmitting to her sire the news of her disobedience.
But her mother! Oh! she should see that parent again—she would explain everything—and perhaps arrangements might be made to suit the views and accomplish the happiness of all! In the mean time, however, she must escape—she must return home,—she could not endure the idea of remaining another hour—no—nor even a minute longer than was necessary—in that stranger-dwelling!
With lightning speed did all these thoughts,—or rather glimpses of thoughts—for they were too brief, too fleetingly vivid, to deserve the name of reflections—pass through the maiden’s mind, as she threw on her apparel with a congenial haste; and in three minutes she was dressed. Her bonnet was in the parlour below: but that she could take on her way out of the house—or she cared not if she did not find it at all. She would escape in any case, and at all events; and if she could not find a vehicle to convey her home—she would walk, although she might have to ask her way at every step. For Agnes had worked herself up to a pitch of desperation: a fearful panic was upon her;—she knew not, neither did she pause to ask in her own soul, why she longed so ardently to fly from that house:—an irresistible and almost incomprehensible influence urged her on—and the hurry of her actions was in accordance with the hurry of her brain.
Her hair was flowing over her shoulders: she just waited a moment—a single moment, to fasten it up in a large knot behind; and then, taking the light in her hand, she stole noiselessly down the stairs.
A profound silence—a silence which her footsteps disturbed not—reigned throughout the house.
All, save the affrighted—half-maddened girl, slept.
She gained the hall—she endeavoured to enter the parlour to procure her bonnet: but the door was closed—and she now remembered that the elder Miss Theobald had taken the key with her when they had all quitted that room for the night.
But we have already said that Agnes cared not for the bonnet;—and without bestowing a second thought on the matter, she approached the front-door. Alas! there was a more serious disappointment still—the key of that door had likewise been taken up stairs.
An expression of bitter vexation passed over the pale countenance of the maiden—an expression more bitter than that beauteous countenance had ever before worn: but, in another instant, it was succeeded by something like a gleam of hope and joy,—for Agnes bethought her that there was a yard at the back of the house—she had seen it, in the moonlight, from her bed-room window—and there might be a means of egress in that direction.
Cautiously descending the stairs leading into the kitchens, which were below the level of the street, she hastened to the back-door, which, to her joy, proved only to be bolted.
Oh! now she would escape—she would escape, even if she were forced to climb a wall and enter the enclosure belonging to a neighbouring house: for, with the excitement occasioned by her present proceedings, the panic influence which urged her on acquired fresh power every moment.
Extinguishing the light, she left the candlestick in the house, and then emerged into the yard.
The fresh air, as it fanned her face, seemed to breathe whispering promises of freedom, and gave her renewed courage.
The moon was shining gloriously; and as she cast a glance of rapid survey around, she beheld the backs of the dilapidated houses the fronts of which had struck her with such sinister effect when she first entered Stamford Street, in the hackney-coach, in the evening.
There was no mode of egress from the yard save by scaling the boundary walls, which were low on either side.
Not an instant did Agnes hesitate: the fittings of a water-butt served as a ladder for her delicate feet;—and, behold! the sylph-like form of the maiden passes nimbly and lightly over the wall, into the yard belonging to the ruined house next door: for it strikes her that egress by means of an uninhabited building must be certain beyond all risk or doubt.
The moon-light streams, with silvery rays, upon the sombre walls—the dark window-frames, with the blackened fragments of glass remaining in them—the back-door hanging crazily and loosely on its hinges—and the rust-eaten bars of the back-kitchen window. The yard is overgrown with rank grass, reaching above the ankles; and the ground is ragged and uneven—the chances of tripping being moreover multiplied by the brick-bats and the broken bottles scattered about.
The ruined aspect of the house and the long-neglected condition of the yard, or small garden as it once was, behind the building, constituted a scene of desolation, and conveyed an impression of utter loneliness to the mind of the young lady that made her shrink back for a moment as she placed her hand on the rusty latch of the crazy door leading into the lower premises. And seemed she not the sprite of some maiden who had been foully dealt with in that gloomy, tomb-like place, and whose unquiet ghost came to haunt the scene where her blood had been ruthlessly spilt and her mortal remains lay concealed in unconsecrated ground? Yes—such she indeed appeared, with her ashy pale face—her white dress, rendered whiter still by the moonbeams that played upon it—and her long dark hair which, having become loosened in the act of scaling the wall, now flowed all wildly and dishevelled over her shoulders!
We said that she hesitated for a moment to push her way into the dark and ruined building, wrapped as it was in sepulchral silence: but the dominant influence which had hitherto impelled her, asserted its empire once again; and, thrusting open the door, which was by no means a difficult matter—she entered the dilapidated house.
A chill struck to her heart and a vague terror seized upon her, as she now plunged, as it were, out of the pure moonlight into the utter darkness of those premises: but, subduing her fears, she advanced a few paces, with her arms extended so as to grope for the stairs.
Her right hand encountered the bannisters, which were loose and crazy, and raised a rattling noise as she grasped them: no longer alarmed, however, but feeling that the means of escape were gained, she was about to ascend the steps, when a door suddenly opened immediately in front of her—a light appeared—and the rays of the candle thus abruptly thrust forth revealed a countenance so hideous—so monster-like, that for a few moments Agnes stood transfixed in speechless horror—stupified—paralysed—motionless as a marble statue.
And glaring with horror also, were the eyeballs whose rivetted looks met her own: then a loud, hoarse, and affrighted voice exclaimed, “The ghost! the ghost!”—and the light, dropping suddenly on the ground, was immediately extinguished.
A piercing shriek burst from the lips of Agnes; and she fell senseless at the foot of the stairs.
CHAPTER CLXXV.
THE HAUNTED HOUSE IN STAMFORD STREET.
We must now carry our narrative backward for a few hours, in order to explain the incident which has just been described.
At the corner of Stamford Street and the Blackfriars Road, there are three houses in a most dismantled and dilapidated condition. They seem to have been ravaged by fire; but time and neglect have in reality produced that deplorable appearance. The walls are blackened with accumulated dirt; and the state of the windows bears unequivocal evidence to the fact that every pane has been broken, individually and separately, by stones flung from the streets by vagabond boys or other mischievous persons. The fragments of glass that remain, seem as if the material never could have been transparent, but had even in its manufacture been stained with an inky dye; and the shutters wherewith the casements are closed inside, are equally blackened, as if by a smoke as dense as that which proceeds from the funnel of a steam-packet or the chimney of a factory.
For the last twenty years have these three houses been thus left to fall into ruin: for the fifth part of a century has the work of dilapidation and decay been going on! That they were once habited is evident from the fact that the blinds, pulled up round their rollers, still remain—but so begrimed with black dust and dirt that it is scarcely possible to believe they were ever white. The cords used to pull them down, with the tassels at the end, are likewise still there, and totally discoloured also. Very mournful is the aspect of those ruined tenements, with these indications that they once were comfortable dwellings,—that cheerful fires once burnt in the grates—that lights streamed from the casements in years gone by—and that the walls echoed to the gay pealing laughter of merry children!
Desolate—desolate, indeed, are the three houses,—a disfigurement to the entire vicinity, and having an appearance well calculated to throw a damp upon the spirits even of the most strong-minded of the neighbours.
There is something picturesque in the aspect which ruins in the open country—perhaps on the summit of a hill—assume from gradual decay; because there the ivy grows upon the walls, and the naked hideousness of dilapidation is concealed by the invasion of a wilderness of shrubs and sweets. But when the golden rays of a summer sun pour upon the blackened walls and shattered casements of houses in the midst of a populous city,—houses which have dwelling-places adjoining them and all around,—the effect is sombre, sad, and sinister in the extreme.
Such is the impression produced by those three houses in Stamford-street. Not that the street itself is otherwise cheerful in aspect: on the contrary, the entire thoroughfare stretching between the Blackfriars and Waterloo Roads, is gloomy and inhospitable in aspect. The exterior of the houses has a dinginess of wall and a darkness of window that are unrelieved by the aristocratic grandeur and the richness of curtains inside, which characterise the rows of smoke-dyed dwellings in more fashionable quarters.
The inhabitants of Stamford Street are amazingly prone to the letting of lodgings, when they can find any persons willing to take them. But that such pliant and easily-persuaded tenants are rare in that quarter, is proved to demonstration by the numbers of cards and bills in the windows announcing furnished apartments to let.
It is a curious study, and one that affords matter for speculation, to examine the cards and bills thus displayed. Some are written in a neat feminine hand, so small that the passer-by must protrude his head far over the railings to enable his vision to decipher the delicate announcements: others are penned in a bold, coarse hand—and, in them, the chances are ten to one that the word let is spelt with a double t;—while others, again, are printed in the types which the experienced eye has no difficulty in tracing to Peel’s famed establishment in the New Cut.
More than half of Stamford Street constantly appears to let; and, from all accounts, landlords experience no trifling difficulty in collecting the rents from the occupants of their houses. If you pass along Stamford Street just before quarter-day, and at a very early hour in the morning, or at a late hour in the night, you will be sure to perceive several vans loading with furniture; for the habit of “moon-shining it,” or flitting surreptitiously, is unfortunately of frequent occurrence in that district.
But these are not the only indications that the affairs of the inhabitants and lodgers in Stamford Street are far from being in the most blooming condition: the fact may also be gathered from the careworn countenance of the tax-gatherer as he leaves a fresh notice at every door, and from the common occurrence of the water being cut off. Nor less does the Poor Rates’ collector feel his task to be a most unpleasant one; while the tradesmen in the Blackfriars Road wonder, as they look over their ledgers, what the deuce Stamford Street is coming to. Visitors are frequently answered from the area—an unmistakeable precaution against the intrusion of sheriff’s officers; and even when the butcher delivers in his meat or the baker his bread at the front door, the chain is in many instances kept up.
Such is the prevalent state of affairs in the long thoroughfare which we have thus briefly described: but it is with the dilapidated houses—or rather with one of them—that we have now to occupy ourselves.
As soon as it was dusk, two men emerged from the miserable rookery constituted by the district of Broad Wall; and, entering Stamford Street, they proceeded stealthily along until they reached the ruined house which was next to the dwelling of the Misses Theobald. One of the men—a tall, stout, ruffian-like fellow, whom we shall presently describe more particularly—took a key from his pocket and opened the door of the dilapidated tenement, into which he hastily entered, his companion closely following him. We should however observe that this ingress was effected at a moment when no other persons were near; and that the door was opened and shut in a noiseless manner, so that no sound might reach the ears of the occupants of the adjacent dwelling.
“Now give us your hand, old feller,” said the ruffian-like individual, when they were safe inside the passage: “because the stairs is summut broke away, and the bannisters isn’t to be trusted. Lord! how you tremble! Why—what the hell are you afeard on?”
“Nothing—nothing, my good friend,” was the answer, delivered in a nervous tone: “only—it’s—it’s—so—very—very—dark.”
“Dark!” cried the ruffian, with a hoarse laugh: “why, it wery often is dark in a house at night-time, and where there’s no candle alight. But p’raps you’re afeard of ghosteses,” he continued, as he dragged rather than led the nervous old man down the crazy, rotting stairs towards the lower region of the place: “and if so, you’re in the right quarters to see a speret—for they do say the young gal which was murdered here, walks in her shroud;—but, for my part, I never see her—and I han’t got no fear of that sort.”
By the time these words were uttered, in a tone of coarse jocularity, the ruffian had conducted his companion to the bottom of the stairs; and, halting at that point, he struck a lucifer-match against the wall, and lighted a piece of candle which he took from his pocket.
He then led the way into the front kitchen of the house, bidding the old man close the door behind him.
The place was black all over with accumulated dust and dirt: the ceiling appeared as if it had been originally painted a sable hue; and the floor, broken in several parts, conveyed the same impression. The shelves above the dresser were in a most dilapidated condition; and the dense cob-webs clung to them, as well as to the corners of the ceiling, like masses of rotten rags. The shutters were closed; and over their entire surface were pasted sheets of thick brown paper—evidently to prevent the light of candles from peeping through their chinks and being noticed in the street. There was an old ricketty table in the middle of the kitchen: there were likewise two chairs, which, being made of a tough wood, had withstood the ravages of time; and an empty beer-barrel was placed upright near the table, as if it occasionally served as a third seat.
The ruffian stuck the candle in the neck of a bottle; and, opening one of the dresser-drawers, he drew forth a bottle and a couple of small tumblers:—then, placing himself on the barrel, he proceeded in a leisurely manner to light his pipe, while the old man—his companion—sank, nervous and trembling, into one of the Windsor-chairs.
The reader has no doubt already guessed that these two individuals were Vitriol Bob and Torrens;—and, if so, the surmise is correct.
The latter person needs no description; but the former character must be more elaborately dealt with on the present occasion. He was indeed, as Jack Rily had represented him, one of the greatest miscreants that ever disgraced humanity,—not only in reality, but also in personal appearance. Of tall stature, athletic frame, and muscular build, he possessed vast physical strength. He was about thirty-six years of age: his countenance was naturally ugly even to repulsiveness—but huge black whiskers meeting under his chin, rendered it positively ferocious;—and the small, dark, reptile-like eyes glared from beneath thick, overhanging brows. His lips were remarkably coarse and of a livid hue; and his nose, broken in the middle, had a deep indentation, giving an appearance of death’s-head flatness to the broad countenance. His apparel consisted of a seedy suit of black—a hat with very wide brims bent even to slouching—and a pair of heavy Wellington boots; and in his hand he carried a thick stick with a huge nob at one end and a massive ferrule at the other. This was his “life-preserver;” but he seldom had occasion to use it—for his proceedings were usually of the savage and diabolical nature described by the Doctor, and whence he derived the appellation of Vitriol Bob.
This terrible individual was well known to the police: but those functionaries trembled at the idea of molesting him. They would have experienced no such dread had his defensive weapons been confined to life-preservers or pistols: but there was something so horrible in the thought of having a bottle of burning, blinding fluid broken over the countenance, that the officers shuddered at the bare idea of tackling Vitriol Bob. Thus, whenever information was given of some nefarious deed which he had attempted or perpetrated, the police took very good care to search for him where they knew he was not to be found; and if they even met him in one of the bye-streets or obscure alleys on the Surrey side of the metropolis—the quarter which he chiefly honoured with his presence—they were suddenly seized with an inclination to look stedfastly into a picture-shop, or gaze up abstractedly at the sky, until he had passed.
Vitriol Bob knew that he was an object of terror to the functionaries of justice in general: but he was also well aware that there were exceptions to the rule, and that amongst so large a body as the police-force, some few individuals would pounce upon him at all risks. In fact, the impunity he enjoyed was not so completely assured as to render precaution unnecessary; and there was moreover such a thing as being taken by surprise. For these reasons he accordingly made use of one of the “haunted houses,”—for so they were denominated,—as a place of concealment whenever he had committed a deed calculated to lead to the institution of unpleasant enquiries.
Such was the individual whom we now find in company with Torrens; and the circumstance that threw them together in the first instance, will presently transpire through the medium of the conversation that took place as soon as they were seated in the kitchen of the haunted house.
“Well, here we are safe at last, old feller,” cried Vitriol Bob, puffing deliberately at his pipe, as if he savoured deliciously the soothing influences of the tobacco. “By goles! it is one of the best larks I ever was engaged in. Such a lot of tin, and so easily got!”
“Two thousand seven hundred a piece—eh?” said Torrens, eyeing his companion with nervous suspense, as if he were eager to assure himself that a fair and equitable division of the booty would take place.
“Hah!” observed the ruffian, in a complacent manner, as he filled the two tumblers with brandy from the black bottle: “drink!”—and he emptied one of the glasses at a draught, just as if it were a mere thimble-full of the fiery liquid. “It was a good job, old feller,” he continued, after a short pause, “that you fell in with such a prime chap as I am—or rayther, it was fortnit that I lodged in the same house, and as I came in heard you moaning and groaning away in your cellar. It was also lucky that you let me worm out of you all that had happened—although you was precious chary of making a confidant of me. You remember that I couldn’t believe you at fust—I looked on you as a perfect madman. Thinks I to myself, ‘There’s a precious lu-nattic just ’scaped out of Bedlam:’ for how was I to fancy that you’d raly been robbed of such an amount, living in a cellar as you was!”
“But you believed me at last—you saw that it was all true and correct,” exclaimed Torrens, perceiving that it suited the man’s humour to talk on the subject.
“Well, I did,” returned Vitriol Bob: “and now,” he added, tapping his breeches pockets significantly, “I have got plenty of proof that you didn’t tell no lies. But, Lord bless ye! you could have done nothink without me: you would have sat down quietly under your loss. But I told you that I’d find the old voman out, if so be she was in London at all; and so I did. The description you gave me of her was not to be mistaken—’specially by a genelman of eggs-sperience like myself. I went about all over London, looking for her; and then, behold ye! arter all she’s living within a stone’s throw of us, as one may say. By goles! I never shall forget how my heart jumped in my buzzim when I clapped eyes on her yesterday, as she came out of the coffee-house: but you don’t know how I found out that she actiwaliy lived there?”
“No—I do not,” said Torrens, observing that his companion bent upon him a look of mysterious importance, as much as to invite a query that should furnish him with the opportunity of giving an explanation relative to the point alluded to. “How did it happen, then?”
“Why, when I see the old voman come out of the coffee-house, I went straight away to my blewen—that’s Pig-faced Polly, as she’s called—and I tells her to go to the place, take tea and toast, and wait till she found out whether the old voman lived there, or not. But I orders Polly not to make inquiries, for fear of eggs-citing suspicion. Well, my gal did as I told her—and waited, and waited a good long time; and when she’d had three teas and four or five buttered toastesses, she see the old voman come in, and she hears the landlady come out and say, ‘Here’s your key, Mrs. Mortimer.’ Then up goes Mrs. Mortimer—for such her name seems to be—to her room; and Pig-faced Poll returns to me with the hintelligence. I knowed that my game was now safe enough; and it was me which dewised the plan of our going as officers with a search-warrant, when we’d watched the old voman leave the coffee-house this morning.”
“Yes—yes: I know that you did it all,” said Torrens, terribly alarmed lest he who experienced the lion’s share of the trouble, should now claim the lion’s share of the booty. “But how long shall we be obliged to remain here? I am in a hurry to get away—with my share—my fair share of my own money——”
“Your own money, indeed!” ejaculated Vitriol Bob, with a chuckling laugh. “Was it your’n when Mother Mortimer had it safe in her own box? And I should just like to know how you fust come by it? Not honestly, I’ll swear, old feller. Such a seedy-looking cove, living in such a way as you was, couldn’t have got near upon six thousand pound by wot’s called legitimate means. But that’s neether here nor there: I don’t care two figs how you got the tin—and if I ask no questions, I shan’t have no lies told me. Von thing is wery certain—that I’ve got it now.”
“But—but—you surely—my dear friend—you—” stammered Torrens, absolutely aghast at the idea, of still remaining a beggar.
“Come, let’s have no more of this drivelling nonsense,” interrupted Vitriol Bob, in a tone of unmitigated contempt: then, as he refilled and relighted his pipe, be observed, “Why, you have been in a fidget and a stew all day, ever since we secured the swag at the coffee-house. Don’t you see, my dear feller, that people in our sitiwations must act with somethink like common prudence? The old voman may rouse hell’s delight about her loss; and that was why I thought we’d better keep ourselves scarce for a time. So I made you stay close with me at the flash lodging-ken in the Mint all the arternoon till it was dusk; and then I brought you here. And here,” added Vitriol Bob, “we are safe enow: ’cos only Pig-faced Poll, Jack Rily, and one or two others of my pals knows anythink about this place being my haunt when I’m afeard of getting into trouble;—and there’s no danger of them splitting on us. So far from that, the Pig-faced will be sure to come here presently, when she finds I don’t wisit her own quarters this evening; and she’ll bring a basket of prog along with her—so that we shall have a jolly good supper in due time. Drink, old feller!”
Thus speaking, the ruffian refilled his own tumbler, and pushed the brandy bottle across the dirty table to Torrens, who did not, however, touch it—for his glass was only half emptied; and he experienced such lively sensations of alarm, that he felt as if his brain were reeling and his intellects were leaving him.
There he was—a feeble, helpless, weak old man, entirely in the power of an individual whom he knew to be of the most desperate character, but with whom he had joined in companionship only through the hope of recovering at least one-half of that treasure to gain which, in the first instance, he had imbrued his hands in blood. There he was—alone with that miscreant, in a place the aspect of which was sufficient to fill his attenuated soul with the gloomiest thoughts and the most melancholy forebodings,—alone with a demon in human shape, in a ruined and desolate tenement, to augment the cheerless influence of which superstition had lent its aid,—alone with a very fiend, in a haunt the ominous features of which were dimly shadowed forth and rendered more hideous by the dull, glimmering light of the solitary candle with its long wick and its sickly flame.
“Well—what are you thinking of?—and why don’t you drink?” were the words which, suddenly falling on the old man’s ears after a pause, awoke him as it were from a lethargy—a lethargy, however, in which the mind had been painfully active, though the body was motionless—petrified!
“I—I—was wondering how long we should have to remain here,” stammered Torrens, starting as if shaken by a strong spasm or moved by an electric shock.
“I asked you the question just now—and—and you did not give me a reply.”
“Well—it all depends, my fine feller,” answered Vitriol Bob. “Three or four days, perhaps——”
“Three or four days!” almost shrieked Torrens. “I shall die if I linger so long in this horrible place!”
“Die, indeed!” ejaculated the ruffian, in a contemptuous tone. “Why, Lord bless you—I’ve stayed here for three veeks at a time, afore now—without ever budging out. Not be able to linger, as you call it, in this comfortable crib—smoke and drink all day long—or drink only, if you don’t like smoking—and sleep in one of them Windsor-cheers as cozie as a bug in a rug! Besides, won’t you have me for a companion——”
“No—no: I can not—will not endure it!” exclaimed Torrens, starting up from his chair,—his countenance hideous with its workings—his nerves strung to the most painful state of tension—and a thousand frightful thoughts rushing in, with the speed and fury of a torrent, upon his appalled soul.
“Hold your cursed jaw, you fool!” growled Vitriol Bob, in a tone of sudden rage: “you will be heard in the street—and——”
“I care not!” screamed Torrens, louder than before. “Give me my share of the money—let me depart——”
“Be quiet, I say!” spoke the ruffian, in a still more irritated voice, while he sprang from his seat on the barrel; “or I shall do you a mischief.”
“I care not!” again cried Torrens—and again his tone grew still more piercing and shriekingly hysterical; for he was wrought up to a state of utter despair. “Give me my money, I say—give me——”
“Fool—be still!” exclaimed Vitriol Bob, rushing round the table, and grasping the old man by the throat.
But Torrens, inspired with a sudden strength that astonished the ruffian, broke away from his gripe, and rushed towards the door, crying “Murder—murder!”
“Damnation!” thundered Bob; and bounding after him, he sprang upon the old man with the fury and the force of a tiger.
“Murder!” again yelled the affrighted, desperate Torrens: but in another instant he was dashed violently against the wall.
A moan succeeded his agonising cry—and he fell heavily upon the floor. Vitriol Bob then jumped upon him—and the attenuated form of the wretched old man writhed beneath the heavy feet of the murderous ruffian.
There was a faint and stifling appeal for “Mercy! mercy!”—but the miscreant silenced it with a ferocious stamp of his heel on the mouth of the dying man;—and in a few moments all was over!
Vitriol Bob was now alone, in the gloomy, cheerless place, with the crushed and disfigured corpse of him whom he had literally trampled to death.
But scarcely was the deed accomplished, when a noise, as of gravel thrown from the street against the kitchen window, fell upon the ears of the murderer, whose countenance instantly expanded into an expression of grim delight at the well-known signal.
“Here’s Pig-faced Poll!” he exclaimed hastily: and then he paused to listen again.
At the expiration of about a minute the signal was repeated; and Vitriol Bob, no longer harbouring the slightest doubt, hurried up the stairs to open the street-door.
CHAPTER CLXXVI.
SCENES IN THE HAUNTED HOUSE.
At five-and-twenty minutes past ten, on this eventful night, Mrs. Mortimer entered the narrow lane leading from the Blackfriars Road into Collingwood Street.
We have already stated that she had persuaded herself into a belief of Jack Rily’s fidelity towards his partner or pal in any enterprise: nevertheless, she could not help wishing that the business in hand was over—and she mentally exclaimed more than once, as she threaded the lane, “Would that to-morrow morning were come!” But she had such a powerful inducement to proceed in the affair at any risk, that the idea of retreating was discarded each time it faintly suggested itself; and when Jack Rily made his appearance, punctually to an instant, she felt her courage worked up to such a pitch that it was difficult to decide whether it arose from entire confidence or utter desperation.
“So, here you are, my fine old tiger-cat,” said the doctor, grasping her hand, with a force that might have been very friendly, but was not the less painful on that account. “I thought you would not flinch: indeed, I made sure you’d come to the scratch.”
“What have I to be afraid of—since you are so sure of being able to overpower the wretch whom you call Vitriol Bob!” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, in a firm tone. “I have already told you that I will undertake to manage the villain Torrens.”
“I long to see you grapple with him,” returned the doctor. “But we must not waste time in idle observations. Listen, my good lady, to our plan of proceeding. Vitriol Bob has a female acquaintance called Molly Calvert—or, in more familiar terms, Pig-faced Poll. This young woman knows his haunt—knows also the signals necessary to induce him to open the door. Besides, whenever he’s missing, she goes straight there, with a basket of provisions and what not—because she naturally suspects that he has done something queer and has found it convenient to make himself scarce. Well—you must be Pig-faced Poll for the nonce——”
“I understand you,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer. “It is for me to give the signal and obtain admission——”
“Just so, my dear madam—and for us both—because if ever Molly Calvert and I go there together, it’s always the young woman herself who whispers a word of assurance to Vitriol Bob when he opens the door.”
“But suppose that the young woman you speak of, has already repaired to the robber’s haunt—suppose that she is already with him——”
“Now don’t take Jack Rily for an arrant fool!” said the ruffian; and, dark though it were in the narrow lane where this colloquy took place, Mrs. Mortimer could see the huge white teeth of her companion gleaming through the opening of his horrid hare-lip. “I know what I am about,” he continued. “Lord bless you! do you think I have been idle since I saw you this morning? No such thing! I went straight away to Molly Calvert, and made her send out for a bottle of gin. She is uncommonly fond of blue ruin—particularly when she drinks at another person’s expense; and as she drank this afternoon at mine, she did not spare it. In a word, I left her in such a helpless state of intoxication, that if she moves off her bed before two or three o’clock in the morning, then tell Jack Rily he is a fool and incapable of managing any business whatsoever.”
“I give you all possible credit for sagacity and forethought,” said Mrs. Mortimer, purposely flattering the ruffian. “Well, then, the young woman you speak of is placed in a condition which will render her incapable of interfering with our proceedings; and I must personate her for a moment or two, just to obtain admission into the home.”
“Personate her is scarcely the term, my dear madam,” answered Jack Rily: “because if Vitriol Bob only caught a glimpse of you by the neighbouring lamp-light, he would know deuced well that it was not the Pig-faced who sought admission. But it is a mere matter of vocal stratagem, if you understand me.”
“Speak plainly and briefly,” said Mrs. Mortimer, with some degree of sharpness in her tone.
“I will put it all into a nut-shell,” responded Jack Rily: then, with rapid utterance but impressive enunciation, he continued:—“The first signal is made by throwing a little gravel at a certain window; but, as that might be accidental, it is necessary to repeat it at the expiration of a minute or so. In a few seconds afterwards Vitriol Bob will open the front door as far as the chain inside will permit—and that is barely an inch: you must then immediately whisper, ‘It’s me and the Doctor,’ and the door will be instantly opened wide, Bob standing behind it. You pass rapidly in—and I’m at your heels; and as the passage and the stairs leading down to the kitchen are as dark as pitch, he won’t observe that it is not Molly Calvert whom he has admitted into the house. Now, mind, you must walk straight along the passage, and gain the stairs—and all this without any hesitation, but with an apparent knowledge of the premises. Go rapidly down the stairs, and you will then see a light straight before you. That will be in the front kitchen—and there you are certain to find Torrens. Spring upon him—tackle him desperately: there will not be a minute to lose—because the moment you appear in his presence, he will recognise you—he will utter a cry—and that must be the signal for the fight. Vitriol Bob will be just behind me—and——”
“You will assail him at the instant that I pounce upon Torrens?” said the old woman, with a bitter malignity in her tone, as she already gloated in anticipation upon the vengeance which she hoped to wreak upon her husband.
“Perform your part, ma’am—do all I have told you,” observed Jack Rily; “and leave the rest to me. And now are you ready?”
“Quite,” was the reply. “In which direction do we proceed?”
“The house is in Stamford Street,” answered the Doctor. “But you had now better follow me at a short distance.”
With these words, the man turned round, and proceeded along the narrow lane into the Blackfriars Road, up which he wended his way until he reached the corner of Stamford Street, where he looked back to satisfy himself that Mrs. Mortimer was in his track. He beheld her, by the light of the lamps, at a short distance behind; and, turning into Stamford Street, he was duly followed by her. Halting for a moment, he stooped down, gathered a few small pebbles from the side of the road joining the kerb-stone, and threw them at a window in the area of the dilapidated house which stood third from the corner. He then walked on a few paces, picked up some more little stones and hard crusted dirt, and turning back, met Mrs. Mortimer just opposite the house alluded to. The second volley was discharged at the window; and then they both stationed themselves at the door of the tenement, Mrs. Mortimer being placed in the most convenient position to give an answer to any summons that might issue from within.
The door was opened an inch or two; and the old woman, feigning the tone of a younger female, whispered hastily, “It’s me and the Doctor.” Thereupon the chain fell inside, and the door was opened half-way, Vitriol Bob standing behind it.
Mrs. Mortimer passed hastily in, followed by Jack Rily; and Vitriol Bob, closing the door noiselessly, readjusted the chain.
“Take care, Poll,” he said, in a hoarse and low tone: “don’t be in such a devil of a hurry to get down them stairs—’cos there’s somethink in the door-way of the kitchen that you might stumble over.”
“What is it, Bob?” demanded Jack Rily, hastily; for inasmuch as the real truth flashed to his mind in an instant, he feared lest Mrs. Mortimer should likewise suspect the fact, and, being thrown off her guard, betray herself by some sudden exclamation.
“What is it?—why, a stiff ’un,” responded Vitriol Bob, with a chuckling laugh which sounded horribly in the midst of the total darkness that prevailed in the passage and on the stairs. “I s’pose Poll has let you into the business, since you’ve come along with her,” continued the man; “and though I don’t see what right she had to tell you anythink about it, I ain’t sorry you have come—’cos you can help me to bury the old feller, and you shall have your reglars.”
Mrs. Mortimer now fully comprehended that Torrens had been murdered; and an appalling dread seized upon her—for she felt that she was completely in the power of two diabolical ruffians, who were as capable of assassinating her as one had already been to make away with her husband.
A faintness came over her—and she staggered against the wall for support; when Jack Rily, in answer to Vitriol Bob’s last observations, said, “Oh! Poll didn’t tell me a single word about any business that you had in hand: but as I met her quite by accident and suspected she was coming here, I forced myself, as one may say, upon her company—for I thought you’d be glad to see an old pal, if you was under a cloud.”
These words instantaneously re-assured Mrs. Mortimer. She comprehended that her confederate had uttered them, too, for that purpose; and it flashed to her mind that he only wanted to get Vitriol Bob down into the lower part of the house in order to make an attack upon him. She accordingly recovered her self-possession, and rapidly groped her way to the bottom of the stairs, when a feeble light, glimmering from the kitchen, showed her a sinister object lying just inside the threshold.
The blood ran cold in her veins: for, much as she had hated Torrens—anxiously as she had longed to be avenged upon him—profoundly as she abhorred the tie that to some degree had linked their fates, she nevertheless felt horrified at the conviction that the murdered man lay there—in her very path!
Nevertheless, she still maintained her courage as well as she could, and, hastily passing the lifeless form, entered the cheerless, gloomy kitchen, which indeed appeared to be the proper haunt for such a miscreant as Vitriol Bob, and the fitting scene for such a tragedy as the one which had been enacted there that night!
In the middle of the kitchen she paused, and listened with breathless suspense.
Jack Rily had just reached the bottom of the stairs leading thither: Vitriol Bob had only just begun to descend them.
“Well, here is indeed a stiff ’un,” exclaimed the former, stopping short in the interval between the foot of the steps and the threshold of the kitchen. “What had he done to you, Bob?—and when did this happen?”
“Wait a moment—and I’ll tell you all about it,” was the reply. “I hope Poll has brought lots of grub—for the business hasn’t taken away my appetite.”
“She has got a basket with her,” said Jack Rily.
At this moment Vitriol Bob reached the bottom of the stairs, when the Doctor sprang upon him with the sudden violence of a savage monster; and the murderer was thrown back on the steps.
“Treachery!” he exclaimed, in a tone resembling the subdued roar of a wild beast irritated by its keeper; and the two men were locked in a close embrace—a deadly struggle immediately commencing.
A mortal terror struck to the heart of Mrs. Mortimer, who knew full well that if her confederate should succumb, her own life would not be worth a moment’s purchase; and for upwards of a minute she stood rivetted to the spot, listening to the sounds of the conflict which she could not see.
Suddenly it struck her that she might aid her companion; and, taking from beneath her shawl a coil of rope with which she had intended to bind Torrens, whom she had made certain of subduing, she rushed to the scene of the struggle.
The gleam of light that reached that place, was sufficient, feeble though it were, to show her that Vitriol Bob had the advantage. He had succeeded in getting uppermost; and Jack Rily was struggling desperately underneath the man whose strength he had miscalculated. The conflict was thus progressing, accompanied by deep, low, but bitter execrations, when Mrs. Mortimer, whom a sense of danger suddenly restored to complete self-possession, threw a noose round Vitriol Bob’s neck, and instantly drew it tight,—exclaiming, as she performed this rapid and well-executed feat, “Courage, Rily,—courage: grasp him firmly—loosen not your hold!”
“Damnation!” ejaculated Vitriol Bob, the moment he felt the cord upon his neck and heard a strange female voice,—at the same time making a desperate—nay, almost superhuman effort to tear himself away from his foe and turn round on his new enemy.
But the woman drew the cord as tight as she could, and a sense of faintness came suddenly over the murderer,—so that Jack Rily was in another instant enabled to get uppermost once more.
“Tie his legs, old lady—and then we’ve nothing more to fear!” cried he, as he placed one knee on Vitriol Bob’s chest, and held the vanquished ruffian’s wrists firmly with the iron grasp of his sinewy hands. “Now, keep quiet, old fellow—or you’ll be strangled,” he continued, addressing himself to the wretch whose eyes glared savagely up at him even amidst the obscurity of the place: “It’s useless to resist—you are my prisoner,—and if it’s necessary to make you safer still, I’ll draw my clasp-knife across your throat—which I should be sorry to do, on account of old acquaintanceship.”
“What—what have I done to you—Jack—to—to deserve this?” gasped Vitriol Bob, half strangled with the noose, which, however, was now somewhat relaxed in consequence of Mrs. Mortimer being occupied in tying the other end of the rope round his ankles—a task which she performed with amazing skill and rapidity, and which, in consequence of Rily’s menaces, the vanquished one did not think it prudent to resist.
“I’ll tell you presently what you have done, Bob,” said the Doctor, in answer to the other’s query. “Now that you are bound neck and heels, you are not very formidable: nevertheless, I must just make your arms secure—and then we’ll hold a parley. Here, old lady—put your hand in the pocket on the right side of my coat, and give me out the cord you’ll find there. That’s right! Come—be steady, Bob—or I shall do you a mischief yet.”
The conqueror then proceeded to bind the wrists of the vanquished; and when this was done, he said, “Now, my fine fellow, I will just carry you into the kitchen; and if there is any brandy there, you shall have a drop to wash the dust out of your mouth.”
With these words, Jack Rily raised Vitriol Bob in his arms, and bore him into the kitchen, where he placed him on a chair; and the murderer now perceived for the first time that the female who had mainly contributed to his defeat, was the one whom himself and Torrens had robbed.
Jack Rily, on examining the bottle which he found upon the table, discovered that there was plenty of liquor left in it; and, filling a tumbler, he placed it to the lips of Vitriol Bob, who greedily swallowed the contents—for his throat was indeed parched with the dust raised by the late struggle and the semi-strangulation he had endured.
“Now, my hyena friend—my tiger-cat accomplice,” said the Doctor, turning towards Mrs. Mortimer, who, exhausted in mind and body, had sunk into a chair, “you will likewise partake of the stimulant. And mark you, madam,” he added, with deep emphasis, and in a tone that was particularly re-assuring to the old woman, “I owe you my life—and, whatever my intentions concerning you originally were, I can only now say that I’ll do all that’s fair and honourable towards you. But enough of that: so, drink!”
Mrs. Mortimer, greatly delighted at the result of the night’s expedition, smiled as cordially as her repulsive countenance would permit; but Jack Rily surveyed her with much admiration, for she reminded him at the moment of a pleased hyena after a copious meal. His satisfaction was enhanced by the readiness with which she tossed off the burning fluid; and, taking his turn with the brandy, he drank to her health.
“Now to business once more!” he exclaimed, as he set the glass upon the table. “And first, where’s the money, Bob?” he demanded turning towards the helpless ruffian, who sat moody and scowling in the chair in which be had been placed.
“I suppose you mean to let me have my reglars, Jack?” he said, in a tone which he endeavoured to render as conciliatory and agreeable as possible.
“Not a blessed halfpenny, Bob—and that’s flat,” responded the Doctor, as he plunged his hands into the pockets of his prisoner. “Ah! here’s the swag—and a precious heavy parcel it is too!” he exclaimed, after a few moments’ pause, and in a joyous tone. “My dear madam,” continued the villain, handing the brown paper packet to Mrs. Mortimer, “count it over—see that it’s right—and divide its contents equally. You may as well be satisfied at once that I mean to do what is right towards you—and then, may be, you will think seriously of the propriety of our clubbing our fortunes together, and setting up as a gentleman and lady living on our means—that is, you know, as Mr. and Mrs. Rily.”
All the latter portion of this long sentence was lost—entirely lost upon Mrs. Mortimer: for the moment that her hands grasped the brown paper parcel—that parcel which was so significantly weighty—her whole attention was absorbed in the task of examining its contents. She placed it upon the table; and, by the dim flickering light of the miserable candle, she counted the yellow pieces—turned over the soiled notes—and carefully reckoned up the whole,—exclaiming, at the completion of the business, “It is all right, save in respect to a single sovereign, which I dare say the rogues changed and spent directly. Here is your share, Mr. Rily—and I thank you much for your valuable aid.”
“You are the handsomest ogress I ever saw, when you appear gloating over the recovered gold,” said the Doctor. “If I could afford it, I would actually and positively give you my portion just to have the pleasure of contemplating your physiognomy while you fingered it. But perhaps we may have all things in common yet between you and me.”
Thus speaking, the ruffian secured his share of the spoil about his person—an example that was immediately followed by Mrs. Mortimer in respect to her division;—and all the while Vitriol Bob sate looking on with a countenance of the most demoniac ferocity. It was evident that, could the wretch release himself from his bonds, his rage would endow him with a strength calculated to give matters quite another turn: but he was helpless—powerless,—and this consciousness of his enthralled predicament only rendered his hatred the more savage against his successful enemies, and made his longings for revenge the more eager and also the more torturing on account of their unavailing intensity.
“I will now tell you, Bob,” said Jack Rily, turning towards him, “why I have played you this trick—and you will acknowledge that it is only tit for tat. You remember the swell’s crib we broke into at Peckham? Well—you found a bag containing a hundred and twenty sovereigns, in a drawer—and you never mentioned a word about it when we came to divide the plunder.”
“It’s a lie—a damned lie!” ejaculated the villain, ferociously.
“Say that again,” cried the Doctor, his hare-lip becoming absolutely white with rage, while the scar upon his cheek grew crimson,—“and I will cut your throat from ear to ear. How could I invent such a tale? But I saw the advertisement in the papers about the robbery—I read that a bag containing a hundred and twenty pounds in gold was abstracted from a chest of drawers—and I well remembered that you searched those drawers, and afterwards assured me there was nothing in them worth taking. I did not tell you that I had thus become aware of your treachery, because I resolved to be revenged some day or other. That day has now arrived—and you have the consolation of knowing that you have lost thousands in consequence of your beggarly meanness respecting a paltry sixty sovereigns, which was my share of the sum you kept back.”
“Well—’sposing it is all as you say, Jack,” exclaimed Vitriol Bob, assuming a humble and indeed abject tone,—“ain’t you more than even with me to-night? and won’t you let me have my reglars? We shall then be good friends again.”
“I do not mean to give you one farthing of my money—and I know this old lady won’t,” responded the Doctor. “As to our being friends again, I care not whether we become so, or whether we continue enemies. You can’t do me so much harm as I can you, Bob,” added Rily, in an impressive manner, and without a particle of his usual coarse jocularity: “for you have to-night done a deed that, if known, would send you to the scaffold.”
A deadly pallor passed over the countenance of the murderer; and he writhed in his chair with mingled rage and terror.
“Now, my old hyena,” exclaimed the doctor, turning towards Mrs. Mortimer, “I told you that you should have a good opportunity of seeing Vitriol Bob in all his hideousness. Which do you think is the ugliest of the two—he or me?”
And he grinned so horribly with his hare-lip and his gleaming teeth, that the old woman was for an instant appalled by the fiendish, malignant joy that caused his countenance thus to assume so frightful an expression.
“Well—you don’t like to pass an opinion upon the matter,” he said, with a chuckling laugh: “may be you think I am the ugliest of the two, and that it would hurt my feelings to tell me so. Lord bless you, my dear madam—a right down savage, ferocious, revolting ugliness is a splendid subject for admiration to my mind. The uglier people are—provided it’s the right sort of ugliness—the handsomer they are in my eyes. This may seem paradoxical—but it’s the truth; and it’s on that principle I am ready to marry you to-morrow, if you’ll have me. However—think upon it: there’s no hurry for your decision, my dear creature—pardon me for being so familiar. And now I may as well tell you that it was not my original intention to let you have one penny piece of all that swag,” he continued, after a few moments’ pause. “I had purposed to make use of you in obtaining it—and then self-appropriate it; because I didn’t look upon you in the light of a pal with whom it was necessary to keep faith. The moment, however, that you interfered in the struggle just now, the case became suddenly altered: you saved my life—and I wouldn’t harm a hair of your head for all the world. So you are quite welcome to take your departure at once if you will: but I should esteem it a mark of confidence if you’d remain here with me a few hours longer—and I’ll tell you why.”
“Show me a good reason,and I shall not object,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer, knowing that the man, in spite of his conciliatory observations, had the power to enforce, if he chose, what he seemed to ask as a favour.
“I will explain myself,” resumed Jack Rily: then glancing towards Vitriol Bob, he said, “Our friend here must remain in that condition until I can send Pig-faced Poll to release him from his bonds. It would not be worth while to risk another conflict by taking on ourselves the part of liberators. His young woman shall therefore be entrusted with that agreeable duty: but as she is drunk in bed——”
Vitriol Bob uttered a sound resembling the savage but subdued growl of a wild beast.
“As she is drunk in bed,” repeated Jack Rily, with a chuckle, “she won’t be fit to undertake the task until it’s pretty near daylight; and it would not be safe to leave the poor devil alone here for so many hours. I don’t seek his death; but he might fall off his chair, tumble flat on his face, and not be able to right himself—for it’s by no means an easy thing to shift one’s position when bound neck and heels like that. So remain with him I must and will. His company will not, however, prove the most agreeable after all that has occurred betwixt us; and now you can guess why I ask you as a favour to stay with me—say till two o’clock, when we will take our departure and send Poll Calvert, who will be sufficiently sober by that time, to cut his cords.”
“I consent to remain here until two o’clock,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “only——”
And she glanced, with shuddering aversion, towards the door.
“Ah! I understand you, my dear tiger-cat,” exclaimed Jack Rily: “you don’t admire the presence of the stiff ’un there. Lord bless you! if you’d only been my wife when I was a doctor, you would have become familiar enough with articles of that kind—aye, and have thought nothing of shaking hands with a resurrection man. But it’s all habit; and so, since you would feel more comfortable if that bundle over there was moved, I’ll just drag it into the back kitchen—and our friend here will doubtless amuse himself by burying it to-morrow night.”
Having thus delivered himself with characteristic levity, the Doctor rose from the barrel whereon he had been seated, and taking up the candle, proceeded to transfer the dead body of Torrens from the threshold of the door into the back kitchen.
Mrs. Mortimer was now left in the company of the murderer, and in total darkness; and though she knew that he was bound beyond a chance of self-release, yet a cold shudder passed over her frame, as she thought of what would be the consequences were it possible for him to cast off the strong cords that restrained him.
Scarcely had this reflection entered her mine, when a voice—stealing, at it were, like the hiss of an invisible serpent through the utter darkness of the place—smote upon her ear.
“Madam—Mrs. Mortimer—loosen the cord—and I will give you half of what I shall then take from that villain Rily!” were the earnest, hastily uttered words that were thus suddenly whispered by the murderer.
The old woman was so startled that she could make no reply; and in another moment the light reappeared.
She mechanically cast her eyes towards Vitriol Bob; and the returning glimmer fell upon a countenance infuriate with rage, disappointment, and renewed spite;—but she did not think it worth while to mention to the Doctor the treacherous proposal that had been made to her during his temporary absence.
“I have put the corpse in the back kitchen,” said Rily, resuming his seat on the barrel: then, after a few moments’ pause, he observed, “This is the second murder that has been committed in this house.”
“The second!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, suddenly animated with a feeling of morbid curiosity.
“Yes—the second,” repeated Rily. “What! did you never hear how these three houses came to be shut up, and why they are supposed to be haunted?”
“Never,” answered the old woman, her manner convincing the garrulous Mr. John Rily that she had no objection to be enlightened on the subject.
“Well—as it can’t be more than half-past eleven o’clock, and we have two hours and a half to pass away, according to agreement, in this place,” resumed the Doctor, “I don’t mind telling you the whole story. Our friend Bob here has heard it often enough, I dare say: but he will himself admit that it bears telling over and over again.”
Jack Rily paused for a few moments, and then commenced the promised narrative, which we shall, however, put into our own language, the semi-jocular and flippant style of the Doctor not being quite suited for so serious a history.
CHAPTER CLXXVII.
HISTORY OF THE HAUNTED HOUSES IN STAMFORD STREET.
Twenty-five years ago there were not three nicer looking houses in Stamford Street than those which are now so dilapidated and so wretched in appearance both outside and internally. The corner dwelling was inhabited by an old gentleman and his son. Their name was Mitchell; and a handsomer youth than Leonard, who at that period had just completed his twentieth year, was seldom to be met with. But it was not only on account of his prepossessing person, elegant manners, and great talents, that he was a general favourite: it was likewise in consequence of his admirable behaviour towards his father. Mr. Mitchell was for many years a partner in an eminent mercantile firm; but the sudden death of a beloved wife, who had long been suffering with a disease of the heart, and who one evening fell a corpse at her husband’s feet after having appeared gay and cheerful a few minutes previously, produced such an effect upon him that he was thrown on a sick bed, whence he arose at the expiration of several months—palsied in all his limbs! Although he still retained possession of his intellect, yet his spirit appeared to be completely broken, and his energies were crushed. An arrangement was accordingly effected, by virtue of which he withdrew from the firm on condition of receiving four hundred pounds a year for the remainder of his life. These incidents occurred during Leonard’s seventeenth year; and the affectionate youth immediately devoted himself to the duty of rendering his afflicted sire’s existence as pleasing—or rather, as little burthensome as possible. His attentions were unremitting, and yet so delicately administered that the old man was not suffered to feel how completely dependent he was, for solace and comfort, on his only child. When the weather was fine, Leonard invariably had some excuse to induce his father to go out for a walk; and as he supported the arm of that tottering, feeble, trembling parent, he conversed in a gay and unrestrained manner, conjuring up those topics which he knew to be agreeable to the invalid, and never—never exhibiting the least impatience at being thus chained as it were to the side of the sufferer. Of an evening, the young man would read aloud those works which best suited his father’s taste: or he would sit for hours playing at chess—a game of which Mr. Mitchell was particularly fond. When invited to a party, Leonard would at first promise to attend, so that his father might not perceive that he remained away entirely on his account: but the youth was always sure to have a convenient head-ache or to sprain his ankle, or adopt some other ingenious and equally venial little device, in order to have an apology for staying at home. Now and then his father would see through his motive, and insist upon him keeping his engagement,—in which case Leonard was always sure to leave long before the breaking-up of the party; and, on his return home, he would creep noiselessly to his father’s chamber to assure himself, ere he proceeded to his own, that the old man was comfortable and wanted for nothing. In a word, the devotion of this youth to his afflicted sire was such that all who knew him beheld him with mingled admiration and respect: and even the giddiest and most thoughtless young men of his acquaintance could not bring themselves to joke or jeer him for that conduct which, in any other, they would have looked upon as a steadiness and sedateness carried to an extreme.
Next door to the Mitchells—that is to say, in the central of the three houses to which this narrative relates—dwelt Mr. Pomfret, who, by the secession of the paralysed old gentleman, had become the head of the firm, the business premises of which were in the City. Mr. Pomfret was likewise a widower, and likewise possessed an only child. Ellen Pomfret was a year younger than Leonard; and she was as beautiful as he was handsome. They had been acquainted from childhood; and the affection which in its origin was such as exists between a brother and a sister, by natural degrees ripened into a devoted and profoundly-rooted love. In the estimation of all who know them, there was a remarkable fitness in the union of this admirable pair: their style of beauty—their dispositions—their manners—their acquirements, were of a nature to adapt them for each other. They were both tall, slight, and gracefully formed: Ellen’s hair was of a rich brown, scarcely a shade deeper than that of Leonard;—their foreheads were high and intellectual;—their eyes were of deep blue—hers more melting and tender than his, which were animated with the fire of a noble and generous spirit;—and never did man nor woman possess finer teeth than theirs. Both were fond of music and drawing: both were imbued with deep religious feelings, sincere and even enthusiastic—but utterly devoid of bigotry and uncharitableness;—and both loved virtue for its own sake. Faith with them was a delight and an inspiration encouraging fond hopes in respect to this world and confidence in the next,—a religion that knew naught of ascetic gloom, but that seemed to trace life’s pathway amidst love, and perfume, and flowers!
Mrs. Pomfret had died when Ellen was about fourteen; and for the two following years the maiden was blessed with the companionship and counsels of a kind aunt, who, immediately after the decease of her sister, took up her abode in the house. But death snatched her away to the tomb shortly after the sixteenth birth-day of her niece, who was thus left alone as it were with her father. Mr. Pomfret, though a kind and well-meaning man originally, was not a prudent one. He had an over-weening confidence in his commercial abilities and financial foresight; and he was thus led into speculations from which his friends, had he condescended to consult them, would have dissuaded him. Many of these speculations he undertook on his own private account, and independently of the firm of which, as above described, he became the head; and his numerous affairs accordingly kept him much away from home. Ellen was therefore a great deal alone: for maidenly prudence prevented her from calling in next door as often as she could have desired, or as Leonard would have wished to see her. Still she did now and then pass an hour or two with Mr. Mitchell and his son, relieving the latter in his task of reading or his post at the chess-table. The old gentleman was deeply attached to Ellen Pomfret; and the more so, inasmuch as it appeared to be a settled thing that the two families were to be closely united by means of the marriage of the young people. But no day was fixed for this event—nor indeed did the engagement appear to be more than a tacit one; for the reader must remember that at the time when we introduce the hero and heroine of this narrative, the former was only twenty years of age, and the latter nineteen.
The third house to which our present history especially refers, was inhabited by an old bachelor, who at the time alluded to was upwards of sixty. He was a fine man for his age—boasted that he had not yet taken to spectacles—and walked as upright and as rapidly as if he were twenty years younger. His rubicund countenance was the very picture of good-nature: and a very good-natured being he in reality was. But he was whimsical and eccentric to a degree; and, though very rich and proud of his elegantly furnished abode, he seldom invited a grown-up person to cross his threshold—much less to partake of his hospitality. But, on the other hand, he was devotedly attached to children; and his greatest delight was to assemble a dozen or so of his neighbours’ little sons and daughters in his comfortable parlour or handsome drawing-room, and make them all as happy as he could. This was certainly a strange and most unusual predilection for an old bachelor to entertain;—but there are exceptions to all rules—and Mr. Gamble was a living proof of the dogma. He was wont to say that it did his heart good to behold rosy-cheeked, flaxen-haired, laughing-eyed children romping about him,—that it awakened blessed feelings in his soul to hear their merry shouts and witness their innocent mirth,—and that he fancied himself young again when presiding at the table around which he gathered them, and where he dispensed fruit, cake, sweet wine, and comfitures with no niggard hand. Be it understood, then, that—at least to our mind—Mr. Gamble was a most estimable character: for he who is fond of children cannot possibly be a bad man—whereas we have no confidence whatever in the individual who does not experience a lively interest in those endearing, artless little beings. Mr. Gamble did not consider it to be at all derogatory to his nature or his age, to join in the infantile sports which he loved so much to behold; and when the curtains were drawn and the door closed, he would even consent to become an active party to a game of blind-man’s-buff, or allow himself to be converted for the nonce into a horse for the express behoof of some chubby urchin more bold in his requisitions than the rest.
Mr. Gamble was indeed quite a character. He used frequently to declare that he knew nothing more silly than to give dinner-parties. “Friendship is a very queer thing,” he would say, “if it must be shown by my eating at another’s expense, or by him coming to me to eat at mine. I would sooner spend ten pounds upon cakes and oranges for children who really enjoy them, than ten shillings on a repast for a grown-up person, who eats in your presence as if under the influence of a chilling ceremony.” Relative to adults, therefore, Mr. Gamble neither gave nor accepted invitations: but twice or thrice a-week he congregated his little friends around him—and the more they romped, the better he was pleased,—the more noise they made, the higher did his spirits rise. If they injured his furniture, he cared not, provided it was the result of an accident: but if he once discovered a predilection to wilful destructiveness, or if he were made the butt of coarse rudeness instead of the object of innocent merriment, he never again invited the offender to his abode.
Considering that the habits of Mr. Gamble were such as we have taken some little trouble to describe them, it may easily be supposed that the neighbours were not a little astonished when it was rumoured, and ascertained to be a positive fact, that Mr. Pomfret had veritably and actually been invited to dine with that eccentric gentleman. This was alone enough to create an impression that a revolution had taken place in the opinions of the old bachelor: but the wonderment was excessive when it was reported, and likewise discovered to be true, that Mr. Gamble had dined in his turn with Mr. Pomfret. At first it was supposed that the cunning merchant was seeking to ensnare the wealthy bachelor into a marriage with the beautiful Ellen: but when it was remembered that she was engaged to Leonard, and moreover when it was ascertained that she had passed the evening at the Mitchell’s on the occasion of the old bachelor dining with her father, the above-mentioned speculation was instantly discarded. That a revolution had taken place in the habits of Mr. Gamble, was however very certain: for as time wore on, after those first interchanges of civilities between him and Mr. Pomfret, their intimacy appeared to increase, and the parties given by the old bachelor to his juvenile friends grew less frequent. At length not a day passed without an interview occurring between Gamble and Pomfret: they were often closetted together for hours in the evening, when the latter returned home from the City; and the merchant was moreover frequently seen taking bundles of papers and correspondence into the other’s house. It was therefore surmised that they were engaged together in some speculation: but if this were the case, it was kept very quiet—for even Ellen herself could give her lover Leonard no explanation relative to the causes of the intimacy that had sprung up so suddenly between her father and Mr. Gamble.
A conversation which we are about to record, will however throw some light upon the subject. It was about six months after the intimacy had commenced, that Mr. Pomfret returned home from the City at a later hour than usual, and with a countenance so pale and careworn, that he appeared to his affrighted daughter ten years older than when he quitted her in the morning. Ellen anxiously implored him to inform her if anything unpleasant had occurred: but he gave her a sharp reply in the negative—as much as to enjoin her to abstain from questioning him in future. The poor girl turned aside to conceal the tears that gushed from her eyes; and Mr. Pomfret, struck by the sudden conviction that he had behaved most harshly to his amiable daughter, exclaimed, “Forgive me, Ellen: but—to tell you the truth—I have received disagreeable intelligence in the City to-day; and it probably soured my temper for the moment. You are a good girl,” he added, kissing the tearful countenance that was now upturned towards his own; “and I was wrong to speak unkindly to you. But let that pass: I shall have more command over myself another time.”—“Pray do not dwell upon the subject, my dearest father,” said Ellen. “Will you have dinner served up at once?”—“No, my love,” was the answer: “I do not feel in any humour for eating. I meant to say,” he added, hastily, but with some degree of confusion, “I dined in the City to-day. And now I shall just run in and see Mr. Gamble for an hour or two; and you can go and play a game of chess with Mr. Mitchell. I shall return to supper presently: so mind and be home again by half-past nine.”—“You told me the day before yesterday, dear papa,” said Ellen, “that the next time I called on Mr. Mitchell, I was to be sure and ask you for a cheque for the quarter’s income due to him, and which has been standing over for nearly a fortnight.”—“Oh! it does not matter this evening!” ejaculated Mr. Pomfret, impatiently: “besides, I have not time to sit down and fill up a cheque at present,” he added, a sickly expression passing over his countenance, as if his heart were smitten painfully within his breast. Then, without making another observation and in evident haste to avoid further parlance on the subject, the merchant threw on his hat and hurried next door. A sigh escaped from Ellen’s gentle bosom—for she saw that there was some profound grief in the depths of her father’s soul, and, anxious to escape from the distressing thoughts which such a conviction was only too well calculated to engender, she made the greater speed to dress herself for a visit to her neighbours.
We must for the present follow Mr. Pomfret, whom we shall overtake in Mr. Gamble’s back-parlour, which was fitted up as a library, and contained a small but choice collection of books. The old bachelor was discussing some cool claret—for it was in the midst of a hot summer; and the moment the merchant made his appearance, he rang for another glass. Mr. Pomfret sank upon a seat, with the air of a man who is exhausted in mind and body; and when the servant had retired, he fixed his eyes intently on his friend’s countenance, as he said in a low and solemn tone, “Gamble, I have dreadful news for you!”—“For which I am not altogether unprepared,” returned the old bachelor, his countenance becoming serious—if not absolutely severe.—“How? what do you mean?” demanded Pomfret, the gloomy expression of his features giving way to one of profound astonishment.—“I mean,” replied Mr. Gamble, now bending his gaze with unmistakeable sternness on his companion, “that for a week past I have had forced upon my mind the painful conviction that you were deceiving me.”—“Deceiving you!” cried Mr. Pomfret, his cheek blanching, and his tall spare form trembling either with rage or guilt, it was not easy immediately to decide which.—“Yes: deceiving me, and most grossly deceiving me too!” exclaimed Mr. Gamble, striking the table violently with his clenched fist.—Mr. Pomfret fell back in his chair, aghast and speechless, like a man from whose countenance the visor of duplicity has been suddenly torn.—“You doubtless desire an explanation,” resumed Mr. Gamble; “and you shall have it. Six months have elapsed, sir,” he continued, his tone becoming reproachful rather than angry, “since I called at your counting-house in the City to receive the amount of a draught which had been forwarded to me from abroad by a gentleman to whom I advanced a certain sum many years ago, and which I had given up as lost. The sudden and most unexpected recovery of that amount somewhat renewed my confidence in human nature—a confidence not altogether destroyed, but long dormant in my breast. You remember that we began to converse upon commercial topics; and you finally stated that if I did not immediately require the sum I had called to receive, you knew how to lay it out for me in a safe quarter and at good interest. I accepted the proposal;—firstly, because the funds were so high at the moment that I did not choose to buy the money in—secondly, because we were neighbours, and had known each other, to speak to at least, for some years—and thirdly, because I was in a good humour with mankind at the moment. You were pleased, on your side; and when you wrote to me a few days afterwards to state that the money was invested according to the terms settled between us, I resolved to carry my good feeling still farther—and I asked you to dinner. Subsequently you returned the compliment; and I began to think that my long-sustained misanthropy was founded in error. This belief opened my heart still farther towards you: and when I came to know your amiable daughter, I felt convinced that all men and women were not deceivers. Such was the state of my mind—progressing from a morbid to a healthy condition—when you proposed certain speculations to me. I accepted them to a limited extent, and on particular terms. I advanced the moneys you required to carry out your designs; but I adopted the precaution to avoid anything like a partnership. And this I did only as a wise precaution—for I had tutored myself to place the utmost confidence in you. As time wore on, you constantly demanded fresh supplies—and I did not refuse them, so specious were your representations. But by degrees I began to entertain vague suspicions that everything was not as you would have me view it; and I latterly instituted inquiries. A week only has elapsed since I acquired the certainty that the larger portion of the money advanced by me to you was never laid out in the way and for the purposes represented by yourself; but that it has been employed to stop up gaps and supply deficiencies in your deeply-embarrassed establishment!”—“My God! this is but too true!” murmured the miserable Pomfret. “But you will be merciful towards a man who is reduced to despair?”—“I shall not harm you, sir: neither shall I expose you,” returned Mr. Gamble, while the merchant’s countenance somewhat brightened up at this assurance. “Perhaps, indeed,” added the old bachelor, after a slight pause, “I may even save you yet.”—“Save me!” echoed Pomfret. “Oh! no: that is impossible! I am so deeply involved that I owe three times as much as all you are likely to possess.”—“I am not so sure of that, sir,” returned Mr. Gamble, almost in a good-humoured tone: then, immediately resuming his former seriousness of voice, he said “It is not so much the loss of my fourteen thousand pounds that I deplore: but it is that you have changed my habits, and I am not so happy as I was. The dealings that I had with men in my earlier years, made me mistrust them and taught me to look upon them with unvarying suspicion. Therefore was it that when I became rich enough to retire into private life, and more than rich enough for my purposes, I abjured the society of those whom the world had spoilt, and sought the society of those who were too young to be tainted by that world. I withdrew myself from the hot atmosphere breathed by men and women, and joyed in the freshness of the pure air in which frank, merry, artless, and sportive children dwelt. My heart, while closing towards one section of the human race, expanded towards another; and I have loved the infantine race as dearly—oh! as dearly as if I had been the father of a vast family. But when I renewed my intercourse with adults—that is to say, when I was tempted to join your society and that of the two or three gentlemen and ladies whom I have occasionally met at your house—I felt my love for that infantine race diminishing: or rather, their presence afforded me less delight and amusement. It is all this that I deplore; and the result has been that my home now seems lonely, and the time hangs heavily upon my hands. Nay, more: you have been the means of effecting that change in me which has made me selfish: and I feel capable even of sacrificing the happiness of another so long as I can in any way minister unto my own.”—“I do not understand you,” said Pomfret, fearful that these last words implied some vindictive allusion to himself.—“I will explain my meaning,” replied Mr. Gamble. “You tell me that you are so deeply involved that ruin stares you in the face!”—“I am so utterly denuded of resources at this moment,” answered Pomfret, “that I cannot even pay the quarter’s income due to my neighbour and late partner, Mr. Mitchell.”—“And if you fail, that poor paralytic old man will be reduced to beggary?” said Gamble.—Pomfret covered his face with his hands, and groaned aloud.
“Nay, more than all this,” continued the old bachelor, after a long pause, during which he appeared to be sipping his claret complacently, but was in reality reflecting profoundly,—“more than all this, your partners will be utterly ruined; and they will curse you as the fatal cause of their dishonour and their penury. Your daughter, too, will become a portionless girl; and she will moan the follies of her father that reduced her from a state of comparative affluence to a condition of toil for a poor pittance. Lastly, that fine young man, Leonard Mitchell, will hate and abhor you as the individual who has made his father’s last years wretched and intolerable,and deprived the afflicted septuagenarian of the very necessaries of life. All these terrible things, Mr. Pomfret, will be accomplished on the day when your house stops payment”—“I know it, alas! too well!” exclaimed the unhappy, ruined merchant, clasping his hands together in deep agony.—“You are not so old by ten or a dozen years as I am,” continued Mr. Gamble: “and yet it does me harm to see you thus reduced to despair. But let us not waste precious time. What is the amount that will save you from ruin?”—“I dare not name it,” returned Pomfret—“This is foolish,” exclaimed the old bachelor, severely: “come, answer me, or else let our interview terminate at once. Again I demand of you the amount that can prevent all the lamentable occurrences which I just now detailed?”-“Eighty thousand pounds,” was the reply, delivered almost in a fit of desperation.
Mr. Gamble rose, opened his desk, and taking out some Bank securities, directed the merchant’s attention to the sums specified in those documents. “Ninety-five thousand pounds!” cried Pomfret, astonished at these evidences of a wealth far greater than he had supposed the old bachelor to be possessed of—“You perceive,” observed Mr. Gamble, returning the papers to his desk, and resuming his seat,—“you perceive that I am the master of means sufficient to save you from destruction. Indeed, I can spare the sum necessary, and even then have four hundred pounds a year left to live upon.”—“But is it possible that you can even entertain the idea of assisting me to such an extent?” cried Mr. Pomfret, scarcely able to believe his own ears, and trembling lest he was indulging in a hope that had no other existence than in a dream.—“It is quite possible, sir,” responded the old bachelor, piqued that his word should be questioned even for a moment: “and now it all depends upon yourself.”—“Upon myself!” repeated Mr. Pomfret, again surveying his friend with mingled amazement and incredulity—“Yes: upon yourself,” cried Mr. Gamble: “for the amount you require is at your service, provided you consent to accept me as your son-in-law!”—These words were delivered with a solemn seriousness of tone which forbade the suspicion that they were uttered jocularly; and so completely astounded was the merchant that several minutes elapsed before he could make any reply During that interval Mr. Gamble still appeared to sip his claret with calmness: but he was in reality awaiting with no small degree of anxiety the answer that would be given to his proposal.
“But do you love my daughter?” inquired Pomfret at length.—“I have already told you that I begin to feel lonely and cheerless,” replied Mr. Gamble; “and, moreover, I am irresistibly attracted towards Miss Ellen. I may also say that I should feel proud and happy to ensure her an independence: at the same time, I am not endowed with sufficient philanthropy to induce me to save her father from ruin, except on the condition of receiving her as a wife. If my suit be refused, you are ruined; and will it in that case be prudent to permit her to espouse that young Mitchell, who will likewise be reduced to penury? It is clear that if she do not accept my offer, circumstances will effectually interpose a barrier between herself and Leonard; and thus, happen what will, she must renounce all hope of becoming his bride.”—“And with the conviction that she does love Leonard Mitchell, would you accompany her to the altar?” inquired Mr. Pomfret.—“Assuredly,” replied Mr. Gamble. “I have set my mind upon it, and will risk everything. She is young, and a first love is seldom more than a blaze of straw, ardent while it lasts, but speedily exhausted. When she comes to know me well, and to reflect that I have saved her father from ruin and dishonour,—when, too, she perceives all the delicate attentions with which I shall surround her, and the constancy of my endeavour to ensure her happiness,—she will yield to the new influences to which she will be thus subjected; and she will learn to look upon the old man with respect and veneration, with gratitude and kindly feelings, if not with love. The trial may be for the first few weeks severe; and there may be deep regrets following upon the disappointment of the vivid hopes now cherished in her bosom. But, believe me, she will at length succumb to the conviction that her happiness has been better consulted by the course chalked out for her by us, than by that into which the present state of her affections might impel her.”—Pomfret was man of the world enough to know that all this was mere sophistry; though Gamble himself believed that he was arguing on the truest principles: but the merchant was better acquainted than the old bachelor with the female heart. Nevertheless, the temptation was irresistible to the man who hovered upon the verge of ruin: the feelings of the father were sacrificed to the anxieties of the merchant, who saw destruction staring him in the face;—and, grasping Gamble’s hand, he said in a deep, impressive tone, “She is yours!”
In the meantime Ellen Pomfret, little suspecting how her destinies were being disposed of elsewhere, was passing a couple of hours with Mr. Mitchell and Leonard. The young man had noticed, the moment she entered their parlour, that her countenance was pale; and, with the eagle glance of a lover, he likewise discovered that she had been weeping. Burning with impatience to ascertain the cause of her grief, and not choosing to elicit an explanation in the presence of his father, for fear anything might transpire to give the old gentleman pain, as he was much attached to the young maiden, whom he looked upon as his intended daughter-in-law,—Leonard exclaimed, as soon as she had paid her respects to his parent, “You are just in time, Ellen, to help me to tie up a few new plants which I have purchased:”—and, taking her hand, he led her into the little garden at the back of the house. A very little garden it was, too: but Leonard had made the most of the circumscribed space; and he had in reality bought some choice flowers in the morning. It was not however to them that he now directed the lovely girl’s attention; but the moment they stood in the enclosure, he took her hand, saying, “Ellen, dearest, you are unhappy this evening: pray tell me what has annoyed you?”—Miss Pomfret, who was ingenuousness itself, instantly related the scene that had taken place between herself and her father; and the tears again started from her eyes, as she remembered the harsh—almost brutal manner in which he had spoken to her. Leonard hastened to kiss those diamond drops away from the damask cheeks adown which they trickled; and he consoled her by observing that persons in business were liable to those annoyances that occasionally soured the temper and rendered them severe or hasty even to the very beings whom they loved the most. Leonard’s powers of persuasion were omnipotent with Ellen; and she speedily sniffled through her tears. “And now,” continued the young man, “I will give you a piece of intelligence that will, I hope, indemnify you, dearest, for the little vexation you have just experienced. My father has this day received a letter from an influential friend, stating that I may rely upon being nominated to a clerkship in a Government Office in the course of a month or six weeks.”—Ellen expressed her delight at these news; and after the interchange of a few tender sentiments, the nature of which our readers can well divine, the youthful lovers returned to the parlour. There they sate and conversed with the old gentleman until the time-piece on the mantel indicated that it was twenty-five minutes past nine, when Ellen rose and took her departure, Leonard escorting her to the door of the adjoining house, where she dwelt.
Her father had returned about ten minutes previously. The curtains were drawn in the parlour—the lamp was lighted—and the supper was in readiness. The moment she entered the room, the beautiful girl cast an anxious look towards her sire, to gather from his countenance, if possible, whether his mind had become more composed: but she was shocked to perceive that his cheeks were ashy pale, and that a strange, ominous light gleamed in his restless, anxious eyes. She withdrew her gaze instantly, fearful lest he might observe that she noticed his peculiarity of manner and altered appearance; and, making some casual remark, she turned to lay aside her bonnet and also to conceal the tears that again started into her eyes. For Ellen was of an affectionate disposition, and loved her father tenderly, and it touched her heart to the very core to behold the traces of deep, deep care upon his countenance.
“You have seen Leonard this evening, Ellen?” said Mr. Pomfret, in a tone so hollow that it startled her: and she could scarcely compose herself sufficiently to murmur an affirmative.—“And do you love him very, very much?” asked the merchant, after a long pause.—“Oh! my dearest father,” she exclaimed, “you know that I do! Have we not as it were been brought up together from childhood?”—“Yes, yes: it is natural,” said Mr. Pomfret, bitterly: and he walked to the mantel-piece, turning his back towards his daughter, to hide the emotions that swelled his heart almost to bursting. But Ellen caught sight of his agonising countenance in the mirror; and, terribly excited, she sprang towards him and threw her arms around his neck, crying, “Oh! my dearest parent, some dreadful grief oppresses you! May I not share it? Can I not console you? Is there anything that I, poor weak girl that I am, can do to ease you of this load of sorrow?”—“Yes, Ellen,” hastily responded her father, determined to come at once to an explanation with his daughter; for suspense and delay were intolerable. “You can do all, everything for me: my honour in your hands! ’Tis for you also to decide whether we shall be reduced to penury, or remain in affluence—whether that poor palsied old man next door shall continue to enjoy the comforts of life, or be plunged into destitution! In a word, Ellen, my very existence is in your hands; for I will not live to witness all the terrible afflictions that my accursed folly will have entailed upon ourselves, as well as upon others!”—Ellen was so taken by surprise as these alarming revelations burst upon her, that she started back in dismay, and surveyed her sire with a look of such passionate grief, that he himself grew affrighted in his turn; and hastily approaching her, he led her to a seat, saying, “For God’s sake, compose yourself, Ellen: you have need of all your firmness now!”—With a frantic gesture she besought him to keep her no longer in suspense, but to tell her the worst at once.—“I will not torture you, my love,” said the wretched man, standing like a culprit in her presence. “Know, then, that I hover on the brink of ruin. It is not that I think bankruptcy dishonourable: no—the most upright men are liable to misfortune and cannot control adversity. But, were I to fail, as I am now circumstanced, I could not save my name from indelible disgrace, nor my partners and the Mitchells likewise from ruin!”—Speechless with horror and amazement, the young girl gazed fixedly on her father as he spoke.—“But there are still means of saving me and the others also,” he resumed, in a tone so broken that it indicated how difficult and how painful it was for him to give utterance to this prelude to an announcement which he knew must prove terrible indeed.—“And those means?” demanded Ellen, recovering the use of her own voice: for she saw that there was allusion to herself in her father’s words.—“Nerve yourself, my poor girl, to hear something very shocking to your gentle heart,” said Mr. Pomfret.—“I am nerved now,” she replied, her features assuming the settled aspect of despair. “But the means?” she repeated, more impatiently.—“That you renounce Leonard Mitchell, and accept Mr. Gamble as your husband,” said the wretched father, speaking with averted head. A shriek escaped Ellen’s lips—and she started wildly from her seat: then, staggering forward a few paces, she fell into her parent’s arms—not insensible, but sobbing convulsively. She had been prepared for some dreadful tidings: she was not, however, nerved to meet such a frightful destiny as that so suddenly offered to her contemplation;—and she felt as if she must sink under the blow. Mr. Pomfret bore her to the sofa; and, placing himself by her side, said all he could to console her:—no—not all he could—but all he dared;—for he had not courage enough to recall the words that had sealed her fate!
We must, however, draw a veil over this afflicting scene. Suffice it to say that the noble-minded girl eventually came to the determination to sacrifice herself for the sake of her father—yes, and for the sake of the palsied parent of her lover also! There is a crisis in misery that is in reality despair, although it may have the outward appearance of resignation: and this was the condition of the young lady, when she said to her father, “I will not prove a disobedient daughter. I therefore consent to renounce Leonard Mitchell, and to become the wife of him who demands my hand as the price of the succour which he is willing to afford you in this embarrassment.” Mr. Pomfret embraced her with the most unfeigned ardour, and thanked her in the most touching terms for her devotedness; and, strange as it may perhaps appear, Ellen besought him that the sacrifice should be accomplished as speedily as possible. This is, however, invariably the case with a noble heart that resolves upon the immolation of its best affections: the maiden feared lest selfish considerations should arise from delay, to turn her from her purpose;—and she was anxious that her self-martyrdom should be performed heroically and with a good grace. But, oh! in one short hour how changed was her pure soul: how bitter—how intense was now the disappointment that succeeded the golden dream she had cherished;—how stern, and bleak, and cheerless seemed that world on which she had lately looked as on a fair and sunny landscape, fragrant with flowers and beautiful with verdure. Yes—gloomy indeed is the earth, and worthless is existence, when viewed through the same mirror which reflects the heart’s ruined hopes and blighted affections!
But who was to break the news to Leonard Mitchell? Ellen was not equal to that task: indeed, she dared not see him. She felt that if she were to gaze again upon his handsome countenance—if she were to read despair in his eloquent eyes and listen to the passionate accents of his melodious though manly voice, appealing to her against the stern resolve to which circumstances had impelled her,—she felt, we say, that she should yield, and that by so yielding she should fix her parent’s doom. Mr. Pomfret therefore took upon himself the mournful task of imparting to the young man the disappointment that awaited him; and this was done the morning after the incidents which we have just described. The merchant threw himself upon Leonard’s mercy, invoking him by all he deemed sacred not to seek to see his daughter nor dissuade her by letter from her holy purpose of self-devotion. At first the impetuosity of youth rendered the lover deaf to all reason and to all entreaties: but by degrees he appeared to receive a kind of chivalrous inspiration from the heroic example of her whom he adored; and he awoke to the necessity of consenting to that dreadful sacrifice, if only that his sire should not want bread in his helpless old age. He however begged that Mr. Mitchell might be kept in the dark relative to all these occurrences, until Ellen should have become the wife of Mr. Gamble—when it would be too late to recall the sacrifice, and useless to repine against it. Moreover, Leonard resolved to break the news so gradiently to his father, that the effect of the blow occasioned by a son’s deep disappointment might be as much mitigated as possible; and to these proposals Mr. Pomfret was only too willing to assent. And now, as another proof of Leonard’s devotedness to his afflicted sire, must be mentioned the fact that, though bearing in his bosom a heart wrung almost to breaking, he still maintained a calm exterior; and during the week which elapsed ere Ellen became the wife of Mr. Gamble, Mr. Mitchell beheld nothing strange nor suspicious in his son’s manner.
And at the expiration of that week, the sacrifice was consummated. The marriage was solemnised by special license, and with great privacy; and it was not known in Stamford-street until a late hour on the wedding-day that such an extraordinary alliance had taken place. By that time the victim-bride was far away from London—seated by the side of her old husband in the post-chaise that was bearing them to some country-place where they were to pass the honeymoon. Mr. Pomfret had received the price stipulated for his daughter; and his honour—his commercial honour, we mean—was saved! Alas! how many marriages of this unnatural kind are constantly taking place in this civilised—this enlightened—this Bible-reading—this moral country!—how many fair young maidens are purchased by old men’s gold, the performance of the religious ceremony only adding a hideous mockery to a flagrant injustice! And yet how shocked are those mercenary fathers and match-making mothers who thus sacrifice their daughters’ pure affections to the most selfish interests—how shocked, we say, are they when they read that there are countries in the world where men buy their wives outright! Oh! ye Exeter Hall Saints, who send forth missionaries to christianise the heathen amongst whom such barter or purchase prevails, have ye nothing to reform at home? Is the Mussulman who buys his Circassian or his Georgian wife in a slave-market more reprehensible than the tottering old lord or the nabob with his liver eaten away, who purchases an English, a Scotch, or an Irish beauty in the market of West End Fashion? Go, ye Exeter Hall Saints, into that sphere where all is glitter outside and hollowness of heart within, and count the many titled or wealthy septuagenaries to whose corpse-like side fresh and blooming girls of nineteen and twenty are bound by marriage-ties! Are such alliances founded upon those holy affections which God has implanted in the human breast?—or are they proofs of the rebellion which selfish interests consummate against nature’s laws and heaven’s own divine promptings? But if we direct our attention to that sphere wherein the industrious millions struggle with starvation, oppression, and wrong, do we find such instances of outrage against all that is natural, moral, and just? Do we discover the agricultural labourer or the mechanic of seventy with a wife of nineteen? Out of a hundred marriages in humble life, there is not more than one such case. And yet the aristocratic, the wealthy, and the great are ever declaiming upon the immorality of the poor! Immorality indeed! ’Tis you, ye aristocrats, who are in reality demoralised: ’tis you, ye oppressors, who would stand a far better chance of winning a place in heaven, were ye to imitate the humble virtues of the oppressed! Oh! the soul sickens at the idea that a lazy, insolent, intolerant oligarchy should be permitted to heap so much abuse upon the toiling, starving, deeply-wronged millions!
But to return to the thread of our narrative. It was in the evening of the day on which Ellen became the wife of Mr. Gamble, that Mr. Mitchell was seated at the open window of his front parlour, a wire-blind enabling him to note all that passed in the street, but preventing persons outside from seeing into the room. Leonard was sitting near him, and racking his brain for the best means to commence a conversation to which he might give such a turn as to enable him to break the news of the day to his father. But every time the young man prepared to speak, his heart’s emotions rose as if to suffocate him; and at last he was obliged to hurry from the parlour and seek his own chamber in order to give free vent to feelings that could no longer be restrained. Scarcely had he left the room, when two gentlemen—dwellers in Stamford Street—encountered each other precisely opposite the Mitchells’ window; and after the usual greetings, one said: “I am just going to call upon our mutual friend Mr. Pomfret, to congratulate him.”—“Congratulate him!” exclaimed the other: “upon what event?”—“On the marriage of his daughter with the wealthy Mr. Gamble,” was the reply. “What! you have not heard of it? Oh! It is quite true, I can assure you. The ceremony took place this morning: I have the fact from the clergyman’s own lips.”—“But I thought that Miss Pomfret was engaged to Leonard Mitchell?” observed the other gentleman, evidently much amazed by the intelligence he had just received.—“Hush!” said the first speaker, glancing significantly towards the open window; and, taking his friend’s arm, he drew him a few paces farther on. But had they stayed to enter into further explanations, it would have been all the same: the conviction that his unhappy son had sustained a most frightful blow to his happiness, burst upon the mind of the wretched father like a tornado on a traveller in the desert; and when Leonard returned to the room, he found the old man a corpse in his chair!
CHAPTER CLXXVIII.
CONCLUSION OF THE HISTORY OF THE HAUNTED HOUSES.
Three years had elapsed since the occurrences just related; and it was on a fine summer afternoon that a tall, handsome young soldier, in the graceful undress of a private in a dragoon regiment, was walking down Regent Street. His countenance was somewhat sunburnt; but there was about him such an air of gentility that, even had he been far less good-looking than he really was, it would have been impossible to pass him by with indifference. His figure was slight, but admirably formed and well knit: his legs were straight as a dart; and he carried his arms with that gentle rounding which is so compatible with military grace. His whiskers were small, but curling and glossy; and the slight moustache that he wore was quite sufficient to turn the head of any giddy girl—the more so that, as his lips were always kept the least thing apart, that fringe set off his fine teeth to greater advantage. His rich brown hair, worn short according to the regulation, stood out in small but natural curls from beneath his undress cap; and the somewhat darkly pencilled brows arched above eyes of deep blue, and in which there was a melancholy expression that did not however deteriorate from the masculine beauty of his person. His uniform was scrupulously neat: his boots well polished; his buckskin gloves white as snow;—and did he remove those gloves, his hands appeared to be almost as delicate in complexion as a lady’s. In a word he was the very beau ideal of a soldier; and nature’s stamp of aristocracy was upon him:—yet was he only a private—a humble private in his regiment!
We said that the day was remarkably fine; and it was at that hour when the fashionable world goes forth to while away the time until dinner. Regent Street was thronged with gay equipages filled with elegantly dressed ladies, and attended by domestics in gaudy liveries; and the footways were likewise crowded, but with a mere miscellaneous company. For when the daughters of fashion appear abroad in the afternoon, the daughters of crime likewise come forth; and yet we doubt whether the immorality that walks the pavement is so much greater than that which rides in carriages as the world generally supposes. Behold that magnificent equipage wherein the elderly dowager and the beauteous young girl of seventeen or eighteen are seated: it stops at the door of a fashionable linen-draper’s, and the dowager leans heavily on the arm of the tall, handsome footman who hands her out, while the young lady throws a rapid but significant glance at the slim, graceful page who has likewise dismounted from behind the vehicle. Or again, behold that gentleman on horseback, moving leisurely along, and gazing intently at each carriage which approaches down the wide avenue: at length he recognises the equipage which he is so anxiously expecting—and, riding up, he exchanges a few words with the fair creature who is its sole occupant. A day, an hour, and a place are named for an appointment of even a far less innocent nature than this one; and the lover passes on with triumph in his heart, while the carriage whirls away the titled lady who has already assented to a step that must lead to the dishonour of her husband. Again, behold the splendid chariot, with a coronet on the panel, and in which three beauteous girls with their maternal parent—herself a fine woman—are seated. Would you believe that care was harboured in hearts where smiles appear on radiant countenances? And yet, the eldest of those sisters is a prey to a mortal apprehension: she has been frail—weak—the victim of her own strong desires and the opportunity afforded by some handsome, but obscure and ineligible lover; and now she dreads lest a few months should betray her unchastity and ruin her for ever. But we have not leisure to extend this picture:—we must return to the handsome dragoon who is walking, in a leisurely but somewhat thoughtful manner, down Regent Street.
And wherefore was he thus partially pensive? Because nearly three years had elapsed since he had last seen London, and his return to the capital revived a thousand reflections which were indeed sufficient to touch his heart painfully. He thought of his early youth—the hopes which he had cherished when the future was bright before him—the crushing disappointments and accumulated miseries that had suddenly fallen upon his head—and his present position, so different from what it ought to be. Yes—and he thought, too, of one whom he had loved so fondly—oh! so fondly, that his passion was a worship—an idolatry, and whose image was indelibly impressed upon his soul. Time had taught him the necessity of resignation to a lot which he could not alter—a fate which he could not change—a destiny which he could not subdue: and though that same resignation, aided by the faith of a sincere Christian and a firm reliance on Him who disposeth of all things, had deprived his anguish of its sting and blunted the iron that had entered into his soul—there were, nevertheless, moments when the cloud came over the handsome countenance, and the soldier’s heart swelled almost to bursting. And this was now the state of his mind as he passed along the fashionable quarter of that metropolis where he had arrived with his regiment only the evening before. He had no particular aim in view—he was not on his way to see any friends: the only being on the face of the earth in whom he felt interested, was she whom he had once loved so devotedly—whom he still loved with the mellowed and almost embittered affection of disappointment—and whom he dared not inquire after, much less venture to visit. His return to the capital had unsettled him: he felt no inclination to remain in the barracks and pursue his favourite recreation of reading—and he had therefore walked abroad in the hope of diverting his mind from the unpleasant thoughts that intruded upon it.
The handsome dragoon had just entered the arcade of the Quadrant, when he was suddenly struck as if by paralysis—or as it were with a violent blow dealt by an invisible hand: he stopped short—then staggered back a few paces—and leant against one of the pillars for support,—his countenance the while denoting the most intense emotions. For, issuing from a shop, were two persons both of whom he instantaneously recognised, but on one of whom his eyes became rivetted as if by enchantment. Yes:—there was Ellen—the Ellen whom he had loved—whom he still loved—leaning on the arm of her old husband—that man who had robbed him—Leonard Mitchell—of the object of such a fervent and undying affection! But neither the lady herself nor Mr. Gamble observed the young soldier: for, on issuing from the shop, they passed down the Quadrant; and thus their backs were almost immediately turned upon him. Recovering his presence of mind, and passing his hand hastily across his brow, as if to tear away a mist that hung upon his eyes, Leonard Mitchell—for he indeed was the handsome young dragoon—was already pushing his way amidst the crowd and hurrying after Ellen, when the thought flashed, like blasting lightning, to his soul, that she was an elegantly dressed lady, leaning on the arm of a husband who was evidently a gentleman of substance—and he was a common soldier! Oh! never—never were the accursed class-distinctions of an artificial state of society felt so bitterly as on the present occasion. Not that Leonard mistrusted Ellen’s heart—not that he feared of experiencing a cold reception from one of her generous nature: but a sense of propriety—a deep conviction of what was due, under circumstances, to herself and her husband, caused him suddenly to stop short;—then, in obedience to the new impulse which was received from this revulsion of his feelings, he turned abruptly from the Quadrant into one of those streets that stretch towards the district of Golden Square.
Walking on, like one intoxicated, and with eyes that saw nothing—as if all the powers of vision, physical and mental, were absorbed in the necessity of internal contemplation—the young man felt as if he were going mad. There was a fearful hurry in his brain; and yet, palpable and distinct, as it were, in his heart was the image that for years had been there, but each feature—each lineament of which had suddenly received the most vivid colourings of revival. She was beautiful as ever—more beautiful, if possible, in the glory of her womanhood; and, although her countenance was somewhat pale and had a melancholy—yes, a very melancholy expression—this only added to her charms, in his estimation, by rendering her the more interesting. By degrees, his thoughts grew more settled—the whirlwind that raged in his brain, abated in violence; and suddenly there sprang up in his soul a feeling of pleasure at the idea that her features wore that shade of mournfulness. For, oh! there could be no doubt as to the cause: she was unhappy—unhappy on account of him! She had not, then, forgotten him—she remembered their youthful loves: perhaps he was still dear to her? That thought became more delightful, as it seemed more consistent with probability; and now he was not altogether so thoroughly devoid of hope—so profoundly a prey to black despair, as he had been a few minutes previously. Hope, indeed! what could he hope? He knew not—he did not immediately pause to ask himself the question: but he abandoned himself to the delicious reverie into which the altered current of his thoughts thus madly hurried him. When he awoke, as it were, from this day-dream, he was astonished to find that it had lasted so long, and without interruption: for, while wrapped up in that vision, he had threaded many streets—accomplished a considerable distance—and was now close to the toll-gate of Waterloo Bridge. Entering upon that mighty viaduct, he seated himself in one of the recesses, and again gave way to the meditations which the incident of the afternoon had conjured up.
But how was it that Leonard Mitchell had taken the direction of Waterloo Bridge, in that species of somnambulism under which he had been labouring? Because it was the way to Stamford Street; and, in his walking reverie, an irresistible impulse had influenced his footsteps, even while he appeared to be proceeding at random. And what now was the nature of his reflections? He experienced an ardent longing to cross the bridge—to enter Stamford Street—and to behold once more the house where all his early years were passed: yes—and to behold also the dwelling of her whom he loved! But did he know that Mr. and Mrs. Gamble still resided in Stamford Street? He was completely ignorant on the subject; and an ardent curiosity impelled him to clear up the point in question. Still he hesitated: amidst all the feelings by which he was now animated, and the longings by which he was prompted, a sense of duty rose up in his mind,—of duty towards her whom he loved,—towards her husband—and towards himself. Why should he incur the risk of meeting her, and perhaps unsettling her studied attempts at unmixed devotion to him whose name she bore?—why should he do aught that might arouse the suspicion or excite the jealousy of the old man who doubtless treasured his young wife as a peerless jewel?—and why should he resuscitate all his own griefs and sorrows, by an encounter with one who was lost to him perhaps for ever? These questions did he ask himself over and over again: they were the basis of the reasoning which he held with his own heart—his own soul—in order to crush the promptings that urged him towards the scene of past and happier days. Alas! with all his natural rectitude of principle—with all his generosity of disposition—with all his honourable feelings, Leonard Mitchell was but a poor weak mortal, like the rest of us;—and while still arguing with himself, he was traversing the bridge—he was directing his way towards Stamford Street!
As he drew nearer to the end of the long thoroughfare—that end which joins the Blackfriars Road—he relaxed his speed; and though his pace was slower, his heart beat more rapidly. At length he came within sight of the three corner houses: he paused—he stopped—heaven alone knows how acute were the emotions that agitated within him then! Again he moved onward—he called all his courage, all his presence of mind to his aid;—and now he passed by Mr. Gamble’s house. Irresistibly he glanced towards the window: his eyes met those of Ellen;—and he heard the faint scream of astonishment that burst from her lips! But the beauteous countenance had disappeared: had she, then, fainted? No—her feelings had doubtless overcome her for a few moments;—but she speedily recovered—she reappeared at the window—and a rapid sign conveyed to him the intimation that she would come forth and join him presently. All this passed so quickly as to be unobserved by any of the neighbours; although it is probable that had ten thousand pairs of eyes been rivetted on the house, Ellen would have not acted differently—for she saw no one save him of whom she had heard nothing for three long years. Leonard, half intoxicated with joy at the signal that had been made by her fair hand, and aided in its interpretation by the expression of her countenance,—scarcely believing, however, that such happiness could indeed await him—and not pausing for a single instant to ask himself whether he were acting well or even prudently—Leonard, we say, passed on. The central of the three houses was still occupied by Mr. Pomfret; for his name was on the brass-plate on the front-door:—but the corner house—the house where Leonard had dwelt so many years, and where his revered father had died in so sudden and awful a manner—was shut up, a board intimating that it was to let. The young soldier had not, however, many minutes’ leisure to reflect upon the scenes of past days; for, aware that Ellen could not prudently join him within a few yards of her own door, he crossed the Blackfriars Road, and loitered at the corner of Holland Street. In a short time he beheld her approaching: she saw him—she followed the direction which he took;—and he proceeded farther down the comparatively secluded place which he had deemed most fitting for this interview. At length he halted; and in another minute his heart’s idol was by his side. She had purposely put on a cottage-bonnet and a plain shawl;—and thus the few people who passed saw nothing very remarkable in a modestly dressed female in company with a private dragoon.
But even if they had attracted disagreeable notice, what was it to them who had now no thought—no eyes—no ears save for each other? Without a word at first—but after a brief though earnest pressure of the hand—Leonard gave the young lady his arm; and they passed along Holland Street. A few low, but anxious inquiries were rapidly interchanged, and as speedily answered;—but frequent, long, and tender were the looks they fixed upon each other. A few minutes’ walk brought them to Southwark Bridge, to which they ascended; and when seated in one of the recesses of that almost entirely deserted viaduct, the restraint under which they had hitherto laboured was immediately thrown aside.
“At length we meet again, Ellen,” said Leonard, taking her hand and retaining it in his own, while he gazed fondly upon her.—“Yes,” she replied, murmuringly, and holding down her blushing countenance: “but do you think the worse of me, because, yielding to a sudden and irresistible impulse, and availing myself of my husband’s temporary absence, I thus stole forth to meet you—to hear from your own lips that you are happy?”—“Happy!” repeated Leonard, bitterly: then, unwilling to cause her additional pain, for his ejaculation had already brought the diamond-tears to her violet eyes, he said, “How can I think the worse of you, Ellen, when you come forth as a sister to pass a few minutes with a brother who can not, dares not visit you at your own abode? But rather let me ask, whether you, Ellen, are happy?”—The young lady endeavoured to give utterance to a reply: but, overpowered by her emotions, she burst into an agony of weeping. Unable to restrain his own feelings any longer, Leonard caught her in his arms, strained her to his breast and imprinted a thousand kisses upon her moist lips and her tear-bedewed cheeks: for no eye, save that of God, beheld them at this moment. Several minutes passed ere either could recover the faculty of speech; and then they spoke so low—so feelingly—and in such accents of deep, deep sorrow, that it was easy for each to perceive that the love of the other had not become impaired by time, separation, or circumstances.—“You were wrong, oh! you were very wrong, Leonard,” said Ellen, “to abandon your home and your friends, the moment after your father’s funeral. It is true that you did not leave us altogether in uncertainty and suspense relative to your fate—that you left for me a note acquainting me with your determination to enlist and earn your bread honourably! But, oh! wherefore have adopted that distressing alternative?”—“Can you not understand my feelings, Ellen?” asked the young man, almost reproachfully. “My father’s death left me without interest to obtain the situation that had been promised to me through him; and his income likewise perished with him. I had no claim upon Mr. Pomfret: neither would I have accepted eleemosynary assistance. What could I do? I disposed of the furniture to pay off the few debts owing by my father and the expenses of the funeral; and I made all my arrangements with as much haste as possible, in order to be able to leave that once happy neighbourhood before you and—and—your husband should return to it. I then repaired to Hounslow, and enlisted. Yesterday my regiment was ordered to London; and within a few hours of my arrival, I experience the happiness—the indescribable happiness of thus encountering you. And now, Ellen, let us think—or, at all events, let us talk no more of the past. I cannot bear to look back upon it. But, my God!” he exclaimed passionately, and suddenly interrupting himself: “wherefore should I dread to retrospect, since the happiness of the present is only transitory, and there is no hope for the future?”—Thus speaking, the young man covered his face with his hands and moaned audibly.
“Oh! this is dreadful!” exclaimed Ellen, with accents of despair. “Leonard! I implore you not to give way to affliction thus. Listen to me, my beloved one—for you are as dearly and as fondly loved as ever; and I hesitate not to give you that assurance.”—“Oh! is it possible? can I believe my ears?” cried the young dragoon, now turning upon the lady a countenance suddenly lighting up with the animation of indescribable joy and bliss, as the rays of the setting sun played upon those handsome features. “But you forget,” he said, after a brief pause, and with a cloud again appearing upon his face, “that you are the wife of another?”—“Then it is you who love me not!” exclaimed Ellen, in a tone of disappointment and reproach.—“Not love you!” repeated Leonard: “Oh! how cruel of you thus to speak!”—and again snatching her to his bosom, he covered her lips and cheeks with kisses—kisses which she as fondly and as passionately returned. “Yes: Ellen, you know that I love and adore you!” he added in a voice of the tenderest sincerity.—“And I am not ashamed, Leonard, to give you a reciprocal assurance,” said the young wife of another. “Oh! wherefore should I attempt to restrain my natural feelings? Believe me that I am much changed since last we met: I no longer see things in the same light. For, to speak candidly, I have a deep conviction of the disgrace of having been sold and bought for that dross which men so much prize. I cannot help the thoughts that steal upon me; and therefore it is that I have long ceased to look upon my father with respect. I feel that he sacrificed me—me, his only daughter, whom he might have made so happy! I feel also that he who is my husband hesitated not to immolate the hopes of my youth to his own selfishness. These are sad—nay, terrible thoughts, Leonard: but I again assure you that I cannot combat against them. It is true that my father is now rich and prosperous, and that he sometimes thanks me as the authoress of his fortunes: true also is it that my husband treats me with the utmost kindness. But never—never ought I to have been placed in the position to receive such thanks from the one, nor such kindness from the other: for, between them, they have wrecked my happiness, blighted my hopes, ruined all my youthful dreams of felicity. There are times, then, when I feel as if it would be a relief to fly from the neighbourhood of a father whom I am almost compelled to look upon as an enemy, and from the arms of a husband who is loathsome to me!”—As she uttered these last words, in a low tone but with a bitter emphasis, Ellen bent her countenance—her burning countenance—over her lover’s hand, which she pressed to her lips.—“Then you would fly with me even now, dearest,” he said, in a voice rendered tremulous by indescribable emotions, “did circumstances permit me to accompany you?”—Ellen made no verbal answer; but the rapturous manner in which she again pressed his hand to her rich, red mouth was a sufficiently significant response—“Alas! that may not be,” resumed Leonard mournfully; and now the young lady absolutely shuddered in his arms, as if an ice-chill had suddenly fallen upon a heart an instant before so warm with passion. “No—that may not be,” continued Leonard, determined not to leave her in the least degree of suspense. “Behold this uniform—a uniform which is accursed under all circumstances, not only on account of the soul-crushing, merciless discipline and degrading servitude of which it is the badge, but also because it constitutes the barrier to the wishes which you so generously intimated and which I so enthusiastically share.”—“But your discharge can be purchased, can it not?” asked Ellen, bending down her head to conceal her deep blushes.—“When I enlisted, Ellen,” solemnly and mournfully replied Leonard, “I swore within myself an oath—an oath ratified by all I deem sacred in heaven and by all my hopes of an hereafter—to follow the course of this new destiny which I carved out for myself, and, if possible, to rise to distinction in this service which I dare not quit. I was young when I made that vow; and the hope which dictated it never will be fulfilled;—for the English soldier is a serf—a slave; and the idea of rising—ha! ha!”—and Leonard laughed wildly. “At all events,” he added hastily, and again assuming a solemn tone, “I respect the oath that I took; and you, who love me, will not counsel me to break it. But we can see each other often, Ellen—we can meet, as we have met to-night——.”—“Then with that assurance must I content myself, Leonard!” interrupted the impassioned young lady, in whom, as the reader may have surmised, the hand of affliction, the tyranny of a parent, and the selfishness of the old man who bought her with his gold, had deadened those delicate feelings and even undermined the virtuous principles which had characterised her in her days of happy innocence.—“Yes,” returned Leonard, “with that understanding must we endeavour to console ourselves! And now, my beloved one, it is time for me to leave you: remember,” he added bitterly, “that though a man in years, I belong to a service where I am treated as a child and limited to particular hours.”—“Would to God that you were emancipated from this dreadful thraldom!” exclaimed Ellen, weeping.—“Nay, I was wrong to say aught to afflict you,” returned Leonard, embracing her tenderly. A few minutes more did they pass together, exchanging the most passionate caresses and earnest protestations of unalterable affection; and when they separated at last, it was not without having arranged for another meeting at an early day.
It would be scarcely possible to describe the feelings which animated the young lovers as they respectively hastened to their abodes—the one to his barracks, the other to her home. As we have before stated, circumstances had so warped Ellen’s mind, that she paused not even to reflect for an instant upon the dangerous course on which she had entered: she had no longer any ties to bind her with filial love to her father—and she never had any bond of affection to link her to her husband. Therefore all she now thought of, or cared to think of, was that she had recovered a lover whom she adored; and she would have ridiculed and laughed at the idea of disgrace and of a ruined reputation, had any friend counselled her in the matter. On his side, Leonard was less hardened—for such indeed is the term which might be applied to Ellen’s state of mind—to the consequences of this new phase of his existence. He shuddered at the thought of inducing a young wife to conduct herself in a manner so injurious to her husband’s happiness; and he resolved, in his calmer moments, that when he met Ellen again, according to the appointment already arranged, he would represent to her the necessity of their eternal separation. But when they did meet, and in a secluded place, she appeared so ravishingly beautiful, and spoke with so much tenderness, and seemed so completely happy in his society, and was withal so unfeignedly loving, that he could not bring himself to give utterance to the words that trembled upon his tongue—words that would have chased away those charming smiles, dimmed with tears the lustre of those melting eyes, hushed with sighs that language of fervid passion, and changed to dark despair all that bright and glowing bliss. Therefore they separated a second time with an arrangement to meet again:—and on the occasion of the third interview Leonard found himself less disposed than before to make a representation which would be fatal to the happiness of both. To be brief, interview succeeded interview, Leonard resolving that each one should be the last,—until at length love’s dalliance became irresistible in its consequences; and, opportunity serving in all respects, the lovers were criminal! From that day forth Leonard thought no more of the impropriety of their meetings, which thereafter grew more frequent and longer in duration.
We shall here interrupt the thread of our narrative for a brief space, in order to make a few observations upon the condition of the private soldier. And, in the first instance, let us record our conviction that there is not a more generous-hearted, a nobler-minded, or a more humane set of men breathing than those who constitute the ranks of the British Army; while there is not a more tyrannical, overbearing, illiberal, and self-sufficient class than that composed of the officers of this army. But how is the latter fact to be accounted for? Because the Army is the mere plaything of the Aristocracy—a means of providing for the younger sons of noblemen, and enabling titled mammas to show off their striplings in red coats. What opinion can we have of the constitution of the army, so far as the officers are concerned, when we find Prince Albert suddenly created a Field-Marshal![18] Such a spectacle is nauseating in the extreme; and the German must have execrably bad taste, or else be endowed with inordinate conceit, to hold the baton of a Marshal when he has not even the military knowledge of a drummer-boy. Since the Army is thus made a mere tool in the hands of a rascally Aristocracy, what sympathy can possibly exist between the officers and the men? The former look upon the latter as the scum of the earth—mere slaves on a level with shoe-blacks; and hence the barbarous cry of “Flog! flog! flog!” But there is no love lost between the classes: for the soldiers hate and abhor their officers, whom they naturally and most justly look upon as their tyrants and oppressors. It is enough to make the blood boil with indignation to think that those fine, stalwart, gallant fellows should be kicked about at the caprice of a wretched ensign or contemptible cornet just loosened from his mamma’s apron-strings,—or bullied by older officers whose only “excellence” is their relationship to nobility, and their power to obtain promotion by purchase. The generality of the officers in the British Army are nothing more nor less than a set of purse-proud bloodhounds, whose greatest delight is to behold the blood streaming down the backs of those men who alone win their country’s battles. When the Duke of York (who was a humane man, though as great a scamp as ever had a COLUMN OF INFAMY erected to his memory) limited corporal punishment to 300 lashes, the full amount was invariably inflicted in nineteen out of twenty cases: but even this would not satisfy the bloodhounds, who annoyed and pestered the Duke on the subject to such an extent that he was literally bullied into empowering them to hold General Regimental Courts-Martial, by whose decision 500 lashes might be administered to the unhappy victim. For years and years was the torture of military flogging in England a shame and a scandal to all Europe; and it was absolutely necessary that a fine fellow should be murdered at Hounslow by the accursed lash, before the barbarous Government would interfere. All the world knows that a BRITISH SOLDIER was murdered in this revolting manner, and in the presence of his horror-stricken comrades: for be it remembered that when these appalling spectacles take place, the eyes that weep and the hearts that grow faint are those of the soldiers—never of the officers!
Again we ask, then, what sympathy can possibly exist between the privates and those in command? None: the soldiers would be more grovelling than spaniels if they could possibly kiss the hands that cuff them, or lick the shoes of those who kick and spurn them. The British soldier has his feelings as well as others—aye, and his spirit too; and he feels the iron of a cruel discipline and a heartless system rankling in his very soul. The celebrated John Wilkes was wont to say, “The very worst use you can put a man to, is to hang him.” We agree with the dictum: but we aver in addition that it is an equally vile use to flog him. In fact, the whole treatment of the soldier, from the day of his enlistment until that of his discharge, is one continuous system of tyranny. Deception is made use of to ensnare him into the service—a crushing despotism is maintained to render him a docile, pliant tool while he is in it—and the basest ingratitude marks his departure from it, when he is turned adrift on the world without a penny to help him. The infamy commences with the recruiting sergeant—is perpetuated by all the officers—and is consummated by the Government. Take the case of Leonard Mitchell, in respect to enlistment. The young man was assured by the recruiting sergeant that his pay would be a guinea a-week: it however turned out to be only 9s. 4d., from which 5s. 10d. were stopped for messing and washing, 2s. 7½d. for clothes, and 3½d. for articles to clean his uniform with—leaving 7d. per week, or one penny a-day, for pocket-money! And this is the condition of a British dragoon—with less pocket-money than a school-boy receives from his parents!
The Government relies upon the fidelity of the Army from the fact that it is officered by the scions of the aristocracy, who are of course interested in upholding all kinds of abuses. Hence the belief which the Government entertains that in case of a popular convulsion the troops would be certain to fire upon the people. But, in spite of the lordlings and aristocratic offshoots who command the army, we firmly believe that it all depends upon the cause in which such popular convulsion might arise, whether the troops would really massacre their civilian-brethren. If it were a glorious and just struggle for rights pertinaciously withheld and privileges doggedly refused, the Army would not act against the people. Even the Government itself has fears on this head, ignorant though it be of the real state of feeling anywhere save in the circles of the oligarchy;—for on a recent occasion[19] when tremendous military preparations were made to resist an expected outbreak of the working-men of London, the Government set policemen in plain clothes to act as spies in respect to the private soldiers. These spies threw themselves in the way of the soldiers, enticed them into public-houses, plied them with drink, and, in an apparently frank and off-hand manner, questioned them as to their political opinions. Some of the gallant privates, thus treated and interrogated, and little thinking that they were in the fangs of the Government mouchards, candidly expressed their sympathy with the popular cause, and as generously declared that they would sooner cut their hands off than draw a trigger against the people—adding, “The working-men and the soldiers are brethren.” What was the consequence? The spies followed these brave and open-hearted men home to their barracks, and laid information against them; so that numbers of British soldiers, thus shamefully entrapped, found themselves suddenly placed under arrest. Their commanding officers did not dare bring them to punishment; but they are doubtless marked men, and will be persecuted with all imaginable rancour and bitterness. To conclude this portion of our observations, we must remark that if any disturbance had really occurred on the great public occasion now especially alluded to, the troops were resolved not to fire upon the people; but they were equally determined to avenge themselves most signally upon the police.[20]
The day has gone by for the British soldier to permit himself to be made the tool of despotism: he will not be behind the French soldier in noble sentiments, generous conduct, and enlightened feelings, any more than he is inferior to him in bravery or discipline. But the British soldier must have his wrongs boldly proclaimed and speedily redressed. In many, if not in most regiments, the love of self-improvement is looked upon by the officers as a crime; whereas reading should be encouraged as much as possible. The barrack-room should be made more comfortable: at present it is so miserable and cheerless, that the private soldier is driven to the public-house in spite of his better inclinations. In many instances, men have become drunkards from this very fact, and are then entered in the Proscribed List; though all this might be avoided, were they encouraged to remain and pass their evenings at home. The food provided for the mess-tables is seldom of a good description, and frequently of the very worst: the meat especially is too often of the vilest kind, and unfit for human food. Yet the poor soldier dares not complain—no, not even in respect to that for the supply of which he is so heavily mulcted out of his miserable pittance. Drunkenness even every now and then is a heinous crime in respect to the private soldier; whereas the veriest stripling that was ever dubbed ensign or cornet, may get as tipsy as an owl every night of his life with utter impunity. In fine, the condition of the British soldier is wretched in the extreme; and while the officer, who buys his rank, enjoys every privilege and riots in luxury and dissipation, the unfortunate private, who is basely inveigled into the service by a damnable fraud, is persecuted for the slightest offence, and treated on all occasions as a mere dog.
And now to return to our narrative. Six months elapsed; and during that period Leonard and Ellen met as often as the duties of the former would permit, while the latter cared not to what extent her husband’s suspicions were aroused by her frequent and unaccountable absences from home. And that the old man did speedily entertain the most heart-rending suspicions, was a fact: but if he questioned his wife, she either took refuge in a stubborn silence, or answered him in a manner that only provoked him the more. Pride prevented him from complaining to her father; and he felt that he was now righteously punished for his selfishness in sacrificing the happiness of the fair young creature to his own desires. At length, unable any longer to endure the tortures of uncertainty, and anxious to know the worst at once, or else acquire the conviction that he had misjudged his wife altogether, he watched her movements: but she, aware of his proceeding, and without affecting to notice it, adopted such precautions as completely to outwit her husband, and to hold meetings with her lover, undiscovered as before. Up to this period—nearly three years and a half—the young man had conducted himself in his regiment with the utmost steadiness: he had never been reported—never incurred the slightest reprimand from his superiors. This was an extraordinary case, inasmuch as the private soldier has so many persons to please: first, the corporal—then the serjeant—then the serjeant-major—then the subaltern of the troop—next the captain—and lastly the commanding-officer. No—not lastly: for he must likewise please the Regimental Serjeant-Major, the Adjutant, and the Riding Master. Well, all these difficult objects had Leonard accomplished with success; and he was likewise beloved by all his comrades. He was ever in barracks of an evening at the proper hour; and during the first six months of his amour with Ellen, not even her sweet society had caused him to be late.
We must state that the more completely to enjoy the company of her lover, Ellen Gamble had taken a furnished lodging in the neighbourhood of his barracks; and there they were wont to meet. The landlady of the place asked no questions, her rent being regularly paid, and so little use being made of the apartments. It was Ellen’s delight to provide succulent suppers for Leonard; and these he did not hesitate to partake of with her: but as for direct pecuniary assistance—when once she had offered it in as delicate a manner as possible, he refused it with so much firmness and with such a glowing countenance that she did not again allude to the subject. One evening,—it was at the expiration of the six months already alluded to—the conversation had become more than ordinarily interesting to the pair—the supper was later than usual—and Ellen had ordered a bottle of champagne by way of an additional treat. Leonard was remarkably temperate in his habits; and the wine excited him considerably. He was not however tipsy—only very much animated; and the time passed away more rapidly than the lovers had imagined. At length, a neighbouring clock proclaimed the hour when Leonard should be in quarters: and, starting up, he snatched a hasty embrace, and hurried away. He reached the barracks ten minutes after the proper time; and as he was traversing the yard, deeply regretting that he should be even such a trifle too late, he met a young cornet who had only joined the regiment six weeks previously. “Holloa, you sir!” cried Lord Satinet; for such was the officer’s appellation: “what the devil do you mean by coming in at this hour?”—Leonard, perceiving that his lordship was so tipsy as to be scarcely able to stand, endeavoured to get away without making any answer.—“Stop there, damn your eyes!” exclaimed the nobleman. “What’s your number? Oh! B 57. Very well. But, damn your eyes!” repeated his lordship; “you’re drunk—as drunk as a beast, I declare.”—“I am not, my lord!” cried Leonard, indignantly: and again he made for the door leading to his quarters.—“You infernal scoundrel!” vociferated the splendid specimen of aristocracy, flying into a furious passion: “how dare you tell me you are not drunk? Why, curse you, you can hardly stand.” It was his lordship, however, who staggered.—“I am sober, my lord,” responded Leonard, still keeping his temper: “and pray permit me to inform your lordship that I once was a gentleman, and that your lordship might have a little more consideration for a person so unfortunately circumstanced as I am!”—“A gentleman once!” repeated Lord Satinet, with an ironical laugh: “a pretty gentleman, I’ll be bound! Your father was a costermonger, I suppose; and your mother an apple-woman? A gentleman, indeed! Why, damn your eyes, you’ll be telling me you were a nobleman next. A gentleman, by the powers! a splendid gentleman! Of the swell-mob, most likely.”—“Were I now as I was three years and a half ago, my lord,” said Leonard, scarcely able to master his passion, “you would not dare to address me thus.”—“Holloa! you threaten me, eh!” cried Lord Satinet. “Come, sir: tramp off to the guard-room; and I’ll teach you what it is to insult your officer, and be damned to you!”
Poor Leonard was compelled to obey: but the mere circumstance of being forced to restrain his boiling indignation, gave him such an excited appearance, that when he arrived at the guard-room the Serjeant on duty immediately accused him of having been drinking. Leonard scorned to utter a falsehood; and he did not therefore deny the fact: but he declared that he was not inebriated—a statement which was treated with ridicule. To be brief, he was kept in custody for three days, at the expiration of which a court-martial assembled to try him. Lord Satinet made out the case as black as possible against the unfortunate young man, who in his defence most unwisely but very truly averred that his lordship himself was excessively tipsy on the occasion referred to. The nobleman denied the statement with much apparent indignation; and the judge-advocate declared that Leonard Mitchell had materially aggravated his own enormity by such an accusation—although the very officer who thus fulfilled the judicial functions could of himself have proved, had he chosen, that Lord Satinet was particularly disguised in liquor on the night in question. The result of that hideous mockery of a trial was that the accused was pronounced guilty of returning home late in a condition of extreme intoxication, and of grossly insulting and even menacing his officer. Leonard Mitchell was accordingly condemned to receive three hundred lashes with the cat-o’nine-tails: he was then removed to the black hole, where he passed a night scarcely enviable even by a man about to suffer the extreme penalty of the law. For, oh! how could he ever again look the world in the face?—how should he dare meet his much-loved Ellen? how survive this deep disgrace—this flagrant shame—this damning infamy? But we dare not pause to analyse the thoughts or describe the feelings of the wretched young man during the interval between his condemnation and the execution of the sentence.
The fatal moment arrived when the gallant British soldier, stripped naked to the waist, was tied up to receive the torture of the lash, in the presence of the entire regiment, which was marshalled for the purpose. Leonard’s face was ashy pale—but the compressed lip, sternly-fixed eye, and determined expression of countenance indicated his resolution to meet the horrible punishment with as much courage as he could invoke to his aid. On many an eye-lash in the ranks did the tear of sympathy—aye, of deep, deep commiseration tremble: but the officers looked on, the elder ones without emotion—the younger with curiosity, but with no better feeling. As for Cornet Lord Satinet—he could scarcely conceal his delight at the inhuman spectacle which he himself had caused to be enacted; and he thought what a “lion of the party” he should prove in the evening at his father’s house, when detailing to his noble mamma and his dear sisters the particulars of the military flogging of the morning. But, hark! the drums beat—and the accursed torture commences!—the first blow is inflicted—and nine long livid marks appear upon the back of the victim. Still he winces not—and not a murmur escapes his lips. Again does the lash fall—and of a livelier red are the traces it leaves behind. A third time the instrument of torture descends—and now blood is drawn. But still the young man is silent—although his well-knit frame moves with a slight convulsiveness. A shudder—passing throughout the long ranks like an electric shock, from flank to flank—denotes the horror—the profound, intense horror, which strikes to the hearts of the brave dragoons who behold the appalling laceration of their comrade. And now faster falls each murderous weapon—for there are two executioners employed at the same time: and when they have dealt a certain number of blows, they are relieved by others, so that the victim may gain nothing by the slightest weariness of arm on the part of his torturers. Still he maintains a profound silence: but he cannot prevent his countenance from expressing a keen sense of the mortal agony that he endures. Down—down comes the horrible weapon, each stroke inflicting nine distinct blows; and, while the blood streams forth in many crimson rivulets, the knotted cords carry away pieces of the palpitating flesh. Oh! that such infernal cruelty should be perpetrated in a country vaunted as the chosen land of freedom, and peopled by beings who boast their humanity!—Oh! that such a blood-thirsty torture should be sanctioned by the laws of a nation paying upwards of ten millions a-year for the maintenance of the ministers of Christ! Gracious God! do thy thunders sleep when a creature fashioned after thine own image is thus enduring the torments of the damned,—torments inflicted not in a paroxysm of rage, and by the hand of a savage individual vengeance,—but in cold blood, in unprovoked mercilessness, and under colour of a sanguinary law which would disgrace a community of savages! People of England! let us blush—let us hang down our heads for very shame when we reflect that such appalling scenes are enacted amongst us; or rather let us gnash our teeth with rage—and tear our hair—and beat our breasts, to think that we are unable to compel our legislators to receive even a scintillation of that humane spirit which animates ourselves. For we have a Society to prevent cruelty to animals—and the man who beats his ox or his ass too severely, is punished; and if a poor man only happens to jostle against a police-officer, it is construed into a savage assault and attended with penalties. But there is no Society to prevent cruelty to human beings; and the lash—the accursed lash may be used, until the blood flows down the back—the skin is flayed away—deep wails are made in the quivering form—morsels of palpitating flesh are torn off—and the muscles are laid bare,—oh! all this may be done—all these revolting atrocities may be perpetrated—all these hellish cruelties may be accomplished, and there is no Association patronised by Royal Highnesses, Bishops, and Noble Lords, to interfere in behalf of the victims nor to punish the offenders!
Leonard Mitchell bore his murderous punishment as bravely as man could endure such fiendish torture. A hundred and fifty lashes had been inflicted, without eliciting a moan from his lips: but his countenance betrayed all the intensity of the anguish which he suffered. His eyes lost their lustre—his under-jaw fell slightly—there was foam upon his mouth—and his tongue protruded somewhat. As for his back——But, perdition seize upon the blood-hounds! the indignation which we feel at this moment will not allow us to extend that portion of the painful description. Better—oh! better far to be the vilest beggar that ever grovelled in the mire, than one of those Greenacres of the House of Commons who advocate corporal punishment, or those Barkers of colonels who delight in having it inflicted! As for poor Leonard Mitchell, he received upwards of two hundred lashes without a murmur; and then the surgeon ordered a pause. Drink was given to him—and he revived. But was he then removed? Oh! no—no: the feast of blood was not accomplished—the cup of gore was not full enough—the sum of human tortures was not finished. Again fell the accursed weapon: and now—we know not whether it were that after a brief cessation the agony of the renewal was more intense than before—or that the interval of rest had allowed the fine spirit of the man to flag,—whatever were the cause, it is nevertheless a fact that a piercing shriek of anguish burst from his lips—a shriek so strange, so wild, and so unnatural, that long, long after did it ring in the ears of those who heard it; for it seemed to lacerate the very brain as, in its horrible inflections, the rending sound was sent back from the barrack walls in penetrating echoes and frightful reverberations. A thrill of horror electrified the startled ranks of the victim’s comrades; and the gloved hand of many a brave soldier was drawn rapidly across the countenance, to dash away the tears that trembled on the quivering eye-lids. For, oh! the British warrior may indeed well weep at such a scene,—weep—weep with mingled shame and sorrow—weep, too, with bitterness and indignation!
The punishment was over: soon as that piercing scream had died away, the prisoner fainted;—and he was forthwith hurried to the infirmary, where many hours elapsed ere he came to his senses. Then he awoke to consciousness amidst the most horrible tortures: for the means that were adopted to prevent his lacerated back from mortifying, inflicted the agonies of hell. Only fancy, Christian reader—a man in this country can be beaten into such a state that it is ten to one whether he will not die of his wounds, and all the surgeon’s art can with difficulty resuscitate him! But pass we over the lingering illness endured by the unhappy Leonard—-an illness of eight long weeks; and let us see whether the tortures of the lash have made him a better man. Alas! far from it! His fine spirit was broken: he saw that it was useless to endeavour to be good—that it was ridiculous to practise virtues which experienced no reward. His religious faith was shaken—nay, almost completely destroyed; and he no longer believed in the efficacy of prayer. Instead of harbouring feelings of a generous philanthropy, he began to loathe and detest his superiors and look with suspicion on his equals. A doggedness of disposition, a recklessness of character, a species of indifference as to what might become of him, displaced all those fine qualities and noble attributes that had previously graced him. For he felt that he was a marked man in his regiment, and never could hope for promotion—that his character was gone—and that, like Cain, he bore about him the brand of indelible infamy. Moreover, he longed for vengeance—bitter, bitter vengeance upon that young scion of the aristocracy who had lied against him—lied foully as only such a wretch could lie—and who had brought down all that disgrace on his devoted head.
In such a frame of mind was it that Leonard Mitchell met Ellen for the first time after a separation of nearly ten weeks. The young lady had learnt the misfortunes which had befallen her lover; and she was prepared, by an intimate knowledge of his character, to hear that he had been accused as unjustly as he had been punished savagely. She endeavoured to console him: but he assured her broadly and frankly that the only solace he could ever know was—vengeance! Ellen did not discourage this idea—did not rebuke this craving; for she also felt bitterly—bitterly against the despicable lordling who had persecuted him so foully. It was, nevertheless, with sorrow that she soon observed the alteration which had taken place in his disposition. He was still devoted to her: but his passion now partook rather of a gross sensuality than, of the refinement of love. How could it be otherwise? The best feelings of the man were blunted; and his brute impulses, unchecked by that delicacy of sentiment which had once so peculiarly characterised him, became the more violent. Especially did he soon manifest a loving for intoxicating liquors; and at the third or fourth interview with Ellen, after his release from the hospital, he suffered her to understand pretty plainly that he should no longer refuse pecuniary assistance at her hands. In the course of a few weeks he spoke out more plainly still, and unblushingly asked for the amount he required at the time; and ere many months had passed away, he never parted from her without receiving a portion of the contents of her purse. At first she herself was much shocked at this evidence of an altered disposition: but she was so deeply—so devotedly attached to him, that she reasoned herself into consolation even on that head; and the more selfish he became, the more anxious did she appear to minister to his wants. This was not all: for frequent intoxication irritated his temper—and he did not hesitate to vent his ill humour upon her. Sometimes, too, he failed to keep his appointments with her: and when they did meet at last, he abused her if she dared to reproach him. On one occasion he actually raised his hand to strike her; but the poor, loving creature, falling on her knees at his feet, turned up towards him a countenance so tearful and woe-begone, that the coward blow was stayed, and he implored her pardon. Nevertheless, she had received a shock which she could not forget: neither could she avoid contrasting the Leonard Mitchell whom military punishment had degraded to the same level as the brutes, with the Leonard Mitchell who formerly appeared the very type of a gallant, generous-hearted, and high-minded British Dragoon!
But Leonard Mitchell must not be blamed if his manners and habits were thus changed, and if he took inveterately to drinking. He was one of those whom bad laws had forced into evil courses; and if he flew to the intoxicating glass, it was because the alcoholic liquor contained the hours of oblivion. Persecuted as he had been—degraded as he felt himself, existence had become intolerable unless he lost the consciousness of at least a portion of it. His comrades noticed the alteration which had taken place in him, and they well understood the cause: for it had been the same with every one who had ever undergone the torture and the disgrace of the lash. In his sober hours Leonard experienced no remorse—no compunction for the ways which he was pursuing: he had grown dogged—morose—indifferent;—no—not altogether indifferent,—for he cherished—dearly, deeply cherished a scheme of vengeance. And the day and the hour for carrying it into execution arrived at last.
It was, indeed, on the anniversary of the memorable morning of his degrading punishment, that a grand review took place in Hyde Park. Certain German pauper Princes were on a visit to this country,—princes who received annual incomes from the English Treasury, heaven only knows for what services performed—and whose very travelling expenses to and from the Court of St. James’s were duly paid from the public purse;—for those contemptible petty sovereigns of Germany are as mean as they are poor, and as proud as they are both mean and poor! Well, it was on the occasion of the presence of two or three of those princely beggars in the British metropolis, that the grand review took place. All the troops quartered in or near London were marched shortly after ten o’clock in the morning to Hyde Park; and as the day was remarkably fine, the spectacle was brilliant and imposing. The Duke of Wellington, the German Princes, and several General-officers, attended by a numerous staff, shortly afterwards appeared upon the ground: and the road was thronged with spectators. The review commenced in the usual manner: the entire force, infantry and cavalry, was drawn up to receive the Duke, the Princes, and their companions;—and after the inspection and the “marching past,” various evolutions and manœuvres were practised. A sham fight was then ordered; and the troops were accordingly separated for the purpose into two divisions. The appearance of the dragoon regiment in which Leonard Mitchell served attracted general notice, not only on account of the reputation it had acquired of containing some of the finest men in the British army, but likewise in consequence of its discipline and its perfection in the evolutions already practised. But had some searching eye scanned each individual countenance, there was one in that regiment which would have rivetted the gaze: for, though strikingly handsome, there was then upon that countenance an expression of fiend-like satisfaction and sardonic triumph—and the portentous gaze, the curling lip, and the dilation of the nostrils on the part of the dragoon thus alluded to, would have convinced the observer that the man’s thoughts were intent on some sinister design.
And now the sham-fight commences;—and there is advancing and retreating by turns—and there are echelons and deployings, and other evolutions—until a general attack commences on the side of the assailing party. The dragoons are armed with their carbines; and Leonard Mitchell grasps his weapon with an ardour—an affection—a species of gratitude, as if it were about to render him some signal service. The order is given to fire; and the carbines vomit forth volumes of white, vapoury smoke, which in a moment envelopes the entire corps. But from the midst of the cloud a piercing scream—a scream of mortal agony—breaks forth; and then, as the smoke moves slowly away on the lazy wing of the partial breeze, ejaculations of horror and dismay announce that some accident has occurred. All is now confusion; but a report spreads through the dragoon regiment, and thence circulates like wildfire amidst the troops and the spectators, that Lord Satinet has been wounded in the sham-fight. And true enough was the rumour; for there lay the young nobleman, fallen from his horse, and stretched bleeding and gasping on the green sward! The surgeon hastily proceeded to render all the assistance that human skill could administer: but the aid was vain and useless—the victim was mortally wounded by a bullet which had entered his back—and, without uttering an intelligible word, he shortly expired in the surgeon’s arms. And now a sad and heart-rending scene took place: for the parents and the sisters of the murdered nobleman were upon the ground—and they hastened to the spot, guided by the common rumour which had appalled them, but which they hoped to find incorrect, or at all events fearfully exaggerated. They discovered, however, that it was, alas! too true; and the gala day was turned into one of bitter mourning for them. The review was broken up—and the troops were marched away to their respective barracks; while the spectators crowded to behold the sad procession that bore the corpse of the young noble to the family mansion in the neighbourhood.
During the return of the dragoon regiment to its quarters, those of Leonard’s comrades who were near him frequently bent suspicious and enquiring glances upon him: but his countenance afforded no indication of guilt. He neither appeared triumphant nor downcast—neither nervous nor afraid; and the soldiers who thus beheld his calm and tranquil demeanour, were shaken in the idea which they had formed in respect to the authorship of the morning’s tragedy. The moment the dragoons entered the barracks, every cartouche-box was examined; but in none was found aught save blank cartridges. The suspicions of the officers had naturally fallen upon Leonard Mitchell; and it was deemed necessary to place him under arrest until the coroner should have instituted the usual enquiry. But he energetically declared his innocence; and those who were the most ready to suspect him, were staggered by the sincerity which seemed to characterise his protestations, and by the indignation which he manifested at the crime imputed to him. On the ensuing day the inquest was held; and the result was favourable to Mitchell. No particle of evidence appeared to tell against him, unless indeed it were the fact that he had been flogged a year previously through the instrumentality of the deceased nobleman. But none of Leonard’s comrades who were examined, could aver that they had ever heard him use a threatening expression in respect to Lord Satinet—no, not even in his cups, when the truth is so likely to slip from a man’s lips and the real state of his feelings to be proclaimed by the tongue. That the nobleman’s death was the result of an accident, was an alternative that could scarcely be adopted: for it was almost impossible that a ball-cartridge could have been mistaken for a blank one. Thus, though not a tittle of testimony could be brought against Leonard Mitchell,—and though he was discharged from custody,—yet in the minds of all the officers and of many of his comrades, there still dwelt a suspicion with regard to him. An open verdict was returned by the jury,—to the effect that “the deceased had met his death by a ball discharged from a carbine, but whether by accident or guilty intent, and by what hand, was unknown.” A few days afterwards the remains of the young nobleman were consigned to the tomb; and the Tory newspapers, in passing an eulogium upon his character, grouped together such a variety of admirable qualities, that if he had only possessed one-tenth of them, he must have been a phœnix of moral perfection and a prodigy of intellectual power.
The first meeting which took place between Leonard Mitchell and Ellen after the tragedy just related, was of a painful description. Scarcely were they alone together in the apartment which she had hired for these guilty interviews, when, seizing him violently by the wrist, and speaking in a low, thick tone—while her eyes looked fixedly and searchingly into the depths of his own—she said, “Leonard, is it possible that you have done this?”—“I told you that I would have vengeance,” he replied, almost brutally, as he abruptly withdrew his arm from her grasp; “and you have even encouraged me in the project. Do you mean to reproach me now?”—“Oh! my God, it seems so horrible to contemplate!” cried Ellen, sinking into a chair, and pressing her hands to her throbbing brows: for, criminal—almost depraved, though she were, yet she was not so hardened as to be able to stifle the still small voice which whispered in her ears, “Thou art the companion of a murderer!”—“Horrible to contemplate!” repeated Leonard, with a brutal laugh. “You are a fool to talk in that style, Ellen. But perhaps you will go and betray me next?”—“Good heavens! how have I merited such treatment as this?” exclaimed the wretched woman, now bursting into a flood of tears. “Have I not sacrificed everything for you, Leonard?” she demanded, her voice broken with agonising sobs: “and can you find it in your heart to insult me thus? Oh! consider my position, and have mercy upon me! Tormented day and night by the suspicions and the increasing ill-humour of a husband whom I loathe and abhor—with the greatest difficulty avoiding the snares which he sets to entrap me, and to acquire proof of that infidelity which he even more than suspects and subjected latterly to the questions and remonstrances of my father, who has at length obtained a knowledge of my frequent and unaccounted-for absences from home,—think you not that I am sufficiently unhappy, perplexed, and bewildered, without receiving insult and injury from you?”—“Then why do you provoke me?” demanded Leonard. “For a year past I have been constantly telling you that I would have vengeance; and, as I said just now, you have encouraged me in the idea. But now that it is consummated, and that my mortal enemy sleeps in a premature grave, you affect horror and disgust.”—“Oh! Leonard,” ejaculated Ellen, throwing herself at his feet, “pardon me, and I will offend you no more! I am well aware that the provocation was immense, and that there are circumstances in which human forbearance knows no limit—can acknowledge no restraint. Such was your position; and I was wrong to utter a word deprecatory of your conduct.”—“Well, well,” said Leonard, raising the infatuated woman from her suppliant posture, and placing her on the sofa by his side: “let us talk no more of this little quarrel between us. For you must be aware that I should have been worse than the spaniel which licks the hand that beats it, if I had not avenged myself on that miscreant lordling, whom my hatred accompanies even in his grave. And let me tell you, that in times of war, many and many an officer is picked off by some soldier who has felt the iron hand of despotism press upon him, or who has suffered from the effects of individual persecution. It may be called murder, if you choose: but I look upon it as a righteous retribution.”—Ellen gazed in mingled astonishment and horror, and with a ghastly pallor of countenance, upon her lover’s face, as he enunciated this dreadful doctrine: then, perceiving that he was again about to become angry, she hastened to caress him. He returned the amorous dalliance; but Ellen could no longer abandon herself wholly and entirely to the delights of illicit love. Though the course of life which she had for some time adopted had rendered her insatiably sensual, she now experienced a feeling of loathing and disgust when in contact with her lover. This feeling she strove hard to conquer, by conjuring up all the voluptuous ideas that had ever existed in her soul: but, in spite of this straining against nature, a voice of blood seemed to ring in her ears, warning her that she was in the arms of a murderer! She gazed upon his handsome countenance, in the hope that its beauty would inspire her with sentiments of a purer affection;—but his eyes appeared to beam with fiendish triumph and demoniac malignity;—and if she pressed his hand to her lips, it seemed as if she were kissing flesh stained with human gore.
Unable to endure these torturing feelings, she hastened to prepare the supper-table, and bade him draw the cork of a champagne-bottle. Full readily did he comply; and, having tossed off a bumper first, he refilled the same glass, saying, “Now drink from this, to convince me that you do not love me less on account of what has happened.”—The lady took the glass and placed it to her lips: but the words he had just uttered, recalled so vividly to her mind those images which she had striven so forcibly to banish from her imagination, that an invincible feeling of disgust came over her—a blood-mist appeared to obscure her sight—and as she drank, it seemed as if a draught from a sanguine tide were pouring down her throat. Nevertheless, she forced herself to drain the glass; and as soon as the exciting liquor began to circulate in her veins, these horrible images rapidly disappeared, and she felt that she could now abandon herself to a voluptuousness of soul unmarred by disgust or loathing. Ellen, therefore, as well as Leonard, discovered that there were charms in the crystal cup filled with sparkling wine; and she drank the exciting juice with the avidity of one who knows full well its efficacy in banishing care. Leonard was both surprised and rejoiced to behold the influence which the nectar had upon her; and for a long time he had not appeared so tender and affectionate as he was during the latter part of this interview.
And what was the consequence of that evening’s incidents? That Ellen took a liking to alcoholic liquor. She had discovered therein a panacea for disagreeable thoughts; and her reflections in serious moments were by no means of a pleasurable nature. Thus was it that she, who was lately so abstemious as scarcely to touch a drop of wine even after dinner, and who had so deeply deplored the weakness of Leonard in yielding to the insidious temptations of strong drink,—thus was it that she, the elegant and lovely Ellen, gave way to that same fascination, and sought solace in the sparkling glass. At first she touched no wine until the dinner-hour: but she soon found that all the morning and afternoon she was a prey to low spirits, distressing reflections, and feelings of mingled loathing and fondness in respect to Leonard; and she therefore made the mid-day luncheon an excuse for taking her first glass. At dinner-time she would freely partake of her two or three glasses;—and on those evenings when she met Leonard, she indulged readily in the liquor provided for the supper-table. But as the habit rapidly gained upon the unfortunate young woman, she soon began to tipple slily at home; and, even before breakfast, she eventually found herself compelled by great mental depression to imbibe a dram. It was about this time that Mr. Gamble’s intellects, racked and tortured for upwards of a year by the most harrowing suspicions and by the total estrangement of his wife’s affections and even attentions, began to give way; and he would sit for hours together in his chair, with his eyes fixed upon vacancy. It was also at the same epoch that a turn once more manifested itself in Mr. Pomfret’s affairs; and, a colossal speculation failing, he was again plunged into deep embarrassments. Further assistance from his son-in-law was out of the question; and Mr. Pomfret accordingly devoted all his energies to sustain the credit of his house in the hope that he might yet retrieve himself, or in any case postpone the catastrophe for as long a period as possible. Thus the condition of her husband and the constant application of her father to his business left Ellen almost totally free from any supervision; and she was enabled to indulge at will in the fatal habit that was gaining so rapidly upon her. Leonard did not fail to notice this growing attachment to liquor on her part; and he rather encouraged it than otherwise—for he himself had become utterly depraved and reckless, and when his mistress was in a maudlin condition of semi-ebriety, she cheerfully parted with all the contents of her purse. The increasing childishness of her husband gave her a greater command over his finances; and she was therefore the better able to supply her lover’s extravagances. At length she acquired the certainty that Leonard was unfaithful to her; and a desperate quarrel was the consequence. Nor was the dispute confined to mere words; for the young man beat her unmercifully—and she, half intoxicated at the time, retaliated to the best of her ability. The scene was shocking and disgusting; and when Ellen awoke next morning, and reflected upon all that had occurred on the preceding evening, she wept bitter—bitter tears, as she compared the guilty present with the innocent past. Then she vowed to abstain from liquor in future, and to see Leonard Mitchell no more; and, temporarily strong in this resolution, she sent him a note communicating her design. Moreover, under the influence of the better feelings that were thus awakening within her soul, her heart smote her for her conduct towards her husband, who was daily becoming more dependant upon her kindness, and whom she had long neglected altogether. She even felt happy when she pondered upon her newly-formed determination to resume a steady course of life;—but all her salutary schemes and hopes were annihilated in the afternoon of that same day, by the arrival of a letter from Mitchell, threatening to murder her and kill himself afterwards unless she repaired in the evening to the usual place of meeting.
Over that letter Ellen wept scalding tears—for she knew that if she yielded now, her fate was sealed: ruin, degradation, and disgrace must inevitably await her! She saw herself again entering upon the path which would lead her to the condition of a confirmed drunkard; and the awful menaces contained in the missive, filled her with presentiments that even her death might be premature and violent. Nevertheless, she had not the moral courage to resist the temptation of meeting her lover; and she consoled herself—or rather, she endeavoured to quiet her qualms of conscience and her presaging fears—by saying, “It shall be for the last time!” To the place of appointment she accordingly went; and Leonard Mitchell, who feared to lose a mistress possessed of such ample means to minister to his extravagances, played the hypocrite so admirably that Ellen—infatuated creature that she was!—believed in the sincerity of his protestations of undivided love for the future, and his regrets for the past. The wine-bottle circulated freely; and she forgot all her remorse—all her compunctions—all her resolves of reformation. She even went so far as to revive the proposal of purchasing Leonard’s discharge; but to this he positively refused to accede. He quoted his oath as a reason: it was not however the correct one—for even that solemn vow had long ceased to have any influence upon his depraved and hardened mind. The truth was that he had become a confirmed voluptuary in respect to women; and he found that his uniform was an immense auxiliary towards success with the frivolous and giddy of the sex: moreover, he knew that were he released from the ranks, he should become completely tacked to the apron-strings of his mistress; and, as she held the purse, he would not in that case be able to exercise his independence. It therefore suited him better to remain in the army; and Ellen was foolish—infatuated enough to believe in the validity and genuineness of the motive which he alleged for declining her proposal. She accordingly forbore from pressing it; and the remainder of that evening was spent in voluptuous enjoyment—sensuality and champagne constituting the elements of that guilty pair’s unhallowed pleasures.
Time passed on; and the position of the lovers—if such they could now be called—became daily more unhappy in respect to each other. Quarrels between them were of constant occurrence; and on each occasion blows were exchanged. The affection of Ellen had changed into a gross sensuality, having lost every particle of refining sentiment; and she became jealous in the extreme, frequently giving way to such fits of passion, when she reproached Leonard for his infidelities, that it was impossible to recognise in the furious, rabid, half-drunken demoness—the mild, amiable, and chaste young lady of former years. She still retained her beauty to a marvellous degree, in spite of the deep potations in which she indulged and the slovenliness that had crept upon her in respect to dress; and, as she was frequently out in the streets late of an evening, after her interviews with Leonard, she was subjected to the licentious proposals of the “young men about town” who are ever on the look-out for pretty women. The result was that, although she yielded not to such temptations, her mind became more thoroughly depraved, by being robbed of every chastening thought and feminine reflection; for, when under the influence of liquor, she would frequently converse with the rakes who accosted her in the manner described. Leonard himself suddenly grew jealous; and, having followed her one evening, he caught her in discourse with a young gentleman whom she had encountered more than once during her walks home. A dreadful scene ensued: and, though Leonard at length suffered himself to be appeased, simply because afraid of losing one whose purse was so convenient to him, he nevertheless entertained a firm but erroneous conviction, of her infidelity. They therefore now harboured mutual distrust, which on many occasions rose into absolute loathing. Bad as Leonard was, and much as he had encouraged her in her drinking habits, he was nevertheless often disgusted when he beheld her reeling under the influence of liquor, and when he felt upon his face that breath which, now heated with alcoholic fluid, was once so pure and balmy. On her side, she could never divest herself of the remembrance that she was consorting with a murderer; and frequently—oh! how frequently, the blood-mist would reappear before her eyes, and the liquor would seem gore in her glass, and sanguine stains would, in her heated imagination, dye his hands! Thus wretchedly did their connexion progress,—she still clinging to him through that infatuation which often belongs to sensuality of soul—and he still tolerating her because she possessed the means of supplying his pocket.
At length matters had reached a crisis, at which the amour was destined to have a most tragical termination. Ellen was returning home one evening, smarting under some insult which her lover had put upon her, and labouring as usual under the influence of wine, when she met the young gentleman above alluded to. On this occasion his entreaties were more urgent than ever; and she was more pliant than he had as yet found her to be. Her blood was inflamed; and she was moreover in that humour when to assert her independence of Leonard, even to herself, would prove a solace and a comfort. She accordingly yielded to the proposals of the stranger, and accompanied him to an improper house. It was midnight when they issued forth; and Ellen hastened homeward, having made an appointment for another evening. In the middle of Waterloo Bridge she heard hasty steps approaching from behind: it was a clear, moonlit night—and on turning her head, she beheld Leonard Mitchell close at hand. A faintness came over her: she instantly suspected—nay, felt certain that he had watched her;—and, trembling with terrible apprehensions, she sank upon a seat in one of the recesses. In another moment the young dragoon was by her side. For almost a minute he spoke not; and this silence augmented her alarm. Raising her pale—her haggard countenance, on which the moon-light streamed in all its chaste and silvery purity, she endeavoured to frame some question that would lead to an explanation of his presence there: but her lips refused utterance to the words that rose to them. A mortal terror was upon her—a consternation, as if she beheld the skeleton form of Death hovering dimly in the obscure distance.
Taking her hand, and pressing it with convulsive violence, Leonard said in a low and hollow tone, “Now, Ellen, I have at last obtained ample proof of your infidelity.”—“Mercy! mercy!” murmured the young woman, as gazing rapidly up and down the bridge, she saw that it was completely deserted.—“Oh! I deserve it,” exclaimed Leonard, beating his brow violently with his open palm: “I know that I deserve it all! I have long entertained the suspicion that such was the case: but now that I have acquired the conviction, it seems too dreadful to bear! Again, however, I say that I deserve it: and yet, bad—vile—depraved as I am, I feel as if my heart had received a mortal wound.”—“I take Almighty God to witness, Leonard,” cried Ellen in an impassioned tone, “that this is the first time I have been unfaithful to you. Your conduct of the evening wounded me so deeply, that I longed to avenge myself—longed also to assert my independence of you, even if only to the knowledge of my own heart. By this I mean that I should have felt triumphant in proving false to you, even though you yourself were to remain ignorant of the proceeding. And now if you will pardon me, I promise never to err again. But, O Leonard—Leonard, do treat me with at least a little kindness!”—and as she uttered these words in a tone of deep feeling and profound pathos, she flung herself upon his breast, throwing her arms around his neck in a paroxysm of reviving fondness. So touching was her appeal, that it instantly brought to his soul an overwhelming cloud of reminiscences of all the harshness, brutality, and cowardly cruelty of which he had been guilty towards her,—reminiscences, too, of all her love for him—the sacrifices she had made for him—the generosity of her behaviour in his behalf. He recollected also—and all in a moment as it were—that if she were degraded by drink, and defiled by the hot breath of licentiousness, she was pure and chaste as a wife until he had sought her out on his return to London,—that her fall, in fine, might be unmistakeably traced to her fatal connexion with him. Then, too, he recalled to mind his own condition when two years previously he had crossed that bridge on his way to snatch a glimpse of the three houses in Stamford Street,—a condition which, unenviable as he had then deemed it, was one of supreme happiness compared with his present state. For the mark of the branding lash was upon his back, and the remorse of a murderer was in his heart; and he knew himself to be a drunkard—a disgrace to his regiment—a vile wretch, rioting in pleasures purchased by the coin that he wrung from the woman whom he ill-treated and abused. And, lastly, his thoughts were reflected back to those times when all was bright and smiling before him—when he and Ellen were alike untainted by guilt, and the willing votaries of virtue—when their loves were innocent and chaste, and they would have started back in horror and indignation had it been prophesied to them that they were one day destined to look upon each other with disgust. All these recollections and reflections poured in, like an overwhelming torrent, upon the mind of the young dragoon; and his soul was softened—his heart, long so hard, was touched—and, melting into tears, as he felt the miserable woman clinging to him with resuscitated fondness, he pressed her to his bosom, exclaiming, “Ellen, I have wronged you deeply—deeply: but can you—can you forgive me?”
The reconciliation was complete; and then Ellen, animated by a sudden thought, exclaimed, “But, gracious heavens! Leonard, you have absented yourself from your quarters—and, hark! the clock strikes one.”—The booming note of St. Paul’s iron tongue had indeed fallen upon their ears while she was yet speaking.—“I dare not return to the barracks again,” said Leonard; and she felt that he shuddered convulsively in her arms.—“But what will you do?” she asked, diffidently.—“Anything!” he cried: “anything! rather than be flogged again.”—“Flogged!” repeated Ellen, now shuddering in her turn.—“Yes: I should be assuredly condemned to that ignominy—that torture,” replied Mitchell. “My conduct has for some time been so unsteady, and I have been so often reported ‘late,’ that this time nothing could save me from the cat. I have determined not to return to the barracks,” he added, doggedly.—“But what will you do?” again asked Ellen.—“I know not,” he responded gloomily. “Unless I can find some secure place wherein to hide for a few days, until I may escape from the country, I cannot tell what will become of me.”—“And must you quit the country?” demanded Ellen.—“Would you have me taken up as a deserter?” asked Leonard bitterly. “My punishment in that case would be worse than if I were now to go back and submit to the result of a court-martial on charges of irregularity, drunkenness, and late hours.”—“Not for worlds would I have you return under present circumstances,” cried Ellen, in an impassioned tone: “much less have you eventually incur the danger of being arrested as a deserter, Leonard,” she added, after a few moments’ pause, “if you leave the country, I will go with you.”—“I thought that you would not abandon me,” exclaimed the dragoon, pressing her closer to him. Then he whispered something in her ears; and they conversed in a very low tone for several minutes. At length Ellen yielded to the plan which her lover had suggested, but which had at first seemed fraught with difficulties.—“Yes,” she said; “there is no alternative—I must conceal you at my house. And when I reflect, the two servants are devoted to me: you may suppose that I have all along bribed them heavily in order to induce them to wink at my irregularities; and if they refused to become Mr. Gamble’s spies in these times when he was in full possession of his intellects, they will not betray me now that he is half childish and does not question them concerning me any more. Yes: It must be so;—there is no choice left. Come at once: I possess the latch-key, and can admit you without even disturbing the servants. It will be sufficient to make confidants of them to-morrow.”
The reader may now understand that Ellen was about to consummate her imprudence by taking her paramour beneath her husband’s roof. When the first moments of dissolving softness and better feelings had passed away in respect to Leonard, his selfishness again asserted its empire; and, while determining to desert, he at the same time bethought himself how he could still make Ellen’s pecuniary means available for his own purpose. His object was therefore to gain admittance into the house—to ascertain the precise nature of her resources and find out the amount of valuables she could dispose of—and then induce her to elope with him, having previously plundered her husband and his dwelling of everything worth carrying off. We have seen how far his diabolical and hastily formed scheme succeeded. Two points were already gained: she would admit him into the house—and she had promised to accompany him to another country. The robbery, he felt assured, he should be enabled to reason her into: if not, menaces could be effectually employed, no doubt. Such was the design which the once upright and honourable Leonard Mitchell now had in view; and he chuckled inwardly at the scheme, as he walked arm-in-arm with Ellen towards Stamford Street. In ten minutes they reached Mr. Gamble’s house: Ellen opened the street-door by means of the latch-key which she had about her;—and the dragoon passed, unobserved and noiselessly, to her bed-room—for during the past eighteen months she and her husband had occupied separate chambers. The remainder of that night glided away: in the morning Ellen admitted the two domestics to her confidence; and as she at the same time slipped a heavy bribe into their hands, they willingly promised devotion to her interests. The day passed heavily enough for the dragoon, who was accustomed to exercise and bustle, and who could not endure the idea of being pent up within the narrow limits of a bed-room. He accordingly determined to put the remainder of his scheme into execution without delay; and he rejoiced when night once more spread its sable wing over this hemisphere.
It was eleven o’clock: Mr. Gamble had long before retired to rest—the servants had likewise sought their chamber;—and Leonard was seated at table with Ellen in the bedroom of the latter. A succulent supper and rich wines were placed before them: the curtains were drawn carefully over the windows; and a lamp diffused a mellow lustre throughout the apartment. Having eaten as much as he cared for, Leonard filled a tumbler with sherry, which he drank at a draught to inspire him with courage for the part which he had now to play—for, by fair or foul means, was he resolved to succeed. “Ellen,” said he, after a pause, “we must quit the house to-night.”—“To-night!” she exclaimed, in astonishment: “wherefore this hurry?”—“In the first place,” he replied, “because I cannot bear confinement here; and secondly, because it may as well be done now as a week or a month hence.”—“Let us postpone our departure until to-morrow night,” said Ellen, imploringly.—“Why so?”—“Because I have not seen my father for many days,” she answered: “he has been so much engaged in the City; and I should wish to bid him farewell for ever, if only mentally.”—“This is childish!” ejaculated Leonard impatiently. “I thought you had lost all respect for your father?”—“Oh! but I cannot forget that he is my father,” responded Ellen, the tears trickling down her cheeks: “and now that I have made up my mind to leave England for ever, I would embrace him once more.”—“Then I must depart without you,” said Leonard, rising from his chair—“Oh! this is unkind to a degree!” urged Ellen bitterly. “Surely you can allow me four-and-twenty hours for the necessary preparations?”—“Our preparations can be made in an hour,” said Leonard obstinately: then, reseating himself, he drank off another tumblerful of wine. “Listen to me. What preparations have you to make, save to possess yourself of all the money, plate, jewels, and other valuables you can lay your hands upon?”—Ellen stared at her lover with the fixed gaze of mingled astonishment and horror.—“Well, what is the matter with you?” he demanded.—“Leonard, you are not in earnest?” she said at length: “you would not have me rob my husband of his plate?”—“Certainly,” replied the ruffian: “and of his watch, and everything of value that is portable in the house. We must not go away empty-handed, I can tell you.”—“Is it possible that you would counsel me to do this?” asked Ellen, speaking in a low and agitated voice. “Leonard, I have never hesitated to supply you with money, because that is an article which I believe to exist in common between a husband and wife. Moreover, the household has suffered in no way by the appropriation of those sums to your wants. But if you mean me to plunder my husband of his plate—his watch—and other things which are beyond all question his own exclusively, I declare once for all that I will not be a party to such a deed. It is sufficient,” she added, tears now bursting from her eyes, “that I am what I am, without leaving behind me the reputation of a thief.”—Leonard ground his teeth with rage: and again he had recourse to the wine-bottle.—“Pray recall the words that you have uttered,” exclaimed Ellen: “tell me that you were joking, or that you only made the proposal in order to try me!”—“I never was more serious in my life,” said Leonard, brutally.—“Oh! what do I hear?” cried the wretched woman, wringing her hands.—“Enough of this!” ejaculated the ruffian, starting from his seat. “Do you mean to accompany me, or do you not?”—“Yes, yes; I have pledged myself to that!”—“And are we to go empty-handed?”—“I have sixty or seventy pounds in money, and my jewels are worth as much more.”—“And the plate?” demanded Leonard.—“Is always kept in a box beneath Mr. Gamble’s bed; and therefore you see how impossible it is to obtain it, even if I were disposed to plunder him of property which has been in his family for so many, many years.”
Leonard reseated himself—poured out more wine—drank it—and then fell into a deep meditation. Ellen watched his countenance, flattering herself that the reason she had alleged for forbearance in respect to the plate would prove efficient. But she had only confirmed the ruffian in his resolution to possess it; inasmuch as she had committed herself in two ways. Firstly, she had told him where it was; and secondly, by informing him that it had been in the family for many years, she had naturally left on his mind the impression that it was of considerable value—for heir-looms of that species are usually costly. What, then, was Leonard Mitchell really thinking of—thinking of, too, under the influence of the deep potations which he had imbibed? He was revolving a hellish project in his mind. If he endeavoured to possess himself of the plate contrary to the assent of Ellen, a disturbance would ensue in the house, and his arrest as a deserter might follow upon the discovery of his presence there. To depart without the plate was not at all suitable to his purposes: for if he repaired to a foreign country, it would not be to toil for a livelihood. How, then, was he to secure the coveted property, and carry it away without the chance of noise or detection? Only if Ellen were removed from his path! Yes—this was the project now revolved in the mind of the lost, depraved young man; and, having again fortified himself with liquor, he determined to put his diabolical scheme into execution. Suddenly rising from his seat, he approached Ellen, and, taking her hand, said, “Forgive me, dearest, for what I dared to utter just now. We will delay our departure until to-morrow night; and then you shall take with you just so much as you choose to select, and nothing more.”—“I freely pardon you, Leonard,” she replied; and yet, as he bent over her, there was a wild gleaming in his eye and a peculiarity of expression in his countenance which caused vague apprehensions to sweep across her mind. “But how strangely you regard me, Leonard,” she said: “is anything the matter with you?”—“Nothing, nothing, dearest,” he responded, throwing his arms round her neck and pressing her head as if in the fervour of affection against his bosom. All her alarms were immediately dissipated; and, thrown completely off her guard, she returned the embrace, abandoning herself entirely to him. At that instant his right hand was withdrawn; and, as he uttered some words of endearment, he possessed himself of the carving knife, unperceived by her.—“Let us now retire to rest, Leonard,” she murmured, as her face lay buried on his chest: “It is growing late——Oh! heavens——”
And farther utterance was suddenly stopped; for, like a flash of lightning, the sharp blade, gleaming in the rays of the lamp, was drawn across her throat—the murderer turning her head and throwing it back at the same moment in order to aid his fell design. Death was almost instantaneous; and the miscreant gently lowered the body upon the floor. For nearly half a minute did he stand gazing upon that corpse—unable to believe that it was really what it seemed to be, and that he had perpetrated the deed. Then, as the awful conviction stared him fully in the face, and the entire sense of his enormity seized upon his soul, he would have given worlds, had he possessed them, to undo what was there done! But it was too late—oh! too late; and he must save himself—he must escape! A bumper of brandy gave him the courage of a brute: and, taking the lamp in his hand, he crept cautiously to Mr. Gamble’s bed-room. The door was unlocked, and the old man slept profoundly. Beneath the bed was the plate-chest: but it was securely fastened with a padlock. Leonard raised the chest, and, placing it on his shoulder, was about to quit the room, when he espied upon a chair the clothes which Mr. Gamble had put off when retiring to rest. These garments the murderer likewise self-appropriated, as well as a hat, which was standing on a chest of drawers; and he noiselessly retraced his way to the chamber where the corpse lay. Turning his back towards that appalling spectacle, he proceeded to dress himself in Mr. Gamble’s apparel, which fitted him quite well enough for his purpose, and was at all events a safer attire than his uniform. He next proceeded to break open the plate-chest—a task speedily effected by means of the same knife that had accomplished the murder. The contents of the chest, when rapidly scanned by his eager eyes, were evidently of great value; and he hastened to pack them up in towels, and lastly in brown paper. He then rifled the jewel-box of his murdered paramour; and, in addition to the costly articles which he found there, were the seventy pounds that the unfortunate woman had alluded to but a few minutes before she had ceased to exist. Leonard was satisfied with the booty thus acquired; and he was moreover in haste to depart. Having secured the money and jewels about his person, he took the parcel containing the plate under his arm, and stole cautiously down the stairs. All was silent throughout the house: several times did he pause to listen—but not a sound was heard;—and he gained the street without interruption. When, however, he was in the open air, he knew not whither to go—what plan to adopt,—whether to seek concealment in London until the coming storm should have blown over, or to make every effort to get out of England. The latter plan appeared to be the more advisable; and he accordingly pushed on towards the Dover road.
It was shortly after sun-rise that Mr. Gamble, awaking from a sound sleep, beheld a deep stain on the ceiling of his chamber; and, with eyes rivetted upon it, he lay reflecting what it could possibly be. The old man was half childish; and the strangest conjectures passed through his mind. At length he grew frightened: an unknown terror stole gradually upon him—and he rang his bell violently. In a few minutes the two female domestics entered the room, having hastily huddled on some clothing; and they found their master gazing intently up at the ceiling, with a wild vacancy in the eyes. Their own looks instantly took the same direction; and one of them suddenly exclaimed, with shuddering horror, “It is blood!” They then hurried up-stairs; and a frightful spectacle met their view. Their mistress lay upon the floor, with her throat cut from ear to ear; and the carpet was completely saturated with her blood. Screams and shrieks burst from the lips of the horror-stricken women; and rushing down stairs, they rashly communicated to Mr. Gamble, without any previous warning or preparation, the dreadful tragedy which had been enacted. The flickering, decaying lamp of the old man’s intellect suddenly burnt up vividly for a few moments: the full powers of reason returned;—he comprehended the appalling news which were thus unguardedly made known to him; and with a horrible lamentation he sprang from his bed. With incredible speed did he ascend to his wife’s chamber; and when the awful spectacle met his eyes, he threw up his arms in despair, gave vent to a piteous cry, and sank down on the blood-stained corpse. Meantime one of the servants had hastened next door to alarm Mr. Pomfret; and when that gentleman, accompanied by two or three of his own domestics, appeared on the scene of murder, assistance was immediately offered to Mr. Gamble. But all endeavours to recover him were ineffectual: the shock he had received was a death-blow—and life was extinct!
A few questions hastily put to the old man’s servants elicited many facts dreadful for Mr. Pomfret to hear. He now learnt enough to convince him that his daughter had long maintained an illicit connexion with a handsome young dragoon—that her lover had been admitted the night before the one of the murder into the house—and that he must have been the author of the dreadful deed. Farther investigation corroborated this belief: the uniform was found, and a suit of Mr. Gamble’s apparel had disappeared;—the plate, jewels, and money were likewise gone. The distracted father, having heard a long time previously that Leonard Mitchell had enlisted in a dragoon regiment, immediately suspected that he must be the criminal; and this idea was confirmed by the discovery of some letters in Ellen’s desk. Information of the murder and robbery was accordingly given to the proper authorities; and Mr. Pomfret, crushed to the very dust by the weight of misfortune, crept back to his own cheerless dwelling—there to meditate upon the closing scene of the tragedy in which his own conduct had originally made his poor daughter the heroine. Bitterness was in the wretched man’s soul—horror in his eyes—spasmodic shuddering in all his limbs; and, when he contemplated his child’s horrible end and his own ruined fortunes, he felt indeed that he had nothing left worth living for. The cup of his adversity was not, however, quite full yet: but in a few hours it was overflowing—for his head clerk arrived in a cab, and, rushing into the parlour without ceremony, announced to him that the officers of justice were in search of him, a true bill of indictment having been found against him for certain frauds in his commercial transactions. “Thank you—thank you, for coming to give me this timely warning,” said Mr. Pomfret, pressing his clerk’s hand with painful violence: “I will depart immediately;”—and he staggered from the room. The clerk waited five minutes, and began to grow impatient: ten minutes elapsed and still his master did not reappear. The man rose and rang the bell furiously to summon one of the domestics; but at the same instant the constables entered the house. These officials, having learnt from the servant who admitted them, that Mr. Pomfret was at home, proceeded to search the dwelling; and the clerk, now entertaining the worst fears, accompanied them to the ruined merchant’s bed-chamber. There these fears met with immediate confirmation: Mr. Pomfret had put a period to his existence—he had hanged himself to a strong nail in his sleeping apartment! The body was instantly cut down, and medical assistance promptly obtained: but the wretched suicide was no more.
In the evening of that same day a man was arrested under suspicious circumstances at Dover. The news of the awful occurrences in Stamford Street had not reached that town at the time—for there was neither railway nor electric telegraph between London and the Kentish coast in those days: but the individual alluded to, had presented a quantity of plate at a pawnbroker’s shop, and, not being able to give a satisfactory account of how it came into his possession, was detained until a constable arrived to take him into custody. On the ensuing morning the tidings of the murder in London reached Dover; and the particulars given by the newspapers of the preceding evening were ample enough to identify the person under arrest with the Leonard Mitchell who was accused of desertion, murder, and robbery. He was accordingly sent under a strong escort to the metropolis, where, on his arrival, he was immediately lodged in Newgate. In due course his trial came on: he was found guilty upon evidence the most conclusive:—and, upon being called upon to allege anything wherefore sentence of death should not be passed, he addressed the Judge in the following manner:—“I acknowledge, my lord, that I am guilty of the dreadful crime imputed to me; and although it be too late—far too late to express contrition now, I nevertheless declare that I am deeply, deeply penitent. My lord, lost—degraded—criminal—and condemned, as I stand here in your presence, I was once as sincerely attached to virtue as any man or woman who now hears me. Even when adversity entered the paternal dwelling, ravaging it with the desolating fury of an army, I yielded to no evil temptation: neither did my confidence in the justice, the goodness, and the wisdom of heaven abate. I enlisted, my lord, in order to obtain an honest livelihood, and to stifle in the bustle of a new state of existence the painful reminiscences of blighted hopes and crushed affections. The officers who have appeared before your lordship this day, have all admitted, in reply to the question I put to them, that up to the time when I was sentenced to three hundred lashes, I had never even received a reprimand nor had been once reported for the slightest irregularity. But from the moment that the first blow of the torturing and degrading weapon fell upon my back, my existence assumed a new phase—my soul underwent a sudden and immediate change. With each drop of blood that oozed from my lacerated back, ebbed away some sentiment of rectitude—some principle of virtue. My lord, it was the lash that drove me to drinking—that made me reckless of all consequences—that made me a liar and a voluptuary, a mean fellow and a paltry rascal—and that hardened my heart so as to render it inaccessible to every feeling of honour, mercy, or remorse. It was the lash, then, that has made me a murderer; and I might almost claim to be pitied, rather than to be looked upon with loathing. A cruel law taught me to be cruel: a merciless and barbarian punishment prepared me to become a ruthless and ferocious assassin. And now, my lord, I am about to reveal a fact which has long ago been suspected, and which, situated as I unhappily am, need not exist in doubt or uncertainty any more. My life must be forfeited for the crime which has been proved against me this day; and it will unburthen my soul of a heavy secret to confess another crime, which I perpetrated upwards of a year ago. Your lordship doubtless remembers that a young nobleman—an officer in the regiment to which I belonged—was shot at a review in Hyde Park. My lord, I was the assassin: the man accused me wrongfully—persecuted me unrelentingly—and lied most foully against me,—and I was avenged.”
As Leonard uttered these last words in a firm tone and with marked emphasis, a thrill of horror passed through the crowded court; and the dead silence which had been observed while he was speaking, was succeeded by a subdued murmuring as of many voices commenting on what he had said. Erect, and with an evident determination to meet his doom courageously, the unhappy young man stood in the dock—his eye quailing not, his limbs trembling not; and, heinous as his offences were, he was not altogether without commiseration on the part of many present. The judge put on the black cap; and the sentence of death—that barbarian sentence—was pronounced in due form, the culprit receiving an intimation that he need entertain no hope of mercy. The hint was unnecessary: he had made up his mind to suffer;—and as firmly as he walked out of the dock back into the prison, so resolutely did he step from that same prison ten days afterwards on to the scaffold erected at the debtors’ door. A tremendous crowd was assembled to witness the execution; and the unhappy criminal maintained his courage to the last.
From that time have the three houses in Stamford Street been shut up: from that period have they been suffered to fall into decay. In the first, old Mr. Mitchell expired suddenly: in the second, Mr. Pomfret hung himself;—and in the third, Ellen was brutally murdered. The hand of Fate had marked those three tenements to be the scenes of horror and of crime: and a superstitious feeling on the part of certain credulous and weak-minded neighbours soon engendered the report that they were haunted. It was said that the ghost of the young lady had been seen walking in her shroud, in the yard behind the house where she was murdered; and rumour added that on the anniversary night of the dread crime which had hurried her to a premature grave, she was wont to wander about the premises, uttering hollow and sepulchral moans. Such reports as those lose nothing by repetition during the lapse of years, especially while the buildings which were the scenes of the crimes engendering the superstition, continue to exist; and therefore is it that even at the present day the evil reputation of the HAUNTED HOUSES remains unimpaired in Stamford Street and its neighbourhood.
CHAPTER CLXXIX.
THE GHOST.—AGNES AND MRS. MORTIMER.
The preceding episode has run to a considerable length; but we hope and believe that our readers will experience no difficulty in resuming the thread of the general narrative.
It must be remembered that the leading incidents of the story just placed on record were related to Mrs. Mortimer by Jack Rily, by way of passing the few hours during which they had agreed to remain with Vitriol Bob, who, bound hand and foot, was seated helplessly in a chair.
“Yes,” observed Jack Rily, when he had brought his history to a conclusion, “they do say that the young woman walks at times——”
“Don’t speak in such a solemn tone,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, casting a shuddering glance around: “you almost make me think that you yourself believe in the possibility of the spectral visitation.”
“Well—I don’t know how it is.” returned the Doctor, feeling a certain superstitious influence growing upon him, and which he vainly endeavoured to shake off,—“but I certainly never before had such sensations as I experience now. Upon my soul;” he cried, striking the table violently with his clenched fist, “I am a prey to vague and undefined alarms to night:—but I will subdue them!”
“And are you sure that this is the house where the young lady was murdered?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, after a brief pause.
“There is no doubt about that!” responded Jack Rily. “Vitriol Bob there can tell you that the floor of the chamber where the deed took place is blackened with accumulated dust, yet in the middle there is a deeper stain; and on the ceiling of the room beneath, it is easy to descry the same sinister traces, even amidst dirt and cobwebs.”
“Then, as you said just now,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer, drawing her shawl over her shoulders—for she experienced the chill of superstitious terror gaining upon her,—“as you said just now, this is the second murder that has been committed within these walls!”
Scarcely had Mrs. Mortimer ceased speaking when the bell of the neighbouring church proclaimed the hour of one.
“Now is the time for the ghost,” said Vitriol Bob, with a low but ferocious chuckle; for he experienced a malignant pleasure in observing that superstitious fears were gaining on the formidable Rily and the hideous old woman. “You don’t like the near neighbourhood of the stiff ’un, I’m a-thinking! Well—I’ll lay you a wager, Jack, that I’ll go and shake the old feller by the hand quite in a friendly way—if you will but take off these cussed cords. There’s no ill feelin’ betwixt us now.”
“I would much rather leave you where you are, and send Polly Calvert to release you,” replied the Doctor.
“Yes—yes,” hastily exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, “let him be where he is. But surely we may go now, Mr. Rily? It is getting on for two——”
“It has only just this minit struck one!” cried Vitriol Bob, with a malignant leer from his dark, reptile-like eyes, which seemed to shine with a glare of their own, independent of and brighter than the dim light of the miserable candle. “Besides,” he added, now purposely rendering his voice as solemn and ominous in its tone as possible, “’tis just the time for the ghost of the young gal—or rayther, the young o’oman to walk; and I should be wexed indeed if you didn’t stay to have a look at her. I’ve seen her more than once——”
“That’s an infernal falsehood, Bob!” exclaimed Jack Rily, starting from his seat on the barrel, and vainly endeavouring to subdue the nervous excitement that had gained so rapidly upon him.
“It’s true—true as you’re there!” cried the murderer, who felt a ferocious joy at thus inspiring terror in the mind of the strong and hardened ruffian who had conquered him. “And I’ll tell you somethink more too,” continued Vitriol Bob: “you said just now—and you said truly also—that on the anniwersary of the murder the young lady wanders about the place, uttering holler moans. Well—this is the night, then, that she was murdered just twenty years ago;—and the clock has struck one!”
The effect which these words produced upon Jack Rily and Mrs. Mortimer was as rapid as it was extraordinary. Although they were both of a nature peculiarly inaccessible to superstitious terrors on common occasions, and under any other circumstances would have laughed at the idea of spectral visitations and ghostly wanderings,—yet now they vainly struggled against the powerful influence of increasing terror; and, although in their hearts, they more than half suspected that Vitriol Bob had spoken only to aggravate their alarms, yet they could not shake off the awe and consternation that seized upon their souls. In respect to Jack Rily, it was one of those periods of evanescent weakness which the most brutal and remorseless ruffians are known periodically to experience;—but, with regard to Mrs. Mortimer, it was the singularity of her present position—the consciousness that she was in a lonely place with two men of desperate character—the terrible remembrance that the murdered corse of her husband lay in the adjoining room—the impression made upon her mind by the appalling history of crime which had been to elaborately detailed to her—the thought that the very floors and the ceilings of the uppermost chambers in that house, bore testimony to the tale of blood—and the idea that the ghost of the assassinated lady was wont to wander in the depth of the night and on the scene of the crime,—it was all this that struck Mrs. Mortimer with awe and consternation, rendering her incapable of serious reflection, and levelling her strong mind as it were beneath the influence of superstitious terrors.
“Well—what the devil is the matter with you both?” demanded Vitriol Bob, after a pause.
“How do you mean?” asked Jack Rily, reseating himself, and grasping the brandy-bottle with a trembling hand.
“Why—you and the old lady looked at each other as if you already heard the light step and the rustling shroud of the apparition,” said the murderer.
“Hark! what was that?” ejaculated the Doctor, once more starting to his feet.
“It certainly was a noise somewhere,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, trembling from head to foot.
“Perhaps the old man in the back-kitchen has got up and is groping his way about,” said Vitriol Bob, speaking with an affectation of terror which was so natural that it cruelly enhanced the superstitious alarms experienced by his companions.
“This is intolerable!” exclaimed Rily, looking in a ghastly manner towards the door, as if he more than half expected to behold it suddenly thrown open, and some hideous form appear on the threshold. “I can’t make out what it is that has come over me to-night! ’Tis like a warning—and yet I never believed in ghosts until now.”
“Nor I—nor I!” murmured Mrs. Mortimer. “But to-night—I feel also as if——”
“Hark!” suddenly cried Vitriol Bob: “there is a noise again!”
“It must be the old man!” ejaculated the Doctor. “Are you sure that you did for him thoroughly?”
“If anythink like him meets your eyes, Jack, it must be his ghost, I can assure you,” was the solemn answer—although Vitriol Bob himself partook not in the slightest degree of the superstitious terrors that had grown upon his companions, but was on the contrary inwardly chuckling with malignant joy at their awe-struck state of mind.
“There! did you hear it?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, in a hasty and excited tone. “I am sure it was a noise this time: there could be no mistake about it!”
And she endeavoured to rise from her chair;—but terror kept her motionless—paralysing every limb, though not placing a seal upon her lips.
“Something dreadful is to happen to-night—I know it—I feel it!” said Jack Rily, in a tone which indicated remorse for a long career of crime and turpitude. “By God! ’tis the back-door of the house that is opening——”
“Then this is serious indeed!” interrupted Vitriol Bob, now alarmed in his turn—but rather on account of constables than spectres. “Unloose me—let us fight—resist——”
“Silence!” muttered Jack Rily, in a low but imperious tone.
There was a pause of nearly a minute, during which the three inmates of the kitchen held their breath to listen, in painful suspense.
Suddenly the rattling of the crazy bannisters outside fell upon their ears; and Jack Rily, worked up to a pitch of desperation, seized the candle, saying in a hoarse and dogged tone, “By hell! I will face it, whatever it may be!”
With these words he tore open the kitchen-door;—and, behold! before him stood a female form—clothed in white—with a countenance pale as death—her hair flowing wildly and dishevelled over her shoulders—and with eyes fixed in unnatural brilliancy upon him.
The ruffian was for a few moments paralyzed—stupified with horror: then, unable any longer to endure the spectacle which his fears converted into a corpse wrapped in a winding-sheet, he exclaimed, “The ghost! the ghost!”—and dropped the candle upon the floor.
Total darkness immediately ensued.
At the same instant a piercing scream echoed through the house; and Mrs. Mortimer, now recovering all her presence of mind, started to her feet, crying, “That is no apparition—save of flesh and blood! Haste, Jack Rily—procure a light! Where are you, man? Let us see who it is!”
“Here I am,” returned the Doctor, likewise regaining his self-possession. “Bob, where are the lucifers?”
“In my right-hand pocket,” growled the murderer, who, in the excitement of the past scene, and in the tremendous but ineffectual exertions which he had made to release himself from his bonds the moment the light was extinguished, had fallen from his seat and rolled upon the floor.
Nearly half a minute now elapsed ere the candle was found and lighted again; and then Jack Rily, closely followed by Mrs. Mortimer, hastened into the passage, where they beheld the form of a young female stretched senseless at the foot of the stairs.
The old woman stooped down to raise her: but scarcely had she caught a glimpse of the pale countenance, on which the finger of death seemed to have been placed, when, starting with surprise and joy, she exclaimed, “’Tis Agnes Vernon, as I am a living being!”
“Agnes Vernon—who is she? do you know her?” demanded the Doctor, holding forward the light. “By Jove! she is a sweet creature, whoever she is! That’s right—raise her gently. But is she dead, poor thing?”
“No—no: her heart beats—and her lips already begin to move,” responded Mrs. Mortimer hastily, as she held the still senseless maiden in her arms. “Well—this is a lucky chance that has thrown her in our way—and there’s money to be made out of it.”
“So much the better? Shall I get a little water?” asked the Doctor.
“Yes—and use despatch,” returned Mrs. Mortimer.
Jack Rily entered the kitchen, and filled a glass with water.
“Who is it?” demanded Vitriol Bob, whom the Doctor had previously restored to his position in the chair.
“A young lady that Mrs. Mortimer happens to know,” was the reply. “There is no danger from other visitors, according to all appearances: so keep quiet, and don’t alarm yourself.”
The Doctor hastened back into the passage, where Mrs. Mortimer was seated on the last step of the staircase, supporting Agnes in her arms.
“Now, will you follow my advice, Mr. Rily?” she demanded in a rapid tone, as she sprinkled the water upon the pallid countenance of the young lady.
“Yes—if it seems feasible,” was the immediate answer. “What is it?”
“That we do not keep this timid thing a moment longer in the house than is absolutely necessary,” continued Mrs. Mortimer. “For our own sakes we must guard against her beholding the interior of that place;” and, as she uttered these words in a low tone, she nodded significantly towards the door of the back kitchen where the corpse of Torrens had been deposited.
“Yes—yes: I understand,” said Jack Rily: “it might be thought that we were accomplices in the murder. In the same way it would do no good to let her see Vitriol Bob bound neck and crop in the front kitchen.”
“That is just what I was about to suggest,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “We must get her out of the house as soon as possible, and into a cab——”
“Then don’t use any more means to recover her,” interrupted Jack Rily, snatching the glass of water from the old woman’s hand. “Let her remain for a short time longer in that trance: it will not kill her, depend upon it—and you have the advantage of possessing an Æsculapius in me.”
“What do you propose, then?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, casting an anxious glance upon the countenance of the still senseless girl.
“Don’t be frightened, I tell you,” repeated Jack Rily: “I will guarantee that she shall recover. But let us be off at once. I will take her in my arms and carry her into Bennett Street; the neighbourhood is all quiet and deserted at this hour;—and you shall order round a cab from the stand in the road There are always two or three in attendance throughout the night.”
“Good!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer. “We will be off at once.”
“This instant,” said Jack Rily, as he gently raised the motionless, senseless form in his powerful arms, while Mrs. Mortimer took off her shawl and wrapped it hastily over the head and shoulders of Agnes.
The Doctor gave a hurried intimation to Vitriol Bob that Molly Calvert should be sent to him as speedily as possible; and he then stole out of the house, Mrs. Mortimer having previously ascertained that the coast was perfectly clear.
Everything was effected as Jack Rily had proposed. He gained Bennett Street, with his lovely burthen in his arms; and there he waited in the deep darkness afforded by a large gateway, until Mrs. Mortimer came round with the cab. The maiden was placed in the vehicle, which the old woman entered in order to take charge of her; and Jack Rily, after having made an appointment with his accomplice for the next evening, bade her a temporary farewell.
The cab drove away towards Park Square; and the Doctor, on his side, hurried off to the lodgings of Pig-faced Moll.
But the thread of our narrative now lies with Mrs. Mortimer and the beauteous Agnes Vernon.
Scarcely had the cab moved away from the vicinity of the haunted houses, when Agnes began rapidly to recover; and, on opening her eyes, she became aware that she was reclining in the arms of a female, and that they were being borne speedily along in a vehicle. For an instant it struck her that she must be with her mother: but in the next moment the horrors of the night crowded rapidly into her memory,—and, starting up, she demanded in a hurried, anxious manner, “Where am I? and who are you?”
Scarcely were the questions put when the young maiden was enabled, by the silver moon-light, to catch a glimpse of the countenance of her companion; and she instantly recognised Mrs. Mortimer.
Her first emotions were of joy and gratitude;—for she was delighted to find herself in the care of a female—especially one of whom she knew something: and, taking the old woman’s hand, she said, “Madam, I know not how to thank you—and am scarcely aware of what I have to thank you for. But—if my impressions be correct—you must have rescued me from something very terrible! Yes—I recollect now—that door opening—a light appearing—and then that hideous, horrible face——”
And, with a visible shudder, the maiden threw herself back in the vehicle, pressing her hands to her throbbing brows in order to collect her still disjointed and somewhat confused reminiscences.
“You are labouring under dreadful recollections my dear child,” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a soothing tone. “Know you not—can you not suspect that you were in the power of a ruffian when I fortunately encountered you?”
“But where—where?” demanded Agnes, impatiently, as her settling ideas seemed to coincide with that belief.
“I should rather ask you, my sweet maiden,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “how you came to be in Stamford Street this night.”
“My mother took me thither—yes—I recollect it all now!” exclaimed Agnes. “She left me at the house of some dear friends—and I was ungrateful enough to entertain the most injurious suspicions respecting them,—yes—and relative to my own dear mother also.”
“Your mother?” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, in astonishment. “I thought you had never known her—or that she had died when you were in your infancy.”
“Oh! no—thank God! my mother is alive—and I know her now!” ejaculated Agnes, with all the enthusiasm of a strongly reviving affection—a powerfully resuscitating devotion for the parent whom she had so lately discovered.
“But where is your mother now?” enquired Mrs. Mortimer.
“Ah! that I know not!” replied Agnes. “And this reminds me,” she exclaimed after a few moments’ pause, “that you must take me back to the good kind ladies in Stamford Street, that I may remain there until my mother shall come to fetch me away to the new home which she has promised to prepare for me.”
“Who are those good ladies?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.
“Their name is Theobald, and they live in Stamford Street,” responded the artless girl. “You may know the house—or at least the driver of the vehicle can find it out, when I describe it as being situated fourth from the corner of the Blackfriars’ Road, and next to three deserted—dilapidated—sinister-looking houses——”
“Ah! then you must have found your way from the dwelling of your friends into one of those ruined places,” thought Mrs. Mortimer. “But I am really at a loss, my dear young lady, to comprehend all you tell me,” she said aloud.
“Before I give you the necessary explanations to enable you to understand it all,” said Agnes, “will you inform me which road the vehicle is pursuing?”
“I am taking you to a place of safety, my dear girl,” responded Mrs. Mortimer.
“A place of safety!” repeated Agnes, her countenance assuming an expression of deep anxiety: “am I, then, in any danger? and in what does the peril consist?”
“I know not, my love,” answered the old woman, speaking in the kindest tone of voice. “I only judge by the condition in which I found you—the circumstances which threw us this night together—and the observations which have fallen from your lips, that you were indeed in a state of extreme danger.”
“Just heaven!” ejaculated Agnes. “But what observations did I make——”
“That you had entertained suspicions relative to the friends to whose care your mother had consigned you,” said Mrs. Mortimer.
“Yes—and I told you truly,” resumed the ingenuous maiden. “I know not how it was—I cannot account for it now—but when I found myself alone in a strange house, terrible though undefined fears took possession of my soul—and I resolved to escape. I succeeded in getting as far as the next house, which I entered: but scarcely had I crossed the threshold of the back door, when a light suddenly appeared and a countenance was revealed to my affrighted gaze—a countenance so dreadful to look upon that I tremble now as I think of it. Then, so far as I can recollect, I heard a voice thundering something loud but unintelligible in my ears: I screamed—and fainted. When I came to my senses, I was in your arms and in this vehicle.”
“I can throw some light upon the matter,” said Mrs. Mortimer, whose object was to keep the attention of Agnes as much and as unremittingly engaged as possible, so as to prevent her from growing uneasy relative to the ultimate destination of the cab: for should she become alarmed, she might appeal to the driver for protection, and a disturbance in the streets would prove inevitable. “You must know,” continued Mrs. Mortimer, “that I was returning home from a friend’s house in Stamford-street, when I met a great, stout, horribly ugly man carrying a female form in his arms. The moon-light showed me his dreadful countenance—and I instantly suspected that some foul play was intended. I accordingly insisted that he should stop—which he did with much reluctance, declaring that you were his daughter, and that he was taking you home, as you had fallen down in a fit.”
“Oh! then some mischief was really meditated towards me!” exclaimed Agnes, clasping her hands together in shuddering horror of the perils through which she supposed herself to have passed.
“Yes—my dear child,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, “you doubtless owe your life to me——”
“Ah! madam,” interrupted Agnes, “how can I ever sufficiently thank you for your goodness?”—then, as a reminiscence struck to her artless mind with the pang of a remorse, she exclaimed, as she pressed the old woman’s wrinkled hands to her lips, “It seems fated that I should suspect those who are my best friends!”
“Do not think of that, my love,” said the wily old creature, who easily conjectured what was passing in that amiable maiden’s ingenuous soul. “When you know me better, you will appreciate my conduct towards you as it deserves. Doubtless your father set you against me—and then that little misunderstanding relative to the affair of Lord William Trevelyan——But enough of that for the present! Let me conclude my little narrative relative to yourself. Well, I was describing to you how I compelled the man to stop; and I was about to tell you that I was by no means satisfied with the explanations he gave me. Indeed, I threatened to summon the assistance of the police; and you may be well assured that this menace suddenly became a settled resolution, when, as the moonlight fell upon the countenance of the fair creature whom the man carried in his arms, I recognised yourself, my sweet Agnes! You can conceive my astonishment, perhaps—but you can form no idea of the apprehension that seized on me; for I really love you dearly, although I have seen so little of you. The man was dreadfully alarmed when he perceived that I knew you; and I had no difficulty in compelling him to surrender you into my charge. He then decamped; and I placed you in a cab which happened to be passing at the time. You now know all.”
“Ah! from what inconceivable perils have you not saved me!” exclaimed Agnes, full of enthusiastic and impassioned gratitude towards the woman whom she looked upon as her deliverer. “My dear mother will thank you warmly—earnestly—most sincerely for this generous act on your part; and I shall never, never forget the deep obligation under which you have placed me.”
“Enough on that subject, my dear child,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “You have spoken several times of your mother—may I ask how you came to discover her, or how she happened to have remained so long unknown to you?”
“I am bewildered when I think of all that!” returned Miss Vernon, in a mournful tone. “It was last evening that she came to me—that she sought me out in my retirement—that she announced herself as my parent; and my heart’s feelings gave me the assurance that she was indeed what she represented herself to be. Then I agreed to accompany her—for she told me that she was unhappy, and she claimed my love and my duty as a daughter. Oh! my dear madam, you can doubtless understand how joyous—how delightful were my emotions on thus encountering a mother whom I had never known till then! I only thought of giving way to those delicious feelings—until I found myself left in the charge of strangers. Then it was that I grew afraid—that vague and undefinable apprehensions took possession of my soul—that I became suspicions of all and everything—and that I fled! Foolish, mistaken creature that I was! That one false step of mine threw me into the hands of a monster, who would perhaps have killed me had you not rescued me from his power.”
Agnes paused, and arranged her hair—her dark, luxuriant, glossy hair—floating so wildly and yet so beauteously in its dishevelled state, over her shoulders;—and now, as the tint of the rose had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes had recovered their witching softness of expression, she appeared transcendantly lovely to the view of the old woman, whom the moon-light enabled to survey the charming creature seated opposite to her.
Suddenly the vehicle stopped;—and Agnes, hastily looking from the windows, beheld a row of handsome houses on one side, and an enclosure of verdant shrubs and plants on the other.
“This is not Stamford Street, madam,” she said to Mrs. Mortimer.
“No, my dear child,” was the almost whispered reply: “but it is a place of safety to which I have brought you. Do you imagine that I, who have saved your life this night, could intend you any harm? Wherefore be thus ever suspicious respecting your best friends?”
These words not only reassured Agnes, but made her blush at what she deemed to be her ingratitude towards her deliverer;—and, pressing the old woman’s hand fervently, she murmured, “Forgive me, I implore you!”
“Think no more of it, my love,” said Mrs. Mortimer, as she alighted from the vehicle: then, turning towards the maiden, she added, “Remain in your place for a few minutes until I have aroused the people of the house: the chill air of the early morning will give you cold, lightly clad as you are.”
Agnes signified an assent; and the old woman hastened up to the front door of the house at which they had stopped. She knocked and rang: but some time elapsed ere the summons was answered. At length a domestic, who had huddled on some clothing, made his appearance; and, to Mrs. Mortimer’s query whether his master were at home, an affirmative reply was given.
“Then hesitate not to arouse him—for I have called upon a matter of great importance to his lordship,” said the old woman.
“Certainly I will do so, madam,” returned the domestic; “since you assure me that your business is pressing. But will you not walk in and await his lordship’s readiness to receive you?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have a person with me who must accompany me. But listen to something that I have to urge upon you. You will conduct us both, as a matter of course, into the same room: but when your master is ready to receive me, take care that I obtain an interview alone with him in the first instance. It is of the highest consequence that these instructions should be fully attended to.”
“You shall be obeyed, madam,” said the servant.
Mrs. Mortimer now fetched Agnes from the vehicle, which she ordered to be kept waiting for herself; and the two females were conducted by the domestic into a handsome apartment, where, having lighted the wax-candles, he left them.
CHAPTER CLXXX.
AGNES AND TREVELYAN.
In spite of her anxiety to place confidence in Mrs. Mortimer—in spite of the deep obligation under which she believed herself to be lying towards her, Agnes could not subdue a partial feeling of uneasiness when she found that she was in a strange house, evidently the abode of a rich person.
She gazed round the walls covered with splendid pictures—on the chandelier suspended to the ceiling—on the elegant and costly furniture—the superb mantel-ornaments—and down upon the luxurious carpet, so thick that her tiny feet were almost imbedded in it, as if she were walking in snow.
Whose dwelling could it be? Assuredly not Mrs. Mortimer’s—for she was only treated as a visitress. At length, after the lapse of a few minutes, the young maiden ventured to ask, “Who are the friends, madam, with whom you propose to leave me?”
“Does not that very question, Agnes, imply a suspicion injurious to me?” said Mrs. Mortimer, evasively.
“Oh! no—no!” exclaimed Miss Vernon, in a melting tone of the profoundest sincerity. “But may I not ask so simple a question without being liable to such a distressing imputation?”
“Can you not leave yourself in the hands of one who has saved your life and who wishes you well?” said the old woman, speaking in a voice of mingled reproach and conciliation.
“Yes—certainly, madam,” was the immediate answer: “but you yourself are not going to remain here—inasmuch as you have ordered the cabriolet to wait for you.”
“True, Agnes: because I have business of importance to transact at an early hour this morning, and at a considerable distance hence. Reassure yourself, my darling girl,” continued the iniquitous hag: “you will be delighted to meet the person whom you will presently see. Indeed, it is only a little surprise which I am preparing for you—and, after all I have done for you, you surely will not deny me the pleasure which I promise myself in beholding the interview between yourself and the owner of this splendid mansion.”
By degrees, as Mrs. Mortimer spoke, the countenance of Agnes brightened up; for it struck the young maiden that it was her mother whom she was now to meet—and this idea grew into a positive conviction by the time the old woman had uttered the last words of her sentence. She was accordingly about to express renewed gratitude for the happy surprise thus reserved for her, when the door opened and the domestic returned to the apartment.
“Madam, will you follow me?” he said, addressing himself to Mrs. Mortimer.
“My dear child,” observed the old woman, turning towards Agnes and patting her face with a show of affection, “you will remain here for a few minutes—a very few minutes; and then,” she added, with a sly smile, which meant as much as to intimate that she read the hope entertained by Agnes, and should speedily have the pleasure of gratifying it,—“and then, my love, you will not scold me for having kept you a little in suspense.”
Tears of gratitude trembled upon the long dark lashes of the beauteous maiden, although her lips were wreathed in smiles:—but when Nature melts into April softness, ’tis with mingled rain and sunshine.
While Agnes remained alone in the handsome parlour, cradling herself in the hope that the lapse of a few minutes would see her embraced in the arms of her mother, Mrs. Mortimer was conducted into another apartment, where she found herself in the presence of Lord William Trevelyan, who had dressed himself with as much despatch as possible.
“Well, madam,” he said, in a hasty and even anxious tone, “what has brought you hither at this unseasonable hour?—whom have you with you?—and wherefore this desire, as expressed to my domestic, to see me alone in the first instance?”
“My lord, it is Agnes Vernon who has accompanied me, and who is in the room which I have just left,” answered the old woman.
“I thought so—I was afraid that it was so, when the servant gave me a description of her—a very rapid and partial one, it is true, inasmuch as he beheld her only for a few moments. But, great heavens! madam,” continued the young nobleman, speaking with singular and unusual vivacity, “what means this strange proceeding?”
“That Agnes required an asylum, and I brought her hither,” was the response.
“And do you for an instant imagine, madam, that I am capable—that I would be guilty—that I——But, enough! I will say no more to you: I see through your real character—and I loathe and despise it! My God! to think that I should have enlisted a common procuress in my service! Oh! how can I ever look Agnes in the face?—how venture to accost her, after having thus offered her the most flagrant of insults? But, tell me, vile woman,” he exclaimed, seizing Mrs. Mortimer forcibly by the wrist, while his tone and manner alike indicated the most painful excitement,—“tell me, I say, by what detestable artifices you have induced that innocent and unsuspecting maiden to accompany you hither?”
“My lord, you will be ashamed of yourself for this unworthy conduct towards me, when you come to know all,—yes, ashamed and astonished at the same time,” said Mrs. Mortimer, assuming an air of offended dignity and wounded pride.
“How!—speak!” ejaculated Lord William, dropping the woman’s arm and surveying her with mingled surprise and repentance.
“I shall not waste precious time in entering into details,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer. “Yesterday morning I saw Agnes and induced her to peruse your letter. She was offended, and tossed it indignantly back to me.”
“Ah!” cried the nobleman, his countenance assuming an expression of extreme vexation.
“Yes—and here it is,” continued Mrs. Mortimer, producing the epistle from her reticule, and laying it upon the table.
“But she read it, you say?” exclaimed Lord William.
“Every word,” was the response. “Nevertheless, though softened and even pleased at first, she subsequently thought better of it, and rejected the communication in the manner I have described. I was disheartened, and felt unwilling to return to you with such unwelcome intelligence. An hour ago I quitted the house of a friend in Stamford Street; and in that same street the following adventure occurred to me.”
The old woman then related precisely the same anecdote which she had already told to Agnes, relative to the pretended rescue of that young lady from the power of a man who was bearing her along insensible in his arms.
The young nobleman was astounded; and his manner denoted incredulity.
“I perceive that your lordship puts no faith in my narrative,” said Mrs. Mortimer, who conjectured what was passing in his mind: “but the tale which Agnes can tell you, will corroborate it. She herself will inform you how she fell into the power of the ruffian from whom it was subsequently my good fortune to deliver her; and if you place confidence in her words, you will perforce be led to accord the same favour to mine?”
“And her tale—what is it?” demanded the nobleman, impatiently.
“Yesterday she discovered the mother whom she had lost since her infancy,” answered Mrs. Mortimer.
“Her mother!” exclaimed Trevelyan. “And where is that mother? who is she? Tell me, that I may hasten to her at as early an hour as possible, and implore of her to accord me the hand of her daughter.”
“Be not so hasty, my lord. I am totally unacquainted with Agnes Vernon’s mother; and she herself—poor artless girl! knows, I believe, but little more. It is however certain that the young lady was induced to accompany her newly-found parent from the cottage—that she was consigned to the care of two ladies named Theobald, and dwelling in Stamford Street—that in the night she became the prey to vague and unfounded terrors, which induced her to attempt an escape from the house—and that she fell into the hands of the man from whom I rescued her.”
“And wherefore have you brought her hither?” asked Lord William. “Why not have conducted her back to the ladies to whose care her mother had consigned her—or to the cottage where she has dwelt so long?”
“I have put you in the position of one who may perform a chivalrous action, and thereby win the permanent esteem, gratitude, and love of this beautiful creature whom you adore,” said Mrs. Mortimer; “and now you appear inclined to load me with reproaches. Yes—I perceive that reproaches are trembling upon your lordship’s tongue;—and I who have done all I could to serve you, shall experience nought save ingratitude. Oh! short-sighted lover that you are! Here is a young girl whom I pick up as it were houseless and homeless—and I am already half-way with her to your mansion, before I even learn from her lips how she came in Stamford Street at all, or that she has friends there. But when I do glean those facts, I find that she has escaped from the guardianship of those friends: and could I suppose that they would be willing to receive her again? Now, my lord, it is for you to grant her an asylum—to treat her with all imaginable delicacy and attention—and to leave me to find out her mother, that you may restore the lost daughter to the distracted parent. Doubtless the Miss Theobalds will give me the desired information: and then calculate the amount of gratitude that will be due to you! In spite of her father—whoever he may really be, and whatever opposition he might raise—Agnes is yours; and you gain the object of your heart’s dearest wishes.”
“And think you, woman,” exclaimed Lord William Trevelyan, unable any longer to subdue his resentment,—“think you that I will blast the fair fame of this young lady by retaining her for even a single hour beneath my roof?—think you that I will obtain for her the inevitable reputation of having been my mistress, previously to becoming my wife? No—a thousand times no! And do you imagine that I read not your heart aright? do you suppose that I am your dupe? I tell you, vile woman, that in bringing the innocent and artless Agnes hither, you fancied you would be throwing in my way a temptation which I could not resist,—a temptation which would thaw all my virtuous principles and honourable notions, and lead me to sacrifice the purity of the confiding girl to my passion. Yes—such was your base calculation: or you would at once and unhesitatingly have conducted her either to the abode of her friends in Stamford Street, or home to her own cottage! Ah! madam, because I belong to the aristocracy, you imagine that I must necessarily be as vile, depraved, and unprincipled as ninety-nine out of every hundred individuals who bear lordly titles. But you have deceived yourself—grossly deceived yourself: and you shall at once have the proof that you are so deceived! Follow me.”
Thus speaking, Lord William advanced rapidly towards the door, imperiously beckoning the vile woman to accompany him.
“Whither are you going, my lord?” she demanded, finding that she had indeed over-reached herself—that the nobleman’s principles were more profoundly rooted than she had imagined—and that all her trouble was likely to go unrewarded.
“Follow me, I say: as you have done this amount of mischief, you shall at least see it remedied to the utmost of my power;”—and the nobleman burst from the room, literally dragging the old woman with him.
In less than a minute they entered the apartment where Agnes was anxiously—oh! most anxiously awaiting the presence of her mother;—and the moment the door was opened, she darted forward to precipitate herself into the arms of her parent.
But, recognising Lord William Trevelyan, she stopped short with a cry of mingled disappointment, surprise, and alarm; while an ashy pallor overspread her countenance.
“Reassure yourself, Miss Vernon—I am your friend, and a man of honour!” were the encouraging words which Trevelyan hastened to address to her.
“And my mother?” said the young maiden, bending a look of earnest appeal upon Mrs. Mortimer, who however shrank back in confusion.
“Your mother is not here, Miss Vernon,” exclaimed the nobleman: “neither does this woman know where to find her. An act of the greatest imprudence has been committed in bringing you hither——”
“Oh! what do I hear?” cried Agnes, clasping her hands. “Is this your house, my lord? If so,” she added, with dignity succeeding grief, “I am innocent of any intention to intrude: indeed, your lordship might full well conceive that I should not have come hither of my own accord—oh! no—not for worlds!”
And tears rolled down the cheeks of the gentle girl for she felt humiliated in the presence of the very man in whose eyes, if her young heart had a preference, she would have fain appeared in another light.
“Oh! Miss Vernon, it is you who do not understand me!” ejaculated Lord William, advancing and taking her hand. “If I spoke of the imprudence which had been committed, it was on your account only! For believe me when I declare that I should be proud,—yes, and in the enjoyment of an elysian happiness, could you enter this mansion to remain here—to command here, with honour to yourself! But I will not avail myself of this opportunity to urge a suit that I have already ventured to prefer, and in the prosecution of which I unfortunately selected so improper an agent.”
As he uttered these words, he bent an indignant look upon Mrs. Mortimer, who turned away petulantly and made for the door.
“Stop, woman!” cried the young nobleman, hastening to detain her: “I cannot yet part with you, intolerable as your presence has become to me. “Miss Vernon,” he continued, again turning toward the maiden, whose sense of humiliation had vanished, and who in her heart of hearts now rejoiced in the conviction that Lord William Trevelyan was indeed as noble in nature as he was in name,—“I need scarcely observe that circumstances compel me to procure for you an asylum for the remainder of the night as speedily as possible. You will permit me to conduct you to the abode of a lady of my acquaintance,—a lady who will receive you with open arms, and who will to-morrow—or rather, in a few hours’ time—herself conduct you to the abode of your friends in Stamford Street, or to your own home near Streatham.”
With these words, the nobleman took the hand of the blushing Agnes, and led her from the house to the vehicle that was still waiting.
“Now, madam, you may depart,” he said sternly to Mrs. Mortimer, as soon as he had seated himself in the cab, opposite to Agnes.
The old woman turned sulkily away, muttering threats of vengeance; but these were unheeded by the chivalrous Trevelyan, who gave hasty instructions to the driver, and the vehicle rolled rapidly on towards Kentish Town.
Agnes could not do otherwise than appreciate all the delicacy of Lord William’s conduct towards her; for it is no disparagement to the extreme artlessness of her mind to state that she comprehended wherefore he had compelled Mrs. Mortimer to wait until they had quitted the house. But she could scarcely collect her bewildered ideas into a settled state—so rapid was the whirl of incidents and adventures through which she was doomed to pass on this memorable night. Had she paused to reflect upon her position, with that seriousness which it required, she would have requested the nobleman to conduct her at once to the dwelling of the Misses Theobald: but he had deported himself towards her with the generosity of a brother, and she acted in obedience to his suggestions without waiting to analyse them. In a word, she was full of confidence and ingenuous reliance in him; and she felt as if she had suddenly found a stanch and sincere friend in the midst of cruel difficulties and deep embarrassments. A dreamy kind of repose stole over her as she was borne along in the vehicle: and yet she not only heard the few remarks which her companion addressed to her, but likewise answered them in a befitting manner.
On his side Trevelyan was a prey to the strangest excitement; accident having not only thus procured him the acquaintanceship of her whom he loved so fondly, but having likewise placed them in a relative position, establishing as it were a friendship—almost an intimacy. Moreover, had he not touched her delicate white hand—touched it gently, it is true, and without venturing to press it,—but still touched it, and even held it for a few moments in his own? Had he not discovered, too, that if she appeared surpassingly lovely when seen from a distance, a nearer contemplation of her charms was only calculated to enhance his admiration and strengthen his devotion? And, lastly, had not the musical tones of her silver voice been breathed in his hearing, wafting words that were addressed to himself, and making every fibre in his heart vibrate deliciously to the dulcet sounds? Yes—all this he felt and appreciated; and he was happy.
The conversation that passed between them during the drive to Kentish Town was slight, and chiefly confined to such observations as a well-bred gentleman would address to a lady under circumstances of embarrassment, and to such responses as those remarks were calculated to elicit. The young nobleman was careful to avoid any allusion to the letter which he had sent to Agnes, or to the circumstances that had thus thrown them so singularly together; and she, understanding his forbearance and perceiving his unwillingness to take the least advantage of her peculiar position, felt her esteem—we might almost say her love—increase in his favour.
In about twenty minutes the cab stopped at the gate of a beautiful villa; and as the orient sky was now flickering with the first struggling beams of a summer sunrise, Agnes was enabled to obtain a tolerably distinct view of the picturesque spot. The fresh breeze, too, fanned her countenance, recalling the roses to her damask cheeks; and as she threw back the shining masses of hair from her forehead, Trevelyan’s eye could trace the blue veins so delicately marked beneath the white skin of that fair and polished brow.
On alighting at the entrance to the villa, Trevelyan and his beautiful companion were both struck by the glimmering of lights which shone through the divisions in the parlour shutters, and the rays of which, peeping forth, struggled with sickly effect against the dawning of a new day. Those lights, too, were evidently moving about; and it was therefore clear that the inmates of the dwelling were astir even at that early hour.
The summons at the front door was almost immediately responded to by a female servant, who, in reply to the young nobleman’s questions, stated that Mrs. Sefton was at home, and had risen thus early in order to make preparations for removal to a new house which she had taken in another suburb of London.
Trevelyan and Agnes were accordingly admitted forthwith; and the domestic conducted them to the parlour, where Mrs. Sefton was busily engaged in packing up her effects. She was much surprised when she heard Trevelyan’s voice, and immediately apprehended that some misfortune was in store for her—some evil tidings, perhaps, relative to Sir Gilbert Heathcote.
But scarcely had Agnes reached the threshold of the apartment, when—the moment Mrs. Sefton turned to receive her visitors—the young girl gave vent to an ejaculation of mingled astonishment and joy, and, bounding forward, was in the next instant clasped in that lady’s arms.
“My dearest—dearest mother!”
“Agnes—my beloved child!”
These were the words which explained to Trevelyan the scene that he now witnessed.
CHAPTER CLXXXI.
EXPLANATIONS.
The reader need scarcely be informed that if Lord William were amazed at the discovery of the relationship subsisting between two ladies whom he had hitherto deemed to be perfect strangers to each other, Mrs. Sefton was not less astonished at having her daughter thus unexpectedly introduced into her presence and at such an unseasonable hour.
For a few minutes, however, she had no leisure for reflection,—joy at once more being enabled to strain that beloved child to her bosom triumphing over all other considerations.
But when the first gush of feeling had somewhat subsided, a horrible suspicion entered her mind.
Could Lord William have seduced Agnes away from the care of those friends to whom she was consigned?—could he have entertained the vile and derogatory idea of using the villa as the receptacle for a young creature whom he intended to make his mistress?—did he suppose that Mrs. Sefton would lend herself to such an atrocious proceeding?—and had he unconsciously brought the child to the house of the mother, thinking to make a pander of the latter to the dishonour of the former?
All these thoughts flashed with lightning rapidity to Mrs. Sefton’s mind, as, disengaging herself from the embraces of Agnes, she turned towards Lord William, and, with flashing eyes and quivering lips, peremptorily demanded an explanation of the circumstances which had rendered him the companion of her daughter at such an hour.
Trevelyan instantly divined what was passing in the lady’s bosom; and, perceiving at once the awkwardness of his position and the grounds of her suspicions, he hastily gave such explanations as were satisfactory to Mrs. Sefton, Agnes herself corroborating the main facts.
“Pardon me, my dear friend,” said the now happy mother, taking Trevelyan’s hand and pressing it fervently in token of gratitude,—“pardon me if for a moment I entertained the most unjust and derogatory suspicions.”
“Mention them not, madam,” exclaimed Trevelyan warmly: “but let your daughter seek that repose which she must so deeply need—and I will then, as a man of honour, explain to you how I became interested in her, and how it was that the Mrs. Mortimer whose name has already been mentioned happened to bring her to my house.”
A slight smile—almost of archness—played upon the lips of Mrs. Sefton, as she turned towards Agnes,—a smile which seemed to intimate that she already knew more than the young nobleman fancied, but was not vexed with him in consequence of the facts thus known to her.
“Come with me, dearest girl,” she said, addressing her daughter, “and I will conduct you to a chamber where you may obtain a few hours’ repose. You need not bid farewell to his lordship; for I have no doubt he will honour us with his presence at breakfast—when you will see him again.”
Agnes blushed and cast down her eyes—she scarcely knew why—as these words met her ears;—and again the arch smile played upon her mother’s lips. Trevelyan observed that there was some mystery, though not of a disagreeable nature, in Mrs. Sefton’s manner; and in a moment—with galvanic swiftness—the reminiscence of the tears upon the portrait and the lost letter flashed to his mind.
The ladies disappeared, and Trevelyan threw himself in a chair, to muse upon the discovery which he had thus made, and which was well calculated to afford him pleasure. Inasmuch as it was evident from Mrs. Sefton’s manner and the significant words she had uttered relative to the meeting at the breakfast-table, that she was not inimical to his suit.
In a few minutes she returned to the room.
“My dear madam,” said Trevelyan, rising and advancing to meet her, “you already know that I love your daughter Agnes—that I adore her?”
“And you have already divined how the letter which you must have missed, came to be lost?” returned Mrs. Sefton, with a smile.
“Yes, madam—and I likewise observed the trace of a tear upon the portrait which I painted from memory,” continued the young nobleman.
“Oh! then you can make allowance for the feelings of a mother!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, with enthusiasm: “and you will forgive me that act of apparent ingratitude—nay, of treachery—I mean the purloining of a document so sacred as a sealed letter—and at a moment, too, when I sought your aid, and you so generously afforded it?”
“It is for me to implore your pardon as a mother for having dared to address such a letter to your daughter,” said Trevelyan, with some degree of embarrassment.
“Then let us accord mutual forgiveness,” exclaimed the lady, extending her hand, which was immediately pressed with the fervour of gratitude. I am well aware that my conduct in taking that letter was improper to a degree,” she continued, after a short pause: “but pray consider all the circumstances.”
“I do—I do,” interrupted Trevelyan; “and you have nothing to explain. Oh! I am delighted at the discovery that the beautiful and much-loved Agnes is your daughter—delighted also to think that, by the perusal of that letter, you have acquired the certainty of the ardent and honourable feelings which animate me with regard to her.”
“And Agnes is deserving of your affection, my lord,” said Mrs. Sefton: “I am convinced that she is in heart and soul all she appears to be—ingenuousness, amiability, candour, and virtue!”
“Oh! I am well assured of the value of that jewel which, in due time, I shall implore you to bestow upon me!” exclaimed the generous and impassioned young nobleman: “and I rejoice that you not only observed the letter in my apartment, but that you also took it; for it has—”
“It has enabled me to discover my child, whom I had fruitlessly sought for years, and whom I longed to embrace!” added Mrs. Sefton, wiping away the tears of joy that started to her eye-lashes. “Oh! my lord, you may conceive my surprise—my joy, when I beheld that portrait in your portfolio. Although I had never seen my child since her infancy, yet it seemed as if a heavenly inspiration imparted to me the conviction that I was then gazing on her likeness. At all events I murmured to myself, while contemplating it, ‘Such must Agnes now be: tall, beautiful, and with innocence depicted in her countenance, even as this portrait.’ And then I wept as I thought that the dear girl was lost to me for ever—buried in some seclusion by one who cruelly kept us separated! I closed the portfolio—rose—and mechanically approached the mantel. There I beheld the letter—and the address immediately rivetted my attention. ‘Miss Agnes Vernon!’ Oh! yes—it was my own dear daughter whose portrait I had been contemplating; and I was not mistaken! For I may be allowed to say, without incurring the imputation of vanity, that in the countenance of the portrait I traced my own lineaments; and then—on discovering the letter—I felt assured that nature’s promptings had not been misinterpreted by me! Because I knew that Agnes passed under the name of Vernon: that fact I accidentally learnt years ago, through my husband’s solicitor, who was permitted from time to time to give me the assurance that my daughter was alive and in health. You can now conceive, my dear friend, how strong were the emotions which agitated within me, and which influenced me in seizing upon the letter—tearing it open—and devouring its contents.”
“And your first impression was doubtless one of indignation against me for having dared thus to address your daughter?” said Lord William Trevelyan.
“Far from it, I can assure you!” returned Mrs. Sefton, in a tone of the deepest sincerity. “I already knew enough of your character to be well aware that you were honourable in principle and generous in heart! and the whole tenour of the letter was respectful and delicate, though earnest and decided,” added the lady, with a smile, as Trevelyan’s cheeks were suffused with a deep blush. “Besides, my dear friend,” she continued, in a serious tone, “I have acquainted you with the history of the crushed hopes and the blighted affections of my own early years—and I should be the last person in the world to raise an obstacle in the way of a pure and honourable attachment on the part of those in whom I felt interested.”
“Then you approve of my suit in respect to your daughter?” exclaimed Trevelyan, his handsome countenance becoming animated with joy; “and you will not refuse me her hand?”
“When she attains her twenty-first year, my lord,” replied Mrs. Sefton, in a solemn tone. “Until then I dare not dispose of her hand in marriage. She is now nineteen——”
“Two years to wait!” exclaimed Trevelyan, mournfully: “and in the mean time how many adverse circumstances may occur to separate us!”
“Yours is the age when Hope smiles most brightly,” said Mrs. Sefton; “and if your affection for my daughter be as strong as you represent it, believe me, my dear friend, that time will not impair—but rather strengthen and confirm it.”
“Were years and years to elapse, ere Agnes could become mine, I should not love her the less!” exclaimed Lord William. “But this may not be so with her: indeed, I have no reason to hope—much less any assurance—that she in any degree reciprocates my passion.”
“Agnes will not prove indifferent to your lordship’s merits,” said Mrs. Sefton, encouragingly. “But we must postpone any farther conversation on this subject until another occasion. Behold the confusion that prevails in the house,” she continued, in a more cheerful tone, as she glanced round the room at the various boxes and packages on which she had been busied when the arrival of Trevelyan and her daughter had compelled her to desist from her occupation. “I am about to remove this morning to a beautiful little villa which I have taken at Bayswater. By those means I hope to destroy all trace of my new abode, in respect to those who might seek to tear Agnes from my arms. But I have the law with me:—yes, the law is in my favour,” she added, in an emphatic tone; “and I will not surrender up my daughter to him——”
She checked herself, and hastily advancing to the window, opened the shutters.
It was now quite light; and, having extinguished the candles, Mrs. Sefton returned to her task of placing various valuable effects in a box. Trevelyan volunteered his assistance, which was accepted; for circumstances had placed him and the lady on a footing of the most friendly intimacy together.
“I received your note on my return last evening,” said Mrs. Sefton, after a pause; “and I regretted much to find that you had obtained no clue to the place where Sir Gilbert Heathcote is confined.”
“But you must remember, my dear madam, that no time has been lost,” observed Trevelyan. “It was only yesterday morning that we acquired the knowledge of Sir Gilbert’s real position; and I have employed my valet Fitzgeorge, who is an intelligent and faithful man, to obtain an interview with Green, Heathcote’s clerk, and bribe him to serve us. From the specimen of the fellow’s character which we had yesterday morning in this very room, I entertain but little doubt of Fitzgeorge’s success.”
“God grant that it may be so!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, fervently. “And if you succeed in discovering the den where Sir Gilbert is confined, how do you intend to proceed?”
“Still by artifice, my dear madam. We must fight that bad man, James Heathcote, with his own weapons——”
“Oh! think you not, my lord, that our unfortunate friend is hemmed round with all imaginable precautions to prevent his flight?” demanded Mrs. Sefton.
“Doubtless,” answered Trevelyan: “but the janitors and dependants of a lunatic-asylum are as accessible as other people to the influence of gold.”
“I now more than ever, if possible, desire the restoration of Sir Gilbert,” said Mrs. Sefton: then, after a pause, she added in a low and peculiar tone, “I have many—many strange things yet to tell you, Lord William: but the present is not the most fitting occasion. In a few days I will explain every thing—yes, everything,” she said, emphatically; “and thenceforth there will be no secrets between you and me.”
The lady again applied herself to the task of preparing for her removal; and the young nobleman assisted her with as much kindliness of manner and good-tempered alacrity as if he were her brother, or already her son-in-law. In this manner the hours passed away until the time-piece struck nine, when Agnes descended to the breakfast which was now served up. A messenger was despatched to the Misses Theobald to give them an assurance of the young maiden’s safety; and in the course of the day the mother and daughter, accompanied by Lord William, removed to the beautiful villa prepared for the ladies’ reception at Bayswater.
Lord William remained with them until the evening, when he took his leave—but not without observing that pleasure beamed in the eyes of Agnes as he intimated his intention of becoming a frequent visitor at the villa.
CHAPTER CLXXXII.
LAURA MORTIMER’S NEW INTRIGUES.
We must now return to Laura Mortimer, whom we left in Paris, and of whom we have lost sight for some time.
It was in the evening of the fourth day after the incidents recorded in the preceding chapter, that Laura was seated in her handsome drawing-room, wrapped up in deep meditation.
Her thoughts were not, however, of a disagreeable nature;—for ever and anon the fire of triumph flashed from her fine eyes, and her rich moist lips were wreathed into a smile.
She held a book open in her hand; but her gaze was fixed upon the ceiling as she lay, rather than sate, on the voluptuous cushions of the purple velvet ottoman.
The windows were open, and a gentle evening breeze, which had succeeded the stifling heat of a Parisian summer-day, fanned her countenance and wantoned with the luxuriant ringlets that floated over her naked shoulders,—those shoulders so white, so plump, so exquisitely shaped!
The perfumes of choice flowers and the odour of ravishing oriental scents rendered the atmosphere fragrant: gold and silver fish were disporting in an immense crystal globe which stood upon a marble table between the casements—and two beautiful canaries were carolling in a superb cage suspended in one of those open windows.
On the table near which Laura was placed, stood several crystal dishes containing the finest fruit that the Parisian market could yield,—the luscious pine, the refreshing melon, strawberries of extraordinary size and exquisite flavour, cherries of the richest red, and mulberries of the deepest purple.
A bottle of champagne stood in a cooler filled with ice; and in the middle of the table was a superb nosegay of flowers.
The entire appearance of the room and its appointments was luxurious in the extreme,—comfort being combined with elegance, and the means of enjoyment distributed with taste;—while she—the mistress of the place—the presiding genius of the scene—was pillowed voluptuously upon the immense velvet cushions. So complete was the abandonment of her attitude, in her deep reverie, that she seemed ten hundred times more charming than when her artifice devised a thousand studied graces in order to effect a conquest and captivate a lover.
One of her naked arms, plump, white, and beautifully formed, lay across her person as the hand held the book, on which the eyes rested not, and against the dark binding of which the taper fingers were set off in the dazzling purity of their complexion and the rosy tint of the almond-shaped nails: the other arm hung down negligently—not quite straight, but gently rounded—the fingers of that hand playing mechanically with the ottoman’s golden fringe that swept the thick carpet. One of her legs lay stretched completely upon the ottoman: the other hung over the side, displaying the well-formed foot, the delicate ankle, and the robust swell of the calf. More voluptuously modelled than Venus, but with all the elegance attributed to the form of that fabled divinity,—handsome as Juno, without the stern imperiousness that characterised the queen of heaven,—and with that subdued nobility of demeanour which Diana, when out of sight of her attendant huntresses, might have been supposed to wear,—Laura Mortimer united in her own person the most fascinating of the charms belonging to the three principal goddesses of heathen worship.
But let us endeavour to ascertain the subject of her thoughts, as she lay thus wrapped up in a deep reverie.
“Fortune appears resolved to favour me, and I accept the auspicious omen with joy. The Marquis is in my power—is my slave—inextricably shackled by my silken chains! Four short days have been sufficient to accomplish this victory. When first introduced to him in the Champs Elysées, I saw that he regarded me with attention—nay, with admiration; and I that moment signalled him out as the man who is destined to place me in a proud position—to render me independent of Charles Hatfield’s hated father! The evening before last I met him for the second time: this was at the party given by my music-master. The nobleman was almost instantly by my side, as soon as I made my appearance; and I knew full well how to gain his favour. When handsome young men approached me, I received them coldly, and continued my discourse with the Marquis in a more animated and friendly style than before. I even hinted to him—or rather suffered him to believe that it was a relief to escape from the frivolities of the average run of conversation, in the indulgence of discourse on intellectual subjects. I saw that the old man was flattered—that he thought highly of me: in a word, I secured his esteem as I had already acquired his admiration. We sate next to each other at supper; and he lavished all his attentions upon me—attentions which I accepted with an air as if they came from a young and handsome gallant. The Marquis handed me to my carriage, and solicited permission to call. I signified an assent with an ingenuousness that could not possibly have seemed affected; and he squeezed my hand slightly as he bade me farewell. On the following afternoon he called: this was yesterday—and he remained a long time. Two hours passed—doubtless like two minutes to him: and I was completely triumphant. Never did I appear to such advantage: my glass told me that I was radiantly beautiful—and I could observe full well that my manner—my conversation—and the delicate artifices I called to aid, were pre-eminently successful. The old man was ready to fall upon his knees and worship me: he was in that humour when he would have laid his whole fortune at my feet. He appeared to be longing to throw his arms around my neck, and exclaim, ‘Laura, I adore you!’ But when I had excited him to the highest possible pitch, I suddenly directed his attention to some subject of comparative indifference; and thus did I play with his feelings during two long hours. He went away half crazy—dazzled, bewildered, not knowing what to think or how to act—intoxicated with sensual passions mingling with the purer sentiments of a profound admiration and a cordial esteem. Then this morning he called again, and I made him become my companion at luncheon. I affected to be rejoiced that he had thus unexpectedly dropped in, as I had previously felt low-spirited and dull. He seemed charmed that his presence was calculated to cheer me: It was a delicate compliment paid to his conversational powers—and he was flattered and pleased. Oh! how admirably did I wind myself, as it were, around him during the three hours that he remained with me this morning: how successfully did I insinuate myself, as one may say, into his very soul;—not seizing upon his heart by a sudden attack—but gaining possession of it by means the more sure because so stealthy,—not carrying that heart by storm—but gradually and imperceptibly enmeshing it in snares and toils whence it never can escape, so long as my real character shall remain a mystery to him. Yes—and this morning, too, was he not a thousand times on the point of falling upon his knees, and exclaiming,‘Laura, I adore you!’ But still I tantalised him—still I worked him up to the highest possible pitch of excitement, and then suddenly discouraged him by some word or gesture that threw a coldness on all I had before said, and which yet would admit of no positive interpretation so as to render him hopeless altogether. And now he is to return again—this evening,—to return, by his own solicitation;—and this evening—yes—this evening,” thought Laura, her lips wreathing into a smile of triumph,—“he shall fall down at my feet and exclaim, ‘Laura, I adore you!’”
Thus ran the meditations of this dangerous woman,—so strong in the consciousness of her almost superhuman beauty—so confident in the power of her matchless charms and in the witchery of her guileful tongue!
“Yes—four days will have been sufficient to reduce the proud English noble to the condition of a captive kneeling at my feet.” she continued, in her silent but triumphant reverie. “What other woman in the world can thus effect a conquest with such amazing rapidity? The tigress hunts for her prey—pursuing the affrighted deer through bramble and through brake—by the margin of the lake in the depths of the forest—amidst the trackless mazes of the wild woods,—a long—tedious—and fatiguing chase, with the possibility of escape for the intended victim after all. But the boa-constrictor fixes its eyes upon its prey—fascinates it—renders it incapable of retreat—compels it even to advance nearer and nearer to its mouth—plays with it—tantalizes it—sets every feeling and every emotion into fluttering agitation—and even when about to gorge it, licks it over with his caresses. And thus do I secure my prey! I am the anaconda amongst women: none whom I choose to make my victim can escape from the influence of my witchery—the sphere of my fascination! With me it is no long, tedious, and wearisome chase: ’tis instantaneous capture and an easy triumph!”
And again the peculiar smile—half haughtiness, half sweetness—returned to the lips of the peerless beauty, who felt herself to be ten thousand times more powerful in the possession of her transcendent charms, than an Amazonian Queen clothed in armour of proof from head to heel.
Suddenly the bell at the outer door of her suite of apartments announced the coming of a visitor; and in a few moments the Marquis of Delmour was ushered into the room.
Laura had already assumed a sitting posture; and she now rose to receive the English nobleman.
“Good evening, charming Miss Mortimer,” said the Marquis, taking her hand and gently touching it with his lips: then, leading her to the ottoman, and placing himself at a short distance from her, he looked at her tenderly, observing, “You perceive that I am punctual to the hour at which I was to make my appearance according to the kind permission you granted me.”
“Your lordship is most generous thus to condescend to enliven an hour that would otherwise be passed in loneliness by me,” said Laura, bending upon him all the glory of her fine bright eyes and revealing the splendour of her brilliant teeth.
“Beautiful, intellectual, and agreeable as you are, Miss Mortimer,” observed the nobleman, “it is utterly impossible that you can feel yourself indebted to an old man like me for the recreation of a leisure hour. You would only need to throw open your drawing-rooms to the élite of Paris,to be surrounded by admiring guests.”
“And what if I prefer an hour of intellectual conversation to an entire evening of empty formalities, ceremonial frivolities, and the inane routine of fashionable réunions?” asked Laura, with an affectation of candour which seemed most real—most natural.
“You possess a mind the strength and soundness of which surprise me,” exclaimed the Marquis of Delmour, enthusiastically. “How is it that, rich and beautiful, young and courted, as you are, you can have taken so just a view of the world,—that you have learnt to prefer solid enjoyments to artificial pleasures,—and that you can so well discriminate between the real on which the gay and giddy close their eyes, and the ideal or the unreal which they so much worship?”
“You would ask me, my lord, I presume, wherefore I dislike that turmoil of fashionable life which brings one in contact with persons who flatter in a meaningless manner, and who believe that a woman is best pleased with him who most skilfully gilds his pretty nothings. It is, my lord, because I do not estimate the world according to the usual standard,—because I am not dazzled by outside glitter and external show. If an officer in the army be introduced to me, I am not captivated by his splendid epaulets and his waving plumes: I wait to hear his discourse before I form my estimate of his character.”
“Then neither youth nor riches will prove the principal qualifications of him who shall be fortunate enough to win your hand?” said the Marquis, fixing his eyes in an impassioned manner upon the syren.
“Oh! you would speak to me upon the topic of marriage!” exclaimed Laura, laughing gaily. “To tell your lordship the truth, I should be sorry to surrender up my freedom beyond all possibility of release, to any man in existence.”
“What!” ejaculated the old nobleman: “do you mean me to infer that you will never marry?”
“I have more than half made up my mind to that resolution,” responded Laura, casting down her eyes and forcing a blush to her cheeks.
“Never marry!” cried the Marquis, in unfeigned surprise. “And what if you happened to fall in love with some fine, handsome, eligible young man?”
“In the first place it is by no means necessary that a man should be fine, handsome, or young for me to love him,” answered Laura, as if in the most ingenuous way in the world; “and when I do love, it is not a whit the more imperious that the person or the priest should rivet my hand to that of the object of my affections. It is within the power of man to unite hands—and that is a mockery: but God alone can unite hearts—and that is a solemn and sacred compact that should be effected in the sight of heaven only.”
“I scarcely understand you, beautiful and mysterious being!” exclaimed the Marquis, drawing nearer to the syren, who did not appear to notice the movement.
“I am aware that some of my notions are not altogether in accordance with those of society in general,” observed Laura, with an affectation of reserve and diffidence: “but since the conversation has taken this turn, I do not hesitate to admit that I do hold peculiar opinions with respect to marriage.”
“You would have me understand, Miss Mortimer,” said the Marquis, “that were you to find your affections enchained by some deserving individual, you would not hesitate to join your destinies to his, without the intervention of the Church to cement the union.”
“Your lordship has interpreted my meaning in language so delicate as to be almost ambiguous,” observed Laura. “And yet why should the truth be thus wrapped up in verbiage? I do not entertain opinions which I am afraid to look in the face. God forbid! In a word, then, I would ten thousand times rather become the mistress of the man I loved, than the wife of him whom I abhorred;—and in loving the former, and with him loving me, is it not that union of hearts which, as I ere now said, should be effected only in the sight of heaven?”
“And have you ever yet loved?” asked the nobleman, in a tone of profound emotion, as he gazed long and ardently upon the splendid countenance whereon the light from the casements now fell with a Rembrandt effect, delineating the faultless profile against the obscurity that had already begun to occupy the end of the room most remote from the windows.
“Oh! my lord, that is a question which you can only ask me when we come to know each other better!” exclaimed Laura, after a few moments’ pause.
“And yet I already feel as if I had known you for as many years as our acquaintance numbers days,” said the Marquis. “Methought yesterday—and this morning too—that a species of intimacy—a kind of impromptu friendship had sprung up between us; and now you are somewhat cold towards me—your manner is not the same——”
“If I have been guilty of any want of courtesy towards your lordship, I should be truly—deeply grieved,” exclaimed Laura, surveying the nobleman with well affected astonishment at the accusation uttered against her.
“Oh! use not such chilling language, Laura—Miss Mortimer, I mean!” cried the old nobleman, half inclined to throw himself at her feet and implore her to take compassion upon him. “But I an mad—I am insane to appeal to you thus!” he continued, in a species of rage against himself. “How can I suppose that the society of an old man like me is agreeable to a young and beautiful creature such as you!—how can I give way to those glorious but fatal delusions that have occupied my brain for the last forty-eight hours! Oh! Miss Mortimer—would that I had never seen you!”
And the old nobleman, covering his face with his hands, literally sobbed like a youthful lover quarrelling with an adored mistress.
“My lord—my lord, what have I done to offend you?” demanded Laura, as if deeply excited; and, seizing his hands, she drew them away from his countenance, well aware that the contact of her soft and warm flesh would make the blood that age had partially chilled, circulate with speed and heat in his veins.
“If you had attempted my life,” replied the Marquis, with fervid emphasis, “I should rejoice at a deed that would elicit such kindness from you as you manifest towards me now!”
And thus speaking, he raised her hands to his lips and covered them with kisses.
“Tell me—how did I offend you?” she asked, in a voice that was melting and musical even to ravishment.
“Oh! let us think not of what has passed,” he exclaimed: “but bless me with the assurance that you can entertain a sentiment of friendship for the old man!”
“I would rather possess your friendship, my lord, than that of the handsomest and wealthiest young gentleman whom we met at the party the other evening,” responded the artful woman, still abandoning her hands to the Marquis. “Did you not observe that I was pleased with your attentions—that I refused to dance in order that I might remain seated next to you, and listening to your conversation—that when the gay moths of fashion approached me with their fulsome compliments, I exhibited signs of impatience, and by my coldness compelled them to retreat—that I gave no encouragement to them in any way——”
“Yes—yes,” interrupted the enraptured Marquis: “I noticed all that—and were I a young man I should have felt myself justified in addressing you in the language of passion—aye, of ardent and sincere affection. But—although such are indeed my sentiments towards you—I perceive all the folly and ridicule of daring to give utterance to them in your presence: yet God knows that I am ready to lay my fortune at your feet—and could I offer to place the coronet of a marchioness upon your brow——”
“Were you in the position to do so, I should refuse it,” said Laura, emphatically. “All the rest I might listen to——”
“Then you are aware that I am married?” interrupted the nobleman, fixing an earnest and enquiring gaze upon her beauteous countenance.
“Rumour declares as much,” replied Laura; “and it likewise avers that you are not happy in your matrimonial connexion. I pity you from the bottom of my heart—and I behold in the fact itself a new argument in support of my own peculiar tenets relative to marriage-ties;—for assuredly you are endowed with qualities calculated to render a woman happy—or I am deeply, deeply deceived.”
“Ah! It is a sad tale—and I dare not venture upon the narration now,” said the Marquis, with a profound sigh. “But should our acquaintance continue—as I ardently hope it may—I will some day give you the fullest and most ample explanations. And you yourself, charming creature—is there not some mystery attached to you? How happens it that at your age you should be so well acquainted with the world?—how is it that you seem free to follow the bent of your own inclinations, uncontrolled even by your mother? For rumour declares that you have a mother alive——”
“I am independent of her in a pecuniary point of view, my lord,” interrupted Laura; “and I am determined to consult my own ideas of happiness, instead of adopting the standard of enjoyment and pleasure established by the fashionable world.”
“Would to heavens that it lay in my power to ensure your happiness—or even to contribute to it!” exclaimed the Marquis, gazing upon her with admiration and ardent passion. “Long years have elapsed since I encountered any woman who inspired me with even half the interest that I feel in you; and it seems to me that I become young again when in your sweet society.”
“And, on my side,” answered Laura, casting down her eyes and assuming a bashful demeanour, “I do not hesitate to admit that I experience greater enjoyment from your conversation than from that of any other nobleman or gentleman with whom I am acquainted.”
“Just now, my sweet Miss Mortimer,” said the Marquis, approaching still nearer to her, and speaking in a tone that was low and tremulous with emotion,—“just now you declared that ‘all the rest you might listen to’——”
“And I do not attempt to revoke the admission that thus fell from my lips,” murmured the designing young woman, turning a glance of half-timidity and half-fondness upon the old nobleman, who, in spite of a strong and vigorous intellect, was rendered childish and plunged as it were into dotage by the fascinating—ravishing influence of the syren-enchantress.
“What am I to understand by those words?” he asked, in an ecstacy of delight. “Oh! is it possible that you can become something more to the old man than a mere acquaintance—something more than even a friend——”
“I could wish to retain your good opinion—your esteem for ever!” said Laura, now turning upon him a countenance radiant with hope and joy.
“It is scarcely possible—I am dreaming—’tis a delicious delusion—a heavenly vision!” murmured the Marquis in broken sentences,—for he was dazzled by the transcendant beauty of the houri who seemed to encourage him in the aspirations which he had formed.
“Is it, then, so extraordinary that I should have learnt to love one who is so kind—so generous-hearted—so intellectual as yourself?” asked Laura, leaning towards him so that her fragrant breath fanned his countenance and her forehead for an instant touched his own.
“Great heaven! Is it possible that so much happiness awaits me?” cried the Marquis, scarcely able to believe his eyes or his ears: then, after gazing upon her for a few instants with all the rapturous ardour of a youthful lover, he sank upon his knees before her, exclaiming, “Laura, I adore you!”
The designing woman’s triumph was complete: the Marquis was inextricably entangled in her snares;—and, throwing her arms around his neck, she murmured, “Oh! it is an honour as well as a joy to possess your love!”
Then the old man covered the charming young woman’s countenance with kisses; and for several minutes not a word was spoken between them. But at length the Marquis, who could scarcely believe that he had won a prize the possession of which all the noblest, handsomest, and wealthiest young men in Paris would envy him, began to speak upon the course which it would be prudent for them to adopt. Laura at once gave him to understand that she should experience no sentiment of shame in appearing as his mistress; and she undertook—as well indeed she might do—to reconcile her mother to this connexion which she had formed.
“Let us then return to England without delay,’ said the Marquis. “The business which has brought me to Paris is now in such a position that an agent may manage it for me. But tell me—is your mother dependent upon you?”
“Entirely,” answered Laura, anticipating the course which her noble lover was about to adopt.
“And your fortune is doubtless large?” he continued, interrogatively.
“It is not nearly so large as rumour has alleged,” was the reply. “Still it is a handsome competency for one person.”
“Then, as there shall be nothing having even the slightest appearance of selfishness in my attachment towards you, Laura,” resumed the nobleman, “you must immediately assign all your property to your mother; and I will at once—yea, at once—give you a proof of the boundless devotion with which you have inspired me. Permit me the use of your desk for a few moments.”
Laura rang the bell, and ordered Rosalie to bring writing materials; and when this was done, the marquis seated himself at the table and wrote something upon a sheet of paper. He next penned a letter, which he folded up, sealed, and addressed; and, turning towards Laura, he said, “This draught, beloved girl, is for the sum of sixty thousand pounds, payable at sight at my bankers’ in London. This letter, which you will have the kindness to send through the post to-morrow, is to advise them of the fact of such a cheque having been given, and to prepare them to meet it, so that there may be no hesitation in paying such a large amount. For it will be my joy and delight to enrich you, my dearest Laura; so that the old man may to some extent repay the immense obligation under which he is placed by the possession of such a heart as thine. I would not have you remain wealthy through your own resources: henceforth you must owe every thing to me—for if you cannot be my wife in name, you shall at least be the sharer of my fortune, as you have consented to be the partner of my destinies.”
“Your generosity, my dear Marquis, only binds me the more closely to you,” exclaimed Laura, lavishing upon the old man the most exciting and apparently fervent caresses. “At the same time permit me to remind you that there is nothing selfish in that affection which so suddenly sprang up in my bosom towards you: because I am no needy adventuress—no intriguing fortune-hunter,—and you are well aware that many a French nobleman would be proud to lay his title at my feet, were I disposed to decorate my brow with a coronet. My father—who, as you have doubtless heard, accumulated some money in India—left me well provided for; and that fortune I shall cheerfully abandon to my mother, preferring to remain dependent on yourself.”
“Ah! your father dwelt a long time in India!” exclaimed the Marquis, as if struck by a sudden idea. “Is it possible, then, that I could have encountered your mother in England? But, no—that woman could not have been the parent of such a lovely, charming creature as yourself!”
“To whom do you allude, my lord?” demanded Laura, now seized with the apprehension that her mother might be known to the wealthy lover whom she had succeeded in ensnaring, and whom she intended to fleece of the greater portion of his fortune.
“It was but a momentary thought—it exists no longer in my mind, dearest,” responded the nobleman, who, as he gazed upon the bright and splendid being before him, felt an ineffable disgust at having even for an instant associated her in any way with the loathsome old hag to whom he was alluding. “The fact is,” he continued, “I met a certain female in London—or rather, in the neighbourhood of London—a short time ago—indeed, just before I left England; and this woman bore the name of Mortimer.”
“It is not altogether an uncommon one,” observed Laura, maintaining an unruffled countenance, though her heart palpitated with continued apprehension.
“The singularity of the coincidence is that the female to whom I am alluding announces herself as the widow of a General-officer who had died in India,” resumed the Marquis.
“My lamented father was a merchant,” said Laura.
“Then of course there can be no identity in that case,” continued the nobleman. “Besides, having an intimate acquaintance with all military matters—as I myself held the post of Secretary at War many years ago, and have since taken a deep interest in that department—I am enabled to state that no General-officer of the name of Mortimer has recently died in India.”
“The woman, then, of whom you am speaking, was an impostress?” said Laura, interrogatively.
“I have little doubt of it,” answered the marquis. “But let us not dwell upon a subject so perfectly indifferent to us. We were talking of our plans. Will it suit you, dearest Laura, to quit Paris to-morrow, or the day after at latest?”
“To-morrow, if you will,” the young woman hastened to reply: for she now trembled lest her mother should suddenly return and perhaps prove, though unintentionally, a marplot to all the plans which her intriguing disposition had conceived.
“To-morrow, then, be it,” said the Marquis. “At noon I shall call for you in my travelling-chariot. We will return by easy stages to London; and, on our arrival in the English capital, the handsomest mansion that money can procure shall be fitted up with all possible speed for your abode.”
“I care not for a splendid dwelling in London itself,” replied Laura. “Rather let me have some beautiful and retired villa in the suburbs, where you can visit me at your leisure, and where we can pass the hours together without intrusion on the part of a host of visitors.”
“Your ideas on this subject concur with mine,” observed the Marquis, enchanted with the belief that Laura intended to retire from the fashionable world and devote herself wholly to him. “The seclusion of a charming villa will be delightful; and I think I can promise,” he added with a smile, “that the said villa will have more of my company than my town mansion. But I shall now take my departure—although with reluctance: it is however necessary for me to make certain preparations this evening, as I am to leave Paris thus unexpectedly to-morrow. For a few hours, then, my Laura, adieu—adieu!”
The old man embraced the young woman with the most unfeigned—unaffected fondness; and as his arms were cast about her neck, and he felt her bosom heaving against his chest, he longed to implore her to allow him to remain with her until the morning—for the dalliance and the toyings he had already enjoyed had inflamed his blood, and he aspired to be completely happy without delay. But he feared lest he should offend her by any manifestations of sensual longings; for he flattered himself that the connexion which had commenced between them had its origin in sentiment on her side. He accordingly withdrew—but reluctantly—from her embrace; and took his departure, promising to call for her punctually at noon on the following day.
CHAPTER CLXXXIII.
AN UNEXPECTED VISIT AND A DREADED ARRIVAL.
The moment Laura heard the outer door close behind the Marquis of Delmour, she exclaimed aloud, “I have triumphed! I have triumphed! He is in my power—he fell at my feet—he said, ‘Laura, I adore you!’—and the proof of his utter credulity is here—here!”
Thus speaking, she clutched the draught for sixty thousand pounds—devoured it with her eyes—and then secured it in her writing-desk.
“Yes: sixty thousand pounds!” she murmured to herself, as she resumed her voluptuously reclining position upon the ottoman;—“sixty thousand pounds—gained with but little trouble and in a short time! It would scarcely matter if I never touched another piece of gold from his purse; for I am now independent of him—of the hated Hatfields—of all the world! But I will not abandon my doating English Marquis in a hurry: I will not cast aside a nobleman who is so generous—so rich—so confiding! No—no: he will be worth two hundred thousand pounds to me;—and then—yes—then, I may espouse a peer of high title! My fortune is assured—my destiny is within the range of prophecy. I have taken a tremendous step this evening: an hour has seen me grow suddenly rich—already the possessor of sixty thousand pounds! Thanks to this more than human beauty of mine—thanks to that witchery of manner which I know so well how to assume—and thanks also to that fascinating influence wherewith I can invest my language at will, the Marquis has become my slave. Thus does the strong-minded—the resolute—the intellectual man succumb to woman, when she dazzles him with her loveliness and bewilders him with her guile. Sixty thousand pounds now own me as their mistress! ’Tis glorious to possess great wealth: but ’tis an elysian happiness—a burning joy—a proud triumph to feel that I am released from the thraldom of those Hatfields—or rather from a state of dependence upon the father of him whom I lately loved so well! And my mother, too—my selfish, intriguing, deceitful old mother, who has ever hoped to make a profitable market of my charms, and hold despotic sway over me at the same time,—she is no longer necessary to me—and I may in a moment assert my independence should she dare to attempt to tyrannise again. The mad old fool! to fancy that she will succeed in discovering Torrens,—or, even if she did, to hope that she could compel him to disgorge the treasures which he has perilled his life here and his soul hereafter to gain! She will return to me penniless—totally dependent upon me; and I shall allow her a small income on condition that she locates herself in some obscure spot, whence her machinations and her intrigues cannot reach me. Not for worlds would I have her fastened to my apron-strings in London—that London whither I am about to return, and where I may yet hope to punish that Mr. Hatfield who for a time so savagely triumphed over me! No—my mother must be forced into seclusion; her notoriety of character would ruin me. Constantly incurring the chance of being discovered as the Mrs. Slingsby of former years—certain to be recognised as the Mrs. Fitzhardinge who was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in the murder of the old miser—and having evidently entered into some intrigue which has brought her under the notice of the Marquis of Delmour, she can no longer be allowed to associate with me! Her day has gone by—mine has scarcely begun.”
Laura—the beauteous, wanton,unprincipled Laura—had reached this point in her musings, when she was startled by an unusually violent ringing at the front door bell; and in a few moments a gentleman burst into the room, his impatience having urged him to cast away all ceremony and dispense with the introductory agency of Rosalie, who had uttered an ejaculation of surprise on beholding him.
“Captain Barthelma!” cried Laura, in an astonishment which even surpassed that of her abigail.
“Yes—my angel: It is I!” exclaimed the enthusiastic young Italian, as, bounding towards Laura, he caught her in his arms.
His lips were instantaneously fastened to her ripe mouth; and, remembering the night of love and pleasure which she had passed with him, she experienced no vexation at his sudden and most unexpected appearance.
“Can you pardon me for this intrusion?” he demanded, at length loosening her from his embrace, but seating himself closely by her side on the ottoman and taking her hands in his own; “can you pardon me, I ask, adorable woman?” he repeated, gazing upon her in boundless and passionate admiration.
“It seems that it were useless to be offended with you,” she replied, smiling with voluptuous sweetness.
“Oh! then you will not upbraid me—you will not reproach me with having broken the solemn promise that I made you to depart and seek to see you no more in Paris?” he exclaimed. “But even if you were inclined to be angry, Laura, it could not in justice be upon me that your wrath would fall. You must blame your own matchless beauty—you must take all the fault unto yourself. I feel that I cannot live without you. Ever since we parted, my brain has been in a ceaseless ferment—my soul a prey to incessant excitement. By day and by night has your lovely image been before me: by day and by night have I fancied that I heard your voice pouring forth the most eloquent music:—I have dreamt that your lips, breathing odours and bathed with sweets, were pressed to mine:—and your looks, beaming love, and happiness, and joy, have ever been fixed on mine! Oh! my imagination has maintained me in a condition of such pleasing pain that I have been in a species of restless elysium,—a giddy and sometimes agonising whirl, although the scene was paradise! At length I could endure this state no longer: and when at a considerable distance from Paris, on the road to Italy, I suddenly and secretly quitted the service of the Grand Duke——”
“Oh! what madness—what insanity!” exclaimed Laura, grieved that the handsome young Castelcicalan should have made so deep a sacrifice for her—inasmuch as his generous devotion had not only flattered her pride, but also touched her soul.
“It may be madness—it may be insanity,” repeated Lorenzo Barthelma, with impassioned warmth: “but those words must in that case be taken only as other terms for the deepest—sincerest—and most ardent devotion. Were I a beggar on the face of the earth, I should have acted in the same manner; because I should have come to you—I should have thrown myself at your feet—I should have implored you to render me happy,—and in return I should have toiled from morning to night to make up for the deficiency of my means.”
“Generous Lorenzo!” exclaimed Laura, speaking with more sincerity than had characterised her words for years.
“Ah! then you are somewhat touched by my devotion, angelic woman!” cried the handsome young officer, drawing her still more closely towards him, and passing his arm round her slender waist. “But happily I am no pauper—fortunately I am not dependent upon my own exertions. When I was with you before, my adorable Laura, I told you that I possessed a competency; and I then offered to link my destinies with yours for ever. Now my circumstances have materially altered—and I rejoice in the fact! For the French papers of this day contain intelligence of the death of my cousin, the Count of Carignano, at Montoni; and by that unexpected event I have succeeded alike to his title and his princely revenues.”
“Oh! my beloved Lorenzo,” exclaimed Laura, now giving way to all that tenderness towards him which was really in accordance with her inclinations, but which her more selfish interests would have prompted her to subdue and stifle had not this last announcement met her ear: “Oh! my beloved Lorenzo,” she cried, pressing closer to him, so that he could feel her bosom throbbing like the undulations of a mighty tide—for she was now powerfully excited, alike morally and sensually: “how can I reward—how recompense this generosity on your part?”
“By becoming my wife—yes, my wife, Laura—if you will,” returned the enraptured young man. “For you know not how I love you—how intense is the passion with which you have inspired me. I am blind and deaf to all—everything, save your beauties and your witching voice. If you be the greatest profligate the world ever saw, I care not—so madly do I love you.”
“And when this delirium shall have passed away, Lorenzo,” murmured Laura, concealing her burning countenance on his breast, “you will repent the rashness which induced you to wed with one who had so easily abandoned herself to you when a complete stranger—and whom—whom—you knew to be unchaste even then!” she added, her voice becoming touchingly low and tremulously plaintive.
“To suspect even for an instant that I should ever repent of making you my wife, Laura, is to doubt my love,” said the Count of Carignano—for such we may now call him; “and that wounds me to the very soul! ’Tis sufficient for me to know that you are an angel of beauty—and I reck not if you are a demoness in character. But that I am sure is impossible. Your loveliness may have led you into temptations, and your temperament may have induced you to yield: but that you are generous—good—amiable, I am convinced, Laura;—and that you will prove faithful to one who places all his own happiness in you, and who will study incessantly to promote yours—oh! of that I am well assured also. Say, then, my adored one—can you consent to become the Countess of Carignano, with a revenue of twelve thousand a year?”
“Not for the dross—oh! not for the despicable dross,” murmured Laura, scarcely able to restrain her joy within reasonable bounds, and induce her suitor to believe that no selfish interests were mixed up with the motives for that assent which she was about to give,—“not for vile and sordid gold, Lorenzo, do I respond in the affirmative to the generous proposal that you have now made to me—because I myself am possessed of a fortune of sixty thousand pounds: but it is because I love you—yes—I love you, my handsome Lorenzo——”
“Say no more, Laura—beloved Laura!” interrupted the impassioned young nobleman, straining her to his breast: then fondly—oh! how fondly did he gaze upon her—upon her, that guileful woman—reading the reflection of his own voluptuous feelings in her fine large eyes, and then bestowing upon her the most ardent caresses.
Several minutes passed away,—minutes that glided by with rapid and silent wings;—and the handsome pair scarcely noticed that a single second had elapsed since last they spoke.
“Tell me, my sweet Laura,” at length said the Count, toying with the glossy and fragrant tresses of her hair,—“tell me what meant certain words which you addressed to me on that evening when I was first blessed with your kindness. You declared that you could not marry me, although you were not married—that you could not be my mistress, although you were not the mistress of another—and that you could not hold out any hope to me, although you were pledged to no other man.”
“That language, apparently so mysterious, is easily explained,” said Laura, forcing a deep blush into her cheeks as she spoke, and winding one of her snow-white and naked arms round her lover’s neck, so that the contact of the firm warm flesh against his cheek sent the blood rushing through his veins in boiling currents. “I had abandoned myself to you in a moment of caprice—no, of weakness—of passion, which I could not subdue: I had yielded to an invincible impulse, not knowing its nature, and not waiting to ask myself the question. But when you had been with me a short time, I felt that I could love you—yes—deeply, tenderly love you; and as I fancied that, even though you protested the contrary, you could entertain no lasting affection for me, but on the other hand would soon regret any hastily and rashly-formed connexion, I was resolved not to place my own heart in jeopardy, nor incur the risk of loving well and then sustaining a cruel disappointment. For I feared that you addressed me in an impassioned tone only because you were labouring under the delirium of passing excitement and strong though evanescent feelings. Thus was it, then—for my own sake—that I spoke mysteriously to you, in order to convince you of the necessity of seeing me no more. But now, my Lorenzo—now, that you have had several days to reflect upon the proposal which you then made me—now that I have received such unequivocal proofs of your love, and that I no longer fear lest you should be acting in obedience to a sudden impulse,—oh! now, I say, I can hesitate no longer—and I will become your wife!”
The Count of Carignano drank in the delicious poison of her words until his very soul was intoxicated; and loving so well as did this generous-hearted, confiding young man, he paused not for an instant to demand of himself whether he were loving wisely. But he was contented to risk all and everything,—happiness—honour—fame—and name,—in this marriage upon which he had set his mind:—he longed—he burnt—he craved to possess Laura altogether—to have her to himself;—and he felt jealous of all the rest of the world until the nuptial knot should have been tied. It is in this humour and in such a temperament that the highest peer will marry an actress, who would jump at an offer to become his pensioned mistress for a few hundreds a-year.
And Laura—what was passing in her mind? The readers may easily conceive: and yet, lest there should be one or two of imaginations so opaque as not to be able to divine her thoughts, we will describe them as succinctly as possible.
She had run down the institution of marriage when in conversation with the Marquis of Delmour, because she knew that he was already bound in matrimonial bonds, and that she therefore could not become his wife. The result was that she was enabled to consent to become his mistress with much less apparent violation of decency, and without the risk of shocking his feelings. And his mistress she would have become, as she indeed promised, had not the arrival of the Count of Carignano turned her thoughts into an entirely new channel, and placed her interests altogether in a new light. From the moment that he announced his title and his wealth, Laura resolved to throw the poor Marquis of Delmour overboard and accept the proposals of the Italian nobleman.
In fact, Fortune appeared to favour Laura marvellously. Ere now she had beholden a coronet at the end of a vista of some years: in her musings, she had said, “The Marquis will be worth two hundred thousand pounds to me: and then I may espouse a peer of high title!” Such was her ambitious speculation previously to the arrival of Lorenzo: and now, since he had come, she no longer need pass through the apprenticeship of mistress to one nobleman in order to become the wife of another. No—a coronet was within her grasp: a few days—a few hours might behold her Countess of Carignano,—with a husband of whom she could not but be proud, and not with an animated corpse bound to her side.
Here was another triumph for Laura—another cause of glorification in the possession of those matchless charms which thus captivated so hastily and triumphed so effectually. Within a few short weeks she had seen Charles Hatfield—the Marquis of Delmour—and the Count of Carignano at her feet. The first and last had enjoyed her favours: the second was in anticipation of them—and, in that anticipation, had paid sixty thousand pounds. To the first she was wedded—and their marriage was a secret: to the last she had consented to be allied—and their union would be proclaimed to all the world!
Oh! associated with all these reflections, were triumphs—glorious triumphs for Laura Mortimer; and as those thoughts rushed through her mind, as she lay half embraced in the arms of the fond and doting Italian nobleman, the delicious rosiness of animation spread over her cheeks, and kindred fires flashed from under her long silken lashes.
“How beautiful art thou, my adored one!” exclaimed Carignano, as he contemplated the glorious loveliness of her looks: and then he pressed his lips to that mouth which was so voluptuously formed, and which rather resembled a luscious fruit than anything belonging to human shape. “Oh! how I long to call thee mine—to know that thou art indissolubly linked to me! But say—tell me—when shall this happy, happy union take place?—when wilt thou accompany me to the altar?”
“Let us depart for England without delay, my dearest Lorenzo,” murmured Laura, lavishing upon him the most tender caresses; “and there—in London—our marriage can be celebrated immediately after our arrival. Have you any tie—and business on hand to retain you in Paris?”
“None in the world,” was the answer: “and even if I had, everything should give place to the accomplishment of my felicity and the fulfilment of your wishes.”
“Then let us take our departure as early as convenient to-morrow morning,” said Laura.
“And we shall not separate in the meantime?” observed the young Count, straining the syren to his breast.
She murmured a favourable reply; and, after some minutes of tender dalliance, she hastened to give her servants the necessary instructions relative to the preparations for her departure.
A delicate supper was then served up; and the sparkling champagne made the eyes of the lovers flash more brightly, and enhanced the rich carnation glow of their countenances.
The time-piece struck eleven; and they were about to retire to rest, when Rosalie hastily entered the room, and approaching Laura, said in an under tone, “Mademoiselle, your mother has this moment arrived. I told her that you were engaged—and she awaits your presence in the breakfast-parlour.”
“It is my mother, dear Lorenzo,” Laura observed to the Count, who had not overheard the abigail’s communication: “but her arrival will not in any way interfere with our arrangements,” she hastened to add, perceiving that the young nobleman’s countenance suddenly expressed apprehension.
“And yet you yourself appear to be but little pleased at this occurrence, dearest Laura,” he whispered, gazing fondly upon her.
“I could have wished it were otherwise,” she responded: “but no matter. There is nothing to fear: I am independent of my mother. Have patience for ten minutes—and I will return to you.”
With these words, she pressed his hand tenderly and then hurried from the apartment—the discreet Rosalie having already retired the moment she had delivered her message.
Laura hastened to the breakfast-parlour; and there she found her mother, whose garments indicated that she had just arrived in Paris after a journey in an open vehicle and on a dusty road.
CHAPTER CLXXXIV.
LAURA AND HER MOTHER.—ANOTHER INTERRUPTION.
“Here I am in Paris once more, Perdita—Laura, I mean,” said the old woman, without moving from the seat which she had taken, and without offering to embrace her daughter; “and I am within the fortnight stipulated, too.”
“You have travelled post from Calais or Boulogne, doubtless?” observed Laura, interrogatively: “for your clothes are covered with dust—and it is evident that you were not cooped up in the interior of a diligence. I may therefore conclude that you were successful in your search after Torrens and your designs upon him,” she added, fixing a penetrating glance upon her mother’s countenance.
“I was so far successful that I obtained certain intelligence concerning him,” responded the old woman: “but I failed altogether in my hope of becoming the possessor of his money.”
“And what was the intelligence to which you allude?” demanded Laura, who felt convinced from her mother’s manner that she had not failed in the object of her journey.
“I learnt, beyond all question or doubt, that Torrens really was the murderer of Percival, but that he himself had met with a violent death.”
“Ah! Torrens is no more?” exclaimed Laura: then, bending a look full of deep meaning upon her mother, she said in a tone of equal significancy, “You went to London to be revenged upon him—and he is dead! He has experienced a violent end. Well—I understand you—I read your secret—and you need not be more explicit.”
“By heaven! you wrong me, Laura,” exclaimed the old woman, starting in astonishment and alarm as the justice of her daughter’s horrible suspicion became suddenly apparent—a suspicion that she herself had so incautiously engendered by the mysterious manner in which she had announced Torrens’ death.
“It is not worth while disputing upon the subject,” said Laura, in a tone which convinced her mother—and, indeed, was intended to convince her, that no explanation could now possibly wipe away the suspicion alluded to. “You are doubtless well pleased that Torrens is no more—and that is sufficient.”
“Perdita—Laura, I mean,” said the old woman, speaking as if her tongue were parched, or as if ashes clogged up her throat, “why should you take delight in uttering things to vex and annoy me? For some time past—indeed ever since the date of your connection with Charles Hatfield, a barrier has appeared to rise up between us. We seem to act towards each other as if it were tacitly understood that we are enemies, or that we mutually harboured distrust and suspicion.”
“I am aware of it, mother—and it is all your own fault,” answered Laura. “You sought to exercise over me a sway to which I would not and never will submit; and you menaced me in a manner not easily to be forgotten.”
“But you had your revenge—for you abused me vilely,” retorted Mrs. Mortimer, with a malignant bitterness of accent.
“Acknowledged! And you yourself must admit that you provoked my resentment. But let us not remain here bandying words, which may only lead to an useless quarrel. Circumstances have opened to me a grand career—a career, in which my happiness and my interests may be alike promoted; and I have accepted the destiny thus favourably prepared for me. In a word, I am about to marry a young Italian nobleman whom I feel I can love—whom I already love, indeed—and who possesses a proud title and princely revenues.”
“Ah! you are about to be married?” said Mrs. Mortimer, speaking as if the project were perfectly natural and without an objection: but in her heart—in the depths of her foul and vindictive soul, she was rejoiced,—for this alliance would place her daughter completely in her power.
The reader will remember that the old woman was aware of Laura’s union with Charles Hatfield, but that the young lady herself was totally unsuspicious of that fact being thus known to her mother.
“Yes,” resumed Laura: “I am about to be married. I leave Paris for England to-morrow morning. I return to London, because I am now independent of the Hatfields; and at my leisure I shall devise means to avenge myself for the insults I have received at their hands. It now remains for you and me to decide upon what terms we are to exist in future. Be friendly—and I shall allow you a handsome income: be hostile—and I shall dare all you can do against me.”
“I am sorry that my daughter should think it necessary to propose such alternatives,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “State what you require me to do.”
“To settle in France—wherever you please,” responded Laura; “and I will grant you an allowance of two hundred pounds every three months.”
“The pecuniary portion of the conditions is liberal enough,” said Mrs. Mortimer; “but the rest is as despotic and galling as the terms which Mr. Hatfield made the other day with you.”
“I much regret that prudence should compel me thus to dictate to you,” returned Laura: “there is, however, no alternative. ’Tis for you to yield to my conditions—or open war will at once commence between us.”
“I consent—I agree,” said the old woman, who knew that the time was not yet come for her to show her teeth in defiance of her daughter.
“So much the better!” exclaimed Laura, but in a tone indicating that the matter was one of perfect indifference to her; for she little knew—little suspected how irretrievably her marriage with the Count of Carignano would place her in her mother’s power. “And now I have one question to ask you.”
“Speak, Perdita,” observed the old woman.
“Pray remember that my name is Laura!” cried her daughter, petulantly. “You perceive how necessary it is that we should dwell apart from each other. Your imprudence is really great; and the question I am about to put to you, refers to some matter in which you doubtless compromised yourself. Are you acquainted with the Marquis of Delmour?”
“The Marquis of Delmour!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, with an expression of countenance denoting the most unfeigned astonishment. “No—certainly not. I have heard of him, it is true; but only in the same way that one hears of any other person conspicuous for rank, wealth, or station. I have never seen the Marquis of Delmour to my knowledge.”
“Perhaps you have been in his company without knowing who he was,” resumed Laura. “At all events, have you recently represented yourself, in any circle or place, as the widow of a General-officer whom you stated to have died in India?”
The system of duplicity which the old woman determined to adopt towards her daughter, had so well prepared her to sustain any questioning or cross-examination on any point, that she did not betray the least surprise, nor did her countenance undergo the slightest change as that interrogatory suddenly brought to her mind the conviction that Mr. Vernon and the Marquis of Delmour must be one and the same person. Without at the moment perceiving how this discovery could be in any way useful to her, but still acting with that reserve and wariness with which she had armed herself in order to meet her daughter, she resolved not to mention a single word of anything that had occurred in London relative to the beautiful Recluse of the Cottage, her father, and Lord William Trevelyan.
Accordingly, and without the least hesitation,—nor quailing, nor changing colour beneath the penetrating gaze which Laura fixed upon her,—she said, “I do not remember ever to have made any such representation as that to which you allude.”
“It is singular—this coincidence,” mused Laura, audibly; “and yet it is of little import to me.”
“It would appear, at all events, that you must be acquainted with this Marquis of Delmour of whom you speak?” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a careless and indifferent tone.
Scarcely were the words uttered, when a violent ringing at the front door was heard; and in a few moments a voice, instantly recognised alike by Laura and her mother, exclaimed to Rosalie, “Has your mistress retired to rest yet? I must see her immediately.”
The abigail, suspecting that it would be better not to allow the Marquis of Delmour—for he the visitor was—to be brought face to face with the handsome young Italian, unhesitatingly conducted the nobleman into the parlour where Laura and Mrs. Mortimer were holding their interview.
But the moment Rosalie had closed the door behind the Marquis, he uttered an ejaculation of mingled astonishment and rage, and springing towards Mrs. Mortimer, exclaimed, “Ah! I meet you again, vile woman! Give me up my daughter—tell me where you have hidden her!”
And he caught her violently by the arm.
“I know what you mean, my lord,” said the old woman, hastily: “but you accuse me wrongfully.”
“Wrongfully!” repeated the Marquis, his countenance white with rage: “no—no! I only accuse you justly—for it must be you who have spirited away my child—my beloved Agnes!”
“It is false!” ejaculated the old woman, with an emphasis which made him release his hold of her and fall back two or three paces.
“False, you say!” he cried. “Oh! then, if you have really not done this flagrant wrong—but if you are in possession of any clue—”
“I am—I am,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, seeing in a moment that a reward was to be obtained and her spite against Lord William Trevelyan to be gratified at the same time: for she did cherish the bitterest animosity against that young nobleman, on account of his conduct towards her when, four days previously, she had taken Agnes Vernon to his house in Park Square.
“And yet I cannot conceive you to be innocent in this matter,” exclaimed the nobleman, surveying her with deep distrust and aversion—and all this time taking no notice of Laura, so profoundly were his feelings engrossed by the subject which now occupied his mind: “for wherefore did you visit the cottage where Agnes dwelt?—why did you intrude yourself upon her presence?”
“All that can be readily explained, my lord,” responded Mrs. Mortimer, not losing an atom of her self-possession.
“Then tell me where my daughter is—tell me what has become of her?” cried the nobleman, in an appealing tone; “and if you have been concerned in removing her from the cottage, I will forgive you! Nay, more—I will reward you handsomely.”
“Your daughter is in safety—that much I can inform you at once,” said Mrs. Mortimer.
“Thanks—thanks for this assurance!” cried the old nobleman, clasping his hands together in gratitude for the relief thus imparted to his mind: then, suddenly recollecting the presence of Laura, he turned towards her, and in a tone of mingled suspicion and reproach, said, “But how is it that I find you with the very person of whom I spoke to you somewhat disparagingly two short hours ago?”
“She claims some distant relationship with me, my dear Marquis,” Laura hastened to observe—but without manifesting the slightest embarrassment; while the rapid and intelligent sign which she made to her mother, and which was altogether unperceived by the nobleman, was fully understood by the old woman.
“Ah! that is on account of her name being Mortimer,” said the Marquis, completely satisfied by the answer which Laura had given him—especially as the old woman offered no contradiction. “And now I must request you to accede to some alteration in our plans for to-morrow,” he continued, drawing Laura aside, and speaking to her in a low tone. “On my return just now to the hotel where I am staying, I found a letter containing the afflicting intelligence that a daughter of mine—a daughter whom circumstances have compelled me to keep in the strictest seclusion—had suddenly and most mysteriously disappeared from her dwelling in the neighbourhood of London. This happened five days ago;—but Mrs. Gifford—my dear child’s housekeeper, and I may almost say guardian—did not immediately write to me, hoping that Agnes would return. Oh! you may conceive how deeply this event has grieved me——”
“I sympathise sincerely with you, my dear Marquis,” interrupted Laura, affecting to wipe away tears from her eyes: for it suited her purpose to remain on good terms with the old nobleman until she should have cashed her draft for the sixty thousand pounds. “Yes—I sincerely sympathise with you,” she repeated: “and I can anticipate the proposed alterations in our arrangements. You intend to start immediately for England——”
“Without a moment’s unnecessary delay,” said the Marquis, who was greatly excited by the intelligence he had received from Mrs. Gifford: “the instant I return to my hotel, a post-chaise and four will be in readiness for me. But may I hope that you will follow me to London as speedily as convenient?”
“I shall depart to-morrow, my dear Marquis, at the hour already arranged,” responded Laura; “and deeply do I regret that my preparations are so backward as to render it impossible for me to offer to become your travelling-companion at once.”
“Dearest Laura!” murmured the Marquis, for a single moment losing the remembrance of his affliction in the doting passion he had formed for the beautiful woman who was thus grossly deluding him. “Our separation will not be very long,” he continued; “and I hope that when we meet in London three days hence, I may have good news to tell you respecting Agnes. Now, madam,” he exclaimed aloud, turning towards Mrs. Mortimer, who, while affecting to be examining the mantel-ornaments, was vainly endeavouring to catch the sense of what was passing at a little distance between her daughter and the Marquis; “now, madam,” he said, approaching her with an abruptness that made her start, “I do not think I shall be insulting you if I offer you a hundred guineas for the information which you professed yourself able and willing to give relative to my daughter—my dear and well-beloved Agnes.”
“A hundred guineas, my lord!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, contemptuously: “if you really love that young lady whom you call your daughter, you must surely consider that it is worth five or six times the amount named in order to regain possession of her.”
“Laura dearest:——I mean, Miss Mortimer,” said the nobleman, impatiently, as he turned towards the young lady,—“oblige me with writing materials, and I will speedily satisfy this woman’s rapacity.”
“Perhaps I might also exact a recompense for keeping secret the good understanding which exists between your lordship and ‘dearest Laura,’ and which you so unguardedly betrayed?” observed Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone of bitter sarcasm, and with a malignant glance darted from her snake-like eyes at her daughter.
“Silence, woman!” ejaculated the Marquis, speaking with the emphasis of authority: then, the writing materials being now placed before him, he sate down and wrote a cheque, which he tossed across the table to Mrs. Mortimer, saying, “I am sorry that I have not enough money about my person to satisfy your demands. I am therefore compelled to give you a draft upon my London bankers; and you will perceive that it is for six times as much as I at first offered you,” he added, dwelling on the words which the old woman had herself used to indicate the amount of her expectations.
“Yes—my lord: I see that it is for six hundred pounds,” she observed, coolly and quietly, as she folded up the cheque and secured it about her person. “And now I will tell you what I know concerning your daughter; and I take heaven to witness that I will not mislead you.”
“If you do, my good woman,” interrupted the Marquis, “you will find payment of the cheque stopped at the bank. Go on; and delay not—for my time is precious.”
“In a word, my lord,” said Mrs. Mortimer, the contemptuous manner in which she was treated by the haughty peer being fully counterbalanced by the handsome bonus that had just fallen into her hand,—“Lord William Trevelyan, whom you doubtless know well by name, if not personally, is deeply enamoured of your daughter; and he employed me to take a letter to her. I acquitted myself of the task: but Miss Agnes is a perfect dragon of virtue—and I could make little impression upon her.”
“God be thanked!” ejaculated the Marquis, fervently.
“Well—although Lord William’s passion is honourable enough, I have no doubt, yet Miss Agnes——”
“And is it Lord William who has taken her away?” demanded the Marquis, unable to restrain his impatience or any longer endure the tortures of suspense.
“No, my lord—it was her mother!” said Mrs. Mortimer, watching through profound curiosity the effect which this announcement would produce upon the nobleman.
“Ah! then my worst apprehensions are confirmed!” he exclaimed, in a tone of poignant anguish.
“But do not give way to despair, my lord,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “for Miss Agnes subsequently escaped from the house where her mother placed her——”
“Oh! I then she loves me still—me—her father!” exclaimed the Marquis, in accents of joy: “and she yielded not to the wiles of that woman——But proceed, madam—proceed!” he cried, suddenly interrupting himself, and again speaking in a tone of impatience.
“Having escaped, as I have just said,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer, “Agnes fell into the power of ruffian, from whose hands I was fortunate enough to rescue her; and, not knowing precisely whither to take her, I thought it best to consult Lord William Trevelyan upon the proper course to adopt. His lordship, who is a man of honour—and pray remember to tell him that I say so,” she added, with a slight accent of malignity,—“his lordship immediately placed her in the care of a lady of his acquaintance; and it is to him that you must apply, my Lord Marquis, for the address of your daughter’s new abode.”
“And all that you have told me is true?” exclaimed the old nobleman.
“If it should prove otherwise, your lordship has in your own hands the means of punishing me,” responded Mrs. Mortimer.
“True!” cried the Marquis; “and now I am somewhat consoled by the tidings you have given me. My daughter is safe, and in the society of honourable persons. I thank you, madam.”
He then turned away to shake Laura cordially by the hand ere he took his departure.
“You will leave to-morrow at mid-day, dearest,” he said, in an under tone to her whom he fondly hoped to make his mistress, but who was so grossly deluding him.
“Yes—without fail,” was the reply.
“And on your arrival in town you will instantly send me word at which hotel you take up your temporary residence?” continued the Marquis. “I shall hasten to join you, and hope to have a charming villa ready to receive you.”
“You are too good, my dear Marquis, to think to much of me at a time when your heart is so severely lacerated on account of your daughter,” said Laura, likewise speaking in a whisper.
“There is nothing that I would not do for you, beloved Laura,” responded the infatuated old noble. “You hold already a cheque for sixty thousand pounds: that is nothing to what I will do for you, my dearest angel. And if I allude to pecuniary affairs at all, it is to convince you how anxious I am to ensure your happiness, not only now—but likewise when I shall be no more.”
Thus speaking, the Marquis of Delmour pressed Laura’s hand fervently, and was about to hurry away, when, suddenly recollecting something, he drew her still farther aside, and said in a very low whisper, “Have nothing to do with that woman dearest! I dislike her looks—I mistrust her altogether. She is evidently an adventuress. Oh! how could I have ever supposed even for an instant that such a wretch was the mother of such an angelic being as my Laura?”
Another fond and impassioned look—another pressure of the hand—and the Marquis was gone.
Of all this latter dialogue which took place between that nobleman and Laura, and which was carried on in a very low tone, Mrs. Mortimer, who strained all her auricular faculties to catch even a syllable, succeeded only in overhearing a very short sentence. But that one sentence she did manage to catch; and a highly significant as well as deeply important one was it for her.
And these were the words which she thus caught—“You hold already a cheque for sixty thousand pounds!”
Quickly as the first glass of sparkling wine infuses a delicious sensation throughout the entire frame,—so speedily did that one sentence create a burning joy in the breast of the old woman. She saw through it all:—Laura had wheedled the Marquis out of that immense sum—and now she intended to jilt him, and espouse the Italian noble!
“A cheque for sixty thousand pounds!” thought Mrs. Mortimer within herself, while the Marquis and Laura were still whispering together: “sixty thousand pounds! Well—we shall see! It is better than a paltry six hundred.”
And, while thus musing, she affected to be smelling the flowers on the mantel-piece, until the door suddenly opened and closed again instantaneously—and then she turned round towards Laura, for the Marquis was gone.
“And you assured me that you knew nothing of the nobleman who has just left us?” said Laura, fixing her eyes with cold contempt on her mother.
“I knew him only as Mr. Vernon until I saw him here this evening,” was the answer.
“But it was to him that you had passed yourself as the widow of a General-officer in the Indian army,” persisted Laura: “and yet you denied having ever made such a representation to any one. You perceive, mother, that I cannot trust you: you are full of duplicity and deceit even to me—and still you complain that a coolness subsists between us.”
“I may observe, on my side, Laura,” retorted the old woman, with a subdued and cunning malignity, “that you were not more communicative to me relative to the Marquis of Delmour than I was disposed to be to you. We are therefore even upon that score; and, at all events, let us not dispute. I shall now leave you, Laura—for I am well aware that my room will be preferable to my company. It is my present intention to remain in Paris; and from time to time I will send you tidings of my whereabouts, so that you may duly remit me my quarterly income, as promised just now. The cheque of the Marquis I shall send through the medium of some Parisian banker.”
The old woman then took her departure, a cool “Good-bye” being all the farewell salutation that passed between her daughter and herself as she crossed the threshold of the handsome suite of apartments.
“Thank God! she is gone!” thought Laura, as she hastened to rejoin her handsome Castelcicalan, who was growing impatient of her protracted absence.
“The haughty and self-sufficient creature!” murmured Mrs. Mortimer to herself, an she hastily descended the stairs: “she is completely in my power—at my mercy—in every way!”
And did the old woman remain in Paris in fulfilment of her declared intention?
No:—wearied and exhausted by travel as she already was, but animated with an indomitable energy, Mrs. Mortimer hastened, late though the hour now was, to procure a post-chaise and four; and while Laura was passing a night of voluptuousness and love in the arms of the handsome Count of Carignano, her mother was speeding along the road to Boulogne, on her way back to London.
CHAPTER CLXXXV.
THE LAWYER’S HEAD CLERK.
It was about four o’clock in the afternoon of the day following the incidents just related, that Mr. James Heathcote, the lawyer, was seated at his writing-table in that private office which we have already described to our readers,—when a low, timid knock at the door fell upon his ears.
“Come in,” he exclaimed, in his short, abrupt, and almost brutal manner, well knowing that the individual about to enter was the poor wretch whom he bullied when in an ill-humour, and whom on all occasions he was wont to make his vile agent and spaniel-like slave.
Creeping up as usual—rather than walking with the natural dignity of a man—towards the table, Mr. Green bowed humbly and waited until his dreaded, but also hated master should deign to give him leave to speak.
“Well, Mr. Green,” said Heathcote, after a pause of a few minutes, during which he waited to see whether his grovelling serf would dare to open his lips until he received permission,—for the lawyer was a man who liked to ascertain the full extent of the power that he wielded over his subordinates, and also to make them feel that he did exercise that power;—“well, Mr. Green, what news this afternoon?”
And, throwing himself back in his arm-chair, he passed his thin, yellow hand through his iron-grey hair.
“If you please, sir, I have several things to report, as you were so much engaged this morning that you could not give the time to hear me,” observed Green, in that subdued and almost affrighted tone of voice which years of servility had rendered habitual to him;—for such is ever the case with those who mistake the most abasing sycophancy for proofs of respect. And here we may observe that it is only in the demoralising and degrading influence of Royal Courts that this disgusting susurration is adopted as a species of homage to the divinity raised up by man’s stupid and most reprehensible idolatry.
“Ah! I recollect—I was busy this morning,” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote. “Well—what have you to report?”
“Please, sir,” resumed the trembling clerk, “Gregson the upholsterer has put his affairs into the hands of Goodman and Meanwell, who have got all his creditors save yourself, sir, to sign a letter of license; and Mr. Goodman has been here this afternoon to say that unless you will give your name also, his client must inevitably go into the Gazette.”
“Then let him go—and to the devil also, if he chooses!” vociferated Mr. Heathcote, flying into a passion—a most unusual thing with one so cool, calculating, and self-possessed as he. “Goodman and Meanwell are what are called honest attorneys—conscientious lawyers—straightforward practitioners;—and they will exert all their energies to carry their client through his difficulties. But I will thwart them, Mr. Green—by God! I will thwart them; Gregson shall go into the Gazette—even if I lose every penny he owes me. I hate your honest attorneys;”—and his lips were curled in bitter irony and demoniac malignity. “Go on, sir!” he exclaimed savagely, as if it were his wretched clerk who had irritated him.
“Thompson, sir—the defendant in Jones’s case, you know,” resumed Mr. Green, “was arrested yesterday—in pursuance of your orders, sir. I took the liberty of mentioning, sir, that his wife had just been confined——”
“Well?” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote, impatiently.
“And that his eldest child was at the point of death, sir,” added Green, more timidly than before.
“Well—what next?” demanded the attorney.
“The poor child has since died, sir.”
“The poor child, indeed! Who cares a fig about a child? Why—you are growing quite soft-hearted, Mr. Green,” said Heathcote, in a tone of cutting irony. “The poor child, indeed! I suppose the wife has died also?” he added, with heartless jocularity.
“Indeed, sir, I am sorry to say you are right in your conjecture,” responded Green, scarcely venturing to make the announcement.
“No!—is it really the case, though?” exclaimed Heathcote, startled for a moment at finding that what he had said as a brutal jest turned out to be a solemn and shocking truth. “Well—what next?” he demanded, mastering those emotions which he was ashamed at having betrayed.
“Thompson himself, sir—driven to despair by these numerous afflictions—cut his throat in prison this afternoon,” added Mr. Green.
“Is this possible?” cried Mr. Heathcote, again excited to a degree more powerful than the clerk had ever before observed: but speedily subduing his feelings, by dint of a strong and almost superhuman effort—so sudden and effective was it—he said, “Well—it is not my fault. Maudlin sentimentalists will perhaps lay his death at my door——”
“I am afraid, sir, that all the three deaths will be attributed to you,” interrupted Green, with an affectation of exceeding meekness, while from beneath his brows he darted a rapid glance of fiend-like expression at his master—a glance which denoted how the man in his secret soul feasted upon the pangs which now rent the heart of the attorney.
“I am tough enough to bear everything that people may say of me, Mr. Green,” observed Heathcote, in his usually cold tone of irony. “But proceed with your communications.”
“Beale’s wife, sir, called this morning—you know Beale?—the man you put into Whitecross Street prison, and whose wife and children have been starving ever since——”
“Really, Mr. Green,” interrupted Heathcote, fixing a stern look upon his clerk, “it would appear that you are purposely entering into minute details this afternoon in order to annoy me. Of course I know who Beale is——”
“Was, sir, if you please,” said Green, with difficulty concealing the savage delight that he took in thus torturing—or, at least, endeavouring to torture, his master.
“What do you mean, sir?” demanded Heathcote, savagely.
“That Beale died in the infirmary at Whitecross Street last night, sir,” responded Green, his tone and manner becoming more abjectly obsequious in proportion as his internal joy augmented at the increasing excitement and irritation of his master.
“The man was doubtless a drunkard, Green,” observed Heathcote, roughly: “and therefore, when no longer able to get liquor, the reaction carried him off.”
“I dare say, sir, that you know best—and I am sure you must be right,” returned the clerk, with a low bow: “but the man’s friends do say that a more sober, hard-working, and deserving fellow did not exist.”
“And therefore I suppose that his death will be laid at my door!” exclaimed Heathcote, now for the first time in his life glancing timidly—almost appealing, at his clerk, as if to implore him to devise some excuse or start some palliation that might ease his troubled conscience.
But Green, whose very obsequiousness and servility afforded him the means of venting his spite on his hated master, pretended to take the observation as an assertion and not an interrogatory, and replied in a humble tone, “Your foresight and knowledge of the world, sir, are beyond all dispute; and, as you say, Beale’s death is certain to be laid at your door. But of course you are perfectly indifferent to the tittle-tattle of scandalous tongues.”
Heathcote rose from his seat—or rather started from it, and walked rapidly up and down the room thrice. He felt sorely troubled; for, hardened as his heart was—obdurate as his soul had become, he could not shut out the whispering voice of conscience which now proclaimed him to be the author of all the deaths that his clerk had enumerated. And, while he was racked by these painful convictions, the thought suddenly flashed to his brain that Green had displayed a savage delight in detailing those horrors; and, man of the world as James Heathcote was, it occurred to him, as a natural sequence to the suspicion just mentioned, that his clerk hated and abhorred him.
Acting under the influence of these impressions, he stopped suddenly short close by the spot where Green was standing; and he fixed his snake-like gaze upon the shabbily-dressed, senile-looking, self-debasing individual, who appeared to be maintaining his eyes bent timidly and reverentially on the floor—as if his master’s emotions were something too sacred to look upon.
“Green!—Mr. Green!” exclaimed Heathcote, laying his hand with such abruptness and also with such violence upon the grovelling wretch’s shoulder, that it made him start convulsively—though he knew all the while that his master had accosted him, and was also gazing on him.
“Yes, sir!” cried the clerk, raising his eyes diffidently toward Heathcote’s countenance.
“Do you conceive that the deaths of those people can be righteously attributed to me?” demanded the lawyer, speaking in a low, measured, and solemn tone, and looking as if he sought to read into the most secret depths of his clerk’s soul: “do you, I say, dare to associate any act or deed of mine with their fate?” he asked, raising his voice, while his face became terrible to gaze upon.
“Who?—I, sir!” ejaculated Green, as if in astonishment at the questions put to him; and his own countenance assumed such a sinister aspect that Heathcote surveyed him with increasing suspicion and distrust.
“Yes—you!” cried the lawyer, ferociously. “Now, mark me, Green,” he continued, in a lower and more composed tone of voice,—“if you dare to harbour ill feelings towards me—if even a scintillation of such feelings should transpire from your words or manner, I will crush you as I would a worm—I will send you to Newgate—abandon you to your fate—and, if necessary, help to have you shipped for eternal exile.”
“My God! how have I deserved these implied reproaches—these terrible menaces?” demanded Green, his countenance expressing real alarm, and his whole frame shivering from head to heel.
“Perhaps you have not deserved them—and in that case they will serve as a warning,” said Heathcote, now becoming suddenly calm and imperiously scornful: “but I think that you did merit all I have uttered—and now you know me better, perhaps, than you knew me before. However, let all this pass. I do not for an instant suppose that I possess your affection; but I will guard against the effects of your hate. Answer me not, sir: you cannot wipe away the impressions which this afternoon’s scene has conjured up in my mind. And now proceed with anything more that you may have to tell me.”
“Fox, the ironmonger, sir,” resumed Green, in a more timid and servile tone than ever, and with a manner so cowed and grovelling that it completely veiled the strong pantings for revenge and the emotions of bitter, burning hate which dwelt in the clerk’s secret soul,—“Fox, the ironmonger, sir, has realised all his property and absconded.”
“Did I not tell you to issue execution against his goods without delay?” demanded Heathcote, angrily.
“I obeyed your commands, sir, as soon as the usual forms were gone through,” responded Green: “but in the interval the man, knowing the steps you were taking against him, sold off everything and ran away—no one can tell whither.”
“Then all your intelligence is evil this afternoon, Mr. Green?” said Heathcote. “What about Mrs. Sefton?”
“The spy that I set to watch her has reported her removal from Kentish Town to a house at Bayswater, sir,” answered Green; “and as she has a young lady with her—a Miss Vernon, it appears—she does not seem to be busying herself in any way that might interfere with your interests.”
“But that insolent young nobleman—that Lord William Trevelyan?” demanded Heathcote.
“I do not think he is troubling himself any more in the business, sir,” answered Green.
“Good and well!” ejaculated the attorney. “These latter tidings constitute something like an agreeable set-off in respect to all your former communications. Hah!” he cried, suddenly interrupting himself, as the clock proclaimed the hour: “five already! Well, you may go now, Green—and see that your spies keep a good look-out upon the movements of Mrs. Sefton and Lord William Trevelyan.”
“I will, sir,” was the reply; and the clerk bowed himself out of the office.
Half an hour afterwards Mr. Green was wending his way towards the aristocratic quarters of the West End; and at length he entered a respectable-looking public-house in the neighbourhood of Portland Place.
Having called for some refreshment, he took up the newspaper to while away the time until the arrival of the person whom he was expecting: but he could not settle his thoughts to the perusal of the journal. He read an article through, from beginning to end; and, when he reached the termination, he had not retained a single idea of the subject.
The fact was that the man’s mind was excited and bewildered by the scene which had taken place that afternoon with his master. He felt that he had been trampled upon—treated with every possible indignity—despised, menaced, and almost spit upon;—and he was compelled to suffer all—to bear everything—to endure those flagrant wrongs, without daring to murmur.
“But I will be avenged—terribly avenged!” thought he within himself, as he bent over the table in the public-house parlour, supporting his head upon his two hands: “yes—even though I should sacrifice myself, I will be avenged sooner or later. For years and years have I been his slave—his menial—his instrument—his tool;—and he has kept me in such utter subjection that it was not until lately I remembered that I really possessed a soul and a spirit of my own. The hard-hearted—cruel—remorseless wretch! I hate and abhor him with a malignant hatred and a savage abhorrence. No words are strong enough—no terms sufficiently potent to convey even to myself an idea of the magnitude of that aversion which I now entertain for him. But if he has me in his power in one way, he is at my mercy in many other others. He little suspects how deep an insight I possess into his affairs—his machinations—his dark plots. He thinks that I behold but the surface: he knows not that I have fathomed to the bottom!”
At this point in the clerk’s musings, the door of the parlour was opened, and a respectable-looking man, dressed in black, but with a white cravat entered the room.
“You are somewhat behind your time, Mr. Fitzgeorge,” said Green, as this individual—who was Lord William Trevelyan’s valet—seated himself by the clerk’s side.
“Only a few minutes,” responded Fitzgeorge. “And now to business without delay. It is fortunate that we are all alone in this parlour at present: otherwise I should have proposed to adjourn to a private room. Have you thought well of the subject I mentioned to you yesterday?”
“I have,” was the answer, delivered in a tone of decision: “and I am prepared to meet your wishes. But remember that I told you how completely I am in the power of the villain Heathcote; and if he were to discover that your noble master received his information through me——”
“He cannot possibly detect your instrumentality in the business, provided you do not betray yourself,” said Fitzgeorge.
“Then I cannot hesitate to serve you,” responded Green.
“Here are a hundred pounds in advance of the sum promised you,” continued the valet, producing bank-notes to the amount named; “and the other moiety shall be paid the moment the information you are about to give me shall have proved to be correct.”
“Ah! it is a long—long time since I could call so much money my own,” said Green, with a deep sigh, as he gazed upon the notes—half doubting whether it were possible that they were about to find their way into his pocket.
“Take up the money and use despatch—for my time is precious,” exclaimed Fitzgeorge.
The clerk followed the first suggestion with amazing alacrity; and his sinister countenance was now as radiant with joy as such a face could be.
“Your master is generous—very generous,” he said, as soon as the notes were secured in his waistcoat-pocket; “and I will serve him to the utmost of my power. The mad-house to which Sir Gilbert Heathcote has been consigned, is kept by Dr. Swinton, and is situated in the neighbourhood of the new church facing the end of the Bethnal Green Road.”
“I am well acquainted with the locality,” said Fitzgeorge. “The church you speak of is in the Cambridge Road, and stands at one of the angles of the Green?”
“Precisely so,” answered the clerk; “and the lunatic asylum looks upon the Green itself, its back windows commanding a view of Globe Town. But here is the exact address,” continued the man, producing a card from his pocket.
“That is all I require,” said Fitzgeorge. “Three days hence you can meet me here again; and if in the meantime I should have discovered that Sir Gilbert Heathcote is really confined in Dr. Swinton’s asylum, the other hundred pounds shall be handed over to you.”
The valet and the clerk then separated.
CHAPTER CLXXXVI.
DR. SWINTON.
The mad-house kept by Dr. Swinton was a spacious building, with a large garden, surrounded by a high wall, at the back.
It was by no means a gloomy-looking place, although the casements were protected by iron bars: for to mitigate that prison-like effect, the curtains were of a cheerful colour, and the window-sills were adorned with flowers and verdant evergreens in bright red pots. Moreover, the front of the house was stuccoed; and wherever paint was used, the colours were of the gayest kind.
The front door always stood open during the day-time, because there was an inner door of great strength which led into the hall; and a porter in handsome livery was constantly lounging about at the entrance.
The Doctor himself was an elderly person, of highly respectable appearance, and of very pleasing manners when he chose to be agreeable: but no demon could exhibit greater ferocity than he, when compelled to exercise his authority in respect to those amongst his patients who had no friends to care about them.
It was between nine and ten o’clock in the evening of the day following the interview between Fitzgeorge and Heathcote’s head clerk, that a plain carriage and pair drove up to the door of Doctor Swinton’s establishment.
The porter immediately rushed forward to open the door and let down the steps of the vehicle; and two persons alighted.
One was a tall, handsome young man of genteel bearing, and handsomely dressed: the other was some years older, and might be described as respectable without having anything aristocratic in his appearance.
“Have the kindness to say that Mr. Smithson, accompanied by his friend Mr. Granby, requests an interview with your master,” were the words immediately addressed to the porter by the elder of the two visitors, while the other appeared to be gazing about him in a vacant and stolid manner.
“Walk in, gentlemen,” said the obsequious porter, with a low bow: he then rang a bell, and a footman in resplendent livery opened the inner door.
Mr. Granby and Mr. Smithson were now conducted through a spacious hall into an elegantly furnished parlour, lighted by a superb lustre suspended to the ceiling.
“The Doctor will be with you in a minute, gentlemen,” said the domestic, who immediately retired to acquaint his master with their arrival: but the moment the door had closed behind him, a smile of deep meaning instantly appeared upon the lips of the visitors, as they exchanged equally significant looks.
In a few minutes Dr. Swinton appeared—his countenance wearing such a benignant expression that if the Saints at Exeter Hall could only have bribed him to attend on the platform at their May Meetings, they would have secured a sufficiency of outward appearance of philanthropy to draw gold from the purses of even the most cynical. In fact, the doctor was precisely the individual from whose lips might be expected a most touching and lachrymose speech upon the “benighted condition” of the heathen, and the absolute necessity of procuring funds for the purpose of circulating a million of Bibles amongst the poor savages of the Cannibal Islands.
His thin grey hair was combed with precision over his high and massive forehead: a smile played on his lips, showing his well-preserved teeth;—and his eyes beamed with mildness—almost with meekness, as if he had succeeded, by long perseverance, in resigning himself to a profession which militated sadly against a natural benevolence of heart.
He was dressed in deep black; his linen was of the finest material and of snowy whiteness;—he wore a low cravat; and his enormous shirt-frill was prevented from projecting too much by means of a diamond pin that could not have cost less than fifty guineas.
The middle finger of his right hand was adorned with a ring of equal value; and a massive chain with a bunch of gold seals depended from his fob.
We should have observed that the Doctor wore black silk stockings and shoes—it being evening; and we have every cause to believe that the reader may now form a tolerably accurate idea of that gentleman’s personal appearance.
Leaning forward as he walked, and with a kind of mincing gait—half familiar, and half obsequious—Dr. Swinton advanced towards the visitors, only one of whom rose at his approach;—and this was Mr. Smithson, the elder of the two. The other remained in an apparent state of apathetic laziness on the sofa, where he had taken his seat.
“Your most obedient, Mr. Smithson,” said the Doctor, proffering his hand to the individual whom he thus addressed. “This is your friend Mr. Granby, I presume—the gentleman of whom you made mention when you honoured me with a visit this morning.”
“Yes. Doctor—that is indeed my unfortunate friend Granby,” responded Smithson, drawing the physician into the window-recess, and speaking in a whisper.
“He is a fine, handsome young man,” observed the mad-doctor, glancing towards the subject of his remark, and likewise adopting a low tone. “What a pity it is!” he added, turning towards Mr. Smithson, and placing his fore-finger significantly to his forehead.
“A thousand—thousand pities, Doctor!” was the reply, delivered in a mournful voice. “Such a splendid intellect to be thus clouded!—such a genius to be thus crushed—annihilated!”
“No—do not anticipate such a calamity,” hastily interposed the physician. “Rather let us hope that a judicious system—my system, Mr. Smithson—will eventually succeed in effecting a cure. But have you the regular certificates, my dear sir?—because you are well aware that a heavy responsibility rests upon gentlemen of my profession, who receive patients——”
“Everything is straightforward, Doctor,” interrupted Mr. Smithson, producing two papers from his pocket. “These certificates are signed by medical men of eminence, and whose honour is unimpeachable.”
“Oh! assuredly,” exclaimed Swinton, glancing over the documents: “Dr. Prince is an ornament to the profession—and Mr. Spicer is equally well known. I have not the pleasure of their personal acquaintance—but I am no stranger to their high reputation and rigid integrity. So far, so good, my dear sir,” continued the mad-doctor, restoring the certificates to Smithson. “And now, I think, we have little more to say in respect to arrangements——”
“Nothing that I am aware of,” interrupted Mr. Smithson. “When I saw you this morning, you told me that your usual terms for first-class patients were six hundred a-year——”
“Each quarter payable in advance, you will please to recollect, my dear sir,” said the physician, in a tone of bland insinuation. “It is a mere matter of form, you know—just the bare trouble of writing a cheque at the beginning instead of the close of the three months——”
“Oh! pray offer no apology for such an excellent regulation,” interrupted Smithson: “short accounts make long friends.”
“Ah! ah! very good—very good indeed!” said the Doctor, with a jocular cachinnation. “You are quite right, my dear sir—quite right. Shall I give you a stamped receipt?” he asked, as Smithson placed in his hands two bank notes—one for a hundred and the other for fifty pounds.
“You can send me the acknowledgment at your leisure,” answered Smithson. “And now, as I must take my leave, permit me to beseech you to bestow all possible attention upon my unhappy friend, and to spare no expense in rendering him as comfortable as possible. His relations, who have empowered me thus to place him in your establishment, are very wealthy, and will cheerfully augment the allowance, if required. No coercion is necessary with him: he is very tractable and by no means dangerous. At the same time, any thing resembling restraint would only induce him to move heaven and earth to escape. He cannot even endure to have his chamber-door locked at night; and you may safely trust him with a candle. Indeed, he will have a light. As for placing a keeper in his room, such a step would be as unwise as it is uncalled for. But I need not attempt to counsel a gentleman of your great experience and well-known skill——”
“Pardon me, my dear sir,” interrupted Dr. Swinton, drawing himself up at the compliment thus paid to his professional ability;—“but I am always delighted to receive any hints which the friends of my patients are kind enough to give me; and I can assure you that your suggestions shall be fully borne in mind. Of course you will call upon Mr. Granby occasionally?” asked the Doctor, in a tone which was as much as to imply that the less frequent such visits were, the better he thought it would be.
“Yes—I shall call now and then,” responded Smithson, catching the physician’s meaning in a moment: “but not too often—as the visits of friends are likely, no doubt, to produce an injurious effect on those minds which, under the influence of your admirable system, are becoming settled and tranquil. It is however my intention to return in a few days, just to assure myself that Granby is comfortable, and likewise that you are not displeased with your patient.”
“Very good,” said the Doctor; “I shall be delighted to see you. But will you not remain and partake of supper with us? You will then have an opportunity of judging how I treat my patients—for we all sit down to table together,—at least, those who belong to the first class, and who may be termed the parlour boarders. Besides, I forgot to mention to you this morning that the religious principles of my patients are not neglected, and that I keep a regular chaplain in the establishment. If you will stay to supper, you will have the pleasure of hearing him say grace before meat, and deliver a most soul-refreshing exhortation afterwards. Indeed, I may consider myself highly fortunate in having secured the spiritual services and the constant companionship of such a worthy man as the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks.”
“I should be much gratified by remaining to partake of your hospitality,” answered Smithson,—“and even still more rejoiced to form the acquaintance of such an estimable character as Mr. Sheepshanks; but, unfortunately, my time is precious—and I must depart at once.”
With these words Smithson turned away from the window; and approaching Mr. Granby, who was lounging upon the sofa, seemingly gazing on vacancy, he touched him on the shoulder, saying, “Good bye, my dear friend: you are going to stay here for a few days with Dr. Swinton—and you will find yourself very comfortable.”
“I am already very comfortable,” observed Granby, beginning to play with his fingers in a stolid, silly manner. “Can you talk with the hands, Smithson?”
“Oh! yes—and I will come to-morrow and hold a conversation with you by that method,” was the answer.
“Well—don’t forget,” said Granby; “and bring all my friends with you,—twenty—thirty—forty of them, if you like. I shall know how to entertain them.”
“In that case I will bring them all, my dear fellow,” returned Smithson: then, in a whisper to the Doctor, he observed, “You perceive how childish he is—but perfectly harmless.”
“Ah! I begin to fear with you that his cure will be no easy nor speedily-accomplished matter,” responded the physician, also in a low tone.
“But you will do your best, Doctor, I know,” said Smithson: then, turning once more to his friend, he exclaimed, “Good-bye, Granby—I am off.”
“Well, go—I don’t mean to accompany you,” answered the patient, without moving from his recumbent position, and without even glancing towards Smithson; but maintaining his eyes fixed upon his fingers, with which he appeared to be practising the dumb alphabet. “Go along, I say—I am very comfortable where I am.”
Mr. Smithson heaved a profound sigh, and, bidding the Doctor farewell, hurried to the carriage, with his cambric handkerchief to his eyes.
“Ah! he feels deeply for his afflicted friend,” thought Dr. Swinton, as he remained for a few moments on the threshold of the front door, looking forth into the mild, clear, and beauteous night: “but I shall be the greatest fool in existence if ever I allow Mr. Granby to recover his reason. An annuity of six hundred pounds is not to be thrown away in a hurry. But I must prevent this fellow Smithson from calling more than once or twice a-year at the outside—and then only on stated days, or else with a week’s notice. However, I shall get him here to supper in a short time, and will then cajole him into anything I propose. He is a soft-pated fool himself,—that I can see with half an eye.”
Having arrived at this complimentary conclusion in respect to Mr. Smithson, the Doctor returned to the room where Mr. Granby was still lying upon the sofa, and still playing with his fingers.
CHAPTER CLXXXVII.
THE LUNATIC ASYLUM.
Almost immediately after the departure of Mr. Smithson, supper was served up in a spacious and handsomely-furnished apartment.
The table literally groaned beneath the load of plate and China spread upon it: a splendid epergne, upon a large silver tray, occupied the middle of the board;—and numerous crystal decanters, containing choice wines of various sorts, sparkled in the flood of golden light poured forth from a magnificent lustre suspended to the ceiling.
Upwards of a dozen persons took their places at the table—all the first-class patients partaking of their meals in the delectable society of the Doctor.
That eminent individual seated himself at the head of the board; and our old friend, Mr. Sheepshanks, occupied the other extremity. The reverend gentleman, though now well stricken in years, was so little altered since the reader last found himself in his company, that no minute description of his personal appearance is again necessary: suffice it to say, that his long, pale countenance was as sanctimoniously hypocritical at ever,—his hair, now quite grey, was combed with its wonted sleekness over his forehead,—and his speech was as drawling in tone and as full of cant in respect to language, as when we beheld him holding forth to the members of the South Sea Islands Bible Circulating Society, or figuring so ignominiously in the Insolvents’ Court.
Mr. Granby, being a new-comer, was placed in the post of honour—namely, on the Doctor’s right hand: but the unfortunate young gentleman did not appear to understand, much lest appreciate the distinction—for he scarcely uttered a syllable, did but little justice to the succulent viands, and remained for the most part of the time gazing in listless vacancy straight before him.
We should however observe that, on first being introduced into the supper-room, he had darted a rapid and searching glance around,—embracing with that sweeping look the countenances of the dozen patients who were already assembled there: but immediately afterwards he resumed his stolid, meaningless expression, as if his mind were indeed a blank and mournful void.
“Now, Mr. Sheepshanks,” said the Doctor, when all were duly seated at the table, “will you ask the usual blessing?”
“With your permission, most respected sir,” replied the reverend gentleman: then, with a countenance as rueful as if he were about to go forth to the place of execution, he drawled out a lengthy grace in such a droning voice, that one of the lunatics fell fast asleep, and did not wake up again until the savoury odour of a plate of roast duck which was placed before him recalled to him his recollection and his supper.
“How do you find yourself this evening, Mr. Sheepshanks?” inquired Dr. Swinton, after having assured himself that all his guests were duly served. “You were complaining of a bilious attack this morning.”
“Alas! yes, kind sir,” responded the reverend gentleman, in a most doleful tone and with a profound sigh: “it pleased the Lord to ordain that the salmon of which I partook bountifully at yesterday’s dinner should disagree with me—or peradventure it was the cucumber;—but, by the aid of the Divine blessing and the black draught, my dear patron, I have pretty well come round again. Nevertheless, I feel my appetite failing me.”
And as he uttered these words, Mr. Sheepshanks helped himself to about a pound and a quarter of pigeon-pie—that being his second attack on the same dish.
“I shall be happy to assist you to some roast duck, Mr. Sheepshanks,” said the Doctor, after a pause of about seven minutes.
“It would be an act of rudeness to decline an offer which bespeaks such delicate attentions on your part, worthy sir,” returned the pious gentleman. “I have just managed to pick a morsel of this savoury pie; and I will endeavour to get through the wing of a duck, with heaven’s assistance.”
“So you shall,” said the Doctor. “In the meantime I recommend you to take a little wine—for your stomach’s sake.”
“Ah! that was salutary advice which Paul gave to Timothy—‘a little wine for the stomach’s sake,’” drawled out the excellent Mr. Sheepshanks;—and to prove that he really thought so, he filled a tumbler with claret and imbibed the delicious draught without a pause.
By this time a plate, containing the wing, leg, and part of the breast of a duck, was placed before him; and, with a hollow groan as if he thought he should never get through it all, he commenced the attack.
We may here observe that the Doctor, who was a widower, was fond of good living himself, and was well pleased when he found any one inclined to keep him company in the enjoyment of the pleasures of the table. For this reason he especially admired the Reverend Mr. Sheepshanks; and he well knew that when his chaplain pretended to have no appetite at all, he was in reality prepared to do ample justice to every dish. Hence the copious supply of duck which the physician had sent him; and that hospitable gentleman heard with secret pleasure the groan which Mr. Sheepshanks had given, and which was a sure indication that the modesty of the reverend glutton would be so far overcome as to induce him to allow the Doctor to help him again presently.
And here we may likewise remark that Swinton was no niggard of his good cheer. If he kept an excellent table, he liked to see justice done to the viands served up; and, as he received handsome remuneration from the friends of his first-class patients, he could well afford to regale them sumptuously, and amass a splendid fortune out of them into the bargain.
In conversation of the trivial kind of which we have just recorded a specimen, did the Doctor and Sheepshanks pass the time during supper,—the patients all maintaining a profound silence, and conducting themselves with the most perfect propriety. Indeed, were it not for a certain vacancy in the eyes of some, and a peculiar but inexplicable expression in the looks of the rest, it were impossible for a stranger to believe that there were any lunatics at all in the room.
After supper Mr. Sheepshanks delivered himself of a long prayer;—but as his libations had been somewhat copious, in spite of his bilious attack, his voice was occasionally so thick as to be unintelligible,—and it appeared as if he at times fancied himself to be an Irvingite speaking in the unknown tongues. Towards the conclusion of his oration, which very much resembled a funeral sermon in those parts where the meaning and sense could be caught, the reverend gentleman became so much affected that he began to weep; and had a maliciously-disposed person been present, he would have probably entertained the derogatory notion that Mr. Sheepshanks was in that maudlin condition vulgarly termed “crying drunk.”
However, the affair passed off to the satisfaction of the worthy Doctor, who, as he thought of all that his chaplain had eaten and drunk during the evening, felt really proud of having beneath his roof a man of such splendid qualifications.
The after-supper oration being concluded, the keepers, all dressed in plain clothes, made their appearance to conduct the patients to their respective chambers; but as this was Granby’s first night in the house, the Doctor volunteered to show him to the apartment prepared for his reception.
The new inmate of the asylum immediately obeyed the hint which the physician gave him relative to the hour for retiring; and he was forthwith escorted up a handsome staircase to a long corridor on the second floor. From this passage, which was carpeted, adorned with statues in recesses, and lighted by lamps hanging to the ceiling, opened several rooms, the doors of which were numbered.
At the entrance to the passage the Doctor pulled a wire which communicated with a bell on the storey overhead; and a matronly, respectable-looking woman made her appearance in answer to the summons.
“Which chamber is Mr. Granby to occupy, Mrs. Probert?” said the Doctor to his housekeeper—for such was the situation filled by the female.
“I have moved the gentleman—you know whom I mean, sir—that was in Number 7——”
“Ah! I understand,” interrupted the physician, with some degree of impatience, as if he were afraid that his housekeeper was about to be more communicative than was necessary in the presence of the stranger. “Well—you have removed a certain person——”
“To Number 12, sir,” replied Mrs. Probert; “and therefore Mr. Granby will please to occupy Number 7.”
“Very good,” said the Doctor. “Now, Mr. Granby, my dear friend—have the kindness to follow me.”
The request was instantaneously obeyed; and the physician conducted his docile patient into the room that had been selected for him, and which was indeed the most spacious, airy, and elegantly furnished bed-chamber in the whole establishment. It was usually appropriated to any new-comer of the first class whose friends appeared to take an interest in him; so that on the occasion of their first visit after his location in the asylum, the doctor might be enabled to show them, with pride, and even triumph, the magnificent apartment in which the patient was lodged. It was afterwards an easy matter to remove him to another and inferior, though still comfortable chamber—so as to make room for another arrival; and it was very seldom that a lunatic ever thought of mentioning to his friends, when they visited him again, the change of apartments that had taken place.
Having introduced Mr. Granby into the elegantly furnished chamber, the Doctor placed the candle upon the table, wished the young gentleman a good night’s rest, and then retired—closing, but not locking, the door behind him.
The moment he had departed, a remarkable and signal change took place in the appearance and manner of Mr. Granby. His countenance lost its stolid vacancy of expression, and became animated with its natural intelligence; and, instead of seeming a dull, drivelling idiot, he stood erect—a fine intrepid young man, conscious of the possession of superior mental faculties, and prepared to carry out effectually the scheme which had already been so successfully commenced.
Indeed, all further mystery in this respect being unnecessary, we may as well at once declare that the fictitious Mr. Granby was the real Lord William Trevelyan—and that Smithson, who had so well performed the part of an afflicted and faithful friend, was none, other than the astute valet, Fitzgeorge.
The young nobleman had made confidants of his two friends, Dr. Prince and Mr. Spicer, who at his request had drawn up and signed the certificates necessary to procure his introduction into the abode of Dr. Swinton.
We must likewise here observe that when the short colloquy had occurred between the Doctor and his housekeeper, it instantly struck Trevelyan that allusion was made by them to Sir Gilbert Heathcote as being the individual whose sleeping-place had been changed from No. 7 to No. 12. He had noticed that the woman had observed a degree of mystery in referring, in the first instance, to the late occupant of the best bed-room—and that the Doctor, as if fearful that walls had ears, or that even a lunatic (such as he believed Trevelyan to be) might learn a dangerous secret, had hastily interposed to prevent Mrs. Probert from making a more direct allusion. All these circumstances induced Trevelyan to conjecture that the late occupant of his room was none other than Sir Gilbert; and, if this were the case, he had acquired the certainty that the baronet was the tenant of a neighbouring apartment in the same corridor.
It was now eleven o’clock; and the young nobleman resolved to wait until a much later hour ere he took any steps in pursuance of the clue which he believed himself to have gained relative to the chamber occupied by his persecuted friend.
He walked to the window, and looked forth through the iron bars, upon the mass of narrow lanes and squalid alleys constituting the suburb known as Globe Town, and all the features of which were brought vividly forward in the powerful moonlight,—for the atmosphere was as bright as if it were of transparent quicksilver.
But in a few minutes, Trevelyan grew wearied of the sameness of the prospect, so still and inanimate at that hour; and he began to examine, more minutely than at first, the chamber in which he found himself.
A massive wardrobe of dark mahogany, and elaborately carved, particularly attracted his notice; and, impelled by that curiosity which frequently seizes upon persons who seek to while away an hour or two by any means that opportunity or accident may afford, he opened the large and heavy doors. There were several shelves inside, filled with blankets and counterpanes, evidently deposited there during the summer-months, when the beds required less clothing than in winter.
Trevelyan was about to close the doors, when he suddenly caught sight of something that appeared to be a roll of papers thrust between the blankets. He drew forth the object of his attention, and found that his conjecture was correct; for he held in his hand a manuscript consisting of several folios of foolscap closely written upon in a genteel and fluent style.
A farther examination of the papers showed him, by means of certain dates, that the manuscript was only recently composed; and an indescribable feeling of interest, superior to any thing like vulgar curiosity, prompted him to read the documents that had thus strangely fallen into his possession.
Besides, he had determined to let a couple of hours slip away ere he took any step in pursuance of the design that had brought him to the mad-house; and he was by no means sorry at having discovered a mode of passing the interval otherwise than by restlessly pacing his chamber or gazing from the window.
He accordingly seated himself at the table, and commenced the perusal of the extraordinary document that will be found in the ensuing chapter.
CHAPTER CLXXXVIII.
THE CONFESSIONS OF A LUNATIC.
“My blood has been boiling like a lava-stream. It appears to me as if I can now freely respire the fresh air, after having only breathed by gasps. What agony, then, has it been that has thus convulsed my soul?—of what kind was the anguish which has left such strange and unnatural sensations behind? Have I just awakened from a reverie of burning thoughts and appalling visions?—or was there any truth in the hideous things which seem to have passed like a frightful phantasmagoria through my brain? What means this suffocating sob that has struggled upward, and as it were spontaneously from my breast? O God! it appears to me now as if the wildest—most maniacal ideas have crowded into volumes, but become compressed into instants! Do I rave?—am I really here—in a room elegantly furnished—and seated at this table, writing? Is the bright sun-light streaming in at the open casement?—and does the breeze penetrate into the chamber, fanning my feverish cheek and throbbing brow, and wafting to me the delicious perfume of flowers? Is all this true—or a dream? Am I still a denizen of the earth,—that earth of which I seem for some time to have lost all forgetfulness—dwelling during the interval in a chaos peopled with horrible images—ghastly spectres—frightful beings of nondescript shape? Oh, I remember—I found this paper, this pen, and this ink in that large and massive ward-robe so exquisitely carved;—and something tells me that there are persons watching my movements—spying my actions—and who will be angry with me—perhaps ill-treat me—if they behold me writing down my ideas. Oh! I am afraid—I am afraid. My God! where am I? There is a hurry in my brain—my blood again begins to boil—my hand trembles as I write. But wherefore do I write at all? I know not:—and yet it seems to do me good!
“If any persons—any of those men whom I remember to have seen just now—should endeavour to enter the room, I will hide my papers in yonder ward-robe. Or else under the bed?—or between the mattresses? No: in that ward-robe—it is the safest place, I feel confident.
“But why should I not go forth and walk in that garden which I can see from the window?—or else penetrate into the fields at a great distance, and lie down and think? If the breeze coming into this room, does me good, how much more refreshed should I feel were I to ramble about in the open country! Yes—I will go.
“What does this mean? I have tried the door—and it is locked! Who dares to treat me thus—me—a gentleman of birth and fortune? I will not endure such conduct: I will appeal to my brother, the magistrate, for protection. He shall hang the wretches who have perpetrated this insolence.
“O God! what do I see? There are bars at the window! Great heavens! I shall go mad!
“Mad! Yes—that was the last word that I wrote yesterday—I suppose it must have been yesterday—when I so hastily concealed my papers, on hearing some one approach the door. I remember that full well! Yes—it was an elderly man, with a mild and benevolent countenance—dressed in black, with linen beautifully white—and with a massive chain and seals. I looked at him well: but I knew him not. I do not think that I ever saw him before. He sate down by my side—felt my pulse—and asked me several questions. Ah! a thought flashes to my mind: that good old gentleman is a doctor. And now,—yes—I think I can recollect it all,—I abused him—I insulted him very grossly;—and then some men entered and compelled me to go to bed. They undressed me by force. I struggled against them; but it was useless.
“Oh! what does it all mean? Why those men to coerce me?—why that doctor to attend upon me?—and why those bars at the window? Gracious God! it cannot be—no—no—the horrible thought——
“Yes: it must be so—I am really mad!
“Again I sit down, calmly and tranquilly, to write. I have weighed well my condition—have asked myself a thousand questions—have read what I have written above—have striven to recollect all the past—have carefully examined the present—and have dared to think of the future. By all this—and by the bars at the window—I know that I am mad!
“Yes: but I can write the word now without growing excited; and I must practise writing it again, so that I may by degrees gather to my aid such an amount of self-possession as to be able to trace on this paper all that has occurred to me. Then shall I possess a positive memorial—a substantial key to the past; and should I again forget, in an interval of delirium, all that has occurred, I can speedily recommit the mournful history to my memory during a lucid interval like the present.
“Mad—mad—mad—mad! There—now I can write the word without the least excitement; and this is a triumph already achieved. By gaining a complete and accurate knowledge of my real position, I shall know how to act. I am aware that I am in a lunatic asylum: I am also aware that I have passed through intervals of fearful delirium. But I must compose myself as much as possible. I cannot remain in this horrible place;—and if I cannot become really sane again, I may at all events pretend to be so—and then they will let me out. But in order to regain my intellects, or appear to recover my reason, I must remember all that has occurred to me, so as to be enabled to converse calmly and sensibly on the subject. Stay! I will think—I will reflect profoundly for the rest of the day; and to-morrow I will resume my pen.
“God forbid that the doctor or his men—or that prying old housekeeper, should look into the wardrobe! I would not lose my manuscript for worlds.
“June 13th, 1846.
“I have learnt the day of the month. The doctor has been with me for an hour; and he readily complied with my request to be furnished with an almanack. He told me that this is the 13th of June; and henceforth I hope I shall be enabled to keep the dates accurately. When I was at school—but that is many years ago!—I used to make an almanack to calculate how long it was to the holidays; and every evening I scratched out the day that had just passed. Oh! happy—happy age of boyhood—wilt thou never come back? hast thou gone for ever? Now must I erase each day as it passes, and hope that the period of my release is near at hand. That shall be the holiday of my manhood, to which I must look forward with such anxious—fervid—burning hope!
“But to my narrative.
“A hundred thousand pounds became mine on the day that I attained my majority. That was nine years ago! I was my own master: my parents had long been dead—and my guardians attempted not even to advise me—much less control me. They were not relations—mere men of business to whom my fortune had been intrusted, with a view to its accumulation. The moment I became possessed of that wealth, I plunged headlong into the vortex of pleasure. Heavens! in what dissipation did I indulge. Who could drink deeper than I, and walk home steadily afterwards?—who was more sought after and caressed amongst the fair sex?—who was a more constant attendant at race-courses, gaming-houses, and the haunts of fashionable vice and aristocratic debauchery? Fool that I was! I imagined that to spend money profusely, was to enjoy life largely. I had three mistresses at the same time,—three women, having each a separate establishment, maintained at my cost! What were the consequences? At five-and-twenty my constitution was nearly ruined, and eighty thousand pounds of my fortune had been expended. The very principles of my existence seemed to be undermined—disease was gnawing at my vitals—an unbroken career of the wildest dissipation was hurrying me, with race-horse speed, to the tomb!
“Suddenly I awoke, as from a dream. But it was not because remorse touched me,—nor because good counsels were proffered me,—nor because some latent feelings of virtue sprang into existence. Neither was it because my fortune was nearly wasted and my health failing rapidly. No: but it was because I at that epoch saw my Editha for the first time! Oh! how can I retain my calmness now, when I think of her as I then beheld her,—beheld her in all the glory of her matchless beauty—radiant with that loveliness that seemed to surround her with the halo that only angels have! Yes—I was then twenty-five, and Editha Greville was nineteen—that delightful age when the female figure swells into womanly loveliness—round, full, and exquisitely modelled!
“We loved—almost at first sight; and though several weeks passed ere I ventured to declare my passion, I could read in Editha’s eyes that I was far from being displeasing to her. She was an only child; her father was dead; her mother, though a woman of considerable wealth, mixed little in society; and the wildness of my conduct was not therefore fully known to Mrs. Greville. At the same time, she had heard that I was extravagant and imprudent; but when I implored her to bestow upon me the hand of her daughter, she yielded her assent, expressing a hope that I had sown all my wild oats by that time, and should grow steady in a matrimonial state. Thus was it that I became the recognised suitor of Editha; and when some of Mrs. Greville’s friends, who knew me well, represented to her that I was notoriously a half-ruined rake, the old lady had too much confidence in all the promises of reformation which I had made, to revoke the consent she had given to our union. Besides, she saw that Editha was deeply attached to me, and that the beauteous girl’s happiness depended on the smooth progress of love’s course.
“But, alas! painful thoughts forced themselves upon my mind. I felt that my constitution was ruined—and I believed myself to be in a consumption. Faithful to the solemn pledges which I had made to Mrs. Greville, I established a complete change in my habits; and instead of drinking wine to excess, I foreswore all alcoholic liquor whatsoever. Likewise, instead of passing my nights in dissipation, I returned home at an early hour and sought my couch. But the suddenness of this alteration in my habits produced effects which I can only compare to the terrible reaction that a man experiences when waking in the morning after a night of deep debauch. A dead weight fell upon my spirits. I became so low and depressed that horrible thoughts of suicide were constantly floating in my brain. My nervousness was extreme, and intensely painful. An unusually loud knock or ring at the front-door would make me start as if I had committed a crime and was expecting the officers of justice to come and arrest me. I was constantly conjuring up the most shocking visions respecting the future; and when immersed in those reveries, I verily believed that I was contemplating realities—such was the morbid state of my mind!
“It was therefore natural that I should begin to reflect upon the step which I had taken with regard to Editha. I had sought and won the affections of a beautiful creature, who was possessed of a generous heart, an amiable disposition, and a loving soul; and I was shocked to think that such a being, in all the vigorous health of youthfulness, should be led to the altar by one whose constitution was shattered, whose vital energies were almost ruined, and who seemed to be hovering on the very verge of the tomb! Oh! how maddening were these thoughts! I looked upon myself as a villain—a deceiver; and often—often was I on the point of throwing myself at Mrs. Greville’s feet and exclaiming, ‘Pardon me, madam, for having dared to ask the hand of your daughter in marriage! I am but a phantom—a shadow: the finger of Death is upon me,—and if Editha should accompany me to the altar, it is probable that in less than a year she will have to follow me to the tomb!’—But when I thought of Editha’s matchless beauty, and pondered upon the immensity of the love that I experienced for her, I could not command the courage necessary to enable me to resign the hope of possessing such a treasure. Besides, in her society I could smile and be gay: her musical voice was more ravishing to my ears than the inspired strains of an improvisatrice;—her breath was more fragrant than the perfume of flowers—her lips more delicious than the honey-dew upon the blossoms! Oh! no—no: I could not resign my Editha! But no day had been as yet fixed for our marriage—and six weeks had already elapsed since I had proposed and was accepted. Shall I confess the truth? I dared not ask her mother to name the day: I shrank from the idea as if I were meditating a murder—had marked out my victim—but dreaded to settle in my own mind the night and the hour when the assassin-blow should be struck!
“I was lying in bed one morning, reflecting on all these things—for the dark fit of despondency was upon me—when my valet entered the room with the morning’s newspapers. I listlessly unfolded one of the journals, when my eyes suddenly caught sight of an advertisement, headed thus:—‘Manhood, the Reasons of its Early Decline; with Plain Hints for its Complete Resuscitation.’ This book was announced to be an emanation from the pen of T. L. Surtees and Co., Consulting Surgeons, residing in one of the streets leading out of Soho Square; and it appeared by certain quotations of notices from the leading newspapers, that the book was a medical treatise of great utility, merit, and importance. Hope now dawned in upon my soul. Perhaps my constitution was not irretrievably damaged? Perchance I might not be in a consumption, after all? Such were my thoughts, after perusing that advertisement over and over again; and I resolved to lose no time in calling upon the able practitioners who undertook the resuscitation of any constitution, no matter how hopeless the case might seem. Accordingly, having hastily dressed myself, I repaired in a street cab to the address indicated in the advertisement. The house was one of imposing appearance; and the words ‘Surtees and Co., Consulting Surgeons,’ were displayed in deep-black letters, on immense shining zinc-plates. The fawn-coloured Venetian blinds were drawn down; and I said to myself, as I alighted with a fluttering heart, ‘Doubtless these eminent practitioners have patients waiting in every room to consult them.’ Entering the passage, I found an inner door, with a bronze knocker and a ground-glass fan-light, on which were inscribed the same words as those that appeared on the polished zinc-plates. I was immediately admitted by a footman, and conducted up stairs to a drawing-room, every feature of which is at this moment as fresh in my memory as if I were seated and writing there now.
“This apartment at first sight impressed me with an idea of luxurious splendour; but a closer examination into its appointments showed me that the most vulgar taste had presided over its fitting-up. The paper was of crimson and gold; and to the walls were suspended several paintings set in magnificent frames, which only rendered the daubs the more miserably ludicrous. Two of them were covered with plate-glass, as if they were very valuable; whereas they were as wretched as the others. ‘Some unprincipled person,’ thought I, ‘must have imposed upon these worthy doctors, by recommending pictures to which I would not accord house-room. But men of philosophic minds and who are devoted to professional studies, are seldom good judges of works of art.’ Thus ruminating, I continued my examination of the apartment; and I was struck with surprise at the utter vulgarity and absence of taste which characterised the profusion of French porcelain ornaments scattered about. Here was a Chinese Joss, with a moveable head: and there was a pedlar mounted on a gigantic goat. At the corners of the fire-place were two paintings evidently cut out of a picture, and representing little charity-school girls. In the centre of the room stood a loo-table, upon which a writing-desk was placed; and this was surrounded by medical publications, bearing on their title-pages the magical names of those gentlemen whom I was so anxiously waiting to see. I had the curiosity to open one of the works: but I was disgusted with the obscenity of the coloured plates which it contained. A moment’s reflection, however, induced me to believe that there could be nothing indecent in the development of the divine art of surgery; and I felt ashamed of myself for having even for an instant entertained such scruples. As a concluding observation respecting the drawing-room itself, I must remark that its entire appearance indicated the taste of a vulgar upstart, rather than the refined elegance of a polished mind.
“Having waited nearly three quarters of an hour, a footman made his appearance, and, with many obsequious bows, conducted me down stairs into a dining-room most gaudily and extravagantly furnished. The same grovelling vulgarity of taste which I had noticed elsewhere was apparent in the crimson damask curtains with yellow fringes and tassels—the looking-glasses in ponderous frames—the showy daubs suspended to the walls—and the furniture arranged for the purpose of display. Folding-doors admitted me into an inner apartment, of equally vulgar appearance; and beyond was a little room, only a few feet square, and which the footman, as he ushered me in, denominated the surgery.
“I must confess that my heart beat violently as I traversed those two apartments leading to the sanctum where I expected to find myself in the presence of the eminent medical practitioners. I had pictured to myself a couple of old and venerable-looking gentlemen, with genius stamped upon their high bald foreheads, and their eyes expressing all the powers of vigorous intellects. I was therefore somewhat surprised when, on being introduced into the surgery, I beheld only one individual, who was the very reverse of the portraiture I had drawn by anticipation. His features were of the Jewish cast: his complexion was of that swarthy and greasy description peculiar to the lower order of the Hebrew race;—his hair was black and very thick; and his whiskers met beneath his chin. His eyes were dark, and one of them was larger than the other: his bottle-nose was rather on one side; and his countenance altogether was as ignoble, as vulgar, and as unintellectual as ever served as an index to a sordid, grovelling soul. His dress was of the flashy kind which belongs partly to the upstart or parvenu, and partly to the swell-mob’s-man. He wore a blue dress-coat, a gaudy waistcoat, and large loose trousers hollowed at the instep so as to be shaped to the polished leathern boot. A profusion of jewellery decorated his person;—a thick gold chain, with a large key, depended to his watch—his worked shirt was fastened with diamond and blue enamel studs;—and his dirty hands were covered with costly rings, which appeared as ill-placed upon the clumsy, grimy fingers as pearls would be round the neck of a pig.
“Such was the individual in whose presence I found myself; and had I not been at the time in such a desperate state of mind that I was eager to clutch at a straw, I should at once have seen through the man and his system. But I reassured myself with the adage which teaches that we should never judge by outward appearances; and it flashed to my mind that many men remarkable for the brilliancy of their intellect, were far from being prepossessing in either person, manners, or address. Moreover, I never had partaken in the shameful, unjust, and absurd prejudices which too many of my fellow-countrymen entertain in respect to the Jews; and therefore the mere fact of this Mr. Surtees being a member of the Hebrew race produced on my mind no unfavourable impression with regard to him.
“‘Pray be seated,’ said the medical gentleman, with a tone and manner which I at the time mistook for professional independence, but which I have since discovered to be the vulgar insolence of an ignorant, self-sufficient upstart. I took a chair in compliance with the invitation given; and when he had seated himself at his desk, he extended his dirty but jewel-bedizened paw, saying, ‘Vill you obleege me vith yer card?’—I did as requested; but not without a little hesitation, for I had hoped to avoid giving my name and address.—‘Ah! I see,’ said Mr. Surtees, in a musing tone, as he examined the card: ‘Mr. Macdonald,’ he continued, reading my name. ‘By the vay, air you any relation to the Markiss of Burlington? ’cos his family name is the same as your’n.’—I replied that I was not a relative of the nobleman mentioned.—‘Vell, it don’t sinnify,’ proceeded Mr. Surtees. ‘The Markiss is a hexcellent friend of mine. He lays under a sight of hobligations to me. He come to me in the first hinstance vith a constitootion so veared out and shattered that no medical carpenter in all Hingland could have mended it up except me. But in the course of a foo weeks I putt him as right as a trivet; and now he’d go through fire and vater to sarve me. It on’y cost him a couple of thousand pounds to get quite cured; and that was cheap enow, ’evvins knows! But how comed you to call upon me this mornin’? Were it in consekvence of having perooged von of my medical vorks? Ah! them sells vell, them does! Or were it ’cos you seed my adwertisement in the noospapers?’—I was so completely bewildered by this outpouring of execrable English and vile grammar, that for some moments I was utterly unable to answer the questions put to me. Was it possible that this coarse, ignorant, and self-sufficient vulgarian could be an eminent medical authority—the author of valuable publications—the celebrated surgeon whom the extracts from newspapers[21] quoted in his advertisement, spoke of so highly? I was astounded. But again did hope blind me to what the man really was: again did I reassure myself by the reflection that Mr. Surtees might be an excellent surgeon, although he was a miserable grammarian; and I accordingly recovered my self-possession sufficiently to inform him that I had called in consequence of reading his advertisement in the newspapers.
“The doctor seemed pleased at my answer, and immediately exclaimed, ‘Vell, sir, and vot a blessin’ it is that people do read adwertisements: ’cos vy? they gets at the knowledge of heminent medikle prektishoners, which has devoted their lives to the hart of ealing all kinds of diseases. You see before you, sir,’ he continued, in a pompous tone, and with arrogant air, ‘a man vot knows hevery hin and hout of the human constitootion. No von knows so vell as myself wot consumption raly is.’—‘Then you have made consumption your particular study, sir?’ I observed, seeing that he paused, in order to elicit some remark from me.—‘Rayther!’ was his laconic answer. ‘The fact is,’ he continued, ‘foo medikle men is aweer what consumption is, nor in vot part of the frame it begins. Vy, I vonce knowed a gentleman, sir, which had a rapid decline begin in the great toe of his left foot, and travel up’ards, till it spread itself over the hentire system. The doctors had all give him up, and the undertaker was actiwally thinking of the good job he should soon have putt into his hand, ven I vos consulted. I made him take seventeen bottles of my bootiful Balm of Zura, and he rekivered in less than a fortnit.’
“Weak, nervous, and attenuated as I was, this anecdote made a deep impression upon me. I forgot the bad grammar—I lost sight of the arrogance and self-sufficient vulgarity: I saw and heard only the man who solemnly assured me that he had redeemed a fellow-creature from the jaws of death, when all other members of the faculty had given up the case as hopeless. Mr. Surtees doubtless perceived that he had worked me up to the pitch suitable to his purposes; and he accordingly said, ‘Vell, my good sir, vill you be so good as to explain wot it is that you’ve come to consult me for?’ I then frankly and candidly confessed that I had expended four-fifths of a large fortune in a career of unbroken dissipation—that my constitution was grievously impaired, if not absolutely ruined—that since I had given up drinking and all other sources of unnatural excitement, I was subject to such frequent fits of despondency that the idea of suicide was almost constantly in my imagination—that I loved and was beloved by a beautiful girl who was possessed of property—but that I felt afraid to contract the matrimonial engagement, lest I should leave her an unprotected widow in the course of a short time. Mr. Surtees listened with great attention; and when I had concluded, he appeared to reflect profoundly. At length he said, ‘Vell, let’s feel yer pulse.’—I extended my hand towards him; and he applied his thumb to a part of my wrist where I did not suppose that a pulse lay: but I concluded at the time that his great proficiency in medicine had led him to discover a new pulse, and that the best mode to test it was with the thumb.—‘Wery veak pulse indeed!’ he said, shaking his head with as much solemnity as the Chinese Joss up in his drawing-room might have been expected to display. ‘But don’t go for to give vay to despair, my dear sir; the case is a bad ’un, I admit—a wery, wery bad ’un; and I can’t say as how that I ever knowed a wusser. Pray, who’s the young lady which you intends to marry? I’ve a motive in axing.’—I thought that as the learned gentleman was already acquainted with my name and address, there could be no harm in answering this new question, the more especially as even if I refused to reply, he could easily institute those enquiries that would lead to a knowledge of the fact: I accordingly satisfied him on that head. ‘Ah! I don’t know her,’ he observed, carelessly: then, after a few moments’ reflection, he said ‘Vell, I undertake to cure you; but the business vill be a hexpensive von. You must write me a cheque for a hundred guineas, my consultation fee; and then I’ll tell you wot you must do next.’—Reassured by the promises he thus held out, I unhesitatingly gave him a draft for the amount demanded. He then opened a drawer, and drew forth a small case containing six bottles. ‘This here is the rale elixir of life,’ he said, in a tone of solemn mystery: ‘it inwigorates the constitootion in no time, and puts a reglar stopper on the adwance of consumption. The Grand Turk has a case sent every veek to him through his Hambassador, and all the crowned heads in Europe is patients of mine, I may say. Take a bottle of this bootiful balm daily; and ven it’s all gone, come back again to me. The price of them six is fifteen guineas; and you can write me out another cheque at vonce.’—I hastened to comply with this demand; and Mr. Surtees bowed me out of the surgery.
“But here I must leave off writing; for I am wearied—my brain begins to grow confused—and my memory fails me. Oh! what a fool—what an idiot I was, not to have seen through the man and his quackery on the occasion of that visit, the particulars of which I have detailed at such length.
“June 18th, 1846.
“I again resume my narrative. Five days have elapsed since I last put pen to paper; and that interval has been one of darkness. Yes—the fit was upon me: but it has passed—and I am now calm and collected once again. I have just read over all that I have written above; and I have laughed heartily at the fidelity and minuteness of my description of the first visit that I paid to the quack-doctor. Let me now continue my narrative; for the incidents are once more all fresh and vivid in my memory.
“I am well aware that the imagination has much to do with our diseases and our cures. Possessed of what I deemed to be a salutary medicine, my spirits rose; and at the close of each of the six days during which the supply of balm lasted, I said to myself, ‘I certainly feel stronger and better.’ The fits of despondency were far less frequent, and less intense: my appetite improved—and the colour came partially back to my cheeks. This change was no doubt effected principally by the steady life which I adopted, and by the increased mental tranquillity which I experienced. I was moreover filled with hope that a complete restoration to health would be accomplished; and thus, while at the time I attributed everything to the medicine, I have not the least doubt that the stuff was utterly valueless in itself. Editha was rejoiced to find my spirits so much improving; and her mother expressed her delight at the regular habits which I had adopted. I did not mention to a soul my visit to Mr. Surtees: that was my secret—and a sense of shame made me cherish it religiously. At the expiration of the week I called upon him again, and on this occasion was at once admitted into his surgery. There was another fee of a hundred guineas—another six bottles of medicine prescribed, and another cheque given for the amount thereof. He asked me if I had read his book yet; and I was compelled to reply in the negative. ‘Vell, never mind,’ he said; ‘I ain’t offended; but you shall have a hopportunlty of perooging it before you come agen. I’ll jest step up into the drawing-room and get you von.’ He accordingly quitted the surgery; and during his temporary absence an irresistible feeling of curiosity prompted me to look at a note which lay open upon the table. I read it; and thus it ran, word for word:—‘Dear Joe, You ax me 2 lend you mi dipplomy for a few days, just to make a show with to a new payshent; but i vunce for all tell you as how i’d rayther not lett it go out of my house. Besides, it’s of no use to you, ’cos it’s made out in the name of La’Vert, and you’ve took the name of Surtees. So no more from your affecshonate brother, &c.’—This note was signed by the name of La’Vert; and therefore it was apparent that the real appellation of my friend Mr. Surtees was Joseph La’Vert. It struck me in a moment that I had become the dupe of a quack; but I had sufficient command over myself to restrain my indignation when he returned to the room. He was accompanied by a woman—I cannot say a lady—whom he introduced to me as his wife. And here I must pause to say a few descriptive words of her.
“Mrs. Surtees was a vulgar, dark-complexioned Jewess, with a long hooked nose. Her flesh seemed as if it had been smeared with oil, and then wiped with a dry towel; but on her cheeks she wore an immoderate quantity of rouge. She was exceedingly stout, with an enormous bust: her hair, rough and wavy, was arranged in bands and plastered down with quince-pips. She was dressed in the most outrageous style, and as she herself expressed it, ’was about to go hout for a haring in the carridge.’ Her gown was of green velvet; her shawl of bright red; and her bonnet of rose pink, adorned with a profusion of artificial flowers, inside and out. She wore very pink silk stockings and short petticoats, as she had conceived the erroneous impression that there was something attractive in her elephantine leg. As a matter of course, she carried a complete jeweller’s shop about her person. She wore no gloves; and her large red hands were covered with rings. Her ear-rings were of gold studded with turquoise; and now her portraiture is complete.
“Scarcely had the ceremony of introduction taken place, when another female bounced into the apartment, and she was immediately presented to me as Mrs. Surtees’ sister. Such a pair was never seen before! They looked like a butcher’s daughters in their Sunday’s best; and they were attired with an evidently studied view to contrast. For the sister’s gown was of blue velvet, her shawl of flaunting yellow hue, and her bonnet white. These ladles, having favoured me with a good long stare and a few observations relative to the weather and such-like common-place topics, quitted the room to enter their vehicle which was waiting at the door. Mr. Surtees had the gallantry to accompany them as far as the carriage; and the moment I was alone again, I had the curiosity to traverse the two rooms and take a peep from the front window. The equipage was in perfect keeping with the appointments of the house and the attire of the occupants. It was a barouche, painted bright blue on the body: but all the under part and wheels were of straw colour. The inside was lined with yellow morocco. It was drawn by two brown cobs, the harness exhibiting a profusion of silver; and the coachman’s livery was of a gaudy blue, with buttons also of silver.
“But while I was making these observations from the window, my ears were saluted with a brief colloquy that took place in the passage between Mr. Surtees and his wife, ere he handed her to the carriage. They doubtless believed that I had remained in the surgery, and little thought that I was near enough to catch all they said.—‘Vell, Joe,’ exclaimed Mrs. Surtees, ‘any monzel[22] vith that pale-faced young feller vich you said were so ’ansome and made me come in to see?’—‘A good moza-motton,’[23] he answered, with a vulgar chuckling laugh.—‘Oh! then, he stumped the guelt?’[24] demanded the woman, joining in the cachinnation.—‘To be sure he did, my love,’ responded this precious consulting-surgeon: ‘and I means to have a good deal more out on him afore I’ve done.’—‘Oh! wery vell, then,’ returned Mrs. Surtees: ‘in this case the boy Abey must have a new polka hat, and little Joe a new welwet dress out of it’—‘All right!’ exclaimed the consulting-surgeon. ‘Come, cut along, and astonish the natives in the park a bit. I shall jine you presently.’ He then handed the two women into the carriage; and I hurried back to the surgery, where I seated myself till his return—so that he could not suspect I had quitted the place during his temporary absence. I longed to tell him all I knew or suspected relative to his real character: but a fear of exposure made me silent—and I took my leave of him with as much civility as I could bring myself to bestow upon such a person.
“I knew that I had been completely and thoroughly victimised: but on reflection, I was glad of it. I saw that the circumstance of taking the medicine had stimulated my imagination, and had thereby aided in improving my health. On my return home, I threw the six bottles away without drinking another drop of the trashy balm; and I sent at once for a respectable physician, who, for a fee of five guineas, gave me proper advice. I then came to the conclusion that it is always better, under any emergency, to have recourse to legitimate assistance than to seek the aid of advertisers—no matter whether the subject involved be medicine, law, or money. My health improved rapidly; and at the expiration of three months I became the happy husband of the equally happy Editha.
Here must I pause for a time: the recollection of my wedding-day has revived memories which overpower me!
“June 20th, 1846.
“I resume my narrative. Twelve months had elapsed after my marriage with the loveliest and most amiable woman in the universe; and nothing had transpired to interrupt our felicity. A boy had blest our union—and I was as happy as a husband and father could possibly be. My health was almost completely re-established; and my habits were regular and domestic. I loathed the idea of those exciting pleasures and feverish enjoyments in the vortex of which I had nearly wrecked everything—health, fortune, and reputation; and Mrs. Greville, who dwelt with us, would often assure me with a smile that I was the very pattern of good husbands. My brother, who had become a magistrate, was a frequent visitor at our house; and all was progressing in peace, comfort, and tranquillity, when an incident suddenly occurred to interfere with that smiling prospect.
“It was late one evening, shortly after my beloved Editha’s recovery from her confinement, that I was informed that a person who refused to give his name desired to speak with me in private. I ordered the servant to show him into the library; and thither I immediately afterwards proceeded. The man whom I encountered there was a short, thick-set fellow, with a forbidding countenance: he was flashily dressed, and had about him an air of jaunty impudence as if he had come upon some evil mission in which he knew that he should succeed. I asked him his business, without inviting him to be seated—for I conceived a dislike to him the instant I set eyes upon his sinister features. ‘Your name is Macdonald?’ he said, flinging himself into a chair in a very free-and-easy manner.—‘There is no necessity for you to acquaint me with that fact,’ I observed, assuming as chilling a tone as possible.—‘Oh! but there is, though!’ he ejaculated: ‘because I must make sure that I am speaking to the right person. Well, you admit your name: now will you tell me whether you’re the gentleman that married Miss Editha Greville?’—‘What means this impudence?’ I demanded angrily. ‘Explain your business, sir, without farther circumlocution.’—‘I’ll come to the point in a minute,’ returned the man, quite unabashed. ‘Fifteen or sixteen months ago you used to visit a certain gentleman who lives not a hundred miles from Soho Square.’—I started and turned pale: for it struck me in a moment that the fellow was alluding to the consulting-surgeon.—‘Well, now I see that it’s all right,’ he exclaimed, doubtless drawing this inference from the confusion of my manner. ‘Of course you would rather it shouldn’t be known that you did visit the gentleman,’ he added emphatically.—‘I do not understand your meaning,’ I replied.—‘Look here, then,’ continued the fellow: ‘it would not be very pleasant to have your brother, your mother-in-law, your friends, your tradesmen, your servants, and even your wife, made acquainted with the fact that you were under Mr. Surtees for some time previous to your marriage.’—‘I never visited him but twice!’ were the words that I gasped out, for horrible sensations were coming rapidly over me.—‘Never mind how often it was,’ cried the man, in a brutal tone: ‘you did call to consult him, and that’s enough for me. Now then, ’tis for you to say how much you’ll give me to keep the secret.’—‘Wretch! extortioner!’ I ejaculated, rage succeeding alarm in my breast—‘It’s of no use to attempt to bully me,’ said the ruffian, with the most cold-blooded composure: ‘I want money, and I mean to get it out of you.’—‘Or else?’ I said, all my wretched feelings returning, as I saw myself threatened with exposure, shame, and irretrievable degradation.—‘Or else,’ he repeated, ‘I shall tell the secret to all the people I have named; and then we shall see whether you will ever hold up your head in society again.’—‘And how much money do you require?’ I asked, my heart sinking within me.—‘Five hundred will do for the present,’ he responded imperiously.—‘For the present?’ I cried, echoing his words: ‘what! do you mean to visit me again for such a purpose?’—‘Not if you shell out at once, and without making any more words about it,’ he said.—There was no alternative save to comply; and I accordingly counted into his hand the Bank-notes for the sum named. In another minute he had taken his departure—and I was left alone to meditate upon the scene that had just occurred.
“It was a long time before I could so far compose my countenance and my feelings as to be able to return to the parlour without exciting the suspicions of my wife and mother-in-law that something unpleasant had taken place. But I managed to conceal the sorrow which the event of the evening had engendered within me; and early on the following morning I paid a visit to Mr. Surtees. He did not appear at first to recollect me—or, at all events, if he did, he was a wonderful adept in playing the part of forgetfulness: but when I mentioned my name, he exclaimed, ‘Vy, is it possible that you’ve come back to consult me again?’—‘Far from it,’ I answered, with a bitterness which I could not hide, and which he failed not to notice; for he bit his lip, and coloured deeply. I then related to him the particulars of the visit I had received on the previous evening, and accused him of being the prime mover in the matter. But he repelled the charge with so much indignation—whether real or feigned I cannot even now determine—that I certainly believed him at the time; and, were I at present writing for the purpose of having my narrative read by the world, I should be loth indeed to have it inferred that Mr. Surtees was in reality mixed up with the case of extortion. Much as I hate and despise him, I will not do him a wanton injustice; and I am therefore bound to state that he was warm and energetic in his assurances of complete innocence respecting the transaction.—‘But how could the man have known that I ever did visit you?’ I asked.—‘Vell things does get abroad in a many most unaccountable vays,’ he responded: ‘but I take my Gosh to witness that I’m as clear of this business as the babe vot’s unborn. Vot can I do to conwince you that such is the fect?’—‘I do not entertain such a dreadful opinion of human nature as to disbelieve you, sir,’ was my rejoinder; and I took my leave. But, distressed and harassed as I was, I could not help noticing the strong and disagreeable odour of fried fish that came up from the lower regions of the dwelling: nor could I avoid a smile as I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Surtees, who was running hastily up stairs, having evidently emerged from the kitchen—for her swarthy countenance was as greasy as it could be, and her appearance was dirty and slovenly in the extreme. Yet, a few hours later in the day, this woman would doubtless turn out in all the flaunting gaud of her rainbow attire and in the profuse display of her costly jewellery!
“I must again repeat that I quitted Mr. Surtees’ abode with the conviction that he was anything but an accomplice in the scheme of extortion; and I said to myself, as I returned homeward, ‘The scene of last night is one of those penalties which we are doomed to pay for the irregularities and evil courses of our youthful years. But, even though Surtees himself be innocent, is not the extortionate deed all the same a result of an infamous system of quackery? Destroy that system—and the quietude of men’s homes could not thus be troubled by the visits of extortioners!’—By degrees my mind grew calmer; and as weeks and months fled away, I had almost ceased to think of the occurrence which had so much ruffled me, when one evening the man reappeared at the house. Again was the ominous message delivered to me while I was seated in the society of my beloved wife and her excellent mother—again did I see the man in private—and again was I compelled to endure his cool insolence and yield to his extortionate demands. Another five hundred pounds was transferred from my pocket to his own;—and once more was I forced to veil the real condition of my feelings when I rejoined the ladies in the parlour. And now, as time slipped away, I did not lose the misgivings that this second visit had excited in my mind—I could not forget that I was in the power of a villain, who was certain to come back again. Months passed; and a third time—I remember it well—it was on Christmas eve,—the fatal message was delivered to me. On this occasion I started so violently and betrayed so much confusion that both my wife and mother-in-law observed my agitation. I however hurried away, without responding to their anxious enquiries; and when once more in the presence of the extortioner, I heaped the bitterest reproaches upon him. He heard me with a coolness and a self-possession that only augmented my wrath; and at length I ceased speaking through sheer exhaustion. He then informed me, in his imperious and rude manner, that he had an opportunity of emigrating under the most favourable services—that he required a thousand pounds—and that if I gave him this sum, he would never trouble me again. I bound him by the most solemn oaths to that pledge; and, to save myself from a shame that would have crushed me down to the very dust and rendered life intolerable, I gave the miscreant a cheque on my bankers for the large amount which he demanded. But on my return to the company of my Editha and Mrs. Greville, I was compelled to invent falsehoods to account for my confusion; and I beheld, with pain and bitter grief, that they both saw that I was deceiving them—that I was concealing the real truth—and that there was something upon my mind![25]
“Oh! yes—and they conjectured truly; for my peace was now so thoroughly disturbed, that I despaired of regaining it. I felt convinced that, in spite of the villain’s solemn vows, he would come back again; and I dreaded to be at home—for every knock at the door made me start nervously. If I walked or rode out, on my return I dreaded lest the servants should inform me that a certain person had called for me during my absence, and would look in again in the evening. Thus my life became a veritable burthen to me; and my sorrow was aggravated by the stern necessity of retaining it all in my own breast. Often and often did I think of inventing some excuse to induce my wife and her mother to consent that we should break up our establishment in London, and repair to the continent. But what apology could I devise for such a strange proceeding?—and, moreover, would not the extortioner find me out, if he set himself to the work? because to imagine any feasible ground for changing our name, was impossible. Thus months passed away, without seeing me determine upon any plan to frustrate the extortioner should he return; and I saw that my Editha’s health and spirits began to fail—because she knew that I was secretly unhappy!
“And the extortioner did come back: and again was I forced to yield to his demands. Two thousand pounds did he obtain from me on this occasion; and when I reminded him of his solemn pledges and sacred vows, he laughed outright in my face. Oh! how I hated—abhorred—loathed that man! I could have slain him on the spot: but I thought of my dear wife and innocent boy, and I restrained my hand. And now my mind became seriously unsettled—a painful nervousness constantly maintained its influence over me—my health gave way again, as rapidly under the heavy weight of sorrow as it did beneath the wearing effects of dissipation. Oh! yes—and what was worse than all, was that my Editha grew paler and thinner day by day—visibly;—and I dared not attempt to console her—I could not force my tongue to frame a lie to assure her that I myself was happy. Thus was our once happy home changed to a scene of gloom: a deep despondency hung upon us all—and I perceived, with ineffable anguish, that Mrs. Greville began to view me with distrust. Perhaps she thought that some crime lay heavy upon my soul: yes—this must have been her impression—or she would doubtless have questioned me. But she did not live long enough to behold the sad catastrophe: a short though severe illness snatched her to the tomb—and, circumstanced as I was, I rejoiced in secret at the event,—for I said to myself, ‘There is at all events one being the less to deceive—one being the less to watch me with mournful and silently appealing looks!’—O God! It was not strange—it was not wonderful if madness were beginning even then to undermine the strong tower of my reason!
“Scarcely were the remains of my mother-in-law consigned to the tomb, when the extortioner reappeared at the house. His demands increased in proportion to the concessions which were made to him by my fears; but I was totally unable to comply with his present exigences. It is true that there was much property still left;—but it was settled on my wife—and I could not command from my own resources the sum needed. This I candidly told him, and besought him to be merciful;—yes, with tears in my eyes did I beseech him. The wretch! the monster! what cared he for my grief—my anguish? He desired me to have recourse to a discounter—gave me the address of a money-lender—and said he should return on the following evening. Accordingly—impelled by my wretched, wretched destiny—I visited the money-lender, who advanced me three thousand pounds on my own acceptance, and at most usurious interest. The whole of that money found its way into the pocket of the extortioner; and when he had taken his departure, I fell down in a fit. For days and days did I keep my bed; and when I awoke to consciousness, it was from a delirium. My dear wife was seated by my bed-side; but, O God!—how pale—how altered—how wan she was with long vigils and deep grief! I questioned her guardedly to ascertain whether in my ravings I had betrayed my secret: but I learnt, beyond all doubt, that I had not. Then I began to breathe more freely; and she, throwing her arms about my neck, exclaimed, while tears streamed in torrents down her cheeks, ‘My beloved husband, you have some dreadful grief preying upon your mind. May I not be made your confidant? I have observed that always after the visits of the man who calls every now and then, and invariably in the evening, you are stricken as with a heavy affliction. Oh! what does it all mean?—I endeavoured to console her—to soothe her—to reassure her as well as I could; but I saw that she only pretended to be solaced, for my sake!
“Well—I recovered: but happiness and I had shaken hands for ever. I felt as if I were followed about by an invisible demon, whose breath poisoned the very atmosphere that I breathed. I know that my brain was reeling—that my reason was tottering that I was going mad! Often did I think seriously of murdering my wife and child, and putting an end to my own existence. But I dared not lay violent hands upon them; and I had too much moral courage still left to seek death so long as there remained a single tie, however feeble, to bind me to life. But a new misfortune was in store for me—for us. A solicitor in whom I and my wife trusted, obtained our signatures to certain deeds under the foulest representations; and by virtue thereof he sold out all the stock standing in Editha’s name in the Bank. He then absconded; and we were suddenly reduced from affluence to comparative penury. I was unable to honour my acceptance; and the discounter would listen to no terms. He said that he had passed it away in the regular course of business, and could not take it up himself. I was arrested and thrown into prison. My friends deserted me, believing that wanton extravagance on my part had led to this catastrophe. Yes: all save my beloved wife deserted me—and she, the angel! remained faithful to me! We had two hundred and fifty pounds a year still left; and on the houses which produced this income, my wife insisted on raising the money necessary to obtain my release. But such a proceeding would have left us beggars; and I could not endure the idea of misery for one—two—three persons! No: the property was so secured that my creditor could not touch it—and I resolved, by the advice of an attorney, to apply for relief to the Insolvents’ Court. I did so; and the creditor opposed me on the ground of extravagance. I could give no account of the manner in which I had disposed of the money he had advanced me—and when the opposing counsel asked me, on my oath, whether I had not lost it at gambling, I greedily snapped at the means of explanation thus furnished, and perjured myself by the utterance of an affirmative. Oh! that miscreant extortioner!—he drove me to ruin—a prison—the Insolvents’ Court—perjury—and lastly to a mad-house! Great God! how can I write thus tranquilly when I think of all the wrongs that I have endured?
“July 23rd, 1846.
“I have been compelled to desist again: but at length I resume my pen. My ideas are rapidly becoming more settled: I think that I shall recover altogether, if I can but manage to escape from this place!
“I stated that I appeared at the Insolvents’ Court, and was opposed by the holder of the bill for three thousand pounds. The Commissioner remanded me to prison for twelve months as a punishment for wanton and profligate expenditure. I shall not dwell upon that long incarceration: it was horrible to a sensitive soul like mine. Even Editha, patient and loving as she was, failed to solace me altogether. There were intervals of anguish so bitter that I fancied myself at times to be already dead and enduring the torments of hell. Dreadful thought! But at length the time passed—and I was once more free. We took a neat little cottage in the suburbs of the metropolis; and tranquility seemed to have been restored to us at last. Our son throve gloriously: Oh! what a handsome boy he became—what a handsome boy he must be now! Nearly two yeas passed—and I was recovering my mental serenity, when one day I met the extortioner in the street. Oh! what a cold shudder came over me as I saw his eyes fixed upon me! It seemed as if a horrible spectre had suddenly started up from the earth to horrify and appal me. I beheld Ruin personified; and a faintness came over me. But I was recalled to a poignant sense of my misery by the well-known voice, that fell upon my ears, making fresh demands upon my purse. I took the man into an obscure public-house close by; and, as there was no one in the room save ourselves at the time, we could converse freely upon the business. Freely, indeed! when every word he uttered fell like drops of molten lead upon my heart—and every syllable I breathed in return hissed from my parched tongue like water passing over red hot iron! What could I do? The fiend insisted upon having money, and swore that he would follow me home. He, however, measured his demands to my means, and insisted upon having three hundred pounds by a given hour the next evening. We parted—and I saw that he dogged me: indeed, he did not attempt to conceal himself nor his intentions as he followed me until I entered my own door—and I knew that it was useless either to turn upon him in a hostile manner, or to attempt to baffle his aim.
“Heaven only knows how I contrived to explain to my wife the reason of my altered appearance—or rather, how I managed to conceal the real cause beneath a falsehood. But I did succeed in reassuring her somewhat; and on the following day I went to the discounter—the same discounter who had lent me money before—to ask him for a loan. It was a desperate step, taken by a desperate man: but, to my surprise, he consented without the slightest hesitation to accommodate me. I received the money—gave my note of hand—and paid the amount to the extortioner. But things had now reached a crisis with me—and I became so unsettled in my mind that Editha was seriously alarmed. I remember that my brother, the magistrate, was sent for; and he visited the house after having been long estranged from me. Then a mist came over my memory; and, when I awoke, I was—here!
“Yes—here, where I now pen these lines! Oh! I have been mad—raving mad; and Heaven knows that I have endured enough to make me so. Such persecution could only end in insanity. But I am better now: nay—I am well—although my friends will not believe it. My brother was here yesterday; and I saw by the way in which he humoured me when I told him I was fast recovering my reason, that he still imagines me to be insane. I implored him to let me see Editha and my boy: he declared that I should have that pleasure next Sunday. He likewise told me that they were well in health, but deeply grieved on my account.
“Now I have made up my mind how to act. I shall escape from this horrible place, and proceed to France. There I shall adopt an assumed name—and thence I shall write to Editha to join me at once with our son. We shall be beyond the reach of the extortioner—and tranquil, if not happy days may yet await us. Yes—this is my hope! But shall I destroy the manuscript upon which I have laboured so arduously, and which has furnished me with an occupation that has done me so much good? No: I cannot consent to annihilate the papers which contain a narrative so fraught with awful warning. But does it not likewise contain my secret?—and is not my name mentioned in the course of the recital? Hark! footsteps approach—I must conceal my papers——”
CHAPTER CLXXXIX.
SCENES IN THE LUNATIC ASYLUM.
Thus terminated the extraordinary manuscript which Lord William Trevelyan found in the wardrobe, and the perusal of which occupied him nearly two hours.
He was undecided how to dispose of the papers. Should he return them to the place where they had been concealed?—should he destroy them?—should he take them away with him, in the hope of being one day enabled to discover their writer, and by restoring them to him convince him that they had fallen into the possession of an honourable man, who, though having had the curiosity to read them, would, nevertheless, religiously keep the secret which they contained?
For, from the abrupt termination of the manuscript, Lord William very naturally concluded that the unfortunate author had succeeded in effecting his escape from the lunatic-asylum very shortly after he had penned the last words in the narrative; and the young nobleman, therefore, considered it to be possible, though perhaps not very probable, that he might sooner or later encounter Mr. Macdonald in the great and busy world.
Lord William had likewise another motive for retaining the papers.
The reader has seen enough of him to be aware that there was in his disposition much of the same chivalrous spirit and philanthropic principle which characterised the Earl of Ellingham; and it was therefore natural that he should become suddenly impressed with the idea of adopting measures, in due course, for the purpose of fully exposing the atrocious system of quackery that was carried on by pseudo-medical advertisers.
He remembered that the newspapers contained many advertisements announcing such works as the one which had proved the means of ensnaring the unfortunate Mr. Macdonald; and he was resolved to lose no time in employing his solicitor to institute all the necessary inquiries into the characters, histories, proceedings, and social positions of the scoundrels who thus accumulated large fortunes by means of the most atrocious quackery, deceit, rascality, and extortion.
The manuscript which chance had this night thrown in his way, contained so many important particulars, and furnished such a complete clue to the entire ramifications of the dark iniquity which the young nobleman was determined to expose, that he regarded it as a powerful auxiliary to the crusade he was about to undertake; and this consideration, added to the motives already mentioned, decided him in retaining possession of the document.
It was now one o’clock in the morning; and a profound silence reigned throughout the lunatic asylum.
Lord William noiselessly opened the door of his chamber, and looked forth into the long passage, which was partially lighted by a single lamp that had been left burning.
No living being was to be seen; and nothing disturbed the dead stillness of the hour and the place.
It now struck the young nobleman that the door of the chamber which he was anxious to enter—namely, No. 12, in the same passage as his own apartment—was most probably locked; and, in this case, he made up his mind to force it at all risks.
A little farther reflection suggested to him that, inasmuch as he had seen the housekeeper with only a single key in her hand, it was probable that this key was a pass to all the chambers; and he thence inferred that the key of his own room might perhaps fit the lock of the door belonging to No. 12.
At all events this was the first experiment that he resolved to try; and, without any longer delay, he proceeded as cautiously as possible down the passage, until he reached the chamber which he hoped and believed to be the one occupied by his friend.
There was a bolt outside the door: this was immediately drawn back;—and Trevelyan essayed the key.
To his indescribable joy, the key turned easily in the lock; and, with a beating heart, the nobleman entered the room—closing the door behind him.
The chamber was quite dark: but Trevelyan speedily groped his way to the window and drew aside the curtains, so as to permit the powerful moonlight to pour its silver flood into the room.
He now approached the bed—and there, to his delight, he beheld the well-known, though worn and wasted, countenance of his friend Sir Gilbert Heathcote, who was wrapped in slumber.
Lord William shook him gently; the baronet awoke with a sudden start and ejaculation; but at the same instant a friendly voice said, hurriedly, “Fear nothing! ’tis I—Trevelyan—and I am come to deliver you from this accursed place.”
Sir Gilbert, who had raised his head from the pillow, fell back again, and closed his eyes for a few moments. He fancied that he was dreaming. He could not believe that those welcome words had in reality sounded in his ears, or that the moonlight had shown him the form of his friend by the bed-side.
Trevelyan did not choose to interrupt the baronet’s reverie immediately; he comprehended the prudence of allowing him to collect his scattered ideas, and compose his thoughts.
“Is it really you, my dear young friend?” Sir Gilbert asked abruptly; and, starting up in the bed, he seized Trevelyan’s hand, and gazed fixedly upon his countenance.
“Yes, it is no dream,” responded Lord William, pressing the baronet’s hand with all the fervour of his generous friendship; “I am here to effect your escape, and there is no time to be lost.”
Still the baronet could scarcely believe the joyful announcement thus made to him; and Trevelyan, duly impressed with the necessity of tranquilising and reassuring his friend’s mind as much as possible ere the attempt at departure should be made,—fearing likewise that the baronet’s intellect had been somewhat impaired by the sense of wrong and the horrors of imprisonment in a lunatic asylum,—began to speak upon such topics as were calculated to direct his thoughts into a salutary channel.
“My dear Heathcote,” he said, “endeavour to call to your aid as much calmness and self-possession as possible; for a single inadvertence or false step may ruin our project by alarming the house. Remember that the place is as well protected and defended, and probably as well watched, as a gaol: and we must proceed with caution—courage—and coolness.”
“But how did you find your way into the establishment?” enquired Sir Gilbert, his ideas becoming more settled.
“By pretending to be insane,” answered Trevelyan; “and I have succeeded in thoroughly duping the Doctor.”
“Oh! my generous—my noble-hearted friend!” exclaimed the baronet: “how can I ever sufficiently prove my gratitude——”
“Hush! speak not with excitement!” interrupted Trevelyan. “I am only doing towards you what you would unhesitatingly perform for me under the same circumstances. And now—as I am anxious to relieve your mind as much as possible from any uneasiness or suspense that it may experience—I must at once inform you that Mrs. Sefton is in good health, and at this moment in the happy expectation of shortly seeing you again; for she is aware of the scheme which I have adopted to restore you to liberty.”
“Heaven be thanked for these assurances!” exclaimed Sir Gilbert: then, after a few moments’ pause, he said, “I need scarcely ask you to explain how you became acquainted with Mrs. Sefton. She was no stranger to the friendship subsisting between you and me—and I therefore conclude that, alarmed by my sudden and inexplicable disappearance, she sought your counsel and assistance.”
“All has occurred precisely as you conjecture,” answered Trevelyan. “But do you now feel equal to the task——”
“Of making an effort to recover my freedom?” ejaculated Sir Gilbert, leaping from the couch. “Let us not lose another moment! The atmosphere of this place seems oppressive, and heavy to breathe. I pant—I yearn—I long for liberty.”
Thus speaking, the baronet began hastily to put on his attire, and in a few minutes he was dressed.
“Now,” said Trevelyan, “we must decide upon the course to be adopted. Doubtless there is a porter to keep watch all night in the hall?” he added, interrogatively.
“Yes,” answered Sir Gilbert: “and I am also certain that a man patrols the garden. Besides, the keepers inside the house are as wakeful and as watchful as the fiends of Pandemonium; and the least noise will bring half-a-dozen strong and desperate fellows upon us. For my part, I have not the slightest objection to embrace the alternative of fighting our way through all opposition——”
“But the consequences of defeat would be most disastrous,” interrupted Trevelyan. “The Doctor would thereby gain an excuse for coercing both you and me; and although I am as it were my own prisoner, yet I have sworn not to quit these walls unless accompanied by you.”
“Generous friend!” exclaimed Sir Gilbert. “Were we well armed, we might bid defiance to the Doctor and all his gang: but weaponless—powerless as we are——”
“Do not despond, Heathcote,” said Trevelyan, observing that the baronet spoke in a mournful tone: “the task that I have undertaken, I will accomplish! There appear to me to be two modes of procedure. The first is to descend as noiselessly as possible to the hall—seize upon the porter—master him—and then effect our escape by the front-door. The other is to force away the bars from the window of this room—make a rope of the bed-clothing—descend into the garden—and take our chance with the watchman. Either project is attended with the risk of creating an alarm: but it is for you to decide, from your knowledge of the premises and the habits of its inmates, which scheme is the more feasible.”
“The former,” responded Sir Gilbert, after a few moments’ deep reflection. “The watchman in the garden would probably observe us at the window, removing the bars; and an alarm would thus be raised even before we were prepared to attempt an escape by those means. On the other hand, the porter sleeps in the hall:—of this fact I am well assured, because I saw the bed temporarily made up for him there on the night that I was brought hither:—therefore our chances of success lie in that direction.”
“Such also is my idea,” observed Trevelyan. “Let us proceed at once—and permit me to take the lead.”
The young nobleman and the baronet stole cautiously forth from the chamber, treading so lightly that their steps raised not a sound to disturb the silence which prevailed throughout the establishment.
They descended to the first floor in safety: and there they paused for a few minutes on the landing, listening with suspended breath.
The deep and regular respiration of the porter now reached their ears from the hall below; and they thus obtained the assurance that the man slumbered.
Exchanging looks of satisfaction, they descended the last flight of stairs;—and, by the hall lamp, they perceived the porter comfortably ensconced in a truckle-bed that was made up for him in a convenient corner. The light fell on his rubicund countenance, which was surmounted by a cotton nightcap: but the brawny arm that lay outside the coverlid, and the tracing of his form as shaped by the bed-clothes, showed full well that he was a man of herculean stature and proportionate strength.
Nothing daunted—but resolving upon a desperate effort to accomplish the purpose he had in view—Lord William Trevelyan led the way into the hall; and he had just ascertained the fact that there was a bunch of large keys peeping forth from beneath the sleeping porter’s pillow, when the door of the supper-room suddenly opened, and Mr. Sheepshanks staggered forth.
The reverend gentleman carried a candle in his hand; and, by his flushed countenance, vacant stare, and unsteady walk, he was evidently in a pretty advanced state of intoxication. In fact—and there is no necessity to disguise the matter—the pious minister had sate up to enjoy himself alone; and he had carried his libations to such an extent that he was now, at two o’clock in the morning, most awfully drunk.
The moment Lord William caught sight of the inebriate minister, he sprang upon him—placed his hand tightly over his mouth—and, thrusting him back into the supper-room, said in a low but hasty and threatening tone, “Move hence at your peril!”
He then closed and locked the door.
But in the short and decided scuffle an untoward accident had occurred.
The candlestick had dropped from Mr. Sheepshanks’ hand on the marble floor of the hall; and the consequence was that the porter sprang up, and was out of bed in a trice.
Sir Gilbert Heathcote rushed upon him: but not in time to prevent the man from springing a huge rattle and crying, “Help! help!”
Lord William Trevelyan hesitated not a moment how to act. He darted to the truckle-bed—seized the keys from beneath the pillow—and sprang to the door, leaving Sir Gilbert Heathcote wrestling desperately with the porter.
The reader will remember that there were two doors; and the young nobleman had only just time to open the first or inner one, when a rapid glance cast behind showed him his friend Sir Gilbert upon the floor, completely overpowered by the huge porter, who had placed his knee upon the baronet’s chest.
It was Trevelyan’s hope that his friend would have been able to keep the porter engaged in the struggle until he could have opened both the doors, when he would have turned to the scene of strife, to rescue the baronet; but scarcely had he observed that Sir Gilbert was already vanquished, when four of the keepers rushed down stairs into the hall.
With the rapidity and force of a tiger springing upon its prey, Lord William rushed on the huge porter, hurled him to a distance, and raised up the prostrate baronet.
All this was the work of an instant: but in another moment the keepers sprang upon the two friends, and closed with them.
The baronet was again borne down; but Trevelyan, who now saw that the conflict was really becoming desperate, used the bunch of heavy door-keys with such effect that he speedily disabled the two keepers who had assailed him,—stretching one senseless on the floor, and compelling the other to beat a retreat with the blood pouring down his face.
To turn his attention to the two men who were dragging away Sir Gilbert Heathcote, was the intrepid young nobleman’s next step; and in a few moments the baronet, once more rescued from the enemy, was by the side of his intrepid friend.
“Take the keys and open the front door!” cried Trevelyan, impetuously pushing Sir Gilbert towards that extremity of the hall where the means of egress lay. “Escape, in the name of heaven!—think not of me!”
And having thrust the keys into his friend’s hand, Lord William seized the Doctor’s gold-headed cane, which hung to a hat-peg in the hall; and placing himself between the front-door and the keepers, he cried, “Beware how you provoke me—for I shall not hesitate to defend myself to the death!”
But scarcely were these words uttered, when the two keepers from whom he had rescued the baronet, returned to the charge, aided by the burly porter.
The foremost was instantaneously felled by a blow vigorously dealt with the cane; and, following up his advantage quickly as the eye can wink, Trevelyan darted at the other keeper, whom he also levelled on the spot. But in the next moment the gallant young nobleman was in the grasp of the porter; and, dropping the cane as no longer useful in a close tussle, he addressed himself with all his might to this last and most desperate single combat.
The scene was very exciting; and all that we have yet described since the first moment that the conflict commenced, did not occupy more than two minutes.
Scarcely had the intrepid nobleman and the herculean porter closed together, when the Doctor, attired in his dressing-gown and slippers, and with his cotton night-cap on his head, appeared at the bottom of the stairs, holding a chamber-candle in his hand.
At the same instant Sir Gilbert Heathcote had succeeded in opening the front door; and the morning breeze poured into the hall, in a manner doubtless highly refreshing to the porter, who, be it remembered, had nothing on but his shirt—his cap having fallen off in the conflict which he had maintained with the baronet in the first instance.
Two of the discomfited keepers, animated by the presence of the Doctor—or perhaps rendered ashamed of their pusillanimity—now returned to the attack upon Trevelyan, who was just on the point of hurling the porter to the ground. But Sir Gilbert, having made the entrance free, rushed back to help his friend; and the contest was again renewed with desperate energy,—the other two keepers, who had by this time recovered their senses, joining in the struggle.
And hard would it have gone with Trevelyan and the baronet against such odds, had not two new-comers suddenly appeared upon the scene.
For, the front door standing wide open, and the lamp being alight in the hall, two gentlemen who were passing by the house at the time beheld the extraordinary proceedings that were taking place within; and the foremost, perceiving in an instant that the odds were two to five,—namely, Trevelyan and the baronet against the four keepers and the porter,—exclaimed at the top of a stentorian voice, “Be Jasus! Frank, and we’ll just give a helping hand to the waker side!”
With these words, the redoubtable Captain O’Blunderbuss—nerved with all the courage attributed by Sir Walter Scott to Lord Marmion—“plunged into the fight.”
Or, in less poetical language, he darted into the hall—levelled the herculean porter with a well-directed blow between the eyes—and sent a couple of keepers sprawling over the aforesaid porter in an instant.
Frank Curtis, having imbibed just sufficient poteen to subdue his habitual cowardice and arm him with the bastard though not the less effectual valour which strong drink inspires, unhesitatingly followed the example of his gallant leader, and bore his part in the fray; so that in less than a minute a complete diversion was effected in favour of Lord William Trevelyan and Sir Gilbert Heathcote, the enemy being utterly discomfited.
“Villains! murderers! robbers!” shouted the infuriate Doctor, as loud as he could bawl; and then the screams and shrieks of the affrighted female servants were heard echoing from the stairs and landing-places.
“Let us depart!” cried Lord William Trevelyan; and, in a very few moments, he pushed the baronet, the captain, and Frank Curtis, out of the front door,—he himself pausing only for a single second to secure the keys.
In another instant he was outside the house; and closing the door behind him, he locked it so as to prevent the Doctor and his myrmidons from instituting an immediate pursuit.
“Be Jasus! and this is the rummest lar-r-k I iver had in all my life!” ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss, panting for breath.
“Come with us, gentlemen,” said Lord William, hastily addressing that gallant officer and Frank Curtis: “you have rendered us a signal service—and we must know you better. We have likewise certain necessary explanations to give you relative to the strange scene in which you took so generous a part. But come away directly—there is not a moment to be lost—a hue and cry may be raised!”
“Be the power-rs! and is it bur-r-glars ye are?” cried the Captain, somewhat regretting the precipitation with which he had mixed himself up in the late affray.
“No—no: far from that!” exclaimed Lord William, laughing heartily at the idea. “But let us get as quickly as we can out of this neighbourhood.”
And away the four gentlemen scampered into the Cambridge Road, down which they sped until they reached Mile End, where they fortunately found a night-cab waiting for a fare.
Into the vehicle they got; and Lord William Trevelyan exclaimed, as an instruction to the driver, “Park Square, Regent’s Park!”
Away the cab went; and both Captain O’Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis, who had heard the aristocratic address thus given, were seized with an insatiable curiosity to learn who their new acquaintances could be.
CHAPTER CXC.
A SCENE IN A CAB.
“Ginthlemen,” exclaimed the gallant Irishman, “I mane to inthroduce myself and frind to ye without any more bother or pother. My frind, then, ginthlemen, is Misther Frank Cur-r-tis—discinded from a fine family, and once possissed of large estates, all of which, be Jasus! he’s managed to ate up as clane as if dirthy acres were plum-pudding. My name, ginthlemen, is Capthain O’Bluntherbuss, of Bluntherbuss Park, Connemar-r-ra—where I shall be delighted to see ye any time ye may be afther visiting Ould Ireland and I’m at home.”
“Permit me to shake hands with you, Captain O’Blunderbuss,” said the young nobleman; “and with you also, Mr. Curtis. You have rendered me and my friend a service which we cannot easily forget.”
“And which we shall never seek to forget,” added the baronet, emphatically; and then there was a general shaking of hands inside the cab.
Lord William Trevelyan next proceeded to inform his new friends who he and Sir Gilbert Heathcote were; and the reader may conceive the huge delight experienced by Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis when they found themselves in the company of a real nobleman and a real baronet.
“And now, my lor-r-d,” said the gallant officer, “will ye be so obleeging as to explain to us what house that was where all the pother took place, and what was the maning of the pother itself: for, be the holy poker-r! I can’t make head or tail of it!”
“The fact is,” responded Lord William Trevelyan, “it was a mad-house.”
“A mad-house!” ejaculated Mr. Frank Curtis, starting as if stung by a serpent lurking in the straw at the bottom of the cab—while a cold tremor came over him; for it instantly struck him that he and his Irish companion had been instrumental in the escape of a couple of lunatics.
“A mad-house!” repeated the Captain, immediately entertaining the same idea, although not sharing the apprehensions of his friend.
“Neither more nor less,” continued Trevelyan, perfectly unaware of the impression which his words had produced upon the two gentlemen: for, as the inside of the cab was quite dark, he could not observe the change that took place in their countenances.
“You—you—don’t mean to—to—say,” stammered Curtis, fidgetting uncommonly, and thrusting his hand outside the window to grasp the handle of the door: for he began to think that the sooner he emancipated himself from the cab, the better;—“you—you——”
“Hould your tongue, ye spalpeen!” vociferated the Captain, who, fully acquainted with the character of his friend, guessed pretty accurately all that was passing in his mind: for the worthy Irishman, on his part, was determined not to separate from his new friends, whether they were lunatics or not, until he had ascertained if any thing was to be got out of them either in the shape of money or whiskey, or both;—“hould your tongue, ye spalpeen! and let’s hear what his lor-rdship has to say upon the matther.”
“Well, as I was informing you, gentlemen,” resumed Trevelyan, who considered that a proper explanation was fully due to those who had acted such a gallant part in the late proceedings, “the house whence you just now so effectually aided us to escape, is a lunatic-asylum—and the men against whom you fought were the keepers.”
“And who—who were the—the—lunatics?” asked Frank Curtis, perspiring at every pore—for the effects of the whiskey which he had been drinking were completely absorbed in the terror that now influenced him.
“Be Jasus! and I won’t have such questions put to my intimate frind his lor-r-dship, and my parthicular frind the baronet!“ ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss, bestowing upon Frank’s ribs such an unmerciful nudge with his elbow that the gentleman who was made the recipient of the said poke writhed horribly in his seat. “Prosade, sir—my lor-r-d, I mane,” added the gallant officer, who, in spite of his civility towards the nobleman and the baronet, firmly believed that they were lunatics, and had usurped titles to which they had not the slightest claim nor right.
“Your companion asked me who were the lunatics,” said Trevelyan, beginning to be somewhat astonished at the manner of his new friends: “well, to tell you the candid truth, myself and Sir Gilbert Heathcote were supposed to be—although I leave you both to judge whether there could have been the slightest ground for such an idea.”
“O Lord!—O Lord!” murmured Frank Curtis; and again his hand, which he had withdrawn when the captain nudged him, was thrust out of the window to grasp the door-latch.
“Are you unwell, my dear sir?” inquired Sir Gilbert Heathcote, in a tone of much concern—for, being seated precisely opposite to Curtis, he had heard the murmured ejaculations which had escaped that individual’s lips.
“Yes—very,” replied Frank, with a hollow groan.
“Be asy, thin, can’t ye?” whispered the Captain savagely in his ear, at the same time favouring him with another barbarous nudge in the ribs. “Oh! it’s nothln’ at all, at all, with my frind, I can assure ye, my lor-r-d and Sir Gilbert,” exclaimed the gallant officer aloud: “he’s throubled with whazing in the throat when he’s been afther dhrinking an exthra dhrop of potheen—and may be the motion of the cab don’t quite agree with him, bad luck to his nonsense! Well, my lor-r-d, ye were afther telling us that your lor-r-dship’s ownself and Sir Gilbert were belaved to be the lunatics?”
“Just so,” answered Trevelyan; “and had not the affair proved a very serious one to my friend Heathcote, I should be inclined to laugh at the ludicrous manner in which it terminated. Heathcote was immured in that asylum under most treacherous circumstances a short time ago—although, I need scarcely inform you, there was not the slightest pretense for the imputation of insanity——”
“Be the holy poker-r! and any one that’s blind could see that same!” ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss.
“O Lord!” again moaned Frank Curtis; and he slily and stealthily turned the handle of the cab door.
“Determined to rescue my friend,” continued Lord William Trevelyan, “I induced two medical gentlemen, who are under some obligations to me, and whom I admitted into my confidence, to sign the necessary certificates to consign me to a lunatic asylum——”
“O Lord—O Lord!” groaned Curtis, more deeply than before; for even if he had hitherto entertained any doubt as to the state of Trevelyan’s mind, the singular averment just made was quite sufficient to confirm him in the opinion that he was in company with a decided lunatic.
“What the divvel ails ye, man?” growled Captain O’Blunderbuss. “Prosade, my lor-r-d. I’m dapely intherested in your lor-rdship’s narrative.”
“Having thus obtained the certificates,” continued Trevelyan, “I tutored my valet how to act—and he accordingly consigned me to the care of Dr. Swinton—the old gentleman whom you saw in a dressing-gown and night-cap at the foot of the stairs.”
“An arrant ould scounthrel, I’ve no doubt,” interjected the Captain.
“It was necessary, under the circumstances,” resumed Trevelyan, “to fight Sir Gilbert’s enemies with their own weapons. Cunning against cunning—duplicity against duplicity! That was the plan I adopted; and I affected insanity so well, that the Doctor was completely deceived.”
“Be the power-rs! this is excellent,” ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss. “It’s not ivery one that could desayve a mad-docthor so well.”
“I really believe that he imagined me to be as mad as a March hare,” said Trevelyan.
“And so you are!” yelled forth Frank Curtis, suddenly throwing the door wide open and making a desperate attempt to leap from the cab, even at the risk of breaking his neck or fracturing his skull—for his terrors had risen to such a pitch that confinement in the vehicle along with two persons whom he firmly believed to be downright mad-men, had become utterly unendurable:—but the iron grasp of the Captain clutched him by the back part of his collar just as he was on the point of bounding franticly forth into the road—and he was compelled, not however without a struggle, to resume his seat.
This proceeding on the part of Frank Curtis suddenly opened the eyes of both Trevelyan and the baronet to the impressions which the recent proceedings had unmistakeably and naturally made on the minds of their new friends: as if a light had darted in upon them, they now comprehended the cause of Frank Curtis’s singular manner almost ever since they first entered the vehicle;—and they likewise perceived (though they did not rightly interpret) the courtesy which had not only rendered Captain O’Blunderbuss so good a listener to the explanations given by Trevelyan, but had also prompted him to silence and coerce his companion as much as possible.
Accordingly, Trevelyan and Sir Gilbert Heathcote simultaneously broke out into such a hearty fit of laughter that Frank Curtis began to console himself with the idea that they were at least harmless; while Captain O’Blunderbuss set them down as the merriest lunatics he had ever encountered in all his life, and joined with unfeigned cordiality in their glee.
“And so you really thought that we were mad?” exclaimed Trevelyan, as soon as he could compose himself sufficiently to speak.
“Oh! not at all, at all!” cried the Captain.
“But Mr. Curtis firmly believes that we are neither more nor less than lunatics?” said the young nobleman, enjoying the scene.
“Be Jasus! and if he darrs insulth your lor-rdship and your lor-rdship’s frind by even suspicting such a thing, he shall mate me to-morrow mornin’ at twelve paces on Wimbledon Common!” exclaimed the gallant and warlike gentleman.
“Really you excite yourself too much in our behalf, Captain,” observed Trevelyan, who saw plainly enough that O’Blunderbuss was adopting just such a tone and manner as one would use to conciliate and soothe lunatics. “Now tell us the truth, my dear sir,” continued the young nobleman: “do you not think that if we are actually and positively crazy, you and Mr. Curtis cannot boast of being perfectly sane?”
“Be Jasus! and that same is precisely what I’ve often been afther thinking!” cried the Captain, determined to humour the supposed lunatics as much as possible. “As for Frank Curtis here, he’s as mad as the Irish pig that wouldn’t go one particular way save and excipt at such times that it belaved it was being driv another. As for meself, bad luck to me! I’m not blind to my own failings—and I know purty well that I’m as cracked as any damned ould laky tay-kettle.”
The accommodating humour of Captain O’Blunderbuss, who unhesitatingly pronounced himself and his friend Mr. Curtis to be insane, under the impression that such an admission would prove highly gratifying to those to whom it was made, produced such an effect upon the young nobleman and the baronet, that they became almost convulsed with laughter: and it was indeed fortunate that this scene occurred, inasmuch as its extreme ludicrousness tended materially to raise the spirits of Sir Gilbert Heathcote after the wrongs he had suffered and the incarceration he had endured.
It is impossible to say how long the equivoque and the consequent hilarity would have lasted, had not the cab suddenly stopped in front of a handsome house in Park square.
“Now,” thought both Captain O’Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis at the same time, “we shall see the bubble burst very shortly; and it will transpire who our two mad friends really are.”
The summons at the front-door was speedily answered by the appearance of Fitzgeorge in his plain clothes and a couple of footmen in livery, all of whom had waited up the whole night in expectation of the probable return of their master.
As for Fitzgeorge, he ran up to the door of the cab, and perceiving Sir Gilbert inside, exclaimed with unaffected delight, “Thank God! your lordship’s scheme has proved triumphant!”
At these words Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis uttered involuntary ejaculations of astonishment: for they began to think that one of their new friends was really a nobleman after all, and that they might neither of them prove to be lunatics in the long run.
Leaping from the cab, Trevelyan invited the gallant gentleman and his companion to enter the house, observing, with a laugh, “However insane we may all be, we will at least exercise the common prudence of taking a little refreshment after all the hard work and momentous proceedings of the night.”
In a few instants the Captain and Frank found themselves conducted into an elegantly furnished apartment, in the midst of which was a table laid out with costly plate, and spread with a cold repast consisting of dainties that made their months water even to gaze upon. It was likewise a source of great satisfaction to the two gentlemen to behold a buffet well stored with wine and spirits, amongst which latter the Captain had no difficulty in recognising some poteen of the real orthodox colour.
The nobleman and his guests took their seats at table, and did ample justice alike to viands and to wine. Indeed, it was amazingly refreshing to behold the appetite with which the Captain and Frank Curtis addressed themselves to the former, and the zest with which they partook of the latter. They no longer believed that either Trevelyan or Sir Gilbert was mad; and when the former gave them the whole particulars of the story which he had only half finished in the cab, they laughed heartily at the misconceptions they had formed.
Under the influence of the poteen, which was duly produced after supper,—if supper such a meal could called, as it was now long past three o’clock in the morning,—the Captain and Frank Curtis became particularly talkative; when it appeared that, existing under grievous apprehension of certain formidable beings denominated “sheriff’s officers,” they had hired lodgings in the classic region of Globe Town, and that, having spent the evening and best portion of the night at a public-house in the Hackney Road, they were taking a short cut homeward, past the Doctor’s house, when they became the witnesses of the scene wherein they immediately after bore so distinguished a part.
From these and other revelations, which the Captain purposely suffered to ooze out as if quite unintentionally, Trevelyan and Sir Gilbert gleaned sufficient to convince them that their new friends were “gentlemen under a cloud;” and they were not sorry at having ascertained a fact which at once placed them in a position to testify their gratitude for the services of the night.
Accordingly, after exchanging a few words in a low tone with Sir Gilbert, Lord William Trevelyan wrote something upon a slip of paper, and then addressed Captain O’Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis in the following manner:—
“You will pardon me, my friends, for the liberty I am about to take and the observations I am on the point of offering. But it has struck Sir Gilbert Heathcote and myself, from certain words which fell from your lips in the excitement of convivial discourse, that you have experienced some little disappointment respecting the arrival of remittances; and we shall be alike honoured and rejoiced if you will permit us to use the freedom of friends under such circumstances. It is probable that a few hundreds may be of some trifling service to you at this moment; and it will prove a source of unfeigned delight to Sir Gilbert and myself if, in return for the generous aid you afforded us, we can in any way relieve you from a temporary inconvenience.”
Thus speaking, Lord William handed the slip of paper to Captain O’Blunderbuss, who, hastily glancing at it as he folded it up preparatory to consignment to his pocket, observed that it was a cheque for five hundred pounds.
“Be Jasus! my dear frinds,” he exclaimed, addressing himself to the young nobleman and the baronet, “ye do things in such a handsome way that I don’t know how to expriss my thanks at all, at all. Curthis, ye spalpeen!” he cried, suddenly turning round upon his companion, “why the divvel don’t ye jine in making a spache on the occasion?—since my lor-r-d and Sir Gilbert have lint us five hunthred pounds to relave us from our timporary difficulties. But I’ll unthertake to repay that same, my frinds,” he continued, again addressing his words directly to Trevelyan and Heathcote, “the moment I resave my rints from Ould Ir-reland—and bad luck to ’em! So here’s afther wishing us succiss—and be damned to all mad-docthors, say I!”
Having achieved this beautiful peroration, Captain O’Blunderbuss tossed off at a single draught the entire contents of a large tumbler of scalding toddy, and then rose to take his departure.
Frank Curtis, who was in a most glorious state of mental obfuscation—beholding two Trevelyans, two baronets, two captains, and heaven only knows how many wax-candles—was with some difficulty induced to stand upon his legs; and his Irish friend was more troubled still to make him use the aforesaid legs when he did get upon them. However, after some little persuasion and more threatening on the part of the Captain, Frank Curtis suffered himself to be led forth from the hospitable mansion.
As soon as Trevelyan and Sir Gilbert Heathcote were alone, the former related to his friend the particulars of the various interviews which had taken place between himself and Mrs. Sefton—that lady’s discovery of her daughter Agnes—and her removal to the villa at Bayswater.
The baronet was profoundly agitated—but it was with mingled surprise and joy—when he heard those tidings relative to Agnes: he rose and paced the room with uneven steps,—and then, reseating himself, appeared anxious to make certain revelations—or rather, unbosom his mind to his young friend. But, feeling perhaps unequal to the task at that moment, after the long hours of excitement through which he had just passed, he said, abruptly, “Trevelyan, I have matters of importance to confide to you: but it shall be for another occasion! I must now leave you—’tis nearly five o’clock—the morning has dawned some time—and I am impatient to repair to the villa at Bayswater.”
“Will you not take an hour’s repose before you depart?” inquired Lord William Trevelyan.
“Oh! I could not close my eyes in sleep again until I have embraced those who——But pardon me for this excitement—this agitation,” exclaimed Sir Gilbert, interrupting himself suddenly. “To-morrow I will tell you all—everything,” he added, pressing Trevelyan’s hand warmly: “and then you will better comprehend the feelings which move me now. Farewell, my dear friend, for the present.”
Sir Gilbert was about to take his departure, when Fitzgeorge entered the room, and addressing himself to his master, said, “My lord, I had forgotten to inform your lordship that when I returned hither last evening, after leaving you at Dr. Swinton’s, I found the Marquis of Delmour waiting——”
“The Marquis of Delmour!” ejaculated Sir Gilbert Heathcote.
“Yes, sir,” replied Fitzgeorge. “The Marquis appeared to be in a very excited state, and was most anxious to see your lordship,” continued the valet, again addressing himself to his master. “I assured him that your lordship was gone out of town, and might not return for a day or two—whereupon he almost flew into a rage with me for giving him such information. He paced the room in great agitation, and asked me several questions relative to any ladies who might visit at the mansion: but I answered that your lordship was not accustomed to receive visitresses at all. At length he took his departure, stating that he should call again in the morning at ten o’clock, and take his chance of finding your lordship at home.”
“I understand full well the meaning of this visit on the part of the Marquis,” said Sir Gilbert Heathcote to Trevelyan, when the valet had retired; “but I have not time for explanations now. My impatience to repair to Bayswater is intense, unseasonable though the hour is for arousing ladies from their slumbers. One request I have, however, to make, my dear Trevelyan,” added the baronet; “and this is, that you will not, under any circumstances, communicate to the Marquis of Delmour the address of the villa occupied by Mrs. Sefton and Agnes.”
“Be well assured, my dear friend,” answered the young nobleman, “that the secret is safe with me.”
The baronet wrung Trevelyan’s hand with the cordial warmth of deep gratitude and sincere attachment, and then took his departure.
Lord William lay down for a few hours, and enjoyed a sound slumber until nine o’clock, when he rose and dressed himself to receive the Marquis of Delmour.
Punctually as the clock struck ten, a handsome carriage drove up to the door; and the Marquis, hastily alighting, was immediately conducted into the drawing-room where Trevelyan awaited his presence.
CHAPTER CXCI.
THE OLD MARQUIS AND THE YOUNG LORD.
“My lord, you are a man of honour, I have heard,” began the Marquis, without any prefatory observations; “and I feel assured that you will at once relieve me from a most painful state of suspense. Pardon the excitement which I display—and justify the good opinion I have conceived of you by giving me without delay the information I am about to seek. In a word, where is Agnes—my daughter Agnes—the young lady whom you have seen walking in the garden of the secluded cottage near Norwood?”
“Is that beautiful creature indeed your lordship’s daughter?” exclaimed Trevelyan, not altogether surprised at the announcement: for the agitation which Sir Gilbert Heathcote had shown when the name of the Marquis of Delmour was mentioned, and the request which he had made to the effect that the residence of Mrs. Sefton should be kept secret, had already created in the mind of Lord William a suspicion of the real truth.
“Yes—Agnes is indeed my daughter—and I am proud of her!” cried the Marquis. “But I know that she was inveigled away from the cottage by one who——by her own mother, in fine——and I am likewise aware that you subsequently entrusted her to the care of a lady of your acquaintance. This latter information I obtained from a certain Mrs. Mortimer——”
“The information was correct, my lord,” answered Trevelyan. “And now I must candidly confess that I have a very difficult part to perform: for I will not condescend to a falsehood—and I dare not reveal the truth. This much, however, I unhesitatingly declare—that, by a singular coincidence, the lady to whom I conducted your lordship’s daughter proved to be none other than her mother.”
“Her mother! then she is at this moment in the care of that woman?” ejaculated the Marquis, his excitement increasing: “and you will not tell me where I can find them?”
“That is the truth which, as I said ere now, I dare not repeat,” responded Trevelyan, profoundly touched by the evident grief of the old nobleman.
“Will you be the means of separating a father from his child?” asked the Marquis, now sinking through exhaustion upon a sofa—for hitherto he had remained standing, although Trevelyan had twice courteously indicated the chair that had been placed for his accommodation.
“Were I to yield to your lordship’s desire,” said the young nobleman,—“were I to give you the address of—of—”
“Call her Mrs. Sefton, if you will,” interrupted the Marquis, bitterly: “I know that she passes and has long passed under that name.”
“Well, my lord—were I to give you the address of that lady,” resumed Trevelyan, “I should be adopting a course calculated to separate a mother from her child.”
“But that mother is unworthy of being entrusted with the care of her daughter!” exclaimed the Marquis of Delmour, emphatically.
“My lord, I have not the slightest inclination to enter into matters of a private nature, and regarding your own family,” said Trevelyan, with firmness, yet courtesy—and even with commiseration for the sorrow of the old noble: “much less,” he added, “should I like to be constituted a judge between your lordship and the Marchioness of Delmour—for such I presume Mrs. Sefton to be.”
“Without placing your lordship in any disagreeable or invidious position,” said the Marquis, growing more tranquil as his naturally powerful mind suggested the utter inutility of giving way to excitement, “I may yet address you not only in your capacity of a nobleman endowed with high intelligence and strict notions of integrity, but also as one who—unless I be much deceived—experiences an honourable passion for my daughter. Ah! I perceive by your countenance that such indeed is the sentiment you entertain for Agnes: and now, therefore, as her father will I address you—as her parent, her protector, and her natural guardian, I invoke your attention.”
“It would be disrespectful alike to your age and rank, and also to your position as the father of her whom I sincerely and devotedly love, were I to refuse to hear whatever your lordship may have to communicate,” said Trevelyan, after a few moments reflection.
“Thanks—a thousand thanks!” ejaculated the Marquis: “I shall yet move you in my favour! But tell me—you are acquainted with one whom, if you please, we will continue to call Mrs. Sefton: has she ever communicated to you any particulars of her earlier life?”
“Frankly and candidly,” replied the young nobleman, “she has confided to me a portion of those particulars; and I have this day learnt sufficient to fill up the few blanks which she left in her narrative.”
“You know, then,” resumed his lordship, “that I wedded her against her consent: but I knew not at the time—as God is my judge!—that I was so completely sealing her misery by that marriage. Sophia—that is her Christian name—was young and beautiful when I first saw her—Oh! so beautiful that I became madly in love with her: and you may perhaps be aware that love is selfish—claiming its object at any price, and at any sacrifice. Her father was in deep pecuniary difficulties—nay, more—he had done things which would have dishonoured his name and even endangered his personal safety. I had an enormous fortune at my command—I told him that I adored his daughter—and he promised me her hand. On that occasion he concealed from me the fact that the young lady’s affections were already engaged: indeed, he assured me that love was as yet a stranger to her bosom, but that she had been struck by my appearance, although I was so much her senior. The duplicity of the father was the first fault in that long chain of unpleasant circumstances and untoward incidents: and, relying on all that he had thus told me, I at once advanced a hundred thousand pounds to relieve him from his embarrassments. Soon, however, did I begin to perceive that my visits were rather tolerated than encouraged by his charming daughter Sophia; and then I learnt—but not from her lips—that she loved another. I felt indignant with the father—while I passionately coveted the daughter; and under the influence of those feelings I pressed my suit. I was resolved not to be made a dupe by the sire, and sacrificed by the young lady to a rival. Had she herself frankly and candidly revealed to me the state of her affections—thrown herself upon my mercy—appealed to my honour, I should have acted a generous part, my lord—yes—I should have been generous!”
“But the young lady was coerced by her father, who intimidated her at one time and ridiculed her at another,” observed Trevelyan: “I remember full well that she told me of her sire’s unfeeling conduct towards her.”
“Yes—and to me also she made the same revelation, when it was too late,” continued the Marquis. “However, it was under such inauspicious circumstances that our marriage took place; and again I appeal to heaven to attest the truth of my words when I declare that I treated her with all possible tenderness, affection, and regard.”
“She has done your lordship that justice in narrating those particulars to me,” remarked Trevelyan.
“But I could not render her happy,” resumed the Marquis: “she was constantly weeping—and our honeymoon resembled an interval of mourning after a funeral, rather than a season of felicity succeeding a bridal. Much as I exerted myself to please her—lavish as I was with money to procure her the means of recreation and enjoyment—profuse as I became with the most costly gifts, not only to herself but likewise to all her relatives and friends, I could never win a smile from her lips. Now your lordship will admit that this was more than an unpleasant life to lead—it was absolutely wretched. But your lordship may conceive the deep vexation which I experienced when, having succeeded on one occasion in inducing the Marchioness to appear at a ball given by some friends, I saw her pale countenance suddenly glow with animation and her eye light up with joy as Gilbert Heathcote advanced to solicit her hand for a quadrille. And she smiled, too—yes, she smiled—and, oh! how sweetly upon him, as her elegant figure moved with dignity and grace in the mazy dance. My soul seemed as if it were withering up within me: I am confident that I must have eyed them with the ferocity of a lynx. But Sophia appeared to have forgotten that I was present—that there was such a being in the world as I: her whole attention was devoted to my rival—her whole thoughts were absorbed in the pleasure of his society. She danced with him more than once—she sate next to him at the supper-table—and after the banquet she waltzed with him. I have ever detested that voluptuous—that licentious—that indecent dance: but how I loathed—oh! how I loathed it on this occasion! I tore myself away from the ball-room, and sought a secluded corner in the card-room. There I endeavoured to reason with myself upon the absurdity of my jealous rage—of the ridicule to which any manifestation of the feeling would expose me—and of the contempt I should inevitably draw down upon myself from my wife, did I allow her to perceive how much I was annoyed at what she would doubtless consider a trivial matter. Thus exercising a powerful command over my emotions, I even assumed a smiling countenance when we returned home, and when I congratulated her upon having been in such high spirits. But all her coldness and inanimation had come back, and I thought within myself that she would not appear thus if Gilbert Heathcote were still in her society.”
“My lord, pardon me—but wherefore enter into details which only arouse reminiscences so painful to yourself?” interrupted Trevelyan.
“Bear with me yet a little while,” said the Marquis, speaking in so mild and plaintive a tone that Lord William could not find it in his heart to manifest any impatience or any farther disinclination to hear the old nobleman’s narrative: “bear with me, I say—for I have a motive in entering into these details,” he continued. “At the same time, I will not be too prolix, although there are a thousand little circumstances which recur to my memory, and which might be quoted to prove how patient and enduring I was under the cruel indifference wherewith I was treated. But I will content myself by observing that Sophia smiled only on those occasions when she encountered Gilbert Heathcote in society or in the fashionable promenades: at other times she shrouded herself in a species of dreamy apathy. Her father, perceiving when it was too late how utterly he had wrecked his daughter’s happiness, died of a broken heart: but, strange to say, it was not long after this event that Sophia appeared suddenly to rally a little and seek a more active existence. She began to take frequent airings in the carriage—grew addicted to shopping—accepted every invitation that was sent for balls, routs, card-parties, and concerts—and requested me to take a box at the Opera: in fine, she speedily plunged into the routine of fashionable dissipation. Nevertheless, when alone with me, she was ever cold and reserved—if not positively sullen and morose. In the course of time she was in the way to become a mother—and I hoped that the birth of a child might subdue a portion of her coldness towards me, even if the tie were not strong enough to induce her to love me. But when Agnes—my darling Agnes—was born, her manner varied not one tittle in respect to myself. Time passed on—and at last I began to entertain serious suspicions of the fidelity of my wife—for I found that she had frequent interviews, not altogether accidental, with Sir Gilbert Heathcote, who about that time succeeded to a baronetcy and a tolerable fortune. I remonstrated with the Marchioness upon her imprudence—to give her conduct no harsher name; and then began a series of quarrels, disputes and bickerings, which made my life more wretched than ever. On one of those occasions she reproached me for having married her—and she declared that she never had loved, and never could love me. Alas! I knew it but too well,—knew also that she had loved, and still loved another! And it was likewise after one of those disputes to which I have alluded that a horrible suspicion first entered my mind—a suspicion that the Marchioness had been unfaithful to me, and that Agnes was not my own child.”
“Oh! my lord—continue this painful narrative no farther!” exclaimed Trevelyan. “It shocks me to be thus made the depositary of secrets of so delicate a nature!”
“Again do I implore your patience, Lord William,” cried the Marquis: “and as I have advanced thus far in my sad story, permit me to carry it on to the conclusion. I was observing, then, that a dreadful suspicion seized upon me—and yet I dared not accuse my wife of incontinency. She divined what was passing in the depths of my tortured soul—she conjectured the nature of the apprehension which now began to haunt me like a ghost! Oh! how I longed to question her—to know the worst—or to hear her proclaim the injustice of my suspicion: but, no—I dared not touch upon the subject—my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth whenever I sought to frame the words that should accuse her. And in this manner did we drag on a wretched existence,—I experiencing all the misery of having a young wife who could not love me—and she feeling all the bitterness of her position in being allied to an old husband who had grown so jealous and so suspicious. At last the day came when all my repugnance to utter the fatal accusation suddenly vanished. I had been more than ordinarily provoked—for at a dejeuner given at the house of some friends, the Marchioness received with such evident satisfaction the marked attentions of Sir Gilbert Heathcote, that I felt myself insulted and outraged in the presence of the entire company. Accordingly, when we returned home in the afternoon, a violent scene took place between the Marchioness and myself; and it was then that, in a paroxysm of rage, I proclaimed the suspicion which I had for some time cherished—I accused her of infidelity—I revealed the doubt which existed in my mind relative to my paternal claims to the affections of the infant Agnes. Never—never shall I forget that memorable day! The Marchioness heard me—gazed on me fixedly—appeared stupefied and astounded for nearly a minute,—while her countenance became pale as marble—her lips quivered—and her bosom heaved convulsively. I was terrified at her manner—she appeared at that moment to be Injured Innocence personified—I could have thrown myself at her feet and implored her pardon! But, in a thick and hollow voice, she said, ‘All is now at an end, my lord, between you and me! We part—for ever!’—A dizziness came over me—I felt that I had done wrong—that I had gone too far,—and I would have given worlds to be able to recall the fatal accusation! For I was now as firmly convinced of her innocence, as I had a few minutes before been deeply imbued with suspicion;—and I cursed—I anathematised the rashness that had marked my conduct. It was a painful—a distressing scene: for I remember that I fell upon my knees to implore her forgiveness—to beseech her to remain, if not for my sake, at least for that of the child. But this appeal only excited her the more: and when I adjured her in the name of her infant daughter to stay, she uttered a wild cry and fled, as if suddenly seized with insanity, from the house.”
Here the Marquis paused for a few moments, and passed his handkerchief rapidly over his eyes:—the reminiscences of the past were still powerful enough to move him to tears!
“I shall not now detain you long, my lord,” he resumed. “Whither my wife went, I knew not;—but in a short time I heard that she was living in the strictest seclusion and under a feigned name. Will you not despise me when you learn that I employed a spy to watch her actions—to institute inquiries concerning her pursuits and her conduct? But I will conceal nothing from you—and I candidly admit that such was the course which I adopted: for, though I still believed that she was innocent up to the time when my abrupt accusation drove her from the house, I nevertheless naturally conjectured that, on thus quitting me, she had sought the protection of him whom she loved. I was not therefore surprised to hear that Sir Gilbert Heathcote was a frequent visitor at the abode of Mrs. Sefton—by which name she was now known:—but I was unable to glean any positive evidence of criminality on her part. And did I seek such evidence? Yes—for a raging jealousy had taken possession of me; and I longed to punish her for daring to love my rival as she did! But as time passed on and sober reflection worked its influence upon me, I grew ashamed of the course I had adopted—and I now resolved to hush up to the utmost of my power the unhappy position in which I stood with regard to my wife. For I already felt deeply attached to my little daughter—and I determined that, if human precautions could prevent such a misfortune, she should never have to blush for a mother’s shame. I was strengthened in this resolve by the fact that the Marchioness herself was disposed to shroud the past in secrecy as much as possible: else wherefore the feigned name which she had adopted, and the seclusion in which she dwelt? But in the course of a few months certain events transpired which threatened to lay bare to the public the whole of this most painful history. I must explain myself more fully by stating that my wife’s father had made a will leaving some landed property to me, and which was to descend to the child or children that might spring from my marriage with his daughter. A distant male relative of his now set up a claim to that property; and proceedings were taken in the Court of Chancery, from which it transpired that the Marquis and Marchioness of Delmour were living apart—by mutual consent, as it was alleged—and that their infant child was in the charge of the Marquis himself. I shall not weary you with particulars nor details: suffice it to say that the proceedings took such a turn and were of such a nature as to lead to a decree to this effect—that the claims of the distant relative were rejected—that trustees were appointed by the Court to administer the property, until Agnes should attain the age of twenty-one—and that, as no allegation of misconduct had been made against the Marchioness of Delmour, she should have the charge of her daughter!”
This portion of the Marquis’s narrative will explain to the reader wherefore, when conversing with his daughter at the cottage, as detailed in [Chapter CLXI]., he said to her, “Two years more, and I shall no longer have any secrets from you:” because at the expiration of that period, Agnes would attain her majority. The decree in Chancery likewise explained the ground upon which Mrs. Sefton—alias the Marchioness of Delmour—had observed to Trevelyan, in [Chapter CLXXXI]., that “the law was in her favour,” in respect to any endeavour that might be made to wrest Agnes from her care; and the same fact elucidates the meaning of her ladyship’s remark that two years must elapse ere she could venture to dispose of the hand of her daughter in marriage.
“Thus was it,” resumed the Marquis, after a brief pause, “that those accursed proceedings which I did not provoke, and which, when once commenced, I could not arrest,—thus was it that they suddenly placed my infant daughter within the jurisdiction of the Chancery Court, and deprived me of the right of retaining her in my care. It is true that I might have instituted counter-proceedings in respect to this portion of the decree: but then I should have been compelled to attack the reputation of my wife—prove her to be an adultress, if such evidence could be acquired—and cover a noble family with shame, while a species of hereditary taint would cling to the reputation of my Agnes. Now, my lord, you can understand my motive in rearing her under circumstances of such privacy—such secresy,—in dooming her to an existence of seclusion—almost of solitude,—and of adopting all possible precautions to prevent her falling into the hands of her mother. And now, also, that you are acquainted with this most sad—this most unhappy history, I appeal to you whether you will be the means of permitting the innocent Agnes to remain in the care of her unworthy parent. If you really love her, my lord—if you propose to make her your wife when she attains her majority—I put it to your honour and to your good sense whether it be preferable that she should pass the interval of two years with her mother, who occupies so equivocal a position—or with her father, who has ever done his duty towards her.”
Trevelyan was cruelly embarrassed by this appeal, which in reality carried so much weight with it and involved so important a point, that he knew not how to act. Much as he was disposed to make all possible allowances for Mrs. Sefton—as we had better continue to call her,—much as he pitied her in consequence of the wretched marriage into which she had been forced—and great as the excuse was for her connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote,—he nevertheless could not avoid being shocked at the idea of the young creature whom he intended to make his wife, remaining in the maternal care.
His good sense and propriety of feeling naturally prompted him, therefore, to advocate the father’s claim to the guardianship of Agnes: but on the other hand, the solemn pledge he had given to Sir Gilbert Heathcote, and likewise his confidence in the good principles of Mrs. Sefton, in spite of her equivocal position—all this forbade him to side at once with the Marquis. Yet how was he to remain neutral?—he who had such a deep and tender interest in the welfare of the lovely—the innocent—the artless Agnes!
While he was still hesitating what course to adopt, and walking up and down the room in an excited manner,—while, too, the Marquis of Delmour, who remained seated upon the sofa, was watching him with the most intense anxiety,—a loud double knock and ring at the front door startled both the noblemen.
“I will not receive any one at present!” exclaimed Trevelyan; and hastily opening the drawing-room door, he hurried out upon the landing, whence he was about to give instructions to the hall-porter to deny him to the visitor, whoever it might be.
But the front-door was already opened; and both the Marquis and Trevelyan heard the hall-porter observing, evidently in reply to a question that had been put to him—“His lordship is particularly engaged, madam, at the present moment: the Marquis of Delmour is with his lordship in the drawing-room.”
“The Marquis of Delmour—eh?” exclaimed a female voice, not unknown to either of the noblemen. “Oh! I am acquainted with the Marquis as well as with my friend Lord William—and I will therefore take the liberty of intruding upon them.”
Before the hall-porter could offer any farther objection, the obtrusive female brushed past him and hurried up the marble staircase—Trevelyan having already retreated into the drawing-room.
In a few moments the young nobleman and the Marquis were equally annoyed by the appearance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, decked out in the gayest style, thus unceremoniously forced her way into their presence.
CHAPTER CXCII.
MRS. MORTIMER IN LONDON AGAIN.
“This is really most fortunate, my lords!” exclaimed the old woman, as she entered with a smirking countenance and a self-sufficient air. “I wished to see you both as early as convenient this morning—and, behold! I find you together. How is the pretty Agnes? Has not your lordship discovered that I told you the truth, when I referred you to this house for information respecting her?” she inquired, turning towards the Marquis.
“Yes, madam,” he exclaimed, hastily: “and as I shall proceed direct hence to my bankers, to instruct them relative to certain cheques which I recently gave in Paris, you may present your draft in the course of the day with the certainty of receiving the amount. I presume that it was for this purpose you desired to see me!”
“Precisely so, my lord,” responded the old woman, scarcely able to conceal the boundless joy which she now experienced: for the Marquis had given her precisely the very information which she was anxious to obtain—namely, that his banker would in the course of the day be directed to cash the various cheques he had recently given when in Paris!
“And what business can you possibly have to transact with me, madam?” demanded Lord William Trevelyan, in a tone of the most chilling hauteur.
“I thought of doing your lordship a service,” answered Mrs. Mortimer; “and yet the manner in which I am received, is but a sorry recompense for my good intentions.”
“To speak candidly, madam,” said the young noble, “I mistrust your intentions and do not require your services.”
“It is true enough that the presence of the Marquis here has forestalled the purport of my own visit,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, secretly enjoying the vexation which she evidently caused Lord William by remaining in the room. “But I may as well prove to you that those intentions which you affect to mistrust, were really good; and therefore I will at once inform your lordship that I came to relate to you all that took place between the Marquis and me in Paris three days ago. For I thought that I might as well prepare you for a visit on the part of my Lord Delmour; and I was in hopes of being the first to reveal to you the high birth of the young lady whom you had believed to be plain Agnes Vernon.”
“For which officiousness you would have expected a handsome remuneration,” said Lord William, with a contemptuous curling of the lip. “No—madam: you will not obtain a single guinea from me! I can read your character thoroughly—and, grieved as I am to be compelled to address a female in so harsh a manner, I must nevertheless beg you to relieve me of your presence as speedily as possible.”
“I have no wish to intrude myself any longer upon your lordships,” observed Mrs. Mortimer; and, with a respectful curtsey to the Marquis and a stiff inclination of the head to Trevelyan, she took her departure.
“And now, my lord,” said the impatient Marquis, “that we are relieved of the company of that despicable woman—for in no other light can I regard her—may I solicit your decision in the important matter that yet remains to be settled?”
“It grieves me—believe me, my dear Marquis, it pains me to keep you in suspense,” returned Trevelyan: “but on one side my inclination prompts me to act in accordance with your wishes—on the other, my word is pledged to retain the abode of—of——”
“Mrs. Sefton,” interrupted the old nobleman, hastily.
“To retain the address of that lady a profound secret,” added Trevelyan. “But this much I will promise—this much I will undertake:—without delay to repair to Mrs. Sefton and urge her to deliver up Lady Agnes to your care. I have that confidence in her rectitude of principle, which induces me to hope for success when I shall have placed the entire matter before her in its proper light.”
“With this assurance I must rest contented for the present,” observed the Marquis. “But hear the resolution to which I have come,” he continued, rising from his seat, and speaking in a tone of excitement. “Hitherto I have done all I could—aye, and far more than the generality of injured husbands would have done—to cast a veil over the unhappy circumstances which I have this morning related to you. But should she refuse to deliver up my daughter to my care—should she entrench herself behind the decision of the Chancery Court—I shall then remain peaceable no longer. It shall be war—open war—between her and me. I will appeal to the tribunals of my country—I will apply to the Ecclesiastical Court and the House of Lords for a divorce—and I will adopt the necessary proceedings and furnish the proper evidence to induce the Lord Chancellor to deprive the erring mother of the care of her child. Such is my determination, Lord William—and you may use the menace, which is no idle one, to bring that woman to reason.”
With these words the Marquis pressed the hand of the young nobleman, and took his leave hastily.
Mrs. Mortimer, who was seated in a cab at a little distance, watching for the departure of the Marquis, beheld him enter his carriage, which immediately drove away; and the humbler vehicle was thereupon directed to follow the more imposing equipage.
The carriage proceeded into the Strand, and stopped at the door of an eminent banking-house, which the Marquis entered.
Mrs. Mortimer, having dogged him thither, alighted at a little distance and dismissed the cab.
She watched the old nobleman come forth again; and then she repaired to a coffee-house in the neighbourhood where she ordered some refreshment to be served up in a private room. She likewise demanded writing materials; and when she was left to herself, she drew forth the cheque for six hundred pounds which the Marquis of Delmour had given her.
“Now for the grand blow,” she thought within herself, as she carefully examined the draft: “and it must be struck boldly, too! But the aim is worth all the risk:—sixty thousand pounds or transportation—those are the alternatives! I have been possessed of enough money in my life to know how sweet it is—and I have seen enough of transportation to be well aware how bitter it is! And the former is so sweet that it is worth while chancing all the bitters of the latter to obtain it. Besides—apart from the delicious feeling of having a vast fortune at my command—how delightful will it be to over-reach the haughty Perdita—or Laura, as she chooses to call herself!”
And here the old woman’s lips curled into a contemptuous sneer.
“I have hitherto managed matters cleverly enough,” she continued in her musings. “Ah! hah! Lord William Trevelyan thought that I called upon him either to gratify some idle curiosity or to extort money. He little suspected my drift! It was to see whether the Marquis had been to him—to learn whether my information had been found correct—to ascertain whether I might present the draft at the bankers’. And then the old Marquis himself!—it was lucky that I found him there—I was saved the trouble of calling at his mansion to worm out of him whether he had instructed his bankers to pay the cheque,—not my paltry draft for six hundred—but Perdita’s grand amount of sixty thousand! In all this I succeeded admirably: and now for the desperate venture.”
Having thus communed with herself, Mrs. Mortimer partook of a little refreshment; for she was anxious to while away an hour before she went to the bank, so as not to present herself too soon after the visit of the Marquis of Delmour to the establishment.
When she had eaten and drank as drunk as much as she cared for, she addressed herself to the grand project which she had in view, and in furtherance of which she had demanded the private room and the writing materials at the coffee-house.
The writing of the Marquis was execrably bad; and it was not a very difficult matter to add ty to the six, and transform the word hundred into thousand, in the body of the cheque; while the simple addition of 00 to the 600l. written in figures in the corner, completed the forgery.
The cheque, therefore, now stood for sixty thousand pounds, instead of six hundred, payable to bearer, no particular name being mentioned as the intended recipient.
When the old woman had thus transformed the document, a glow of triumph animated her hideous countenance: but in a few moments a chill—a cold, creeping tremor came over her—as if a clammy snake were gradually coiling itself around her form, underneath her clothes;—for she remembered all the sensations which she had experienced when she committed the forgery of Sir Henry Courtenay’s name nineteen years previously!
By a desperate effort the old woman shook off the painful feeling that thus influenced her; and, resolving to allow herself no more leisure for reflection, lest her thoughts should make a coward of her, she rang the bell—paid the trifling amount incurred—and took her departure from the coffee-house.
During her walk to the bank, which was close at hand, she rapidly calculated in her mind all the chances of success. The Marquis had unquestionably been thither to give instructions relative to the draft held by Laura as well as that which had been given to herself; and there was not the slightest reason to fear that her daughter had followed so closely on her steps from Paris as to have been able to visit the bank during the hour that had just elapsed. As for the excellence of the forgery—or rather of the alterations, Mrs. Mortimer entertained no apprehension on that score; and thus, all things considered, she deemed failure to be impossible.
With an apparent outward composure, but with a palpitating heart, the old woman entered the bank, and presented her cheque to one of the clerks. He surveyed it narrowly—took it into the private office, or parlour, doubtless to submit it to one of the proprietors of the establishment or some responsible person—and remained away upwards of two minutes.
Two minutes!—but that interval was an age—a perfect age in the imagination of the old woman! It was an interval composed of such intense feelings that the hair of a young person might have turned suddenly grey,—feelings of such burning hope and such awful suspense, of such profound terror and fervid expectation, that while molten lead appeared to drop upon one side of her heart, ice seemed to lay upon the other!
At length the clerk came back; and Mrs. Mortimer darted a rapid—searching—penetrating glance at his countenance.
Nothing save respect and civility could she trace thereon: and she instantly knew that she was safe!
Then came such a revulsion of feeling—such a subsiding of the terrors and such an exaltation of the hopes which she had conceived—that it was as if she were shooting upwards from the profundity of a deluge of dark waters and suddenly breathed the fresh air again and beheld the bright sun and the smiling heavens overhead.
The clerk proceeded to count out bank-notes for the sum specified in the cheque; and as he handed the fortune—yes, literally a fortune—over to the old woman, he considerately gave her a caution to take care of the vile characters who frequently lurked about the doors of banking-houses.
Mrs. Mortimer thanked the clerk for his well-meant advice, and sallied forth from the establishment, with a heart so elate that she could scarcely believe in the success of the tremendous fraud, now that it had passed triumphantly through the ordeal.
But as she was crossing the threshold, she heard a name suddenly mentioned; and, hastily turning her head, she found herself face to face with Jack Rily, the Doctor!
CHAPTER CXCIII.
JACK RILY AND MRS. MORTIMER.
The individual whom Mrs. Mortimer thus unexpectedly and unpleasantly encountered, had made a considerable improvement in his personal appearance during the few days that had elapsed since she saw him last.
The old fur cap, the greasy velveteen shooting-jacket, the rusty waistcoat, the corduroy trowsers, and the heavy high-lows, were exchanged for a shining silk hat, a complete suit of black clothes, and a pair of Wellington boots: his shirt was likewise new and clean, and he wore a satin stock instead of the blue cotton handkerchief tied loosely round his neck.
He had evidently endeavoured to make himself look as respectable as he could: but the almost African hue of his complexion—the horrible hare-lip, through the opening of which the large white teeth glistened up to the gums—and the yellow fire that seemed to shine in the small and restless eyes, gave him such a peculiar aspect that it was scarcely possible for any one who passed to avoid noticing him.
“Mrs. Mortimer, my beloved tiger-cat, how are you?” he exclaimed, grasping the old woman’s hand and shaking it violently.
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Rily: but pray do not detain me now, there’s a good soul—for I have not a moment to spare——”
“I shan’t detain you, old beauty,” interrupted Jack; “because I’ll just do myself the pleasure of walking along with you. Come—take my arm—you needn’t be ashamed to do so now: I think I’m pretty tidily rigged—eh?”
Thus speaking, he glanced complacently over his own person, and then bestowed a look upon the outward appearance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, as we have already observed, was dressed with unusual gaiety.
“Come, my dear—take my arm,” exclaimed the Doctor.
“Really, Mr. Rily, you must excuse me,” said the old woman, who was most anxious to get away from the vicinity of the bank, but by no means desirous of remaining in the company of the Doctor: “I have a particular matter to attend to immediately! If, however, you desire to see me, I shall be most happy to meet you this evening——”
“This fiddlestick!” interrupted Jack Rily, impatiently. “You know that you never kept the appointment you made with me after that Stamford Street affair the other day—when you went away with the young girl in the cab; and yet you assured me that there was money to be got through her——”
“Well, well—I have not time to talk of the matter now,” said Mrs. Mortimer, angrily: “and I must take my leave of you.”
“Lord bless you! I’m not going to be put off in this fashion, old lady,” cried Jack. “It suits me to have a little further chat with you—and I’m determined the whim shall be gratified. So take my arm at once, and come along. If we stand here palavering, we shall soon have a mob about us—because it isn’t every day that two such handsome people as you and I are seen together,” he added, with a horrible chuckle.
“But perhaps you are not going my way,” said Mrs. Mortimer, still hesitating to take the proffered arm, and deeply vexed at this encounter.
“Oh! yes I am—because I’ll go any way you like,” responded Jack Rily, in the most accommodating spirit.
“Well—you shall be my companion for a short time,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, affecting to laugh in good humour; and, taking his arm, she proceeded with him along the Strand.
“I met our friend Vitriol Bob last night at a public-house,” observed Jack, who seemed quite proud of having the hideous old woman clinging to him. “He looked remarkably savage when he saw me in my bran new toggery—for he thought to himself that the money which purchased it ought to have belonged to him. I hadn’t seen him since the night in Stamford Street; and, as he had the impudence to stare at me in a threatening manner, I went up to him and whispered in his ear, ‘What about old Torrens, Bob?’ He turned quite livid with rage, and ground his teeth together; then, after a few moments’ consideration, he said—also in a whisper—‘If it wasn’t that you knew that secret, I’d serve you out nicely, old fellow: but I’ll be even with you yet, I dare say.’—‘Whenever you like, Bob,’ said I; and then we sate down in different parts of the room and stared at each other all the time we were smoking our pipes. But not another word passed between us; and the other people who were present, knowing that we were excellent pals until lately, wondered what the devil was the matter.”
“And did he bury the dead body, do you know?” inquired Mrs. Mortimer.
“I didn’t put the question to him,” answered Jack Rily. “Nothing more passed between us than what I have just told you: but I have no doubt that he laid old Torrens two or three feet under the kitchen floor in the Haunted House. And now, how do you suppose that I and Vitriol Bob stand with regard to each other?”
“As enemies, I should suppose,” replied Mrs. Mortimer, wondering by what means she could possibly shake off her disagreeable companion.
“As mortal—implacable—unrelenting enemies,” continued the man, lowering his voice: for his loud talking had already attracted the notice of the passers-by in the Strand, and he had just caught sight of a policeman who appeared to be eyeing him rather suspiciously. “Yes—as bitter enemies,” he repeated. “Not that I have any resentment now against Bob: because my revenge is gratified, and I am more than even with him. But as he will take the first opportunity to thrust a knife into my ribs, or dash his vitriol bottle in my face, whenever he catches me in a lonely place,—why, I must be prepared to struggle with him to the very death. So, my old tiger-cat,” added the Doctor, with amazing cheerfulness, considering the gravity of the topic, “whenever he and I do so meet, only one of us will walk away alive. That’s as certain as that you’re leaning on my arm, and that I’m proud of your company.”
“Is Vitriol Bob, as you call him, such a desperate fellow?” inquired Mrs. Mortimer, wishing the Doctor at the hottest place she could think of.
“Why, I’ve told you all about him before,” exclaimed Jack. “And now let me give you a little piece of advice about yourself, old gal——”
“About me!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, with a shudder occasioned by a presentiment of what she was going to hear.
“Yes—about you, my tiger-cat,” repeated the Doctor. “Remember that Vitriol Bob never forgets or forgives—and he owes you one. That’s all! But, when I think of it, I shall constitute myself your lawful protector—because I never did meet any woman so precious ugly as you are; and ugliness, when joined to ferocity, is beauty in my eyes—as I have before told you.”
“Well, well—we will discuss all these points another time,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “I must leave you here,” she added, stopping suddenly short at the corner of Wellington Street, leading to Waterloo Bridge.
“Your way is mine,” observed Jack Rily, coolly, as he compelled her to walk on. “But, by the bye, what were you doing in that bank at the door of which I met you?”
“I merely went in to see a clerk of my acquaintance,” replied the old woman, cursing in her heart the odious companion who thus pertinaciously attached himself to her.
“Come, that won’t do, old gal!” exclaimed Jack, as he paid the toll for them both at the gate of the bridge. “I am so well acquainted with all the rigs and moves of London life, as to be able to tell in a moment whether a person coming out of a bank has been to receive money, or not. If it’s a gentleman, he feels at his breeches-pocket to see that the cash is all safe—or he buttons his coat over his breast which proves that the notes are in his waistcoat. If it’s a woman, she gripes her reticule precious tight—or smoothes down her dress just over where her pocket is—or else settles her shawl over her bosom, when the notes are there. This last was precisely what you did; and therefore, my old tiger-cat, I know that you’ve got money in the bosom of your dress as well as if I saw you put it there.”
“You’re quite wrong for once in your life, Mr. Rily,” said Mrs. Mortimer, trembling at the remarks which had just fallen upon her ears.
“Then why does your arm shake so as it hangs in mine?” demanded the Doctor, with an imperturbability which frightened the old woman more than if he had actually used threats: for, little as she had seen of him, she was well enough acquainted with his character to perceive that he was meditating mischief.
“My arm did not shake,” cried Mrs. Mortimer, mastering up all her courage and presence of mind, “But here we are at the end of the bridge, and I must bid you good-bye. When shall we meet again?”
“We are not going to separate in a hurry, I can tell you,” said the Doctor: “so don’t think it. You know I love you,” he added with a horrible grin, which opened his harelip so wide that he seemed to be an ogre about to devour her; “and I love much more still the bank-notes that you have got in your bosom. Besides, it is my duty to protect you from Vitriol Bob; and, in addition to all this, I think we shall be able to knock up a very cozie partnership together.”
“And suppose that I decline the honour you intend me?” asked the old woman, assuming a tone of bitter sarcasm in order to induce Rily to believe that she was not afraid—though, in reality, her heart was sinking within her.
“In the case which you have suggested, I shall force you to do as I choose and act as I desire,” coolly responded the Doctor.
“Force me, indeed!” repeated the old woman, withdrawing her arm, and stopping short in the Waterloo Road.
“Yes—force you,” said Jack Rily, compelling her to take his arm again and also to walk on. “You had better not provoke me, because I am not the man to stick at trifles; and if you make a noise and raise a mob, I will swear black and blue that you are my wife—that you have bolted with my money—and that the notes are concealed somewhere about your person. Then, if the police should interfere, you will have to give an account of how you became possessed of the notes aforesaid;—and I dare say, from the estimate I have formed of your character, you would not like to be questioned on that point. In a word, then—unless I am mightily deceived—you have committed some nice little bit of roguery; and I mean to go halves with you.”
This tirade was spun out to such a length and delivered in such a measured tone of coolness, that Mrs. Mortimer, who was perfectly astounded at the menaces with which it opened, had leisure to recover her self-possession: but the rapid survey of her position which she was enabled to take while the Doctor was finishing his harangue, was far from consolatory. She had indeed committed a little roguery, and would indeed be sorry to be questioned by the police; and she knew, moreover, that Jack Rily was quite capable of carrying all his threats into immediate execution.
What, then, was she to do? There was no alternative but to bend to circumstances—make the best of a bad job—and trust to the chapter of accidents so as to avail herself of any occurrence that might turn up in her favour.
“Well—you keep silent, old gal,” said the Doctor, after a short pause. “Is it that you don’t admire me sufficiently to take me as a husband, in the fashion of leaping over the broom-stick?”
“It is of the utmost importance that I should attend to certain pressing matters,” returned Mrs. Mortimer; “and afterwards I shall be happy to fall into all your plans and projects.”
“Well, we will attend to the pressing matters together,” said the Doctor. “A husband and wife must have no secrets from each other. But since we have come this way, and as my abode happens to lie in the immediate neighbourhood, I propose at once to introduce you thereto and install you as mistress of the place. I have got a comfortable crib—for Torrens’s money did wonders for me as you may well suppose.”
At this moment a project flashed to the mind of the old woman. What if she were to yield, without farther hesitation or remonstrance, to the Doctor’s proposals, and watch her opportunity either to murder him or escape when he was asleep? By wheedling herself into his confidence, she would know where he deposited the money which, she feared, must pass from her hands into his own; and she could repossess herself of it, if he were disposed of, or if she were wakeful while he slept.
“I do not mind accompanying you to your lodgings,” she said; “and there we can talk over the whole business much better than in the open street.”
“There! now you are getting into a better frame of mind,” observed Jack Rily. “This way:”—and he turned into the low streets lying on the left-hand side of the Waterloo Road, between Upper Stamford Street and the New Cut.
The neighbourhood alluded to swarms with brothels of the most infamous description; and half-naked women may be seen at all hours lounging about at the doors, and endeavouring to entice into their dens any respectable-looking men who happen to pass that way. Robberies are of frequent occurrence in those houses of ill fame; and the great aim of the vile females inhabiting them, is to entrap persons who are the worse for liquor and whose appearance denotes a well-filled purse. Neighbourhoods of this kind should be shunned by all decent persons, as if a pestilence were raging there!
It was into Roupel-street that Jack Rily conducted Mrs. Mortimer; and when he had introduced her to a small but well furnished parlour, with a bed-chamber communicating by means of folding-doors, he produced a bottle of brandy, saying, “Now let us drink to our happy meeting this day!”
Filling two glasses with the potent liquor, he handed one to the old woman, who swallowed the contents greedily: for she felt that she stood in need of a stimulant.
“Now, my beautiful tiger-cat,” exclaimed the Doctor, as he drew down the blind over the window, “I am about to subject you to a little ceremony which may be perhaps looked upon as the least thing uncourteous; but it must be accomplished all the same. So don’t let us have any bother about it.”
Thus speaking, he approached the cupboard whence he had taken the brandy, and drawing forth a huge clasp-knife, he touched a spring which made the blade fly open and remain fixed as if it were a dagger.
“You do not mean to hurt me?” exclaimed the old woman, now becoming terribly alarmed—so much so, that she sank exhausted into a chair, while her looks were fixed appealingly on the man’s countenance.
“Not unless you grow obstreperous or have any of your nonsense,” said Jack. “I love you too well to harm you,” he added, with a leer that made him more hideously ugly than ever: “but I must have my own way all the same. So just be so kind as to place upon the table the Bank-notes which you have got in the bosom of your gown. It is but fair that I should have a wife who can bring me a dowry—and you must leave it to my generosity,” he went on to say, with a chuckling laugh, “how much I shall settle upon you afterwards.”
While he was thus speaking, Mrs. Mortimer rapidly revolved in her mind all the chances that were for or against her at that moment. Were she to scream and attempt resistance, could she succeed in alarming the neighbourhood before the miscreant would have plunged his dagger into her?—or, indeed, would he have recourse to such an extreme measure at all? These questions she at once decided against herself; and, reverting to her former project of affecting obedience, she thrust her hand into her bosom, dexterously separated a couple of the notes from the rest of the bundle, and threw those two upon the table.
Jack Rily instantly snatched them up; and when he perceived that they were for a thousand pounds each, he could scarcely contain his joy.
Flinging the terrible clasp-knife on the floor, he rushed upon the old woman, who was seized with too sudden and too profound a terror to permit her even to give utterance to the faintest ejaculation—for she thought that he intended to murder her: but her cruel apprehensions fled in another moment when the loathsome monster, throwing his arms about her neck, began to embrace and fondle her as if she were a blooming beauty of seventeen instead of a hideous harridan upwards of sixty. Nevertheless, old and polluted as she was, and inured to all circumstances of disgust as her term of transportation had rendered her, she revolted with a sickening sensation from the pawings and caresses of the hare-lipped wretch who had thus enfolded her in his horrible embrace. She therefore struggled to rid herself of him—to escape from his arms: but he, almost maddened with the joy which the sight of the bank-notes had raised up in his breast, hugged her only the more tightly in proportion as her resistance became the more desperate.
“By heavens! I’ll kiss you again, old gal!” he exclaimed. “I care not how ugly the world may consider you——Be quiet now, can’t you?——to me you’re a paragon of beauty——Perdition! let go of me, you hell-cat——there! now you’re magnificent in your rage—that’s the humour I like to see a woman in——Hey-dey! what’s that?”
And, as he uttered this ejaculation, he suddenly quitted his hold upon Mrs. Mortimer, and pounced upon something that had rolled on the floor.
It was the bundle of Bank-notes, which had fallen from the old woman’s dress during the struggle.
“By Jove! here’s a treasure—a fortune—a King’s ransom!” ejaculated the Doctor, scarcely able to believe his eyes, as he hastily turned over the notes with his hands. “My God! it is impossible!” he cried, his wonderment increasing to such a pitch, that he began to think he must be insane: then, a sudden idea striking him, he turned abruptly towards Mrs. Mortimer, who had sunk back, exhausted and overwhelmed with rage and grief, into the chair. “Ah! I understand it all now,” he said, his voice changing in a moment to the low tone of solemn mystery: “you are a nice old girl, you are! Yes—yes—I understand it at last! These are all queer screens[26]—and you went into the bank to smash[27] some of them. By Jove! it’s glorious.”
Mrs. Mortimer, who was gasping for breath, could make no reply: her mouth was parched—her tongue was as dry as if she had been travelling for hours over a desert without tasting water.
“And yet,” resumed Jack Rily, scrutinising the notes more narrowly still, “these are precious good imitations—too good to be imitations, indeed. I know enough of Bank-notes—aye, and of forged ones too—to see that these are the genuine flimsies. Blood and thunder! what a glorious old wretch you are!” he cried, again surveying her with a joy that was entirely unfeigned and amounted almost to admiration. “I suppose you have committed some splendid forgery. But of course it must be something of that kind,” he added, a sudden reminiscence striking him: “or else you wouldn’t have been so deucedly alarmed when I threatened just now to kick up a row in the streets and attract the notice of the police. So, you perceive, that I was pretty keen in my surmises. I knew you had money concealed in your bosom—and I was equally well convinced you had not obtained it by means that would bear inquiry. However, here it is—in my possession—and it can’t be in safer hands. I’ll just sit down quietly, and count how much there is.”
Thus speaking, the monster picked up his clasp-knife, which he closed and consigned to his pocket; and he next proceeded to inspect the Bank-notes. But when he discovered the enormous sum to which they amounted, his astonishment grew to such an extreme as even to subdue his joy; and, shaking his head slowly, he observed, “This is such a heavy affair that the police will leave no stone unturned to detect the holders of the notes. Whatever we do, must be done at once; and in order that I should be able to judge what course to pursue, you must give me all the particulars of the transaction.”
Mrs. Mortimer was struck by the truth of this observation: for she knew that the moment the forgery was detected, payment of the notes would be stopped, and advertisements announcing the usual caution would be inserted in the newspapers.
“Well, I suppose there is no use in disguising the real truth,” she exclaimed, recovering her self-possession; “and I will tell you all about it in a few words. A certain nobleman——”
“Who is he?” demanded Rily. “Come—speak out plainly.”
“The Marquis of Delmour, since you must know,” returned the old woman.
“And what did he do,” asked the man, impatiently.
“He gave me a cheque for six hundred pounds for a particular service that I rendered him; and he also gave my daughter——”
“Ah! you have got a daughter, eh?” exclaimed Jack Rily. “Is she anything like yourself?”
“She is as beautiful as an angel,” answered Mrs. Mortimer, a scintillation of a mother’s pride flashing at the moment in her bosom: “but as depraved and dissolute as a demoness,” she added almost immediately. “Well, this Marquis of Delmour was wheedled by her out of a cheque for sixty thousand pounds; and though my daughter kept it quiet enough, I found out the secret. So away I sped—back to England I came——”
“Where did all this happen, then?” demanded Jack.
“In Paris—three days ago,” replied Mrs. Mortimer. “On my arrival in London, my course was easy——”
“You may almost say natural,” interrupted the Doctor. “I understand the business plainly enough at present. You altered your six hundred pound draft into one for sixty thousand—and you have thus forestalled your daughter?”
“That is precisely how the matter stands,” said the old woman.
“And when is it likely that your daughter will be in London to present her cheque?” asked the Doctor.
“I should say that I had about twelve hours’ start of her,” was the response; “and then, as she would not travel by night—having a handsome young foreigner as her companion—the circumstance of her stopping to sleep on the road would delay her pretty nearly another twelve hours. Besides, she believes me to be still in Paris—she has not the least idea of my sudden return to England; and therefore she has no particular motive to induce her to adopt any extraordinary speed.”
“Well, well,” cried the Doctor, impatiently: “but all this palaver does not answer my question. When do you expect your daughter will reach London?”
“This evening,” replied the old woman: “too late to present her cheque at the bank. And there are means—yes, there are means,” she continued in a musing tone, “which, if skilfully adopted, would compel my daughter to refrain from offering her draft at all, and likewise force her to leave us in undisturbed possession of the money.”
“And those means?” demanded Jack Rily, his eyes brightening.
“Before I explain myself, let us come to a thorough understanding,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Will you restore me one-half of the amount you now hold in your possession? I am content to abandon the other half to you.”
“Yes, that is a bargain,” answered Jack Rily; “for I see that you do not relish the idea of living with me altogether, and that you will leave me when this matter is properly settled. Is it not so?”
“Well, such is indeed my intention,” responded the old woman.
“Our relative position now stands in this manner,” continued Jack Rily: “there are sixty thousand pounds’ worth of good notes. With all my connexion amongst fences and receivers of such flimsy, I could not manage to obtain gold for more than two or three thousand in the course of the day; and to-morrow morning your daughter may present her cheque, when a discovery will take place, and all the rest of the notes will be useless. As for going over to the continent, and endeavouring to pass them there, the thing would be ridiculous; for the advertisements in the newspapers would put all the money-changers in Europe upon their guard. Thus far, then, the notes are not worth more than two or three thousand pounds to me. But, on the other hand, you say that you have the means of stopping your daughter’s mouth, and compelling her to put up with the loss. In this case, the whole amount of notes becomes available; and therefore we will share and share alike.”
“Then give me my moiety at once,” said the old woman, with greedy impatience.
“No such thing!” ejaculated Rily: “I must have some guarantee that you act properly in this business; and you can have no hesitation in putting your trust in me, because you have had a proof of my good feeling before. I have not forgotten that you saved my life in the struggle with Vitriol Bob; and the same feeling that made me give you half the spoil then, will prompt me to act with equal fairness now. You are therefore at liberty to depart when you choose, and to go where you like: the notes will remain in my possession—and when you come back to me with the assurance that you have prevented your daughter from taking any step that may lead to an explosion of the whole business, your share shall be immediately forthcoming. I have now put the matter in the proper light; and with such a good understanding, there can be no quarrelling. As to whether you afterwards choose to become my broom-stick wife, I must leave it entirely to yourself: for though I should be as happy as a king in the possession of your old person and sixty thousand pounds, yet I shall be able to console myself for your loss by means of the thirty thousand that will remain to me.”
During this long tirade, all the first portion of which was delivered in a tone of business-like seriousness, Mrs. Mortimer was hastily reflecting upon the improvement that had so unexpectedly taken place in the aspect of her affairs: for she now found herself at liberty to leave the monster whom she loathed and abhorred, and she had every chance of regaining and being able to make use of the moiety of the Bank-notes.
She accordingly assented to the conditions proposed by the Doctor, leaving the broom-stick marriage “an open question;” and having settled her disordered attire, she took her departure—not however before she had been compelled to submit to another hugging on the part of the hare-lipped wretch whose caresses were so revolting and intolerable.
CHAPTER CXCIV.
MOTHER AND DAUGHTER AGAIN.
It was about five o’clock in the evening of the same day on which these events occurred, that Laura Mortimer and the Count of Carignano, attended by Rosalie, arrived in London by the South Eastern Railway; and they immediately repaired to an hotel at the west-end of the town.
Although the young Italian nobleman had experienced sufficient leisure for reflection with regard to the step which he was about to take, the enthusiasm of his passion had not undergone the least abatement: on the contrary, the more he saw of Laura, and the longer he was in her company, the more ardently did he burn to make her his wife.
Nor can this infatuation on his part be a subject of wonder or surprise with our readers: for when it is remembered that the artful creature united the most winning ways and captivating manners to the most transcendent loveliness, and that the Count of Carignano had the warm Italian blood flowing in his veins,—when, too, it is recollected that the syren maintained an incessant fire upon his heart with the artillery of her charms and her fascinations—never permitting the conversation to droop throughout the journey, and never seeming wearied of lavishing the tenderest caresses upon her handsome companion,—when all these circumstances are taken into consideration, it cannot be a matter of wonderment if the silken chains in which Lorenzo was ensnared, were completely rivetted.
There was also this fact which served to strengthen his love and her power: namely, that she had not invited him to return to her in Paris—she had not sought to retain him within the sphere of her influence on the occasion of their first amour—she had not played the part of a mere adventuress or husband-hunter towards him. No: she had dismissed him with the understanding that their connexion could not be renewed—that she could neither become his wife nor his mistress;—and the young man had of his own accord flown back to her, as a suppliant for her hand! That she could be an adventuress or a husband-hunter, never therefore entered his imagination—even if for an instant he paused to ponder with any degree of seriousness upon her character; and so far from considering that he was bestowing any favour upon her by making her the sharer of his wealth and title, he looked upon himself as the party owing the obligation—he regarded himself as the happy individual who had the greater reason to rejoice at the connexion.
On her part, Laura Mortimer was most anxious that the marriage-knot should be tied as speedily as possible: for she naturally longed to place beyond all possibility of doubt or disappointment the brilliant destiny that had suddenly developed itself to her view. Even the possession of the cheque for sixty thousand pounds was a secondary consideration, in comparison with her desire to secure that proud title of Countess which was now within her reach.
Having partaken of a hasty dinner at the hotel, Laura and her intended husband repaired without delay to a fashionable house-agent in the neighbourhood; and it happened that he had upon his list a furnished villa of which possession might be taken at an hour’s notice. It was situated in Westbourne Place, Pimlico, and was in perfect readiness for the reception of occupants. Thither the Count, Laura, and the house-agent immediately proceeded; and as the villa fully corresponded, in all its conveniences and appointments, with the description given, an arrangement was effected upon the spot for the tenancy.
Laura and the Count returned, however, to the hotel for that night; and early in the morning they repaired to Doctors’ Commons, where the young nobleman speedily obtained a special license. Thence, attended by Rosalie, they drove to a church at no very great distance; and by eleven o’clock the hands of Laura Mortimer and the Count of Carignano were united at the altar.
The incidents of this forenoon had, however, been closely watched by Mrs. Mortimer.
The wily old woman, upon quitting the Doctor the day before, had reasoned thus within herself:—
“Laura has captivated a young Italian nobleman whom she feels she can love—whom she already loves—and who possesses a proud title and princely revenues. Those were the very words which she used when she communicated her matrimonial intentions to me in Paris. I know her well enough to be fully convinced that she will not delay a moment after her return to London, in securing her admirer. A special license must be the means—and, as her intended husband is a foreigner, Laura will no doubt accompany him, at least into the neighbourhood of Doctors’ Commons. Even the presentation of her cheque at the banker’s will be quite a secondary matter, when compared with the grand object of securing the coronet which she so much covets!”
It was in consequence of these reflections that Mrs. Mortimer rose early in the morning and repaired to the district of Doctors’ Commons, where it is no difficult matter to become an observer without being observed, in the maze of narrow streets and little courts forming that neighbourhood. Nor was she mistaken in her conjecture—neither had she long to wait. In a short time a carriage—hired from the hotel—made its appearance, and a handsome young man, with a clear olive complexion and a glossy moustache, alighted. A lady thrust out her head to give him a few whispered instructions; and the beauteous countenance was not so completely shaded by the white bonnet and the veil, but that Mrs. Mortimer, from the nook where she had concealed herself, could recognise the features of her daughter. In a short time the handsome Italian returned, his own countenance glowing with delight; and the moment he re-entered the vehicle, it drove away. Mrs. Mortimer had a cab in attendance; and she followed the carriage to within sight of the church at which it stopped. She then dismissed the cab, and boldly entered the church, in order to become perfectly convinced that no unexpected accident should interfere with the marriage ceremony. Seating herself in a pew at a distance from the altar, she could behold everything without being observed by those whom she was thus watching. She saw Laura converse for a few moments with the sexton, who immediately afterwards hurried away; and in about a quarter of an hour he returned in company with the clergyman and the clerk. The ceremony then took place; and when the Count of Carignano was leading Laura back to the carriage, Rosalie being in close attendance upon them, Mrs. Mortimer suddenly emerged from the pew.
For an instant her daughter started and seemed profoundly vexed at this abrupt and unaccountable appearance of her parent; but in the next moment she recovered her self-possession, and, assuming a smiling countenance, said, “I thought you were in Paris; this therefore is an unexpected pleasure. Permit me, Lorenzo,” she added, turning, towards her husband, “to present my mother, who has thus accidentally happened to enter, for her own devotions, the very church where our marriage has taken place.”
As she uttered these words, Laura glanced with imperious signification at the old woman, as much as to enjoin her not to undeceive the Count relative to the accidental nature of this meeting: for the bride now understood full well that her mother had been watching her movements—though for what purpose she could not possibly divine.
“I am delighted to have the honour of an introduction to Mrs. Mortimer,” said the Count, taking the old woman’s hand: “and I hope that she approves of the alliance which her daughter has just formed?”
“Oh! assuredly, my lord,” answered the harridan: “but I regret that I was not duly invited to be present at the ceremony. However, I am not the less contented that it should have taken place; and as my stay in London is very short, your lordship will perhaps excuse me if I crave a few minutes’ private conversation with my daughter.”
“You may accompany us to the house which we have taken, mother,” said Laura: “and my dear Lorenzo will there grant us an opportunity of discoursing alone——on family matters——for a short time.”
“Certainly!” exclaimed the nobleman, who was too happy to offer an objection to anything proposed by his charming wife, and who saw nothing sinister nor strange in the present scene, unless indeed it were the sudden and unexpected presence of the mother: but as she had offered no objection to the match, he did not choose to trouble his own felicity with any conjecture as to the cause of her abrupt appearance on the occasion.
The bride, bridegroom, Mrs. Mortimer, and Rosalie (who had acted as bridemaid) accordingly entered the carriage, which drove away at a rapid pace towards Pimlico.
During the ride the conversation was of that general nature which settled upon no particular topic, and which therefore needs no detail here; and on the arrival of the party at the beautiful little villa in Westbourne Place, Mrs. Mortimer and Laura were speedily closetted together.
The moment they were thus alone, Laura’s countenance suddenly changed; and her features assumed an expression of something more than sternness—for it was rage—as she said in an imperious tone, “Why have you been watching my movements?—and how dared you thus to intrude yourself upon me at such a time and place?”
“Because it is of the utmost importance that I should confer with you at once on a subject of deep interest to us both,” replied Mrs. Mortimer, adopting a voice and manner of such cool insolence as to convince the shrewd and penetrating Laura that some circumstance had transpired to enable the old woman to proclaim her independence.
“And of what nature is that subject?” inquired the young lady, still treating her mother with a coolness almost amounting to disdain.
“In one sense, I am completely in your power: in another sense, you are entirely in mine,” returned Mrs. Mortimer; “and therefore mutual concessions are necessary to enable us both to enjoy peace, and follow our own ways unmolested.”
“You must explain yourself more fully yet,” said Laura, believing the announcement that she was in her mother’s power to allude to the secrets which the old woman might reveal relative to the dissoluteness of her former life. “If you desire me to render you any service,” she added, after a few moments’ pause, “you should not address me in the shape of menaces; because you know my disposition well enough to be fully aware that I am not likely to yield to them, even though my own interests should suffer by my obstinacy in that respect.”
“Perhaps you will talk differently in a few minutes,” observed the old woman. “If we now stand face to face as enemies, it is your own fault.”
“We will not re-argue all the points involved in that accusation,” said Laura. “Remember the scene in Suffolk Street—remember also the remarks which passed between us the other evening in Paris; and then cease to charge me with the misunderstandings that may have sprung up between us. You desired to play the despot’s part—I resisted—and in these few words all our differences are summed up. But I imagine that those differences were settled, and that an arrangement was made, whereby you were to dwell apart from me and receive a quarterly stipend of two hundred pounds. Have you thought better of the business?—or do you require some other terms?”
“Yes—I require other terms, indeed,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer: then, fixing her eyes full upon the countenance of her daughter, she said, “I am in possession of a secret which would ruin you——”
“Enough, mother!” ejaculated Laura, her beauteous countenance becoming scarlet with rage. “I will hear no more—for I understand your menace. But now listen to me! You fancy that I am in your power:—you think that if you seek my husband and reveal to him all the particulars of my past life—my amours—my profligacy,—you flatter yourself, I say, that his love will turn to hatred, and that he will discard me! Now, I dare you to do your worst—I fear you not! In the first place, you shall not see my husband again: in the second, you could succeed in working no change in his sentiments towards me. I would give you the lie to every word you uttered! He knows that I am not a goddess of purity: but I should have little difficulty in persuading him that you are magnifying a comparatively venial frailty into a monstrous dissoluteness. And now, mother, you may leave me as speedily as you choose—and spare me the pain of thrusting you from my doors by main force.”
Sublime and grand in the majesty of her beauty was the voluptuous—wanton—unprincipled Perdita,—(for on this occasion we must give her the name which so admirably represents her character),—as, drawn up to her full height, and with heaving bosom, flashing eyes, and expanding nostrils, she thus addressed her mother. Having laid aside her bonnet, shawl, and long white gloves, she seemed like a Pythoness in her bridal garments; and her manner was as energetic and awe-inspiring, as her voice was emphatic and determined in its full silver tones.
But the old woman lost not her composure: on the contrary, she listened to her daughter with the calm insolence of one possessing a last argument the enunciation of which would crush and overwhelm.
“One word, Laura,” she said, in a voice that commanded the young lady’s attention: “one word—and then act as you choose. If I ere now adopted a tone of menace, it was not with the intention of wielding such paltry and poor weapons as those to which you have alluded. I had not then, and have not now, the slightest intention of venting my spite in petty tittle-tattle relative to your amours: I will not afford you the chance,” she added, with keen sarcasm, “of using your sophistry for the purpose of colouring your dissoluteness so as to give it the air of a mere feminine frailty.”
“Cease this long preface, and come to the point at once,” said Laura, a vague fear coming over her, but which she concealed beneath a cold and rigid expression of countenance: at the same time, she saw full well that her mother was really possessed of some secret power whereof she was determined to make the most.
“My preface is done,” continued Mrs. Mortimer; “and now for the matter to which it was to lead. You have this day married the Count of Carignano?”
“You need scarcely ask that question,” said Laura; “since you have ere now accompanied us from the church where the ceremony was performed.”
“And you will henceforth style yourself Countess of Carignano?” proceeded the old woman, still adopting an interrogatory style.
“Certainly,” responded Laura: “I shall use the title to which marriage has given me a right. But to what point, may I once more ask, is all this long discourse to come?”
“To this,” answered the old woman, approaching her daughter and sinking her voice to a low whisper: “to this,” she repeated, her countenance becoming stern and resolute, while she abruptly stamped her foot imperiously upon the carpet: “to this, Laura—that your marriage of to-day is no marriage at all—that you consequently have no more right than I to the title of Countess—and that you have drawn down upon your head the peril of a prosecution for bigamy!”
An ice-chill came upon the heart of the young lady as these withering words met her ears: but, by means of an effort so powerful that it was anguish even to exercise it,—yes, agony thus to restrain her pent-up rage from finding a vent in a furious outburst,—she preserved an outward calmness which astonished her mother, who had expected to bring her down as an abject suppliant upon her knees.
“You must still explain yourself farther,” said Laura, in a cold tone.
“What! you affect not to understand me?” exclaimed the old woman. “Or would you have the insolence to deny that you are already married to Charles Hatfield?”
“I do not condescend to a falsehood upon the subject—at least with you,” responded Laura, contemptuously: though internally her agitation was immense.
“And yet you did deny it in Paris,” said the old woman. “But I was aware of the fact at the time—and I cherished the secret, well knowing that it would serve me some day or another. I little thought, however, that I should so soon be compelled to make use of it.”
“And for what purpose have you now proclaimed your knowledge thereof?” demanded Laura, a gleam of joy lighting up in her soul as she perceived that her mother was vexed and embarrassed by the calmness with which her menaces were received.
“In a word,” resumed the old woman, “we are in the power of each other. You can transport me—and I can transport you.”
“Again must I request you to explain yourself,” said Laura. “You are evidently fencing with something that you wish, yet fear to communicate.”
“I will speak out at once,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer. “The cheque which the Marquis of Delmour gave me for six hundred pounds, I altered in such a way as to make it represent sixty thousand; and I yesterday obtained the amount from the bankers. If you present your cheque, I shall be ruined; and therefore I propose a compromise.”
“And by way of opening the negociation, you level menaces at my head,” said Laura, who, though at first startled by the announcement of the tremendous fraud perpetrated by her mother, had speedily recovered her self-possession.
“What, then, is your decision?” asked the old woman, trembling from head to foot, and no longer able to conceal the horrible fears that had come upon her: for she began to fancy that her daughter would not yield even to the threats that had been used to coerce her. “What is your decision, I repeat?”
“To refuse all compromise—to accept the gauntlet which you threw down at first, and which you would now gladly take back again—to place myself in a condition of open hostility to you!” answered Laura, her countenance growing stern and pale, and her lips quivering slightly.
“But it will be transportation for us both,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer: “I for forgery—you for bigamy!”
“Permit me to give you my view of the case,” said Laura. “I hold a cheque for sixty thousand pounds, which I shall present to-morrow; and the money must be paid to me. The bankers will be the sufferers by the forgery—not I, nor the Marquis of Delmour. This disposes of one part of the question. For the rest, I have only to observe that even if I were tried and convicted for bigamy, a fortune of sixty thousand pounds would be no mean consolation during, perhaps, imprisonment for two years or transportation for seven. I am not, however, so sure that any prosecution of the kind will take place, be you never so vindictive: for I question whether you will have the courage to open your lips to accuse me of bigamy, seeing that it would not only be forgery with which I should charge you—but murder!”
“Murder!” repeated the old woman, half in indignation and half in terror: “what mean you?”
“I mean that Mr. Torrens, your husband, met with a violent death,” answered Laura,—“that you yourself gave me this information—and that you came over to London to be revenged upon him for his conduct of former times! Now, mother,” she exclaimed, her countenance suddenly becoming radiant with triumph,—“now will you dare to repeat your menaces against me?”
The old woman staggered back a few paces, and sank into a chair. The tables had been completely turned against her: she had come to conquer—and she must depart conquered;—she had sought out Laura in the hope of reducing her to submission—she was herself now crushed and overwhelmed.
There was something shocking in the mortal enmity which had thus sprung up between the mother and daughter,—the former threatening transportation—the latter pointing to the gibbet looming in the distance!
“But you know—you know, in your own heart, that I did not take the life of Torrens?” suddenly ejaculated the old woman, starting from her seat.
“I know nothing more than what you yourself told me, mother,” said Laura; “and if the matter should happen to go before the magistrate for investigation, I shall only state what I do know—and shall not assist your cause with any conjecture relative to your innocence.”
“And would you send me to the scaffold?” demanded the wretched woman, her voice becoming plaintive and mournful: “would you place me in such a position that I must inevitably sink beneath a mass of circumstantial evidence, and be condemned as a murderess?”
“Would you send your own child into transportation, the horrors of which you yourself have experienced?” asked Laura, bitterly.
“Oh! my God—this is a punishment for all my crimes!” exclaimed the miserable Mrs. Mortimer, a pang of remorse suddenly shooting through her heart like a barbed and fiery arrow.
“You should have calculated all the consequences before you came hither to menace me,” observed Laura, still in a cold and severe tone—a tone that was unpitying and merciless.
“Can nothing move you?” asked the wretched woman, now completely subdued and cast down—overwhelmed and spirit-broken.
“Nothing!” responded Laura, sternly. “You may do your worst—I fear you not; and henceforth I acknowledge you not as my mother!”
Saturated with crimes—steeped in profligacy as the old woman’s soul was, nevertheless this sudden renunciation of her by her own daughter went like a death-pang to her heart. She fell back again into the seat from which she had started a few minutes previously—a deadly pallor came over her countenance, rendering it hideous and ghastly as if the finger of the Destroyer were upon her—and her breath came in long and difficult sobs.
But her daughter stood gazing unmoved on this piteous spectacle,—stood like an avenging goddess, in her white robes, as if about to immolate her victim upon an altar!
“Give me a glass of water, Laura—for the love of God, a glass of water!” gasped the old woman at length, as she extended her arms piteously towards the relentless being, whose heart, so voluptuously tender beneath the influence of love, was hard as adamant against the appeals of her parent.
“Nothing—no, not even a drop of water, nor a crust of bread shall you receive beneath my roof,” was the unpitying, remorseless answer.
“Then my curse be upon you—my curse be upon your dwelling, and all whom it contains!” cried the old woman, suddenly recovering her own energy and firmness—for the last words of her daughter had goaded her to desperation.
“The curses of fiends turn to blessings,” said Laura, in a calm and deliberate voice.
“But a mother’s curse is a terrible—terrible thing!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, fixing her haggard eyes intently upon her daughter, who returned the gaze with looks of proud disdain and haughty defiance.
The old woman then rose slowly from her seat, and as slowly walked towards the door; on reaching which she turned round, and said, “Is there no way of restoring peace between us?”
“None,” was the resolute and laconic answer.
Mrs. Mortimer hesitated yet for a few moments; then, as if suddenly embracing a desperate resolve, or struck by some terrible idea of vengeance, she abruptly quitted the room.
Laura listened, with suspended breath, to hear whether there was any one in the hall for her mother to speak to; but her apprehensions on this head were speedily relieved, and in a few moments the front door closed behind the old woman.
The Count of Carignano, who had watched her departure from the drawing-room window, now hastened to join his lovely wife.
“The interview has been a long one—and, I fear, not altogether pleasant, dearest,” he exclaimed, as he clasped Laura in his arms.
“My mother wished to exercise over me a despotism to which I cannot yield,” responded the bride. “But wherefore did you conjecture that our meeting was disagreeable?”
“Became your countenance is very pale, my love,” answered the Count, in a voice full of tenderness. “Ah! now it is growing animated—and the colour of the rose is returning to your lovely cheeks.”
“Yes,” murmured the fascinating woman, as she wound her snowy arms about her husband’s neck, “it is because your presence has restored me to happiness, and banished from my mind the unpleasant impressions excited by my mother’s behaviour. But we shall see her no more—and naught can now interfere with our perfect felicity.”
“This assurance delights me,” answered the Count, gazing with a joyous admiration upon the splendid creature who had that morning become his bride.
CHAPTER CXCV.
HORRORS.
It will be recollected that Mrs. Mortimer was far from being unprovided with money—her share of the spoil obtained from Torrens still being in her possession, with the trifling deduction of the few pounds she had expended in travelling, clothes, and maintenance, during the interval that had elapsed since the occurrences in Stamford Street.
The bulk of the amount thus remaining to her had been carefully sewn in her stays, so that it had altogether escaped the notice of Jack Rily: and thus the old woman was not destitute of resources.
But the sum in her possession was a mere trifle when compared with that which she had hoped to acquire from the forgery; and she now resolved to leave no stone unturned—no measure unattempted, however desperate, in order to accomplish her aim. Besides, she longed—she craved to wreak a terrific vengeance upon her daughter,—yes—upon her own daughter: for the remorse and the softer feelings which had ere now found an avenue into her breast, when Laura renounced her, were only evanescent and short-lived. We have moreover seen that this temporary weakness was speedily succeeded by the desperation produced by a terrible resolve to which her mind came as it were all in a moment!
Impelled by this sinister influence, Mrs. Mortimer lost no time in repairing to Roupel Street, where she found Jack Rily lolling in a chair, smoking his pipe and enjoying a quart of half-and-half.
“Well, my old tiger-cat, what news?” he exclaimed, the moment Mrs. Mortimer made her appearance. “Have you succeeded with your beautiful daughter?”
“Very far from it,” was the answer. “And now,” she added, ere the Doctor had time to give vent to the oath which rose to his lips through the vexation of disappointment,—“and now the matter has come to that extreme point when nothing but a desperate step can prevent the presentation of the genuine cheque to-morrow.”
“Are you sure it will not be presented to-day?” demanded Jack Rily.
“Yes; my daughter said that she should present it to-morrow,” responded Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have every reason to believe that she will not go near the bank to-day. In fact, she was married this morning to a young Italian nobleman, whom she loves deeply, and whom she will not therefore quit, even for an hour, on her wedding-day.”
“Well, and what do you propose?” asked Jack Rily, fixing upon her a significant look, which shewed that he already more than half divined what was passing in her bosom.
“Are you man enough to risk all—every thing—for the sake of that thirty thousand pounds which will become your share if we succeed?” demanded the old woman, returning the look with one of equally ominous meaning.
“I am man enough to do any thing for such a sum!” he answered, sinking his voice to a low whisper, and laying down his pipe—a proof that he considered the topic of discourse to be growing too serious to permit any abstraction of the thoughts.
“Then you understand me?” said Mrs. Mortimer, leaning forward, and surveying him with a penetration which appeared to read the secrets of his inmost soul.
“Yes—I understand you, my tiger-cat,” replied the man; and he drew his hand significantly across his throat.
“Well, and will you do it?” she asked.
“But it is your own daughter,” he observed, shuddering at the atrocity of the woman’s mind which could calmly contemplate such a fearful deed.
“She has renounced me,” was the laconic answer.
“Nevertheless, you are still her mother,” persisted Jack Rily.
“I discard her—for ever!” responded the horrible old woman.
“Well—you astounded me at first,” said the Doctor, in a slow tone, as he reflected profoundly upon the extreme step suggested: “but I can look at the business with a more steady eye now. I always thought that I was bad enough: but, by God! you beat anything I ever knew in the shape of wickedness.”
“Then you refuse—you decline?” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, interrogatively, while rage convulsed her entire frame—for she dreaded lest the money should be lost, and Laura escape her vengeance.
“By Satan!” cried the Doctor; “if you have pluck enough to propose, I am not the man to refuse to execute the scheme. But how do I know that when the critical moment comes, remorse won’t seize on you, and you’ll cry off?”
“When I have made up my mind to anything, I am not to be deterred by difficulty—danger—or compunction,” answered the old woman. “I implored the ungrateful girl to give me a glass of water, when I was choking—and she refused. What mercy can I have towards her?”
“None,” responded Jack Rily. “But you must enter into farther explanations, old tiger-cat: because at present I’m pretty well in the dark relative to the precise nature of your plans, and the way in which they are to be executed. It’s now four o’clock in the afternoon—and we must settle everything without delay, if it’s to be done to-night.”
“It is for to-night,” said the old woman, emphatically. “My daughter and her husband have taken a house in Pimlico——”
“How many servants?” demanded Jack Rily.
“I cannot exactly answer the question: but I know that there is a French lady’s maid; and I saw an English valet, who had been recommended by the house-agent——”
“Never mind who recommended him,” interrupted the Doctor, impatiently; “he is there—and that’s enough for us. All I care about knowing is how many people we may have to deal with.”
“But the venture must be made at any risk,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “It is of the highest consequence to us to gain possession of the genuine cheque——”
“And put the holder of it out of the way,” added Jack Rily. “Oh! I understand your drift plainly enough: but I wish to see my course clear—because I’d better do the best I can with the notes under existing circumstances, rather than get a bullet through my brain or find myself laid by the heels in Newgate some time between this and to-morrow morning.”
“Certainly—certainly,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer. “Well—upon what do you decide?”
“To risk the business,” answered Jack, starting from his seat. “And now I’ll just go and take a quiet walk down into Pimlico, for the purpose of surveying the premises. Whereabouts is it?”
“Westbourne Place, No.——,” replied Mrs. Mortimer.
“Well—you can meet me again down in that neighbourhood at about midnight,” said the Doctor. “Where shall the place of appointment be?”
“In Sloane Square, if you like,” observed the old woman.
“Good—precisely at midnight. And now be off—because I am going to hide the Bank-notes so that nobody may be able to find them during my absence,” said the Doctor, with a meaning look. “Of course I need hardly tell you that if you are scheming or manœuvring to get me into a plant down at Pimlico, you’ll never go away alive to make a boast of it.”
“The idea that I should act in such a way, is ridiculous,” returned Mrs. Mortimer.
“Well—there is no harm in giving you the caution, old tiger-cat,” remarked the Doctor, carelessly. “So tramp off—and be punctual to our appointment.”
“I shall not fail,” said the horrible woman, who thereupon took her departure.
How she passed the remainder of that day, we know not. Suffice it to say that the leisure-time which she had for reflection did not induce her to change her mind nor swerve from her purpose: on the contrary, as she entered Sloane Square a few minutes before midnight, it was with a determination to take her share in the awful tragedy which she contemplated—namely, the murder of her own daughter and the Count of Carignano. Bad and depraved as she was, never in her life until this occasion had she thought so calmly and coolly of shedding blood: for if on the previous day she had harboured the design of assassinating Jack Rily, in order to regain possession of the Bank-notes, it was not without a cold shudder, even though there was something like aggravation to inspire the idea. But now she had brought herself—or circumstances had tutored her—to survey with a diabolical tranquillity the hideous, appalling crime which she had in view; and as she walked along, she clutched with savage triumph a clasp-knife that she had purchased during the evening.
Precisely as the clock struck twelve Jack Rily joined her.
“Well, you have not altered your mind?” he said.
“It is rather for me to ask you that question,” was her response.
“Oh, I am resolute enough!” he observed; and through the semi-obscurity of the night she could see his large white teeth flashing hideously between the opening in his lip. “I have taken a good survey of the premises,” he continued, “and know exactly how to proceed. Have you got any weapon, old tiger-cat?”
“This,” she replied, placing the clasp-knife in his hand.
He opened the blade—felt it—closed it again—and, returning the knife to his companion, said, “That will do. But there is one thing that troubles me a little,” he added, after a few moments’ hesitation; “and I’ll be hanged if I can get it off my mind. Yet—perdition seize it!—I am no coward either.”
“What have you to fear, then?” demanded the old woman, hastily.
“Why, to tell you the truth——but come along farther away from the lamps——to tell you the truth, as I was jogging quietly down Sloane Street just now,” continued Rily, glancing furtively around, “some one, coming hastily up from a narrow street on the right-hand side, passed just in front of me. We almost ran against each other, and I caught a glimpse of the fellow’s countenance——”
“Who was he?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, shuddering in anticipation of the reply.
“Vitriol Bob,” was the answer.
“I thought you were going to say so,” exclaimed the old woman. “But perhaps he did not notice you—and even if he did, I suppose you are not afraid that he will attempt any mischief?”
“Whether he noticed me or not, I can’t say,” replied the Doctor; “because the encounter was so abrupt—so sudden—that he was off again in an instant. But if he did, I am well aware that he is capable of anything. However, I don’t mean to let that prey upon my mind, I can tell you.”
“And yet it does seem to have depressed you a little,” said Mrs. Mortimer.
“Well—I’d rather it shouldn’t have happened—that’s all!” ejaculated the ruffian, forcing himself to assume a gaiety which he did not altogether feel; for, though no coward, yet the incident of his meeting with his sworn foe in the manner described, had troubled him.
Doubtless the man’s mind, contemplating a diabolical crime, was more disposed to superstitious terrors, and to acknowledge the influence of presentiments, than on ordinary occasions: hence the vague uneasiness and undefined apprehensions that had seized upon him.
Mrs. Mortimer caught the dispiriting effects of the encounter which her confederate had experienced with one of the most desperate ruffians in London; and such a chill fell upon her mind, that she was about to propose the abandonment of the scheme, when Jack Rily suddenly exclaimed, “Well thought of! I’ve something in my pocket that will do us good!”
With these words he produced a flask of brandy, which he handed to the old woman, who drank deeply: he then applied it to his own lips, and drained it of its contents.
“Now I feel all right again!” he cried, as he restored the empty bottle to his pocket. “There’s nothing like a drop of the bingo at a crisis of this nature.”
“Nothing!” observed Mrs. Mortimer, assentingly: for she likewise felt all her resolution—or rather hard-heartedness—suddenly revive under the influence of the alcohol.
“Now, then, let us proceed to business,” said Jack. “I have got my own clasp-knife—a darkey[28]—and a small jimmey,”[29] he continued; “and blowed if it shall be my fault, should we fail in the crack[30] to-night——”
“And all that is to follow,” added Mrs. Mortimer, to whom the brandy had imparted a ferociousness which made her thirst as it were to drink her own daughter’s blood.
The two miscreants—male and female—now proceeded in silence; and as they entered Westbourne Place a lovely moon broke forth from behind a cloud hitherto dark and menacing.
“This is the house,” said Mrs. Mortimer, when they came within sight of the dwelling where Laura and the Count of Carignano were slumbering in each other’s arms.
“I know it, old gal,” responded Jack Rily. “We must turn into the lane that leads down by the side of the premises. Come along—quick—there’s a person approaching from behind.”
And, followed by the old woman, he darted into the alley which separated the Count of Carignano’s abode from the neighbouring row of houses.
At the back of the villa there was a small garden, the boundary-wall of which was of no great height; and the Doctor, in the survey of the premises which he took during the evening, had made up his mind to effect an entry in the rear of the building.
“All is quiet,” he said, in a low whisper to his companion. “I will climb on to the top of the wall, and then help you up. We will soon make light work of it.”
But scarcely were these words uttered, when a dark shadow appeared at the end of the lane—and in another moment Jack Rily and Mrs. Mortimer beheld a man hastening towards them.
The old woman instinctively drew close up to her powerful confederate for protection, in case mischief should be intended; and scarcely was this movement effected, when the cause of apprehension was close up to the spot where she and Rily were standing in the deep shade of the wall.
At that instant the moon-beams fell fully upon the man’s countenance; and a cry of horror burst from the lips of Mrs. Mortimer as she recognised her terrible enemy—Vitriol Bob! Simultaneously with that cry, an ejaculation of rage escaped from Jack Rily, who, dashing the old woman away from him, sprang towards the formidable foe.
But ere the sounds of the cry and the ejaculation had died in the air, Vitriol Bob, nimbly eluding the attack of the Doctor, raised above his head something which his right hand grasped; and although the blow was intended for Jack Rily, it fell with an ominous crash full upon the countenance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, striving to escape, but bewildered by terror, was running across the lane, in front of Vitriol Bob, at the instant.
Then—O heavens! what a shriek of agony—what a yell of indescribable anguish broke upon the silence of the night—rending the air with its piercing sound, and raising echoes of even more horrifying wildness throughout the neighbourhood.
Vitriol Bob fled in one direction—Jack Rily in another; and the old woman was abandoned, alike by friend and foe, to her wretched fate!
But—see! the lights gleam in the windows of the very villa which was to have been the scene of a horrible murder: the painful yells, which still continue to beat the air with their agonising vibrations, have aroused the Count of Carignano—aroused also the lovely creature in whose arms he was sleeping. The valet and Rosalie likewise start from their respective couches; and the young Italian nobleman and the man-servant, having hastily thrown on some clothing, descend into the street.
The cries proceed from the lane: they rush to the spot—and there upon the ground they behold a female writhing like a stricken snake, evidently in the most horrible tortures.
What can it mean?
They do not wait to ask the question; but, raising the wretched sufferer from the ground, they bear her into the house—her shrieks and screams lacerating their ears all the time, and her contortions and writhings being so powerful that they can scarcely carry her along.
The neighbours have likewise been alarmed; but none have imitated the example of the generous young Italian, and descended from their bed-rooms to afford assistance. They look forth from their windows—satisfy themselves that aid is at hand—and, believing the uproar to be created by some poor woman in a fit, close the curtains and hasten back to bed again.
In the meantime the Count of Carignano and his valet have borne the writhing—yelling sufferer into the hall; and Laura descends the stairs with a candle in her hand. She has thrown on a dressing-gown, and thrust her naked feet into slippers; and her magnificent hair floats in messy modulations and luxuriant waves over her fine shoulders and her ample bosom.
But scarcely do the rays of the light fall upon the countenance of the suffering wretch, when the Count of Carignano starts back in horror, exclaiming, “Merciful God! do my eyes deceive me?—is it possible? Laura, dearest——”
“’Tis my mother!” cried the young lady, hastening up to the spot where the old woman lay writhing and screaming fearfully upon the mat.
“Ah! that voice!” said the dying Mrs. Mortimer, suddenly desisting from the outpourings of ineffable agony, as the musical tones of her daughter fell upon her ears: “Laura—is it indeed you? Come near—give me your hand—I cannot see you——My God! I am blind—the fiend—the wretch——Come near, I say——Oh! I am dying—and this is the beginning of hell——”
“Mother—mother!” exclaimed Laura, whose heart was touched by witnessing the appalling pain that writhed the form of the old woman.
“Forgive me, my child—forgive me,” gasped the dying wretch: “I came to——But all is growing dark in my mind as well as my eyes——forgive me, I say—forgive me——Oh! God!” she suddenly shrieked forth,—“this—this that I feel now must be Death!”
As these words fell from the old woman’s tongue amidst gasps of agony, convulsions seized upon her—and she expired in the most shocking agonies.
CHAPTER CXCVI.
RESOLUTIONS.
We must now return to Lord William Trevelyan, who, in pursuance of the promise made to the Marquis of Delmour, proceeded, the moment after that nobleman had left him, to the villa at Bayswater, which he reached shortly after mid-day; and he was at once conducted into the presence of Mrs. Sefton.
This lady was alone in the parlour; and the young nobleman immediately perceived that she had been weeping—although she endeavoured to conceal the fact beneath a smiling countenance as she rose to welcome him.
“My dear friend,” she said, in a voice rendered tremulous by deep emotions; “how can I ever sufficiently thank you for your generosity—your unparalleled goodness, in adopting such measures to procure the liberation of Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”
“You have, then, seen him?” observed Trevelyan.
“He has but this moment left me,” was the slow and mournful response: and, after a short pause, Mrs. Sefton said, as she sank back into her chair, “Our interview was at first a most joyous one—but at the end most melancholy.”
“I cannot understand you,” exclaimed Trevelyan, seating himself near her.
“Nevertheless, it is not my intention to affect any farther mystery, with regard to myself or my affairs, towards you,” said Mrs. Sefton, hastily wiping away the tears that had started to her eyes, and composing her features with the sudden resolution of one who has determined upon the particular course which duty suggests. “Your conduct—the generosity of your disposition—and the attachment which you experience for my beloved daughter, are all inducements and reasons wherefore I should at once communicate to you all my plans.”
She again paused for a few moments, and then continued in the following manner:—
“The dearest hope of my life was accomplished on that day when my darling Agnes was restored to me: and since we have together occupied this secluded but delightful spot, I have had leisure to reflect upon those duties which I owe to my daughter. Moreover, I have well weighed all the circumstances of her position and my own; and I cannot blind my eyes to the fact that a great sacrifice must be made on my part to her reputation—her welfare—her purity of soul.”
“I begin to understand you now, my dear friend,” said Lord William Trevelyan, his countenance lighting up with the animation of joy: for he felt assured that he had not formed a wrong estimate of Mrs. Sefton’s character, when he attributed to her the most amiable qualifications and excellent principles, in spite of her connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote.
“Oh! could you suspect even for an instant that I should permit my own selfish passion to triumph over my affection for that dear daughter who has been so miraculously restored to me?” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “No, my lord—no, my esteemed friend—I am not a woman of such a despicable description! Not an hour has elapsed since, in this very room, I said to Sir Gilbert Heathcote, ‘We must separate, my well-beloved—and perhaps for a long, long time—if not for ever!’ He understood me—he appreciated my motives; and he scarcely sought to reason against my resolution—But, oh! this yielding—this assent on his part, was all the more generous—all the more praiseworthy—all the more noble!” cried Mrs. Sefton, in enthusiastic admiration of the absent baronet’s character: “for I must no longer keep the fact a secret from you, my dear friend—although I blush to acknowledge it——But you will not think the worse of Agnes on account of her mother’s crime——”
“Heaven forbid that I should be so unjust!” ejaculated Trevelyan, in an impassioned tone of profound sincerity.
“Thanks for that assurance—a thousand thanks!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “Yes—she indeed is pure and virtuous; and I would sooner perish by my own hand than present to her an example of demoralisation in my own conduct. And it is this same sentiment that animates Sir Gilbert Heathcote—that has induced him to sacrifice all his own happiness to her welfare—so that she may never have to think ill of her mother! And now, my dear friend, you can probably conjecture the truth which my lips scarcely dare frame?—you can perhaps divine wherefore Sir Gilbert Heathcote is so deeply—so profoundly interested in the welfare of Agnes?”
“Yes—I comprehend it all!” cried Trevelyan.
“And now you must look upon me with loathing—with abhorrence,” murmured Mrs. Sefton, burying her countenance in her hands: “you must despise and contemn the adulterous woman who allowed her husband to exist in the belief that another’s child was his own!”
“No—no, my dear madam,” exclaimed the young nobleman; “I entertain no such feelings towards you. I am acquainted with all your history—yes, all——”
“All!” she repeated, in a tone of surprise: then, suddenly recollecting herself, she said, “Oh! true—Sir Gilbert told me that my husband was to call upon you this morning; and his lordship has therefore given you his version of our marriage-history.”
“Indeed, my dear friend,” returned Trevelyan, “he not only corroborated every thing you had already made known to me, but gave me so many additional details, all speaking in your favour—or at least in extenuation——”
“I am glad that the Marquis does me so much justice,” interrupted Mrs. Sefton: “heaven knows that I wish him all possible happiness! And that he has endeavoured to obliterate all recollection of me from his mind, I am well aware; and in the arms of his mistresses he has sought relief from any sense of injury or wrong that he may have experienced. I do not mention this fact for the base and unworthy purpose of disparaging the man whom I know that I have injured: but it is in justice to myself——”
“Ah! my dear lady, let us turn away from this topic as soon as possible,” interrupted Trevelyan.
“Cheerfully—most cheerfully!” ejaculated Mrs. Sefton. “We will speak of Agnes—and of the resolutions which a sense of duty towards her has engendered on the part of Sir Gilbert and myself. Thus stand all our relative positions:—Should Sir Gilbert Heathcote become a frequent visitor at this house, the tongue of scandal would soon find food for its morbid appetite in this neighbourhood; and the discredit into which I should fall—the opprobrium heaped upon me, would be reflected upon my innocent daughter. That is one grave and important consideration. Another is that, even if the former did not exist, or if Sir Gilbert merely called occasionally in the light of a friend, it would be impossible, situated as we are, to avoid little familiarities or marks of affection, which would inevitably appear strange and extraordinary to Agnes, and by degrees shock her pure mind. Lastly, your lordship has honoured her with your attachment—you have demanded of me her hand in marriage when the suitable time shall arrive;—and in the interval the guardianship of the treasure which is to become your own, rests with me. I must fulfil that trust in a manner that will give you no cause to blush for the wife whom you will have to introduce to the world. It is known in some few quarters already—it may become generally known eventually, that the Marquis and Marchioness of Delmour have long ceased to dwell together: but the actual cause of this separation has never transpired, and need not. Thus, hitherto, nothing has occurred to reflect dishonour upon the name of Lady Agnes; and it behoves alike her mother, and him who is her real father, to pursue such a line of conduct as may be most suitable to the welfare, happiness, and peace of that beloved child.”
“I thank you—most cordially, most sincerely do I thank you,” exclaimed Lord William Trevelyan, “for all the resolutions you have adopted, and all the assurances you have now given me! Yes—I am indeed interested in the welfare of your charming daughter; and the generous sacrifices which yourself and Sir Gilbert have decided upon making, for her benefit, prove how noble are your hearts!”
“Nay—now you compliment us too highly,” said Mrs. Sefton, with a smile. “We have determined upon performing our duty;—and if, by so doing,” she continued, in a more serious strain, “I can convince you that the equivocal position in which I have so many years been placed, has not destroyed the sense of rectitude and the true feelings of a mother in my breast, I shall yet be able to receive the assurances of your friendship without a blush, and without experiencing a sense of shame in your presence.”
“Look upon me as your intended son-in-law, my excellent friend!” exclaimed Lord William. “My opinion of you is as high as if I were ignorant altogether of that equivocal position to which you allude; and my sentiments towards Sir Gilbert Heathcote are of the warmest description. For the sake of that daughter whom he dares not acknowledge as such, he renounces your society—he tears himself away from you—he abjures the companionship of her whom he has loved so faithfully for many, many years! This is a self-sacrifice—a generous devotion which cannot be too deeply appreciated. And now, my dear friend,” continued the young nobleman, “it is my turn to give certain explanations. In a word, I have this morning seen your husband, as you are already aware—and he implored me to become instrumental in restoring his daughter to his care. To speak candidly, I came hither for the purpose of reasoning with you on the propriety of yielding to that desire on his part——”
“Oh! you would not separate me from my Agnes?” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, clasping her hands in an appealing manner, while her countenance suddenly became pale and expressive of the acute anguish which the bare idea caused her to experience.
“No—not after all you have now told me!” cried Trevelyan, in a tone so emphatic as to be completely re-assuring. “I have such illimitable confidence in you that it would be an insult,—nay, more—a flagrant wrong,—to entertain the notion under existing circumstances. I shall call upon the Marquis of Delmour this evening or to-morrow, and candidly inform him that I can no longer recommend the separation of Lady Agnes from her mother.”
“I return you my sincerest thanks for this proof of confidence which you give me,” said Mrs. Sefton. “You had not, however, heard all the resolutions upon which Sir Gilbert and myself have this morning agreed; and now I have to make known to you a step that is about to be taken, and which is rendered necessary by the perseverance that the Marquis of Delmour is certain to exert with a view to regain possession of Agnes. I propose to take her to France, where we may dwell in some peaceful seclusion, until the two remaining years of her minority be passed.”
“And during those two years,” demanded Trevelyan, in a mournful tone, “am I to be debarred from the pleasure of beholding her whom I love so well?”
“I do not attempt to establish any interdiction of the kind,” said Mrs. Sefton, with a smile. “You will of course be made acquainted with the place of our abode; and your correspondence or your visits—or both—will be received with delight.”
“In this case, I must not offer a single objection to your plan,” exclaimed Trevelyan, his countenance lighting up again.
“And had I recommended you neither to visit nor correspond,” said Mrs. Sefton, in an arch tone of semi-reproach, “should you have opposed our departure?”
“Oh! no—no: do not think that I am so selfish!” he cried. “I should have considered this to be the day of self-devotion for all who are interested in the welfare of your beautiful—your amiable Agnes. But I behold her in the garden!” he exclaimed, as he looked towards the window opening on the lawn at the back of the villa. “Have I your permission to join her there for a few minutes?”
Mrs. Sefton signified her assent with a smile and a graceful gesture; and in a few moments Trevelyan was by the side of the beauteous Agnes in the garden.
The young lady was mournful at first—because her mother had already communicated to her their intended departure for the continent: but when Trevelyan, turning the discourse upon that topic, gave her to understand that he had received permission to visit them wheresoever they might fix their abode, and correspond with them frequently,—when he even ventured so far as to hint how it was more than probable that he would follow them to the same place, and establish his own temporary dwelling there, so as to be able to see them every day,—then was it that the young maiden’s countenance brightened up, and Trevelyan gathered therefrom the silent but eloquent assurance that he was not indifferent to her.
The few minutes which he had obtained permission to pass with Agnes grew into hours; and when, between four and five o’clock in the evening, Mrs. Sefton came herself to announce to the youthful pair in the garden that dinner was already served up, he uttered an ejaculation of surprise that it could be so late! Agnes said nothing—but cast down her eyes, and blushed deeply; and her mother, who knew what love was and all its symptoms, was now fully convinced that her daughter’s gentle heart was well disposed towards the noble suitor for her hand.
CHAPTER CXCVII.
THE MARQUIS OF DELMOUR.
On the following morning, Lord William Trevelyan called upon the Marquis of Delmour, whom he found pacing his apartment in great agitation.
The old nobleman had two sources of annoyance at that moment: the first was the suspense in which he existed relative to the result of his endeavours to regain possession of Agnes, whom he devotedly loved;—and the other was in respect to Laura Mortimer.
He had heard from his bankers on the previous evening that the cheque for sixty thousand pounds had been duly presented and cashed; and he therefore concluded that the young lady had arrived in London. But why had she not written to him? His impatience to receive a note from her was in proportion to the madness—the intensity, of that passion with which her transcendent loveliness and her syren witcheries had inspired him; and his excited imagination conjured up a thousand reasons for this silence. He fancied that some accident might have occurred to her,—or that she had written, and her letter had miscarried; in which case she herself would be marvelling at his tardiness in repairing to her,—or that she had changed her mind, and repented of the promise she had made to become the old man’s mistress. Then jealousy took possession of his soul; and he could scarcely control within reasonable bounds the emotions that agitated in his breast.
The arrival of Trevelyan, however, promised to relieve him of at least one cause of suspense and anxiety; and, the moment the young nobleman entered the apartment, the Marquis rushed precipitately forward to meet him.
“In pursuance of my promise,” said Lord William, when the usual compliments were interchanged, “I called upon her ladyship—Mrs. Sefton, I mean, yesterday—and had a long interview with her.”
“And the result?” demanded, the Marquis, impatiently.
“I regret to state that, after all I heard upon the occasion, I cannot either recommend the withdrawal of Lady Agnes from her mother’s charge, or interfere any farther in this family matter,” responded the young nobleman. “Mrs. Sefton will see Sir Gilbert Heathcote no more, and will devote herself to that maternal care which she is so well qualified to bestow upon her daughter.”
“Then, my lord,” exclaimed the Marquis, impetuously, “I shall at once appeal to the tribunals of my country for that redress which I ought to have demanded long ago.”
“Pardon me, my lord,” said Trevelyan, “for reminding you that there is much to be considered ere you put this threat into execution. By giving publicity to your unhappy family-affairs, you may to some extent act injuriously to the welfare of your daughter.”
“True!” ejaculated the old nobleman, struck by the observation. “And yet am I to remain quiet and tranquil beneath this additional wrong which is thus thrust upon me by her who in law is still my wife?”
“For your daughter’s sake you must endure it—if a wrong it indeed be,” answered Trevelyan solemnly.
“And Agnes—has she learnt the secret of her birth?—does she cling to her mother, in preference to me?—does she devote not a single thought to the father who has ever behaved with so much tenderness towards her?” demanded the Marquis. “Reply, my lord, to all these questions.”
“Your daughter still believes herself to be plain Miss Agnes,” was the answer; “and she is not taught to forget her father.”
“But what must she think of the strange circumstance, that while she believes herself to be the bearer of her father’s name of Vernon, her mother is known by that of Sefton?” asked the nobleman.
“She has adopted the latter name, as a natural consequence of her restoration to the maternal parent,” was the reply; “but her pure and artless mind cherishes not the curiosity which, in ordinary cases, would prompt many questions relative to all these points. She imagines, generally, that particular causes of unhappiness have led to the separation of her parents, and that the adoption of different names was the necessary result. For the rest, believe me that she will be well cared for by her mother, and that she will never be tutored to think of you otherwise than with respect and gratitude.”
“Is she happy with her mother—happier than she was in her own cottage, under my care?” inquired the Marquis, after a long panic, during which he seemed to reflect deeply.
“She is happy, my lord,” responded Trevelyan: “but I will not aver that she is happier than she was. She thinks of you constantly—speaks of you often——”
“Then I will do nothing that shall interfere with her tranquillity—nothing that shall bring into the light of publicity those circumstances that would give her so much pain,” interrupted the Marquis, who, though sensual, jealous, and imperious in disposition,—though addicted to pleasures of a profligate description,—was nevertheless characterised by many lofty feelings and generous sentiments, as indeed the whole tenour of his conduct towards Agnes had fully proven.
Lord William Trevelyan thanked him for the assurances which he had just given, and shortly afterwards took his leave, highly rejoiced at the manner in which the interview had terminated.
It must be observed that the passion which the Marquis of Delmour had formed for Laura Mortimer and the hope which he entertained of speedily possessing her as his mistress, had in a slight degree diminished the intensity of his anxiety to recover Agnes; inasmuch as his arrangements in respect to Laura had not only served to occupy his mind—abstract his thoughts somewhat from the contemplation of the loss of his daughter—and hold forth the promise of a solace to be derived from the society of that lovely creature whose unaccountable silence nevertheless tormented him sadly.
The day passed—and still no communication arrived. Let it be remembered it was on this self-same day that Laura and the Count were married; and it was during the following night that Mrs. Mortimer met her dreadful death in the manner already described.
The ensuing morning found the Marquis pale, agitated, and racked by a thousand anxious fears, amongst which jealousy was often uppermost as he revolved in his mind all the possible reasons that could account for the protracted silence of the young lady.
He sate down to breakfast for form’s sake—but ate nothing. Never did his gilded saloons appear more desolate—more lonely;—and yet it was not to them that he had contemplated bringing his beautiful mistress!
Presently the morning papers were laid upon the table; and mechanically casting his eyes over one of them, he observed a short article, headed “Diabolical Outrage and Frightful Death.”
He commenced the perusal of the account; and the apathy with which he began, speedily changed into the most intense interest: for the article ran thus:—
“Last night, shortly after the hour of twelve, the inhabitants of Westbourne Place and the immediate neighbourhood were thrown into the greatest alarm by the sudden outburst of the most dreadful screaming, as of a female in mortal agonies. These terrific signs of distress appeared to emanate from a narrow lane, passing by the side of a beautiful villa in the occupation of the Count and Countess of Carignano, who, it appears, had been married in the morning, and had only entered their new abode immediately after the ceremony. His lordship, attended by his valet, lost no time in descending to the succour of the afflicted person, whoever it might be; and they discovered an elderly lady in the agonies of death. They conveyed her into the villa, where, to the horror of the Count and his lovely bride, it was found that the dying woman was none other than Mrs. Mortimer, the mother of the Countess. Medical assistance was promptly sent for; but before the nearest surgeon could arrive death had terminated the sufferings of the lamented lady. The horrible nature of those sufferings can be readily understood, when, on surgical examination, it transpired that an immense quantity of the strongest vitriol had been thrown over her; and there were proofs that the bottle containing the burning fluid had been broken over her head. The affair is involved in some mystery: but it is presumed that, while repairing to her daughter’s abode, she must have missed her way and got into the lane, where some murderous ruffian, undeserving of the name of a man, perpetrated the frightful outrage. Our readers may remember that this is not the only case of the terrible use of vitriol which we have recently been so painfully compelled to record; and, from all we can learn, there is a monster in human shape, well known to the police, and bearing the significant though horrible denomination of Vitriol Robert—or more familiarly, Vitriol Bob—who has for some time past infested the metropolis, and who makes use of the burning liquid as an adjunct to his predatory attacks on the unwary in lone or dark neighbourhoods. The above are all the particulars which we have been as yet able to obtain, owing to the advanced period of the night when the diabolical outrage was perpetrated.
This narrative, detailed with all the mannerism of an export penny-a-liner, excited the jealous rage of the Marquis of Delmour almost to madness.
The whole thing was as clear as daylight! The Mrs. Mortimer who had met her death in such a dreadful way, was evidently the old woman whom he had seen on several occasions; and she was, after all, the mother of Laura! The perfidious Laura herself had become the wife of another;—and the Marquis was compelled to open his eyes to the fact that he had been most egregiously duped by an adventuress.
Hastily summoning his carriage, the Marquis proceeded direct to his bankers’; where he found that the sixty thousand pounds had indeed been paid; but, on farther inquiry, he ascertained that an old woman had presented the cheque. The description of the recipient was then given by the clerk who cashed the draft; and the Marquis became convinced that she was none other than Mrs. Mortimer. The bankers perceiving that he was anxious to learn who had actually obtained the money, produced the cheque itself, the female’s name being written on the back in token of acquittal; and there were the words—Martha Mortimer.
In a mechanical way, and while deliberating what step next to take, the enraged nobleman cast his eyes over the draft; when he started convulsively—for he instantly detected the forgery, or rather alteration, that had been effected: and then, in his furious excitement, the principal facts of the story came out—showing how he had been induced to give the cheque.
All was now amazement and alarm in the bank-parlour; and one of the partners in the firm suggested the propriety of repairing immediately to the dwelling of the Count of Carignano, for the purpose of communicating with the Countess relative to the transaction. But the Marquis, who by this time had grown somewhat more cool, began to reflect that any publicity which was given to the matter would only cover him with ridicule; and as the money was not of such consequence to him as the avoidance of the shame attendant on the business, he wisely resolved to hush up the whole affair.
The bankers were by no means averse to this amicable mode of adjustment, inasmuch as it relieved them from all doubt or uncertainty, and all possibility of dispute relative to the party on whom the loss consequent on the forgery was to fall; and they therefore readily consented to retain the transaction profoundly secret. At the same time, they understood fully that they were not to pay the genuine cheque for sixty thousand pounds, in case of its presentation; the Marquis resolving to take time to consider what course he should pursue with regard to that portion of the business.
The old nobleman drove home again; and, on his arrival at his stately mansion, he shut himself up in his own chamber to reflect upon the startling revelations of that day.
Not for an instant did he entertain the idea of seeking an interview with Laura. Such a step was useless: for she had no doubt married, he reasoned, according to her taste. Moreover, his pride revolted at the bare idea of undergoing the humiliation and shame of being laughed at by one who would probably care nothing for any reproaches that might be levelled against her.
But how was he to recover the cheque? It was valid in her hands: for even if she had connived at her mother’s forgery, the collusion could not be brought home to her. Still, the Marquis did not at all admire the idea of paying another sixty thousand—especially for one who had so grossly deluded him.
By degrees the old nobleman’s thoughts became so bewildering that he felt as if he were going mad. He had lost his daughter—he had lost his mistress—he had been duped out of his money—and, vile though Laura evidently was, he nevertheless still adored her image with a devouring passion.
He walked up and down his room in a state of excitement that was increasing cruelly, and that produced a hurry in the brain—a confusion in the ideas—a delirium in the imagination.
The fever of his reflections augmented to such a height that he began to conjure up a variety of evils and annoyances which did not really exist. He pictured to himself his bankers laughing heartily at his folly—retelling the scandal as an excellent joke—and propagating the most offensive rumours all over the town. He fancied that he beheld his friends and acquaintances endeavouring to conceal their satirical smiles as they accosted him—he beheld the entire House of Lords forgetting their dignity and whispering together in a significant manner as he entered the assembly. Then his thoughts suddenly travelled to Agnes; and all his ancient doubts and fears relative to his paternity in respect to her, returned with overpowering violence; until he felt convinced that she was indeed the offspring of an adulterous connexion between his wife and Sir Gilbert Heathcote. Lastly, by a rapid transition, his imagination wandered to the abode of the Count and Countessa of Carignano; and he pictured the lovely—seducing—voluptuous Laura in the arms of a rival!
All these reflections maddened the old man—deprived him of his reason—rendered him desperate—and made life appear to him a burthen of anguish and an intolerable misfortune.
He did not remember his boundless wealth—his proud titles—his stately mansions—and all the means of pleasure, enjoyment, and solace that were within his reach: his morbid condition of mind obtained such a potent sway over him, that he only saw in himself a lone—desolate—wretched old man,—deprived of his daughter—deprived of his mistress—deprived of his money—and with the myriad fingers of scorn pointing towards him.
Though the sun was shining joyously, and its golden beams penetrated into the chamber through the opening in the rich drapery,—yet all seemed dark—dreary—and cheerless to the miserable Marquis of Delmour: his powerful intellect—his vigorous understanding—his moral courage, were all subdued—crushed—overwhelmed beneath a weight of trifling realities and tremendous fancies.
In this state of mind the miserable man suddenly rushed to his toilette-case—seized his razor—and inflicted a ghastly wound upon his throat.
At the same instant that he fell—the blood pouring forth like a torrent—a valet entered the room, bearing a letter upon a silver tray.
CHAPTER CXCVIII.
CASTELCICALA.
Turn we now to the State of Castelcicala—that lovely land which lies between the northern frontiers of the Neapolitan dominions and the southern confines of the Papal territory.
It was a glorious morning—and bright and varied were the hues which the sea took from the rosy clouds, as a splendid war-steamer advanced rapidly over the bosom of the waters.
The Royal Standard of Castelcicala floated from the main-mast; and upon the deck was a group of officers in magnificent uniforms, gathered around a young man of tall form and noble air, who was attired in deep black. But upon his breast a star denoted his sovereign rank; and his commanding, though unaffected demeanour well became the chieftain of a mighty State.
That gallant steamer was the Torione, the pride of the Royal Navy of Castelcicala—that young man was Richard Markham, now become the Grand Duke of the principality which he had rescued from slavery—and amongst the aides-de-camp in attendance was his enthusiastic admirer, the erring but deeply repentant Charles Hatfield.
Shortly after ten o’clock on this glorious morning the steamer came within sight of Montoni, the capital of Castelcicala; and as soon as the Royal Standard was descried by those in that city who were earnestly watching the arrival of their new monarch, the artillery of the batteries and the cannon of the ships in the harbour thundered forth a salute in honour of the illustrious prince.
In an hour and a half the steamer swept gallantly into the fine port of Montoni; the yards of all the vessels were manned; and the welkin rang with enthusiastic shouts of welcome.
Richard—or, as we should rather call him, Ricardo—was deeply affected by these demonstrations, which he acknowledged with many graceful bows; and when he landed amongst the greatest concourse of multitudes ever assembled on the quays of Montoni, and amidst the most joyous cries and the thunder of the artillery, he retained his hat in his hand as a proof of respect to that Sovereign People from whom his power emanated.
The royal carriages were in attendance; and as he rode along the streets towards the palace, the vast crowds kept pace with the vehicles, cheering and waving their hats and handkerchiefs all the way. The windows and balconies were filled with gentlemen and elegantly-dressed ladies; and flowers were thrown forth by fair hands in token of the general delight which attended upon the arrival of the warrior-prince.
As on the day after the memorable battle of Montoni, which gave peace and freedom to Castelcicala, the bells were ringing in every tower, and the cannon were still vomiting forth their thunder, their fire, and their smoke, when the Grand Duke Ricardo alighted at the entrance of the palace. There—upon the marble steps—stood the joy of his heart, the charming and well-beloved Isabella, with their two children, the little Prince Alberto and the Princess Eliza—so called after a valued friend.[31] In company with Isabella were her mother (now Dowager Grand Duchess), Ricardo’s sister the Princess Katherine, and her husband Prince Mario. All were dressed in deep mourning: but the presence of Ricardo evoked smiles as well as tears,—and those who wept for the loss of the late lamented Grand Duke, found consolation and experienced a source of ineffable joy in the possession of him who had become his successor.
Moreover, the funeral of the departed one had already taken place; and there was consequently no sad ceremony to be performed which might revive the bitterness of grief.
That evening Montoni was brilliantly illuminated; and the streets were thronged with multitudes who made a general holiday on the occasion of the arrival of that excellent prince to whom they owed so much.
And it was a glorious spectacle to behold the appearance of the people in that capital of the most prosperous country in the whole world. Not a mendicant was to be seen: the loathsome rags and hideous emblems of poverty which meet the eye in every thoroughfare and in every corner of London, had ceased to exist in Montoni. The industrious classes were all cheerful in looks and neat in attire; and instead of the emaciated women, and pale, sickly children observable in such appalling numbers in the British metropolis, the wives of the working-men were all comely and contented, and their offspring ruddy with the hues of vigorous health. Oh! it was a blessed—blessed thing to behold those gay and happy multitudes—rendered thus gay and thus happy by means of good institutions, honest Ministers, and a Parliament chosen by the entire male adult population!
Though the streets were thus thronged to excess, and the houses of entertainment were crowded, the utmost order, sobriety, and tranquillity prevailed. There were no police visible: because none were required. Every citizen, whether employer or employed—whether capitalist or mechanic—whether gentleman or artizan—whether landowner or labourer, was himself a policeman, as it were, in his own good conduct and excellent example. For from the time that liberal and enlightened institutions, involving the true spirit of Republicanism, were applied to Castelcicala, the regular police-force had been abolished and no necessity arose for its revival.
Such was the aspect of the capital of Castelcicala—that model State where Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality were acknowledged principles, practically known and duly appreciated.
On the ensuing morning the Grand Duke Ricardo proceeded to the Chamber of Deputies, where the Senators were also assembled on the occasion. The galleries were crowded with ladies and gentlemen; and the whole of the diplomatic corps were in the seats allotted to them. Even though all present were in deep mourning for the late sovereign, the aspect of the spacious hall was far from gloomy, though solemn and imposing.
The arrival of the new Grand Duke was expected with the most intense interest. It was well known that not only had he suggested the principal reforms which Duke Alberto had applied to Castelcicala, but that he was even far more liberal in his political opinions than his departed father-in-law. It was consequently anticipated that on the present occasion he would enunciate the line of policy which it was his intention to adopt; and every one felt convinced that this would prove a day memorable in the history of Castelcicala.
We should observe that on the platform of the Chamber, instead of the throne being placed for the reception of the Grand Duke, a simple arm-chair was raised about three feet higher than that occupied by the President of the Deputies; and instead of the royal standard flowing with its graceful drapery over-head, the tricolour was suspended to the wall. These changes, it was well known, had been effected by order of the Grand Duke himself; and all present were aware that his Sovereign Highness was not the man merely to displace the symbols of royalty without having some congenial and practical object in view.
At half-past ten o’clock the Ministers entered and took their seats amidst loud applause from the galleries; for this was the same Cabinet that Ricardo had nominated five years previously, during his brief Regency; and its policy had been such as to gain for it the enthusiastic affection of the nation and the admiration of the whole civilised world.
Shortly after the arrival of those high functionaries, the Royal Family appeared in the Chamber, amidst deafening cheers, and took their seats upon the platform, behind the President’s desk; and in a few minutes the roar of the artillery on the ramparts announced to the capital that the Grand Duke had quitted the palace on his way to the legislative assembly.
It was precisely at eleven that Ricardo, attended by his staff, entered the hall; and his presence was the signal for a more hearty renewal of the cheering, while the ladies in the galleries waved their snowy handkerchiefs in unfeigned welcome.
But it was almost immediately noticed that the Grand Duke appeared—not in the royal robes worn on such occasions by all his predecessors—but in the uniform of a Field-Marshal, with a black crape round his left arm in token of mourning for the late monarch. He was decorated only with the Castelcicalan Order of Knighthood, and did not even wear upon his breast the star that denoted his sovereign rank. These circumstances gave a sharper edge to the keenness of curiosity; and when the cheering, which was loud and long, died away beneath the lofty roof of the spacious hall, the silence that ensued was deep and solemn as that of the tomb.
Then the Grand Duke, rising from the arm-chair which he had for a few moments occupied, addressed the assembly in the following manner:
“My Lords and Gentlemen,—You have recently experienced a great and grievous loss in the death of a wise, enlightened, and virtuous Sovereign, whose brief but glorious reign was devoted to those measures best calculated to ensure the happiness, prosperity, and morality of the Castelcicalan people. The name of Alberto will live in history so long as the world shall endure; and his memory will be cherished in the hearts of this and all succeeding generations of the inhabitants of that clime which his wisdom and his example have so supremely blessed.
“Had I consulted my own private feelings, I should have allowed some time to elapse ere I appeared before you to shadow forth that line of policy which it is my duty to recommend to your deliberations: I should have craved leisure to weep over the loss of my illustrious father-in-law, and meditate upon those grand lessons which his memorable reign have taught us. But I feel that the welfare of an entire people is too solemnly important and too sacred a thing to be for even a moment lost sight of; and that when the head of a State is called away to the tomb, his successor must devote no time to a grief which cannot recall the departed, but must at once take up without intermission the grand work of reform that was progressing at the period of Death’s arrival. For it is a great and flagrant wrong for those who are entrusted with power, to interpose delays in the proper exercise thereof; and that man is a traitor to his country and deserves execration who dares to intimate that there is no need of haste in accomplishing a great national good.
“These are the motives which have induced me to appear thus before you even at so early a period that the remains of my lamented predecessor can scarcely be said to have grown cold in the tomb: but I repeat that if men accept the responsibilities of power and office, they must permit no considerations to retard them in the performance of their duty and the fulfilment of their high vicarious mission.
“Last evening I assembled the Ministers around me, and submitted to them the views which I had some time ago matured, and which I proposed to put into practice so soon as the natural course of events and the will of the Sovereign People should place me at the head of affairs. The Ministers were unanimous in adopting those views, and cheerfully undertook to lay them in the usual manner before the Legislative Assemblies. But in the meantime, it behoves me briefly to detail the nature of these plans which are thus deemed suitable to the interests and in accordance with the just rights of the Castelcicalans.
“In the first place I propose that the form of Government shall be Republican, not merely in institutions, but likewise in name; and in order that this idea may be fully carried out, it will be necessary that certain sacrifices should be made in particular quarters. I now especially allude to the class denominated the nobility. The existence of aristocratic titles is totally incompatible with the purity and simplicity of Republicanism; and the country therefore expects from the patriotism of the nobles a ready concession of these invidious distinctions,—distinctions which are nothing more nor less than the relics of feudal barbarism. For my part, I cheerfully undertake to set the example, if example be indeed required to induce men to the performance of their duty. With this determination I have come before you to-day,—not as the Grand Duke of Castelcicala—not as a Sovereign-Prince,—but as the First Magistrate of the State, retaining only that military rank which I have won upon the fields of victory. From this moment, then, you may know me, and I wish to be known only, as General Markham; and this same abnegation of title I proclaim on the part of my beloved wife, my revered mother-in-law, and the rest of the Royal Family.”
During several parts of his speech, Ricardo had been frequently interrupted by outbursts of enthusiastic cheering: but when he reached this solemn and important climax, the whole assembly rose and greeted him with the most joyous shouts—the most fervent applause that ever expressed the unfeigned admiration of a generous patriotism. The ladies in the galleries absolutely wept in the excitement of their feelings: for never—never was seen so sublime a spectacle as this of a mighty Prince casting his crown, his sceptre, and his titles at the feet of the Goddess of Liberty!
“I accept with ineffable pleasure this demonstration of approval,” resumed Ricardo, after a long pause; “and it gave me unspeakable delight to behold the Peers themselves joining as enthusiastically as the rest in those evidences of assent. When all titles are abolished, save those which properly and necessarily belong to the various grades of naval and military rank, the vanity attending upon the pride of birth will perish through a deserved inanition, and emulation will point to the only true aristocracy,—namely, that of Virtue and of Mind. The Ministers will accordingly propose to you such measures as may tend effectually to establish Republican Institutions in this State. They will recommend the abolition of the Upper House, and the retention only of the Chamber of Deputies, which must be numerically strengthened. They will propose that the Chief Magistrate, to be denominated President, shall be chosen for a period of three years, and liable to re-election. The power of veto, the privilege of making peace or declaring war, and other attributes purely monarchical, will not he conceded to the President, but must exist in the Chamber itself; and instead of the effigy of the ruler upon the current coin, the arms of the Republic should be impressed. Every public act and deed must be accomplished in the name of the Sovereign People, the President serving the purpose of the executive agent, as responsible for his own conduct as the Ministers themselves are held to be for theirs. These and other reforms, all tending to the prompt and complete establishment of pure Republican Institutions, will be at once submitted to your deliberations.
“I have not the slightest doubt that the moment the news of all that is passing within these walls, shall reach the ears of the other potentates of Italy, remonstrances will be poured in by their diplomatic agents resident in Montoni;—and perhaps even menaces may be used. I however feel convinced that no argument which may be adopted in such remonstrances can possibly blind your eyes to the beauty of Freedom and the excellence of Liberty: and as for the menaces, I need only observe that a Castelcicalan army, animated by a republican spirit, would prove invincible.”
These words again elicited the most tremendous cheering: and after another long pause, Ricardo wound up his address in the following manner:—
“All of you who are here present well remember the condition of the country previously to the accession of the late Grand Duke. Poverty, and its invariable handmaids—squalor, filth and demoralisation—presided over the lot of the industrious classes. Oppression was felt everywhere—happiness existed only in the mansions of a favoured few. The people were looked upon as the serfs and slaves of the rich oligarchy; and the very vitals of a healthy state of society were thus corrupt and rotten. But a change came over the country: it was decreed that every man should have fair wages for fair work; and that all able and willing to work, should have work found for them. In order to accomplish these aims, it was necessary to set about reclaiming the waste lands in those districts where they lay; and in others, the owners of estates were by a just law compelled to throw certain portions of their parks and pleasure-grounds into a corn cultivation, and to level all their game-preserves for the same purpose. What have been the results of these measures? Labour has been abundant, and wages high: employment has extirpated mendicancy; and squalor, filth, and demoralisation exist no longer within the confines of Castelcicala. But what would I have you infer from these facts? That if the people of this country have already so largely and so admirably profited by liberal institutions,—if the reforms hitherto accomplished have so materially enhanced the general prosperity, producing abundance, happiness, and contentment,—who shall be able to divine to what point that prosperity may arrive, under the pure, simple, and truly Christian institutions of republicanism.”
Having thus spoken, with the tone, manner, and eloquence of deep conviction, General Markham—for so we must now denominate him—bowed to the assembly, and withdrew amidst applause which was prolonged for some minutes after he had quitted the spacious hall.
His wife and illustrious relatives left the platform at the same time;—and now behold this illustrious family returning to the palace, attended by the grateful and rejoicing myriads, who, having assembled round the Chamber, had already received the intelligence of the memorable proceedings that had taken place within;—proceedings which in a single hour had accomplished the most effectual and yet utterly bloodless revolution ever known in any age or in any country!
CHAPTER CXCIX.
THE MARCHIONESS OF DELMOUR.
The Marquis of Delmour awoke, as it were from a deep trance; and, opening his languid eyes, he beheld a female form bending over him. He attempted to speak: but the lady placed one slender finger on her lips in token of silence;—and, closing his eyes again, the old nobleman endeavoured to collect his scattered ideas—or rather, to dispel the mist which hung over them.
It struck him that the countenance which he had just seen was not unknown to him;—and as he dwelt upon it in imagination, it gradually became more familiar,—while, by imperceptible degrees, it awoke reminiscences of the past—some of pleasure, but most of pain,—until an idea of the real truth dawned in upon the mind of the Marquis.
Then again he opened his eyes;—and though long years had elapsed since last he beheld that countenance, each feature—each lineament was immediately recognised. But so confused were his thoughts that he could not recollect why a feeling of aversion and repugnance prevented him from experiencing joy at the presence of her who was standing, in painful suspense, by his bed-side.
At last, as reason asserted her empire, a knowledge of who she was and all the incidents associated with her revived in his soul; while, at the same time and with a species of under-current of the reflections, a feeling of what had happened to himself and why he was stretched in his couch came slowly upon him. They he suddenly raised his hand to his throat; and the bandage there convinced him that the last reminiscence which had just stolen into his mind, was indeed too true!
Averting his eyes from the mournful and plaintive countenance which was still bending over him, he groaned aloud in very bitterness:—and then a deep silence ensued in the chamber.
Several minutes elapsed, during which the burning tears streamed down the lady’s face: but she subdued the sobs that almost choked her—for she would not for worlds permit any evidence of her own deep grief to disturb the meditations of the enfeebled nobleman. On his side, he was absorbed in profound thought,—the incidents of the past rapidly becoming more definite and vivid in his memory, until there were few things left in uncertainty or doubt—and nothing in oblivion.
Slowly turning towards the lady, the Marquis saw that she was overwhelmed with sorrow—although she hastily wiped away her tears;—and moved—deeply moved by this spectacle, as well as influenced by a host of tender recollections, the old man extended his hand towards her, murmuring, “My wife! is it indeed she who is now watching by my side?”
“O heaven! he recollects me—he will forgive me!” she exclaimed, in a tone of the liveliest joy; and carrying her husband’s emaciated hand to her lips, she covered it with kisses.
“Sophia,” said the old man, in a low voice and speaking with difficulty, “we meet after a long—long separation. But let us forget the past——”
“Is it possible that you can forget it?” asked Mrs. Sefton—or rather the Marchioness of Delmour; and bending her burning face over his hand which she still retained in both her own, she added in a tone so low that it seemed as if she feared even to hear her own words, “You have so much to pardon! But I never viewed my conduct in this light until I came and beheld you stretched upon the bed of—of——”
“Of death,” said the Marquis, his pale countenance becoming, if possible, more ghastly pallid still.
“No—no,” exclaimed the Marchioness, with the excitement of voice and the gesture of despair; “you must not talk nor think thus despondingly! But tell me, my husband—tell me—oh! say, can you forgive me for the past?”
“We have much to forgive on either side, Sophia,” responded the Marquis: “and as I was the first cause of dissension between us—as I indeed was the author of all your unhappiness, by forcing you into a marriage which you abhorred—’tis for me to demand pardon first. Tell me, then, Sophia—tell me that you can pardon me for all the misery I have been the wretched means of heaping upon your head?”
“Oh! yes—yes!” exclaimed the lady, the tears again pouring in torrents down her cheeks: “would to heaven that I could prove to you how deeply sensible I am of this kindness which you now manifest towards me!”
“Then you forgive me!” cried the nobleman, pressing her hand tenderly, while joy beamed in his eyes hitherto dim with the glazing influence of a mortal enervation:—“then you forgive me!” he repeated, his voice becoming stronger.
“Yes—oh! yes—a thousand times yes!” she exclaimed; and bending over him, she pressed her lips upon his cold forehead. “But do you pardon me likewise?” she asked, after a few moments’ pause.
“It was I who provoked all that has occurred—I who was the unhappy means of blighting the pure affections of your youth,” returned the Marquis; “and therefore—whatever may have been the consequences—I am bound to pardon and forget. Alas! Sophia, often and often—and with feelings of ineffable pain and anguish—have I thought of that fatal day when, long years ago, I levelled at you a terrible accusation. But I was a coward—and I was cruel thus to have taxed you with a fault which at that period my jealous suspicions alone——”
“To what do you allude?” demanded the Marchioness, inwardly shocked, and with her heart bleeding as she asked the question: for she divined too well to what her husband did allude—and she was almost crushed with a devouring sense of shame.
“Oh! if you can have forgotten that fatal day,” exclaimed the Marquis, whose sight was too dim, and whose mental powers of perception were too weak to enable him to understand rightly his wife’s present emotions,—“then are you happy indeed! For, alas! I referred to the day on which we separated, sixteen or seventeen years ago—I cannot now remember accurately how many have passed since then——”
“And why allude to that unhappy epoch?” asked the lady, in a low and tremulous tone.
“Because I wish to convince you that I am indeed repentant for all the share which I took in sealing our misery,” replied the nobleman. “On that memorable day, I accused you of infidelity towards me—and yet subsequent reflection has convinced me that you were innocent then! Oh! never—never shall I forget that tone in which you breathed the fatal words—‘All is now at an end between you and me! We part—for ever!’ I have thought since—aye, and I have said that you resembled what would be a sculptor’s or an artist’s conception of Injured Innocence; and then, when I adjured you in the name of your infant daughter to stay, you uttered a wild cry and fled! That cry rings in my ears now—has vibrated in my brain ever since——”
“Oh! in the name of heaven, proceed not thus!” murmured the Marchioness, covering her face with her hands and sobbing bitterly.
But wherefore, did she thus weep?—wherefore were her emotions so powerful? Why was her heart thus wrung until every fibre appeared to be stretched to its utmost power of tension? It was because on the occasion to which the Marquis referred, guilt and not innocence had made her voice hollow and thick as she breathed the words which decreed an eternal separation!—it was because that wild cry had been wrung from her by the appeal that was made in the name of the infant child whom she knew to be the offspring of her amour with Sir Gilbert Heathcote! But there are times when Conscious Guilt so much resembles Injured Innocence, that the most keen observer may be deceived;—and such was the fact in the case now alluded to.
A long pause ensued—during which the Marquis, still totally ignorant of the real nature of his wife’s emotions, gazed upon her with an affectionate interest that was rapidly growing into a resuscitated love.
“Weep not, dearest,” he at length said;—“weep not, I implore you!”
“I weep, because I feel that I am so completely unworthy of your present kindness,” responded the Marchioness, withdrawing her hands from her face, and bending her tearful eyes with an expression of such mournfulness and such profound penitence upon her husband, that had he the power to raise himself in the bed, he would have snatched her to his bosom.
“It is now my turn to implore you not to dwell longer upon the past,” he said, taking one of her hands and conveying it to his lips. “We have promised mutual forgiveness. You have pardoned me for forcing you into a marriage which caused all your unhappiness: and I have pardoned you for your connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote since the period of our separation. This is the understanding between us, Sophia—and now we are friends again. But tell me, my dear wife—tell me how long I have been stretched on this bed, and how you came thus to be here to minister unto me?”
“Four days have elapsed since you—since—” began the Marchioness, hesitating how to allude to the dreadful attempt at suicide which her husband had committed.
“Oh! name not the horrible deed!” he groaned forth, writhing in anguish.
“But it is not known—save to three or four persons,” hastily observed his wife, well aware that this assurance would prove consolatory.
“Heaven be thanked!” murmured the old nobleman, clasping his hands fervently. “And now tell me, my dear Sophia, how you came to learn the shocking intelligence?”
“If you will compose yourself as much as you can, and speak but little, I will explain every thing to you,” she answered, assuming, with captivating tenderness of tone and manner, the position of wife and nurse.
“One word first!” exclaimed the Marquis. “Agnes—”
“Is here—beneath your roof,” was the reply.
“My daughter again near me!” he murmured, joy animating his countenance: but in another moment a cloud overspread his features, as he said hesitatingly, “Does she know of the dreadful attempt that I made upon my life?”
“Heaven forbid!” ejaculated the Marchioness, shocked at the bare idea. “That circumstance has been religiously withheld from her. She is however now aware that she is the daughter of the Marquis of Delmour, and not of plain Mr. Vernon; and she believes you to be dangerously ill. She has indeed been my companion for hours together by your bed-side——”
“Dearest Agnes!” exclaimed the nobleman, with an effusion of tenderness in his tone. “I will see her presently—when I am more composed,” he added. “And now give me the promised explanations relative to all I have asked you.”
“Listen, then, my dear husband—and do not interrupt me. Yon have already spoken too much, considering your depressed and enfeebled state; and Sir John Lascelles, when he calls again, will be angry with me for permitting you to use such exertions. Oh! you know not how kind—how attentive he has been! But you will shortly have an opportunity of thanking him with your own lips—for he will be here in an hour. Though the room be darkened, it is now about eleven o’clock in the morning; and he will call at noon. Compose yourself, therefore; and I will give you all the details you require.”
The Marchioness arranged her husband’s pillows—kissed his forehead once more—and then, seating herself by his bed-side, proceeded as follows:—
“That excellent young nobleman, Lord William Trevelyan, called upon me a few days ago, in consequence of an interview which he had had with you. It was relative to Agnes. I assured him that Sir Gilbert Heathcote and myself had come to an understanding that we should see each other no more; and I likewise informed Lord William that it was my intention to repair with Agnes to the Continent. But after he had taken his departure, I reflected profoundly upon the plans I had somewhat too hastily determined to adopt;—and another project suggested itself. For you may believe me when I solemnly avow that all my solicitude was relative to Agnes. Her present happiness and her future welfare in the world alone occupied my attention. Thus was it that the thought stole into my mind, of how unfortunate it was for her to be separated from the father whom she loved so well, and how prejudicial to her interests the equivocal position of her mother was likely to become. Then I resolved to see you—to throw myself upon your mercy—to implore forgiveness for the past—and to beseech you that we might all dwell once again beneath the same roof! For I reflected that as you had shown so much forbearance in never appealing to the courts of justice to divorce me legally—and as you had rather manifested every inclination to envelope in secrecy the causes of our unfortunate differences,—the conviction gained upon my mind that you were generous enough to be capable of still farther sacrifices for the sake of Agnes. Oh! you can comprehend a mother’s solicitude, my dear husband——”
“Yes—yes: proceed!” exclaimed the Marquis, powerfully affected.
“Well—animated with the hopes inspired by all these considerations,” resumed the Marchioness, “I passed the night in meditating upon the best course to adopt in order to procure an interview with you,—an interview after so long a separation! At length I determined to pen a brief note, stating that family affairs of the utmost importance to us both had induced me to take this step; and a letter to that effect did I accordingly write on the following morning. But when I had completed this much of my task, another idea struck me,—which was to become the personal bearer of my own note. I will now candidly admit that I shrank from undertaking a task which might appear to you to evince a matchless audacity and presumption; but when I thought of Agnes, I resolved to risk any mortification or shame which could possibly be inflicted upon me.”
“Oh! no mortification—no shame!” cried the nobleman. “Would to heaven that you had only come in time to——to——”
“Hush!” exclaimed the Marchioness, placing her finger upon her lip: “you promised that you would listen, without exerting yourself to speak.”
“Proceed, dearest,” said the Marquis, who all this while had one of his wife’s hands locked in his own.
“Summoning all my courage to my aid,” she resumed, “I resolved on presenting myself at your abode. I arrived—I sent up the letter by your valet: but in a few minutes he came rushing down the stairs with a countenance that had horror depicted in every lineament. I shall not however dwell upon this portion of my adventure. You may probably conjecture how dreadful was my alarm—how great my grief, when I learnt from the broken sentences in which the man spoke, the frightful intelligence of the condition in which he had found you. Then I revealed to him who I was; and, recovering my presence of mind, bade him place a seal on his lips with regard to every one save the doctor, whom I dispatched him to fetch. In a few moments I was with you: I stanched the blood—I did all that an unassisted and inexperienced woman could do in such a case. Sir John Lascelles arrived—and the information he gave me, after inspecting the wound, was reassuring. I then resolved to remain with you; and I sent the valet to fetch Agnes. This is all the explanation that I have to give;—unless indeed I should add that I communicated with Lord William Trevelyan, who, as a generous friend and as the intended husband of Agnes——”
“Has he visited this chamber?” asked the old nobleman, hastily.
“Yes,” was the reply. “Considering that he was alike in your confidence and in mine, I did not think it either grateful or prudent to leave him unacquainted with all that had occurred. The secret therefore rests with him, the good physician, the valet, and myself; and the household generally believes that you were found in a fit, which has been followed by a dangerous illness.”
“My dearest wife,” said the Marquis, after a long pause, “were there no circumstances which compelled me, as an honest man, to ask your pardon for the past, in the same way as you have demanded and obtained my forgiveness,—all that you have now told me would efface from my memory every thing that it had ever cherished to your prejudice. The delicacy you have displayed—your generosity—your watchfulness——”
“Nay—I cannot permit you thus to exert yourself,” interrupted the Marchioness, placing her hand upon his mouth.
“But you must permit me to declare how deep is the gratitude that I experience for your conduct towards me,” he said. “Oh! my beloved wife—for so I must again call you—I was mad at the time when I laid violent hands upon myself!”
“Oh! speak not of that!” exclaimed the lady. “My God! was it in consequence of that last interview which you had with Trevelyan——”
“No—no,” interrupted the Marquis: “do not blame yourself in any way! It was not on account of the determination which you had expressed, and which he explained to me, to retain Agnes in your care. No—alas! a far less worthy cause——But tell me,” he exclaimed, suddenly checking himself, as an idea struck him: “has there been any communication made from my bankers——”
“Do not harass yourself with matters of business,” said the Marchioness, in a tone expressive of the deepest solicitude.
“Nay—if I am to endure the tortures of suspense, I shall never recover,” exclaimed the nobleman, with strong emphasis. “Besides, I see by your manner that something has occurred, Sophia——”
“Well—I will explain every thing,” said the Marchioness; “and then your mind will be relieved: for I see that it is useless to expect you to compose yourself while any cause of vexation or excitement exists. Tranquillise your mind, therefore, relative to the matter which is now uppermost in your thoughts. Your honour has been duly cared for—no exposure has given existence to shame or humiliation.”
“Oh! again—again I thank you, my generous wife,” cried the Marquis. “But pray give me an explanation of all this!”
“I will do so without farther preface,” she said. “In the course of the day following the mournful one whose chief incident made me an inmate of the house to which I only came in the first instance as a visitor, the principal partner in the banking firm in the Strand called with an earnest request to see you immediately. In pursuance of certain orders which I had given to the servants relative to any visitors who might come upon business, I was immediately made acquainted with the banker’s presence; and I hastened to the room where he was waiting. I assured him that you had been seized with a sudden fit, and were unable to see any one; and, as I had already made myself known in the house as your wife, I informed him that I was the Marchioness of Delmour. He said that it was of the greatest consequence for him to see you; and I replied that you were insensible to all that was passing around you. He appeared much annoyed—indeed bewildered by this announcement; and I conjured him to be candid with me. He then stated that a forgery had been committed upon the bank, your name having been already used to procure the sum of sixty thousand pounds; that the legitimate owner of the cheque had just called to obtain the cash, and was actually waiting at the bank at that instant; and that he himself had come to require final instructions from you, as the lady was resolute in enforcing her demand. Pardon me, my husband,” continued the Marchioness, “if I tell you I suspected that the affair was one which you would be unwilling to have exposed; and, indeed, on a little farther conversation with the banker, I heard sufficient to convince me that such was the fact. I accordingly took it upon myself to desire him to effect a compromise with the lady in question: but she being obstinate, he paid the entire amount. This result he subsequently called to communicate to me; and I hope that you will at least approve of my motives, if not of the instructions that I gave.”
“I approve of both,” answered the Marquis; “and I again thank you, Sophia, for the delicacy which you have exhibited in my behalf.”
At this moment a knock at the door of the chamber was heard; and Sir John Lascelles immediately afterwards made his appearance.
The worthy physician was much delighted at the sudden and unexpected improvement which had manifested itself in his patient: and, after a few inquiries of a purely professional nature, he turned towards the Marchioness, saying, “To her ladyship, my lord, are you indebted for your life. Her prompt attention and the singular presence of mind with which she adopted the proper—indeed, the only effectual course, immediately after the discovery of your alarming condition—saved your lordship from a speedy death. During the four days and four nights which have elapsed since the occurrence,” continued Sir John Lascelles, alluding as delicately as he could to the attempted suicide, “her ladyship has been constant and unwearied in her attendance at your bed-side. In order to retain the sad secret within as narrow a circle as possible, her ladyship would not even permit a nurse to be engaged;—but, unassisted, she has sustained all the cares—all the anxieties—and all the fatigues inevitably associated with daily watchings and long vigils. Pardon me, madam, for speaking thus enthusiastically; but, throughout my experience, which embraces a lengthened series of years, I never—never beheld such devotion.”
“I thank you, doctor,” said the nobleman, “for dwelling with such emphasis upon conduct as noble as it is generous. Certain differences—trifling in reality, and all in consequence of faults on my side,” continued the Marquis, “had long kept us apart. But we are now reunited, never again to separate until Death shall lay his hand upon me, Doctor,” added the nobleman, after a short pause,—while the Marchioness was weeping through deep emotion,—“should you ever hear any one allude to our protracted separation, I beg—I implore you to declare, upon the authority of my own avowal, that I alone was the offending party, and that her ladyship has generously forgiven me every thing.”
“I shall not wait to hear people allude to this matter, ere I myself broach the subject, in order to volunteer that explanation,” said Sir John Lascelles, who, firmly believing all that the Marquis had uttered, naturally considered that the most ample justice should be done towards a lady who had exhibited such a noble devotion to her husband under such peculiar circumstances.
When the physician had taken his leave, after prescribing certain medicines and giving the instructions necessary in the case, the Marchioness bent over her husband, and with deeply blushing countenance, said, “If there were anything at all deserving of praise in my conduct, yours is beyond all commendation: for I have merely performed a duty—whereas you have proved yourself to be the most generous of men. Oh! how can I ever sufficiently thank you, my dear husband, for having thus disarmed scandal of its weapons—thereby saving my honour even from the faintest breath of suspicion? And in order to do this, you have taken upon yourself the odium which attaches itself to the separation of man and wife.”
“I need—I deserve no thanks,” said the Marquis. “You have saved my life—you have recalled me to existence: to you am I indebted for that leisure which, by God’s mercy, may yet be afforded me wherein to repent of the heinous crime I have committed in laying violent hands upon myself. Sir John Lascelles goes much into society—he is intimate in all the first houses at the West End: and he will be careful to propagate the intelligence which I gave him. You may therefore hold up your head proudly, Sophia: for your secret is also retained within as narrow a circle as my own. And now as you have eased my mind on so many points, let me relieve you from any shadow of uncertainty that may hang over yours, in respect to the cause of this dreadful deed, the fatal results of which were averted only by your timely aid. It was through disappointment in respect to that very lady who presented herself at my bankers’——”
“Enough!” exclaimed the Marchioness: “we have already had too many painful revelations this day,” she added, in a low and affectionate tone. “If you are now strong enough to see her, I will fetch Agnes to remain with us for a few minutes.”
The Marquis joyfully assented; and Sophia, having arranged the collar of his linen in such a manner that the bandage on the throat could not be observed, quitted the room. She however almost immediately returned, followed by her daughter, who was overwhelmed with delight to find him whom she believed to be her father so much improved.
But when the Marchioness contemplated the heart-felt joy with which her husband welcomed Agnes to his arms, she was stricken with remorse at the deceit she was practising upon him,—permitting him to regard that beauteous girl as his own offspring! Could she, however, destroy an illusion which gave him so much delight, and was the source of so much happiness?—will our readers blame her for cherishing this secret in her own breast, instead of uselessly destroying the fabric of domestic peace which had once more been built up in that lordly mansion?
After this interview with Agnes, the Marquis shortly fell into a deep and refreshing slumber, which continued until the evening.
On the following morning he was so much farther improved, that when Trevelyan called, he insisted upon seeing that good young nobleman, who was delighted beyond measure to find that such a signal change had taken place in his condition.
CHAPTER CC.
JACK RILY AND THE LAWYER’S CLERK.
It was about nine in the evening, and Mr. John Rily, alias the Doctor, was seated in his chamber at the house in Roupel Street, smoking his pipe and pondering upon the best mode of disposing of the Bank-notes that were in his possession.
He had seen by the newspapers that his late companion, Mrs. Mortimer, had died from the effects of the terrible punishment inflicted upon her by Vitriol Bob: but he had not observed any advertisement proclaiming the notes that had been derived from the forgery;—and the journals were likewise silent respecting the forgery itself.
The Doctor accordingly concluded that the fraud remained undetected, and that the legitimate cheque had not been presented; and as several days had now elapsed since the notes had found their way into his possession, he began seriously to meditate how he could convert them into gold.
It may seem a singular thing to some that a man having in his possession sixty thousand pounds’ worth, was at a loss for the means to realise the amount: but such is often the predicament in which thieves are placed.
For thus stood the matter in respect to Jack Rily:—If he were to take a quantity of the notes to the Bank of England, his appearance might be so much against him as to excite suspicion: for he was not endowed with vanity sufficient to blind his eyes to the fact that his outward aspect was of the most villanously hang-dog description it was possible to conceive. Besides, he was not certain that the notes might not have been privately stopped. Again, if he applied to the “fences” and receivers of stolen property with whom he was acquainted, he knew that they could not cash more than two or three thousand pounds’ worth of the notes; and in doing even this much, they might mulct him of one-half the value. Besides, they were only to be trusted by men in such desperate circumstances as to leave no other alternative: whereas the Doctor had plenty of gold remaining from his share of the plunder derived from the adventure in the Haunted Houses. Lastly in the catalogue of difficulties now enumerated, Jack Rily had heard from a friend so much of the galleys in France, that he did not at all relish the idea of repairing to that country and standing the chance of visiting those places by attempting to pass notes concerning which private information might have been sent, for any thing he knew to the contrary, to the various money-changers.
All these considerations were occupying the Doctor’s thoughts on the evening alluded to; when his landlord entered to acquaint him that a gentleman named Green desired to speak to him.
“Ah! my old school-pal!” ejaculated Rily, joyfully: “show him up by all means!”
And during the short interval which elapsed ere the attorney’s clerk made his appearance, the Doctor placed the brandy-bottle, a couple of tumblers, and a clean pipe upon the table.
By the time these preparations were completed, Mr. Green entered the room, and was received with the familiarity of a long-standing acquaintance.
“Well, it is quite an age since I saw you last!” exclaimed the Doctor, as soon as his visitor was seated. “What have you been doing with yourself? Still drudging on at old Heathcote’s?”
“Just the same—or rather worse,” was the reply.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” observed the Doctor. “Come, help yourself. But how came you to find me out in my new quarters?”
“I was passing by here yesterday to serve a writ upon a poor devil in this street,” answered Mr. Green, “and I twigged you at the window. You didn’t see me: but I made up my mind to give you a call—and so here I am.”
“And I feel devilish glad to see you,” responded Jack Rily. “You may observe that my circumstances have improved a trifle or so, of late.”
“Ah! I wish to heaven that mine would show any proof of amendment,” said Green, with a profound sigh, as he helped himself to a tumbler of brandy-and-water. “I made a couple of hundred pounds the other day—it was an affair of giving information about a lunatic-asylum in which Heathcote had locked up his own brother;—and because I treated myself to this new suit of clothes,” he added, glancing down at his dress, “the old villain declared that I must have robbed him to procure the money. Oh! how I long to be revenged on that man!”
“Well, I don’t suppose it’s so very difficult,” observed Rily: “at least I should think, from all you have told me at different times, that you know enough about him to make him quake in his shoes.”
“Yes—yes—but—then,” stammered the clerk, with the hesitation of one who longs to open his heart to another, yet shrinks from the avowal of a villany even to the ears of a villain.
“But what?” demanded the Doctor, relighting his pipe. “If you’ve come to consult me, then out with everything at once. Do nothing by halves, old fellow—I never do.”
“Well, you see—the truth is—that—I—I am in the man’s power—completely in his power,” responded Green: “and now he’s making my life so wretched—oh! so wretched, that I think of running away to America with my two hundred pounds. But then I know that he would move heaven and earth to find me out; he would advertise me—give a description of my person—swear that I had robbed him, or something of that kind;—anything, indeed, would he do to revenge himself upon me. He is one of those despicable characters that cherish the bitterest—the most fiend-like malignity.”
“And what is he doing to you now?” demanded Jack, smoking his pipe at his ease while his friend was thus pouring forth his complaints.
“What doesn’t he do, you should rather ask me,” exclaimed Green, in a tone of mingled rage, hate, and despair. “As I just now told you, he put his brother Sir Gilbert into a lunatic asylum, in the hope of getting into his own hands the management of all the baronet’s property—and doubtless in the expectation likewise that grief would send the unfortunate gentleman to his last home. Well, Sir Gilbert escaped——”
“Through your connivance, eh?” interrupted the Doctor, with a knowing chuckle.
“Yes—with my connivance,” responded Green; “and it is the suspicion of this fact that makes Heathcote so intolerable in his conduct towards me. Besides, seeing me with a new suit of clothes, he swore that if I had not robbed him I must have been bribed to give information relative to the place where his brother was confined. It was all in vain that I reminded him of my salary being quite sufficient to keep me in decent attire——”
“Why, don’t you see,” again interrupted the Doctor,—“when once a man has got a certain suspicion into his head, he won’t very easily part with it. He cherishes it—feeds upon it—sleeps upon it—dreams of it, just as a young girl does of her first love.”
“I suppose that this must be the case,” said Green. “At all events, I have been made so miserable by Heathcote for the last few days, that it was like a ray of hope when I saw you at the window of this room yesterday; and I determined to come and chat with you over the matter.”
“And yet I don’t see very well how I can assist you, since you declare that you are completely in Heathcote’s power,” observed Jack Rily. “But you must tell me every thing.”
“Well—there’s no use in denying, then, that Heathcote can transport me if he chooses,” said Green. “Some years ago I—I—committed—a—a forgery——”
“Oh! that’s nothing,” exclaimed Jack, assuming a consolatory tone. “But go on.”
“Nothing do you call it!” cried the clerk, looking apprehensively around him, as if he were fearful that the very walls had ears. “In a month’s time a thousand pounds must be forthcoming—or I shall be transported. Up to this time Heathcote has all along given me to understand that he will replace the money for me: but this business of his brother’s escape and two or three other matters that have gone wrong with him lately——”
“I understand you,” said Jack Rily: “they have put the kyebosh upon it.”
“The what?” demanded Green, unskilled in slang phrases.
“Put a stopper on the affair, I mean,” explained the Doctor, whom an idea had struck while his companion was talking; and this idea was that Mr. Green might be made instrumental in procuring cash for a considerable portion of the Bank-notes.
“I am indeed afraid that Heathcote will not assist me,” pursued the wretched clerk; “and if he does not, I cannot say what will become of me. In fact there is no use in buoying myself up with the hope that Heathcote will do any thing for me: he himself has lost money lately in several ways—and moreover his temper is terribly soured by this affair about his brother.”
“Is Sir Gilbert taking steps to punish him, then?” asked Jack.
“Oh! no—he is too generous and too forgiving in his disposition,” replied Green: “but he has compelled the two surgeons who signed the certificate of insanity, to give him a counter-declaration—and indeed a confession to the effect that they were bribed to sign the document on the strength of which he was placed in the mad-house. There is consequently the danger of all this becoming known; and Heathcote, finding his reputation to be hanging by a thread, has grown as it were desperate,—not caring what may happen to himself—still less what may befall me.”
“I should think, then, that if you had a thousand pounds, you would fancy yourself a very lucky fellow, and be able to defy Heathcote altogether,” observed Jack Rily.
“I would give the last ten years of my life to reach such happiness,” said the clerk. “But it is useless—vain to hope—”
“Will you give a few hours of your time and a little of your ingenuity?” demanded the Doctor, now fixing upon him a look full of deep and mysterious meaning.
“Do not banter me—do not make a jest of my misfortune,” exclaimed Green.
“By Satan! I never was more serious in my life,” returned the Doctor. “Nay—you may stare at me as you will: but the thousand pounds are nearer within your reach than you fancy—and you might still keep your two hundred pounds for your own purposes.”
“Pray explain yourself!” cried the clerk, not daring to yield to the hope which suddenly appeared to rise up before him. “Keep me not in suspense, I conjure you! Can you do anything for me?—can you put me into the way——”
“Yes—I can,” answered the Doctor, emphatically. “And now you may as well tell me candidly that you thought I might be able to assist you, when you resolved upon calling here. Because, since we were at school together—which is many long years ago—our paths in life have been so different, that it is not very likely you would have honoured me by your company without some pressing motive.”
“You must at the same time admit that whenever I have met you, I have always spoken civilly to you—and sometimes stood treat,” added Green, diffidently.
“Once or twice,” observed Jack. “But that don’t matter one way or the other. I asked you a question: and before I open my mind any farther——”
“Well—I candidly admit, then,” interrupted Green, wishing to bring the matter to the point as speedily as possible—“I candidly admit that I did hope you could help me in some way or another. But it was only the hope of a desperate man: for as to the idea that you could assist me to eight hundred or a thousand pounds, it would have been insane to harbour it even for an instant. To speak more frankly still, I almost thought of asking you to let me join you in your own way of life, although I hardly know what your pursuits positively are.”
“They require courage and firmness, at all events,” answered Jack Rily, with a coarse laugh; “whereas you have got into such cursed cringing, bowing, and scraping ways, that you are only fit for a toad-eater. Excuse me for speaking frankly—but as we are talking on matters of business——”
“Quite correct,” interrupted Green, swallowing his resentment: for he felt but little pleased at the home-truth which had just been told him. “And now for the information which is to relieve me from such cruel suspense.”
“First answer me one or two questions,” said the Doctor. “I suppose you are often in the habit of changing Bank-notes for your master?”
“Yes: but not to any considerable amount at a time,” answered Green: “he is too suspicious to trust me with a sum sufficiently large to tempt me to run away with it.”
“Nevertheless, I suppose you could manage to change a few heavy notes, if you had them?” pursued the Doctor.
“Heavy notes?” repeated Green, turning pale and trembling. “Are they—fo—or—ged?”
“Not they!” exclaimed Rily, half disgusted with his timorous companion. “They are genuine Bank of England flimsies: but as they didn’t come into my hands in a very regular manner, and as my appearance isn’t altogether in my favour, I can’t pass them myself.”
“Oh! I—I—can get cash for them,” said Green, with all the eagerness of a man in a desperate predicament. “Heathcote’s bankers would do me as many as you can possibly have.”
“I question it,” observed the Doctor, drily. “Would they cash you two notes for a thousand each?”
“Yes—yes: assuredly they would,” was the prompt answer.
“And you must know other places——”
“Several—several,” interrupted Green, anticipating the remainder of the questions. “But would it not be shorter to go to the Bank of England at once?”
“Well—I think it would,” responded Jack.
“Unless—unless—there’s any fear—any danger, I mean—I——”
“Curse upon your fears and dangers!” ejaculated the hare-lipped villain, savagely: “there are none at all—only, as I just now said, I can’t go myself. But if you can get ten thousand changed to-morrow, you may have one thousand for your own purposes.”
Mr. Green could not find words to express his gratitude in return for this assurance: he was overwhelmed with a delight which he had not experienced for years. The thought of emancipating himself from the thraldom of his despot-master was too brilliant—too dazzling to gaze upon. He could not believe that there was anything beyond a mere chance in his favour:—that the matter was a certainty, he dared not imagine.
But when Jack Rily displayed a few of the notes, and mysteriously hinted that they were the produce of a forgery which could not possibly be detected, Mr. Green started from his chair, and actually danced for joy!
CHAPTER CCI.
MR. HEATHCOTE AND HIS CLERK.
It was five o’clock in the morning of the day after the interview described in the last chapter; and Mr. Heathcote was seated at the writing-table in his private office.
He was busily occupied with papers;—for his was a disposition that could not endure idleness. Even when vexed and annoyed—as he was at present—it was impossible for him to remain inactive. Had he been an author, he would have eclipsed Walter Scott or Paul de Koek in the number of his works.
There was a deep gloom upon his brow and a sinister light in his restless eyes, as he bent over the parchment-deeds which he was inspecting; and from time to time he cast an anxious glance towards the door.
At length be rang the bell; and the junior clerk answered the summons.
“Has not Mr. Green made his appearance yet?” demanded the lawyer, with an emphasis on the last word.
“No, sir—he has not,” was the reply, given timidly—for the young man beheld both the gloom on the brow and the gleaming in the eye.
“Not yet!” ejaculated Heathcote, fiercely, and frowning in his own peculiar fashion at the same time. “Nor sent either?” he added, interrogatively.
“No, sir,” responded the junior clerk.
“This is strange—very strange,” murmured the lawyer. “He can’t be ill—poor devils like him cannot afford to be unwell. But if he were,—if he did happen to be so indisposed that be couldn’t shut his eyes to the fact,—he would have sent word. You know where he lives? demanded Mr. Heathcote, abruptly addressing himself to the young man.
“Yes, sir,” was the answer.
“Then go to his lodgings directly,” exclaimed the lawyer, in an imperious tone; “and if you find him at home, tell him that I am very angry indeed at his absence. Should he be ill, you must desire him to get out of bed, take a cab, and come to me at once to give an account of his conduct. Two guineas a-week, indeed, to a fellow who takes it into his head to be ill!”
And with this humane reflection Mr. Heathcote was about to resume his work, while the young clerk was turning towards the door, when Mr. Green suddenly made his appearance.
“Oh! you are come at last, sir—are you?” cried the lawyer, glancing up at the clock. “A quarter past five—and the office hours are from nine till six. What the deuce does this mean, sir?”
“I had a little business to transact, sir,” answered the head clerk, closing the door by which the junior functionary had just evaporated.
“A little business!” repeated Mr. Heathcote, staring at the man in unfeigned amazement: for he could not possibly conceive how Mr. Green should have any affairs of his own to attend to.
“Yes, sir—a little business,” returned the head clerk, who, though now feeling comparatively independent of his master could not shake off an obsequiousness of manner, which had become habitual to him. “Is it strange, sir, that for once in a way I should have taken the holiday which was certain to be refused if solicited beforehand?”
“Have you been drinking, Mr. Green—or are you mad—to talk to me in this style?” demanded Heathcote, surveying his clerk with more than usual attention.
“I have had nothing to drink, sir, beyond a single glass of sherry—and I beg to inform you that I am not crazy,” answered the head clerk, growing a trifle bolder.
“A glass of sherry!” repeated Heathcote, again evincing the most unfeigned astonishment. “How is it possible, sir, that you can indulge in such extravagances and pay for them honestly? A few days ago you ventured to appear before me in a new suit of clothes, with the gloss actually on them—whereas your regular office-suit had not been thread-bare more than two years. Let me tell you, sir, that I take note of these things: I observe the most minute symptoms of change in a man’s character or habits; and no one can deceive me, Mr. Green—no one can deceive me,” repeated the lawyer, looking hard at the individual whom he thus addressed, as much as to say that he had suspected something wrong and was now certain of it.
“Well, sir—and who has attempted to deceive you?” asked Green, in a bolder tone than had ever yet characterised his language when in the presence of his hitherto dreaded master.
“Who has attempted to deceive me!” vociferated Heathcote, his lips becoming white and quivering with rage. “You, sir—you have made the endeavour—you are making it now! But it will not do, Mr. Green—it will not do. Take care of yourself! New suits of clothes—sherry—a day’s absence without leave, and even without the humble apology that should mark your return,—all this is suspicious, sir—very suspicious, let me tell you.”
“Suspicious of what?” demanded the head clerk, approaching Mr. Heathcote’s desk, and looking steadily across it at that gentleman.
“That you were either bribed in my brother’s affair—or that you have robbed me,” was the immediate answer.
“You are a liar, sir—a deliberate liar,” exclaimed Green, now beginning to experience the first feelings of exultation at the independence which he was enabled to assert.
The lawyer could make no reply: he was amazed—bewildered—stupefied!
“Yes, sir,” continued Green, his voice now losing all its obsequiousness and his manner rising completely above servility,—“you are a liar if you say that I robbed you! Where was the chance, even if I had possessed the inclination, of pilfering even a single farthing? You know that you reckon up the office-money to the very last penny—and that if I tell you how a box of lucifers, or a piece of tape, or any other trifling article was required, you were always sure to say we were very extravagant in that front-office. These are truths, sir; and therefore how dare you pretend to believe in the possibility of my robbing you?”
“Mr. Green—Mr. Green,” exclaimed Heathcote, absolutely frightened at his head clerk’s manner: “what is the cause of all this excitement?”
The lawyer was frightened, we say,—because his conscience told him that something had occurred to place Mr. Green upon a more independent footing with regard to him; and the greater became such independence on the part of one who had long been his tool and instrument, the less secure was the lawyer himself in his own position. In fact, when a wretched being who had long grovelled in the dust at his feet, suddenly started up and dared to look him in the face,—it was a sign that the fabric of despotism was shaken and was tottering to its fall. Mr. Heathcote felt all this—and he trembled for a moment,—trembled with a cold and death-like shudder, as he beheld his clerk’s eyes glaring savagely at him; and it was under the influence of this sensation that he uttered the words which, by proving his own weakness, gave Green additional courage.
“You ask what is the cause of all this excitement,” exclaimed the latter: “and yet only a few minutes have elapsed since you dared to accuse me of having robbed you.”
“A man who has committed a forgery, may very well be suspected of theft,” returned Heathcote, who, having recovered his presence of mind, answered with his usual brutality of manner.
“And what may you not be accused of, then?” demanded Green, scarcely able to restrain himself from flying like a tiger-cat at his master: “for what have you not committed?”
“By heaven, Mr. Green, this shall last no longer!” ejaculated Heathcote, starting from his seat: “you are drunk, sir—you have been drinking, I tell you. Come—be reasonable,” he continued, almost in a coaxing tone: “go home quietly—and be here early in the morning to make an apology for your present bad conduct. I promise to forgive you.”
“Forgive me!” repeated Green:—“forgive me!” he exclaimed again, with a chuckling laugh which did Mr. Heathcote harm to hear it: “I have done nothing, sir, that needs forgiveness—and if I was to kick you thrice round this room where you have tyrannised over me for twelve years, it would only be paying back a minute portion of all I owe you.”
“Mr. Green, you will provoke me to do something desperate,” retorted Heathcote, in a low, thick tone, as he approached his head clerk to read in that individual’s countenance the solution of his present enigmatical conduct: “you will provoke me, I say—and then you will be sorry for your rashness. Consider—reflect—in another month’s time the thousand pounds must positively be forthcoming——”
“Will you replace it for me?” demanded Green, abruptly.
“You know what I have always said——”
“Yes—and I now know likewise what you have always meant,” interrupted Green, darting a look full of malignant hate and savage spite at the lawyer. “For twelve long years, sir, I have been your slave—your vile and abject slave. I was a criminal, it is true, when I first came to you—for I had committed that forgery which you detected, and which placed me in your power. But I had still the feelings of a man—whereas you soon imbued me with such ideas and reduced me to such a miserable state of servitude, that I have wept bitter, bitter tears at the thought of my own deep degradation. I could have lied for you—I could have committed perjury for you—I could have performed all the meannesses and condescended to do all the vile and low trickery which form part and parcel of your business:—but when I found myself used as a mere tool and instrument and treated like a spaniel, without ever having a single kind word uttered to cheer me beneath a yoke of crushing despotism——”
“You have had two guineas a week, paid with scrupulous regularity,” interposed Heathcote, who, from the tenour of the observations which Green had just made, began to fancy that he was only excited by liquor to make vague and general complaints, but that he was still as much in his power as ever.
“Two guineas a-week!” repeated the man, indignantly: “you are always dinning that fact in my ears. But heaven knows that were my salary six times as much, it would not repay me for all the cruelty I have endured at your hands—nor for all that one is obliged to see and go through while in your employment. I had some tender feelings once: but they have long ago been stifled by the horrible spectacles of woe and misery which have been forced upon my sight, and which have sprung from your detestable covetousness. I have seen children starving—mothers weeping over their dying babes—while the fathers and husbands have been languishing in gaol,—yes, in the debtor’s gaol where you have thrown them, and where some of them have died, cursing the name of James Heathcote! Yes, sir—I have seen all this: and what is more—aye, and worse, too—far worse—I have been an involuntary instrument, as your clerk, in causing much of that awful misery, the mere thought of which almost drives me mad. Talk of the black turpitude of murdering with a dagger or a pistol!—why, it is a mercy to the slow—lingering—piece-meal murders which you and men of your stamp are constantly perpetrating. For as true as there is a God in heaven, there are more slow and cold-blooded murders committed in one year by a certain class of attorneys, than are recorded in the annals of Newgate for a whole century!”
Heathcote’s fears had all returned by rapid degrees as his head clerk, turning full upon him, levelled at his head the terrible charges summed up in the preceding speech: but when these last words fell upon his ear, he grew ghastly pale, and, staggering back a few paces, sank into his chair,—for he knew how sternly true was the appalling accusation!
“Ah! well may your eyes glare upon me in horror,” resumed Green: “but it is high time that you should hear a few home truths—even though they come from such lips as mine. For you doubtless think that it is all very fine to issue a writ—refuse delay—decline everything in the shape of compromise—and then seize upon the goods of your victim, or clap him into gaol:—but it is we who sit in the outer office—we clerks, who can best penetrate into the effects of such a heartless course. When we see the door open, and the miserable wretch come in with care as legibly written on his countenance as if it were printed in letters on a piece of paper,—and when he comes crawling up to our desk, as if his utter self-abasement would be so pleasing to us clerks as to induce us to say a good word in his behalf to you,—then, when he asks in a tone of anguish which is ready to burst forth into a flood of tears, ‘Do you think it likely that Mr. Heathcote will give me time?’—it is then, I say, that the real feelings of such poor wretches transpire, and the murderous effects of the harsh proceedings adopted by lawyers of your stamp become painfully apparent.”
“To what is all this to lead, Mr. Green?” demanded Heathcote, in a low and subdued tone: for it struck him that such a long address could only be meant to herald some evil tidings, to which his clerk, in the refinement of vindictive cruelty, sought to impart a more vivid poignancy by prefatory delays.
“To what is all this to lead?” repeated Green: “why—to your utter confusion, black-hearted old man that you are! Think of the conversation that took place between us a few days ago: did I not then tell you that there were many deaths to be laid to your door? And I was right! You sent off Thompson to prison—his wife and child perished, and he cut his throat:—you are the murderer of those three human beings! The man Beale, whom you likewise threw into Whitecross Street, died in the infirmary of that gaol—died of a broken heart, sir;—and you were his murderer! Hundreds and hundreds of deaths have you caused in the same way,—hundreds and hundreds of legal murders!”
“Green—Mr. Green!” gasped the lawyer, writhing as if he were a dwarf in the grasp of a giant: then, wondering why he should thus put up with the insolence of his clerk, and falling back upon the belief that the man could not possibly conduct himself in such a way unless he were under the influence of liquor, he suddenly started from his seat, exclaiming, “By heaven! sir, you have gone so far that all hope of forgiveness on my part is impossible.”
“I care nothing for your pardon—and shall not even condescend to solicit it,” replied Mr. Green, in a tone of complete and unmistakeable defiance. “I am going to leave you at once——”
“Leave me!” ejaculated Heathcote, who had hitherto believed it to be impossible that his clerk could throw off the chains of servitude and thraldom which had been so firmly rivetted upon him: “leave me!” he repeated: “yes—oh! yes,” he added, his countenance assuming an expression of the most diabolical sardonism;—“yes—you shall indeed leave me—but it will be to change your quarters for a cell in Newgate!”
“Perhaps you will be the first to repair thither,” said Green, with a chuckle that seemed to grate upon the lawyer’s ears like the sound emitted by the process of sharpening the teeth of a saw.
“In less than two hours, Mr. Green, Clarence Villiers shall be made acquainted with the fact that the thousand pounds have long ceased to be in the Bank of England,” exclaimed Heathcote.
“The thousand pounds are there, sir—yes, there at this very minute,” answered Green, in a tone of assurance which convinced Heathcote that the man was speaking the truth. “And what is more, sir, Mr. Villiers knows all—and has forgiven all! This morning did I replace the money; this afternoon did I repair to Brompton to throw myself at the feet of Mr. Villiers—confess everything—and implore his pardon. Oh! sir, he is a generous man—and he forgave me. ‘You have been guilty of a terrible breach of trust—nay, a heinous crime, Mr. Green,’ he said; ‘but you have atoned for your turpitude. It is our duty in this world to forgive where true contrition is manifested; and I will take care to hold you harmless in this case, should it ever transpire that the money had been sold out.’—I wept while I thanked him; and I said, ‘But I have a bitter enemy who is acquainted with the whole transaction: what can be done to save me from disgrace, should he inform against me?’—‘He cannot prove that you forged my name,’ responded Villiers: ‘I alone can prove that; and under present circumstances, I would not for worlds inflict an injury upon you.’ I again thanked him, and took my leave. You now perceive, Mr. Heathcote, that so far from being in your power, you are entirely in mine. The other day you told me that you would crush me as if I were a worm—that you would send me to Newgate—that you would abandon me to my fate—and that you would even help to have me shipped for eternal exile. I thank you for all your kind intentions, sir,” added Green, in a tone of bitter satire; “and I mean to show my gratitude by exposing you and your villany to the utmost of my ability.”
“And what injury can you do me, reptile?” exclaimed Heathcote, quivering with rage.
“What injury!” repeated Green: “I can ruin you!” he added, speaking loudly and triumphantly. “Oh! I am acquainted with far more of your dark transactions and nefarious schemes than you can possibly imagine. The deeds that are contained therein,” he added, pointing to the japanned tin-boxes, “are not sealed books to me. I have read them all—yes, all—and have gleaned enough information to enable me to bring upon you such a host of ruined and defrauded clients, that you would never dare to face them even for a moment. Ah! you may turn pale as death—and your eyes may glare with rage: but it is not the less true that I hold you in my power. If you destroy those deeds, you then annihilate the only documents which prove your title to the vast property which you have accumulated: if you do not destroy them, you leave in existence the damning evidences of your villany. At this very moment there are old men and old women struggling on in the bitterest penury, and cursing the life from which they have not the moral courage to fly through the medium of suicide,—some of them in the workhouse—others dependent on the bounty of relatives;—and all these have been plunged into this appalling misery by you! But every step you took to enmesh and ensnare them—every scheme you devised to get them completely into your power, so that you might wrench from them the last acre of their lands and the last guinea of their fortunes,—all—all has been illegal—fraudulent—extortionate—vile! Oh! it will alone prove a fine harvest for me, when I again take out my certificate to practise as an attorney—which I am about to do,—it will be a splendid commencement, I say, to take up the causes of all those persons and compel you to render an account to your ruined clients. This, sir, is what I am about to do: and now it shall be war between us—war to the very knife,—and ere many months have elapsed, you will bitterly repent your conduct to one who only asked for a little kindness in return for his faithful—far too faithful services.”
Having thus spoken, Mr. Green abruptly quitted the office, leaving James Heathcote in a state of mind not even to be envied by a criminal about to ascend the steps of the scaffold.
CHAPTER CCII.
JACK RILY AND VITRIOL BOB.
Mr. Green had so well managed matters in respect to the Bank-notes, that in the course of a few hours he had contrived to obtain cash for about twelve thousand pounds’ worth; and the Doctor was so delighted at his success, that he had testified his satisfaction by making him a present of a couple of thousand for himself.
Being now a rich man, Mr. Rily resolved to quit his lodgings in Roupel-street and take superior apartments in a better neighbourhood. Then it struck him, as he was walking leisurely along in the City, after having parted from Green, that it would be far more agreeable to become the possessor of a nice little cottage in a pleasant suburb; and, while this idea was uppermost in his mind, he happened to observe in the window of a house-agent an announcement to the effect that “several elegant and desirable villas were to be let on lease or sold, in the most delightful part of Pentonville.” The Doctor entered the office, obtained a card to view the premises thus advertised, and, taking a cab, proceeded straight to the suburb indicated.
Having nothing particular to do, Jack Rily spent several hours in inspecting the villas, and at length fixed upon one which he resolved to purchase. The individual who had built the houses on speculation, and who was compelled to dispose of one on any terms before he could possibly finish another, resided close at hand; and a bargain being speedily concluded, a particular hour on the following day was agreed upon as the time for a final settlement.
Jack Rily, having proceeded thus far in his arrangements, entered a public-house which had lately been built on an eminence within a quarter of a mile of the New Model Prison; and there he ordered some dinner—for it was now four o’clock in the afternoon. The repast over, he took a seat at an open window which commanded a view of Copenhagen Fields and all the neighbouring district; and with his pipe and some hot brandy-and-water he was enjoying himself to his heart’s content, when he was suddenly startled by the appearance of Vitriol Bob, who happened to pass that way.
Though a brave, fearless, and desperate man, the Doctor nevertheless uttered an ejaculation of mingled surprise and annoyance; and his enemy, who would not have otherwise perceived him, instantly glanced towards the window. Their looks met—and a diabolical scowl distorted the countenance of Vitriol Bob,—while Jack Rily, immediately recovering his presence of mind, surveyed the miscreant with cool defiance.
Vitriol Bob appeared to hesitate for a moment what course to pursue: then, suddenly making up his mind, he entered the public-room where the Doctor was seated.
Taking a chair at another table, he rang the bell and ordered some spirits-and-water, in payment for which he threw down a sovereign, receiving the change.
When the waiter had disappeared, and the two villains were alone together, Vitriol Bob looked maliciously at Jack Rily, as much as to say, “You see I am not without money;” and then he glanced complacently at the new suit of black which he had on.
For a change had taken place in Vitriol Bob’s appearance; and he seemed to be “in high feather,” as well as his enemy the Doctor. His huge black whiskers had been trimmed, oiled, and curled—a process that did not however materially mitigate the hang-dog expression of his countenance: for his small, reptile eyes still glared ferociously from beneath his thick, overhanging brows,—his lips were as usual of a livid hue,—and his broken nose positively appeared more flat on his face than ever.
“Your health, Jack,” said the miscreant, nodding with a kind of malignant familiarity, as he raised the steaming glass to his lips.
“Thank’ee kindly, Bob,” returned the Doctor, in a tone of mock civility.
“Now that we have met at last, old feller, we won’t part again in a hurry,” observed Vitriol Bob after a pause, during which he lighted a cigar.
“Just as you choose, my tulip,” said Rily, calmly puffing away and contemplating the thin blueish vapour which curled lazily from the bowl of his pipe out of the window.
“You and I have a score to settle, you know, Jack,” continued Vitriol Bob; “and it seems as if the Devil had thrown us in each other’s way this evenin’ on purpose to reggilate our accounts.”
“Oh! that’s the construction you put upon it, eh?” said the Doctor. “Well—just as you like.”
“You know that you used me shameful in that Stamford-street business t’other day,” proceeded Vitriol Bob.
“It was only what you deserved for the trick you played me, old fellow,” retorted the Doctor, but with amazing coolness alike of tone and manner.
“I don’t deny that I bilked you out of a part of your reglars in the matter alluded to,” said Bob: “but it didn’t deserve such a return as you gived me in the Haunted House. Thank God, I had my revenge on the old o’oman t’other night.”
“Yes—she’s disposed of,” observed Jack; “and I can’t forgive you for it, Bob—even if you wished us to be friends. She was a fine old creature,—and I had an affection for her, because she was the ugliest wretch I ever saw in the shape of a woman—and her spirit was admirable.”
“I meant the blow for you, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob: “but it’s just as well now that the bottle broke over her, since you and me have met again.”
“Have you got another bottle in your pocket, Bob?” demanded the Doctor: “because if we are to have a tuzzle for it before we part, I may as well put myself on as equal terms with you as possible.”
“I shan’t take no unfair advantage, Jack,” was the reply: and, as the villain thus spoke, he slapped his hands against the skirts of his coat his breeches’ pockets, and his breast, to convince his antagonist that he had no bottle about his person.
“There’s nothing like fair play, Bob,” returned the Doctor; “and therefore if you like to feel about me to convince yourself that I have no fire-arms, you’re welcome.”
“I’ll take your word for it, Jack,” responded Vitriol Bob. “But I suppose you have got a clasp-knife.”
“I never go without one,” was the answer: “and it’s as sharp as a razor.”
“So is mine,” observed the other miscreant; and then there was a long pause, during which the two men contemplated each other with a calmness and serenity that would have prevented even the most acute observer from noticing the malignant light that gleamed in the depths of their eyes.
And while the one continued to puff his pipe in a leisurely manner, the other smoked his cigar with equal ease; so that they appeared to be two friends enjoying themselves in a pleasant way in the cool of the evening.
“I suppose I interrupted some sport t’other night, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob, at length breaking the silence. “You and the old o’oman wasn’t out together at that hour for nothink—particklerly in such a neighbourhood.”
“Yes—we were going to do a little business together,” observed the Doctor. “You first twigged me in Sloane Street. I saw you!”
“I knowed you did: but you didn’t suspect that I follered you.”
“Rather,” said Jack Rily. “At least, I thought it very probable.”
“You’re aweer that the old o’oman’s dead, I suppose?”
“I said as much just now. ’Twas in the papers,” remarked Jack Rily.
“Yes—I read it in the Adwertiser,” responded Vitriol Bob.
There was another pause, during which the two miscreants had their glasses replenished. The Doctor also refilled his pipe, and the other lighted a second cigar.
“We’ll make ourselves comfortable, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob, “as long as you like: and whenever you feel disposed to go, mind that I shall be arter you.”
“Well—I can’t prevent that,” observed the Doctor, coolly. “You’ve a right to walk which way you choose in this free country.”
“Thank’ee for giving me the information,” said Bob, in a satirical tone. “But of course I mean to stick to you till you’re so wearied of my company that you must come to a last struggle either to shake me off altogether, or perish yourself. For, mind, if I catch you asleep, Jack, I shall stick my clasp-knife into you up to the haft.”
“I’m obliged to you for letting me know your kind intentions beforehand,” observed the Doctor: “because I shall adopt precisely the same mode of warfare.”
“Now, then, we understand each other,” said Vitriol Bob; “and that’s a comfort. But it’s a great pity that two such fine fellers as you and me should be at loggerheads. Howsomever, it can’t be helped—and a reconcilement, or whatever they call it, is impossible. Your life or mine, Jack—that’s the question to be decided now.”
“Depend upon it, old fellow, that you’ll be a croaker before morning,” returned the Doctor, as he raised his glass to his lips.
“No—it’s you that’ll be a stiff’un, my boy,” was the pleasant retort.
“Time must show. Remember that it’s no infant you’ll have to deal with.”
“I should have beat you that night in the Haunted House, Jack, if the old o’oman hadn’t come to your assistance,” observed Vitriol Bob, with a low but diabolical chuckle.
“Yes—but it was because I slipped over something, old fellow,” was the answer; “and I shall take care to keep more steady on my pins next time.”
“Depend upon it that when the death-struggle does come, Jack, the fust that slips will be the dead ’un. Did you ever hear of the Kentuckian fashion of dealing with an enemy?” demanded Vitriol Bob.
“Never,” was the reply. “But I dare say it’s something damnable—as bad, perhaps, as breaking a vitriol-bottle over a person’s face—or else you wouldn’t know anything about it.”
“You’re right there, Jack: it’s gouging that I mean.”
“And what’s gouging, pray?”
“Tearing a fellow’s eye out of its socket,” answered Vitriol Bob.
“One can play at that game as well as another,” observed the Doctor, totally unmoved by the horrid nature of the conversation.
“To be sure: and we shall sooner or later see who beats at it.”
Another pause succeeded this last remark of Vitriol Bob; and again did the two men sit contemplating each his enemy with a composure that was unnatural and dreadful to a degree under the circumstances.
Time wore on in this manner: their glasses were frequently replenished—and yet the liquor appeared not to produce the least effect upon them; but, cool, collected, and self-possessed, they sate measuring each other’s form and calculating its strength, until darkness insensibly stole upon them. The waiter then entered to light the gas; and several frequenters of the house began to drop in to take their evening’s allowance of alcoholic drink and stupifying tobacco.
At length Jack Rily rose, and, looking hard at his enemy, said, “I am going now.”
“Wery well,” returned Vitriol Bob: “I’ll keep you company.”
There was nothing in these observations to excite either the curiosity or the suspicions of the other persons in the public-house-parlour: nevertheless, those words had a terrible significancy for the two men who had exchanged them.
The Doctor walked leisurely out of the room first; and Vitriol Bob followed him. But the instant they were outside the premises, the former turned abruptly round upon his enemy, saying, “Come, let us proceed abreast: I don’t mean to give you a chance of stabbing me from behind.”
“Just as you like,” observed Vitriol Bob; and he placed himself at the Doctor’s right hand, leaving an interval of about a couple of feet between them.
In this manner they walked on in silence,—each occupied with his own peculiar reflections.
Vitriol Bob was intent only on vengeance,—dread, full, complete, and diabolical vengeance; and, though he seemed to be looking straight forward, he was nevertheless watching his companion with the sidelong glances of his reptile-like eyes.
Jack Rily was calculating in his mind what course he should adopt. He was naturally as brave as a lion: but he did not perceive any advantage in risking his life in a struggle that, even were he victorious, would produce neither profit nor glory. The only possible good that could result to him from a triumphant issue of the quarrel, would be the removal of a bitter, inveterate, and determined enemy. Nevertheless, the Doctor had most potent reasons to induce him to avoid this deadly encounter. He had just obtained a vast sum of money, and had the means of realising five times as much: the world, therefore, had suddenly assumed a smiling aspect in his eyes. He had already resolved to abandon his nefarious pursuits, which indeed were no longer necessary—and settle down quietly in the cottage for the purchase of which he had that day concluded a bargain;—and all these prospects were to be staked on the hazard of a die—risked fearfully at the bidding of the miscreant who was walking by his side!
At one moment the Doctor seriously thought of giving his companion into charge to the first corps of policemen whom they might encounter; for this was the hour when the little detachments of constables went about relieving their comrades on duty. But that idea was abandoned almost as soon as formed: inasmuch as Jack Rily had all his money about him, and he knew that if he handed Vitriol Bob over to the police as the murderer of Torrens or of Mrs. Mortimer, the miscreant would unhesitatingly turn round with some charge that would at least place him (the Doctor) in temporary restraint, and lead to an examination of his person.
Jack Rily therefore came to the determination of pushing on into the heart of London, well knowing that Vitriol Bob’s object was not to assail him in any neighbourhood where the contest was likely to be observed and prevented, but to drive him by dint of persecution, dogging, and a hateful companionship, into the open country, where through very desperation the Doctor should make up his mind to settle the matter decisively by a struggle on equal terms. Feeling convinced that this was his enemy’s purpose, Jack Rily resolved either to weary him out or give him the slip if possible—or else to seize an opportunity of stabbing him suddenly in some place where an immediate escape was practicable.
We must again observe it was through no cowardice that the Doctor was desirous of avoiding a conflict from which only one could possibly depart alive: but he had so many inducements to cling to existence, that he saw no advantage in risking them all in a quarrel where the personal animosity was entirely on the other side.
In the course of half an hour they arrived in the vicinity of the Angel at Islington; and Jack Rily, now breaking the silence which had lasted since they quitted the public-house at Pentonville, said, “This walking makes one thirsty: let’s have some beer.”
“Willingly,” answered Vitriol Bob: “and we’ll drink out of the same pot to make people believe we’re friends.”
They accordingly entered a gin-shop and shared a pot of porter at the bar; after which they resumed their walk, passing down the City Road. They kept abreast, and preserved a deep silence,—each watching the movements of the other—the Doctor in the hope of being able to give his companion a sudden thrust with his knife—and Vitriol Bob for the purpose of preventing the escape of his enemy.
It was ten o’clock when they came within sight of the Bank of England; and as they passed under its solid wall, Jack Rily wondered whether he should be alive to keep an appointment which he had with Green for eleven next morning in order to have some more of his notes changed by that individual.
“All the money in that there place, old feller, won’t save one or t’other of us from death before many hours is gone by,” observed Vitriol Bob, in a low and ferocious tone.
“You must make the best use of your time, then,” returned Jack; “since you’ve got a presentiment that it’s so near.”
“No—it’s you that had better say your prayers,” retorted the miscreant. “But what’s the use of keeping both your hands in your pockets? If you think you’ll be able to draw out your knife suddenly and give me a poke under the ribs, you’re uncommonly mistaken.”
“I wasn’t dreaming of such a thing,” answered Jack Rily, for the first time showing a slight degree of confusion in his manner.
“It’s false, old feller,” said Vitriol Bob: “you’ve got the clasp-knife open in your pocket—I know you have. The gas-lights is strong enough about there to enable a sharp-sighted chap, like me, to twig all that goes on.”
“It’s you that speaks false,” returned Jack Rily, still keeping his hands in his pockets.
And, again relapsing into silence, they pursued their way.
Passing in front of the Exchange, and up Cornhill, they turned into Birchin Lane. There Jack Rily hesitated for an instant which way to proceed: but suddenly recollecting that in a little passage to the left there was a public-house called the Bengal Arms, he said, “There’s a crib here where they sell capital ale.”
“Let’s have some,” cried Vitriol Bob. “You go on fust—the place is too narrer for us both.”
“No—you go first,” said the Doctor.
“In this way then,” responded Vitriol Bob: and stepping nimbly in front of his companion, he turned round and walked backwards along the passage until it suddenly grew wider opposite the door of the Bengal Arms.
Jack Rily laughed at this manœuvre: but he was in reality disappointed—for had Vitriol Bob acted with less precaution, he would have assuredly received the whole length of the Doctor’s formidable knife in his back, ere he had proceeded half way up the passage.
“We’ll go into the parlour here,” said Jack, “and have some bread and cheese. I’m hungry.”
“So am I,” observed Vitriol Bob, in a dry, laconic tone which denoted the terrible determination that inspired the man’s mind,—a determination never to part from his companion until one of them should be no more!
There was something awful—something frightfully revolting and hideously appalling in the circumstance of those two miscreants thus wandering about together in a manner that appeared amicable enough to all who beheld them,—two wretches possessing the hearts of fiends and the external ugliness of monsters,—two incarnate demons capable of any turpitude, however black the dye!
CHAPTER CCIII.
THE BENGAL ARMS.—RENEWED WANDERINGS.
The parlour at the Bengal Arms is—or at least was at the time whereof we are writing—a long, low, dingy room, very dark in the day-time and indifferently lighted in the evening. It is always filled with a motley assembly of guests; and ale is the beverage most in request—while to one who indulges in a cigar, at least ten patronise the unaffected enjoyment of the clay-pipe.
On the present occasion the company was numerous: the tobacco-smoke hung like a dense mist in the place, the gas-burners showing dimly through the pestiferous haze;—and the heat was intense.
Jack Rily and Vitriol Bob contrived to find room at one of the tables; and a slip-shod waiter supplied them in due time with a pot of ale and bread and cheese, to the discussion of which they addressed themselves in a manner affording not the slightest suspicion of the deadly enmity which existed between them.
While they were thus engaged they had an opportunity of listening to the conversation that was taking place amongst the other guests.
“Well, for my part,” said a little, stout, podgy individual, with a bald head and a round, red, good-humoured countenance, “I have always been taught to look on the City institootions as the blessedest things ever inwented.”
“And I maintain that they’re the foulest abuses in the universe,” exclaimed a tall, thin, sallow-faced individual, striking the table with his clenched fist as he spoke. “Why should everything east of Temple Bar be different from everything west?” he demanded, looking sternly round upon the company as if to defy any one to answer his questions. “Why should it be necessary to have barristers as magistrates in Westminster, and fat stupid old Aldermen in the City?—why should the ridiculous ostentation, useless trappings, and preposterous display of the Mayoralty be maintained for so miserably small a fraction of the great metropolis? Talk of your City Institutions, indeed!—they are either the most awful nonsense that ever made grown up persons look more absurd than little boys playing with paper cocked-hats and wooden swords—or else they are rottenness and corruption. When the Municipal Corporations were reformed in 1835, why was the City of London omitted! Did not Lord John Russell then pledge himself most solemnly and sacredly to bring in a separate bill for the London Corporation?—and has this promise, almost amounting to a vow, ever been fulfilled? No: and why? Because every Government, one after another, is afraid to lose the political support of this precious Corporation. And to these selfish considerations is sacrificed every principle of justice, propriety, and common sense. Look at the rascally extravagance and vile profusion which characterise the Corporation. The parish of St. Marylebone, with its hundred and forty thousand inhabitants, only expends a hundred and twenty-eight thousand pounds for those parochial purposes which cost the City, with a population of ten thousand less than the other, nearly a million! The difference is that Marylebone is governed by an intelligent vestry—whereas London is under a stupid Corporation! Look, again, at the iniquities perpetrated by the Aldermen in their capacity as licensing magistrates—the gross partiality that they show towards some publicans, and the inveterate hostility they manifest towards others. The rights of the freemen are a scandal and a shame—many able mechanics and other operatives being frequently driven from the City on account of their inability to pay the money for taking up their freedom.[32] Then again, look at the preposterous power which the Lord Mayor enjoys of stopping up all the thoroughfares and impeding business in every shape and way, on any occasion when it may suit him and his bloated, guzzling, purse-proud adherents to pass in their gingerbread coaches through the City. Is this consistent with British freedom?—is it compatible with the rights or interests of the citizens? Faugh!”
And the speaker resumed his pipe, in deep disgust at the abuses which he had thus succinctly, but most truly enumerated.
“Well, I don’t know—but I like all our old institutions,” said the bald-headed man, with the stolid obstinacy and contemptible narrow-mindedness which so frequently characterise the John Bullism of a certain class. “The wisdom of our ancestors——”
“The wisdom of the devil!” ejaculated the tall, sallow-faced individual who had held forth on the City abuses. “That is a fool’s reason for admiring established and inveterate corruption. The wisdom of our ancestors, indeed! Why—those ancestors believed in the divine right of Kings, and were sincere in praying on the 30th of January as if Charles the First was really a Martyr instead of a Traitor. Our ancestors, too, put faith in witches—aye, and burnt them also! It was our ancestors who kindled the fires in Smithfield where persons suffered at the stake; and our ancestors advocated the most blood-thirsty code of laws in Europe, in virtue of which men were strung up by dozens at a time at the Old Bailey. Our ancestors prosecuted writers for their political and religious opinions, and seemed to take a delight in everything that gratified the inhuman ambition of Kings and Queens, to the prejudice of real freedom. Our ancestors, in fact, were the most ignorant—besotted—bloody-minded miscreants that ever disgraced God’s earth; and any man who turns an adoring glance upon the deeds of those ruffians, deserves to be hooted out of all decent society.”
Having thus delivered his sentiments on the subject, the sallow-faced individual was about to resume his pipe, when, another idea occurring to him, he suddenly burst forth again in the following terms:—
“But who are those people that generalise so inanely when they speak of the wisdom of our ancestors? They are persons who inherit all the old, wretched, and worn-out prejudices of their forefathers, without having the intellect or the courage to think for themselves. They are the statesmen who gladly fall back upon any argument in order to defend the monstrous abuses of our institutions against the enlightening influence of reform. They are the churchmen who are deeply interested in preserving the loaves and fishes of which their ancestors in the hierarchy plundered the nation. They are, in fact, all those individuals who have anything to lose by wholesome innovation, and everything to gain by the maintenance of a system so thoroughly rotten, corrupt, and loathsome that it infects and demoralizes every grade of society. The Peer eulogises the wisdom of his ancestors, because they handed down to him usurped privileges and an hereditary rank the principle of which is a crying shame. The Member of the House of Commons speaks of the wisdom of his ancestors, because he holds his seat through the frightful corruption introduced by them into the electoral system. The placeman talks of the wisdom of his ancestors, because they invented sinecures and distributed with the lavish hand of robbers the gold which they wrung from the marrow and the sinew of the industrious millions. The parson praises the wisdom of his ancestors, because they invented the atrocious system of allowing a rector to enjoy five thousand a-year for doing nothing, and paying his curate ninety pounds a-year for doing everything. The lawyer praises the wisdom of his ancestors, because they devised such myriads of insane, stupid, unjust, rascally, and contradictory enactments, that a man cannot move hand or foot even in the most trivial and common sense affairs, without the intervention of an attorney: and wherever that common sense does exist on one side, law is almost sure to be on the other; in the same way that wherever justice is, there law is not. For my part, I do firmly believe that there is not a more wretched and oppressed country in all the world than England—nor a more duped, deceived, gulled, and humbugged people on the face of the earth than the English. Talk of freedom, indeed: why, almost every institution you have is in favour of the rich and against the poor!”
“I can’t say that I see it,” observed the bald-pated man, in the usually dogmatic tone of confirmed obstinacy and unmitigated ignorance.
“Then you must be blind!” ejaculated the other, his emphasis indicating sovereign contempt for the individual whom he addressed. “Look at the Game Laws: are they made for the rich or for the poor? Are not thousands of miserable creatures thrown into gaols for daring to kill a hare or a pheasant, because, forsooth! it interferes with the sport of the ‘squire? Do not the rich ride when out hunting through the corn-fields of their tenants?—and what redress can the latter obtain? Then, again, look at the state of the law generally. What chance has a poor man of bringing a wealthy oppressor to justice?—who can go to Westminster Hall without a pocket full of gold? Why, the very Railway Companies make it a boast that by means of capital they can ruin—aye, and break the heart of any poor antagonist in a law-court, let his cause be ever so just! Look, too, at the privileges enjoyed by the landowners: what proportion of the taxes do they bear in comparison with the industrious, toiling, starving peasantry or mechanics on those estates? Look at the condition of our taxation: are not all the necessaries of life subjected to frightful imposts, while the luxuries are comparatively cheap to the favoured few who can obtain them? What is the proportion between the duty on a poor man’s horse and cart and a rich man’s carriage and four?—what the proportion between the poor man’s beer and spirits and the rich man’s foreign wines? Again, if a scion of the aristocracy wants money, he is provided with a good place if not an absolute sinecure; whereas the poor man is sent to die a lingering and degraded death in that awful gaol denominated a work-house. Look at the combination of capital against labour. If capitalists and monopolists lower wages, there is no redress save by means of a strike on the part of the workmen; and a strike is looked upon as something akin to rebellion against the Sovereign. In every way is the law in favour of the rich—in every way is it grinding and oppressive to the poor.”
A profound silence followed these observations: for every one present, save the bald-pated man, perceived their truth and recognized their justice,—and even he had not impudence enough to venture a denial which he could not sustain by argument.
“What we require, then,” resumed the sallow-faced individual, at length breaking the long pause, “is an entire reform,—a radical reform, and not a measure bearing the name without any of the reality. I love my country and my countrymen as well as any British subject: but it makes my heart bleed to witness the misery which exists throughout the sphere of our industrious population;—and it makes my blood boil to think that nothing is done to remedy the crying evils and reform the tremendous abuses which I have this night enumerated.”
The discourse was now taken up by several other individuals present, the bald-headed gentleman declining to pursue it farther; and the sallow-faced guest fearlessly and ably dissected the whole social and governmental system, concluding with an emphatic declaration that the community should agitate morally, but unweariedly, for those reforms which were so much needed.
It was twelve o’clock when Jack Rily and Vitriol Bob issued from the Bengal Arms; and passing through George Yard, they entered Lombard Street.
Thence they proceeded towards London Bridge, over which they walked in a leisurely manner—side by side—watching each other—and maintaining a profound silence.
Down the Blackfriars’ Road they went; and on reaching the obelisk in St. George’s Fields, the Doctor paused for a few minutes to make up his mind what course to pursue.
He was already wearied—and a mental irritation was growing upon him in spite of his characteristic recklessness and indifference: he required rest—and he knew that he could obtain none so long as his terrible enemy was by his side.
“Perhaps I may weary him out,” thought the Doctor to himself: “or if I lead him into the open country I shall perhaps be able to give him the slip. Otherwise we must fight it out in some place where no interruption need be dreaded.”
Influenced by these ideas, Jack Rily resumed his wanderings, Vitriol Bob still remaining by his side like the ghost of some murdered victim.
They proceeded towards the Elephant and Castle; and on reaching that celebrated tavern, they once more refreshed themselves with beer, as the establishment was still open in consequence of some parochial entertainment that was given there on that particular evening.
On issuing from the house, the two men proceeded along the Kent Road.
Nearly an hour had now elapsed since they had last exchanged a word; for the feeling of desperate irritation was growing stronger and stronger on the part of Jack Rily—while Vitriol Bob was becoming impatient of this delay in the gratification of his implacable vengeance.
But delight filled the soul of the latter when he found that his companion was taking a direction that led into the open country; and, breaking the long silence which had prevailed, he said tauntingly, “You are getting tired, Jack.”
“Not a bit,” replied the Doctor, assuming a cheerful tone.
“Oh! yes—you are, old feller,” exclaimed Vitriol Bob: “you drag your feet along as if you was.”
“I could walk all night without being wearied so much as you are now,” returned the Doctor: and, thus speaking, he mended his pace.
“I never felt less tired than I am at present, Jack,” said Vitriol Bob: “but you are failing in spite of this pretended briskness. You can’t keep it up.”
“You shall see,” answered the Doctor, his irritation augmenting fearfully.
Vitriol Bob made no further observation upon the subject; and the two miscreants walked on, side by side, until they reached the Green Man at Blackheath.
There was no tavern—no beer-shop open; and both were thirsty, alike with fatigue and the workings of evil passions.
Seating himself upon a bench fixed against the wall of a public-house, Jack Rily could not help gnashing his teeth with rage; and as he maintained his looks fixed upon the countenance of his enemy, his eyes glared with a savage and ferocious malignity. The moon-light enabled Vitriol Bob to catch the full significancy of that expression which distorted the Doctor’s features; and, sitting down close by his side, he said, “You are growing desperate now, Jack: I knowed I should disturb your coolness and composure before long.”
“By God! you’re right, my man!” ejaculated the Doctor, unable to restrain his irritation. “I had no enmity against you at first—I would have shaken hands with you and been as good friends as ever—aye, and have given you more money than you’ve ever yet seen in all your life,—given it to you as a present! But now I hate and detest you—I loathe and abhor you! Damnation! I could stick my knife into you this very minute!”
“Two can play at that game,” returned Vitriol Bob, savagely. “But remember that we’re talking tolerably loud just underneath the windows of this ’ere public; and I don’t feel at all inclined to be baulked of the satisfaction——”
“Of a last and desperate struggle, eh?” exclaimed the Doctor, starting up. “Well—we will not delay it much longer. Come along:—it is pretty near time that this child’s play was put an end to—I am getting sick of it.”
“Bless ye, I’ve no such excitement,” said Vitriol Bob, rising from the bench and again placing himself by the side of his companion: “I rayther like it than anythink else. We’ve had a nice walk—plenty of refreshments—and now and then a cozie little bit of chat—besides the advantage of hearing them political sermons in at the Bengal Arms: and so I don’t think you can say we’ve spent the time wery disagreeably.”
All this was said to irritate the Doctor still more; for Vitriol Bob, well acquainted with the disposition of his enemy, knew that when once he was thus excited it was impossible for him to regain his composure.
Jack Rily made no answer—but continued his way in silence, weariness gaining upon his body as rapidly as bitter ferocity was acquiring a more potent influence over his mind.
CHAPTER CCIV.
THE CATASTROPHE.
It was two o’clock in the morning when the Doctor and Vitriol Bob ascended Shooter’s Hill.
Both were much fatigued—but the former far more so than the latter.
The moon rode high in the heavens, which were spangled with thousands of stars; and every feature of the scene was brought out into strong relief by the pure silvery light that filled the air.
The countenance of Jack Rily was ghastly pale and hideous to gaze upon—his large teeth gleaming through the opening in his upper lip, and his eyes glaring like those of a wild beast about to spring upon its prey;—whereas the features of Vitriol Bob denoted a stern—dogged—ferocious determination.
Having reached the top of the hill, the two men paused as if by mutual though tacit consent; and glancing rapidly along the road in each direction, they neither saw nor heard anything that threatened to interfere with the deadly purpose on which they were now both intent.
No sound of vehicles met their ears—no human forms dotted the long highway which, with its white dust, had the appearance of a river traversing the dark plains.
“Well—are you pretty nearly tired out, Jack?” demanded Vitriol Bob.
“I am as fresh as ever,” answered the Doctor.
“But you’re afraid, old feller,” exclaimed the other.
“Not afraid of you!” retorted Jack Rily, contemptuously.
“You would have run away if you could,” said his enemy.
“You are a liar, Bob,” was the savage response.
“No—it’s you that tells the lie, Jack. I’ve watched you narrerly—and I could see all that was a-passing in your mind as plain as if it was a book.”
“But you can’t read a book, Bob, when you have it open before you.”
“There you’re wrong, Doctor: I’ve had my hedication as well as you.”
“And a pretty use you’ve made of it! But I don’t see any use in our standing palavering here: I want to get back to London—and so the sooner you let me polish you off, the better.”
“I’m as anxious to come to the scratch as you. Where shall it be?”
“In the field close by, Bob. We may be interrupted in the road.”
“And yet there’s nothink and no one to be seen.”
“Never mind. We’ll make as sure as possible,” observed the Doctor, who throughout this rapid and laconic colloquy had endeavoured to appear as collected and as composed as possible: but his words had hissed through his teeth—for his mouth was as parched as if he had been swallowing the dry dust of the road.
“Let’s over the hedge, then,” said Vitriol Bob.
The two men accordingly made their way into the adjoining field; and having proceeded to a short distance down the sloping meadow, they suddenly stopped short and confronted each other.
“Shall it be here?” demanded Vitriol Bob.
“Yes,” responded Jack Rily; and drawing his clasp-knife, which was already open, from his pocket, he sprang with a savage howl upon his enemy.
But Vitriol Bob was also prepared with his sharp weapon; and catching the Doctor’s right arm with his left hand, he inflicted a wound upon the shoulder upon his foe. Then the two men closed completely upon each other—and the death-struggle commenced!
It was an appalling spectacle,—the knives flashing in the pure moon-light—and the eyes of the miscreants glaring savagely, while they writhed in each other’s embrace, savage howls bursting from them at short intervals.
In less than a minute they were covered with blood: but the nature of the contest only permitted them to inflict hideous gashes and not decisive wounds upon each other. But suddenly Jack Rily’s foot slipped, and he fell backward—bringing however his adversary down upon him: for the left hand of each held a firm grasp upon the collar of the other.
As they thus tumbled, Vitriol Bob endeavoured to plant his knife in the breast of his antagonist—but the spring of the weapon broke, and the blade suddenly closing as it glanced over the Doctor’s shoulder, cut through its owner’s fingers to the very bone. A yell of mingled rage and pain escaped him; but the chances were at the same moment equalised by the fact of Rily’s clasp-knife escaping from his hand.
The death-struggle was now continued by mere brute force; and the Doctor succeeded in getting uppermost. At the same time he seized upon Vitriol Bob’s nose with his large sharp teeth and bit it completely off—in spite of the almost superhuman efforts of the other to resist this savage attack.
Yelling horribly with the pain, and with his countenance bathed in blood, Vitriol Bob once more got his foe beneath him; and the Doctor echoed those appalling cries of agony as he felt the fore-finger of his adversary’s left hand thrust into one of his eyes. Frightful—terrific—revolting was the contest at this crisis,—the two miscreants writhing, struggling, convulsing like snakes in each other’s grasp,—and the ferocious process of gouging inflicting the agonies of hell upon the maddened Jack Rily.
’Twas done: the eye was literally torn out of its socket; but the pain excited the Doctor to the most tremendous efforts in order to wreak a deadly vengeance upon his foe. And as they rolled over on the blood-stained sward, Rily’s hand came in contact with the knife which he had ere now lost; and clutching it with a savage yell of triumph, he plunged it into Vitriol Bob’s throat.
The miscreant, mortally wounded, rolled over on the grass with a gurgling sound coming from between his lips; and Jack Rily was immediately upon him, brandishing the fatal weapon.
Then, at that moment, as the moon-light fell fully upon the countenance of Vitriol Bob, as he gazed up at his victorious enemy, what fiendish hate—what impotent rage—what diabolical malignity were depicted upon those distorted features and expressed in every lineament of that blood-smeared face,—a face rendered the more frightful by the loss of the nose.
“Who will return to London this morning, Bob?” demanded Jack Rily, scarcely able to articulate, so parched was his throat—so agonising was the pain in the socket whence the eye had been torn out. “Ah! you can’t answer—but you know well enough what the reply should be!”
Vitriol Bob made a sudden and desperate effort to throw his enemy off him: but he was easily overpowered—and in another moment the Doctor drove the sharp blade of the knife through the man’s right eye, deep into the brain.
So strong was the convulsive spasm which shot through the form of Vitriol Bob, that the Doctor was hurled completely off him: but all danger of a renewal of the contest was past—Jack Rily’s enemy was no more!
The conqueror lay for some minutes upon the sward, so exhausted that it almost seemed possible to give up the ghost at a gasp: it appeared, in fact, as if he retained a spark of life within himself by his own free will—but that were he to breathe even too hard, existence would become extinct that moment.
A sensation of numbness came over him, deadening the pain which his eyeless socket occasioned him; and for nearly ten minutes a sort of dreamy repose stole upon the man, the incidents of the night becoming confused and all his ideas jumbling together pell-mell.
But suddenly—swift as the lightning darts forth from the thunder-cloud upon the obscurity of a stormy sky—a feeling of all that had happened and where he was sprang up in the Doctor’s soul; and half rising from his recumbent posture, he gazed wildly around with the visual organ that was still left.
The motionless corpse of his slaughtered enemy lay near;—and the moon-light rendered the ghastly countenance fearfully visible.
The pain in the socket now returned with renewed force; and the Doctor, raising himself up with difficulty, began to drag his heavy limbs slowly away from the scene of a horrible contest and a dreadful death.
He was wounded in many places; and the anguish which he now again endured through the loss of his eye, was maddening him.
At the bottom of the field there was a pond; and Jack Rily, on reaching the bank of the stagnant pool, felt that he could at that moment give all the money he possessed for a single glass of pure water. A draught from that pond would be delicious: but how was he to obtain it? He might stoop down, and endeavour to raise it with his hand—or he might even fill his hat: but the bank was steep all round—and the wretched man was so exhausted and enfeebled that he knew he should fall in and most likely be suffocated.
Seating himself upon the bank, he maintained his one eye fixed upon the pond in which the moonbeams were reflected; and at the expiration of a few minutes he resolved to make an attempt to assuage his burning thirst, even though the consequences should be fatal.
Stooping cautiously down, he succeeded in filling his hat; but as he was drawing it up, he overbalanced himself, and fell headlong into the water.
The pond was deep: but Jack Rily managed to drag himself out;—and on gaining the bank he fainted.
How long he remained in a senseless state, he knew not: or whether a deep sleep had succeeded the fit, he was likewise unable to conjecture. Certain it was, however, that on awaking slowly from what appeared to have been a profound trance, a stronger light than that which he had last seen fell upon his view—for the sun had just risen.
Then all the horrors of the past night came back to the wretch’s memory; and, though the pain in his eyeless socket was much mitigated, it was still poignant enough to wring bitter imprecations from his lips.
He endeavoured to rise: but he was as stiff all over as if he had been beaten soundly with a thick stick wielded by a strong hand—and he was also weakened by loss of blood and the fatigues which he had undergone.
He longed to get back to London, not only in order to have surgical assistance to assuage the pain consequent on the frightful injury he had sustained by the loss of his eye; but also because he was fearful that the body of his murdered enemy would be shortly discovered and his own arrest follow as a matter of course.
Therefore, although he would have given worlds to be enabled to lie on the grass for hours longer, he raised himself up, and moved slowly away across the fields.
But how could he enter London in the broad day-light—covered with blood and maimed as he was? One course only appeared open to him: namely, to remain concealed somewhere until night, and then return to his lodgings. Accordingly, he lay down under a hedge at the distance of about a mile from the scene of the previous night’s deadly contest; and again did he sink into a deep trance.
From this he was awakened by the sounds of voices; and starting up, he heard people talking on the other side of the hedge. They were labourers—and having discovered the corpse of Vitriol Bob in the field adjoining Shooter’s Hill, they were hurrying back to the farm to which they belonged, in order to give an alarm. Their pace was rapid—their remarks denoted indescribable horror—and Jack Rily remained a breathless listener until they were out of sight and hearing.
He then rose and moved off across the fields as quickly as he could drag himself along.
The sun was now high in the heavens; and he thereby knew that it was nearly mid-day. Not a breath of wind stirred the air; and the heat was stifling.
He had bandaged his head in such a way with his handkerchief as to conceal the frightful injury which he had received by the loss of his eye: but the pain he experienced was excruciating.
In a short time he reached a rivulet, where he washed himself; and he was likewise enabled to slake his thirst. A turnip plucked from a field afforded him a sorry meal;—and thus was a man having thousands of pounds secured about his person, reduced to the most miserable shifts and compelled to wander about in the most deplorable condition that it is possible to conceive.
Never had the time appeared to pass with such leaden wings;—and, oh! how the man longed for night to fall. Not more ardently did Wellington at Waterloo crave for the coming of the obscurity of evening, when, beaten and hopeless, he was in full retreat ere the Prussians made their appearance to change the fortune of the day and win the victory which England so arrogantly claims, not more earnestly did the Iron Duke desire the presence of the darkness on that occasion, than Jack Rily in the present instance.
At last the sun was sinking in the western horizon; and the Doctor bent his steps towards the metropolis which lay at a distance of about seven miles.
It was nine o’clock in the evening, when Jack Rily entered the southern suburbs; and he succeeded in gaining his lodgings in Roupel Street without attracting any particular observation. A surgeon with whom he was acquainted, and who did not ask any questions so long as he was well paid, dressed his wounds: and the Doctor began to think the victory over his mortal enemy cheaply bought by the loss of an eye. The black patch which he was compelled to wear, certainly increased the hideousness of his countenance: but as vanity was not one of his failings, this circumstance did not so much trouble him as the inconvenience and the pain attendant upon the loss of the optic.
In the course of the ensuing day, the report spread all over London that the body of a man, frightfully mutilated, had been discovered in a field near Shooter’s Hill; and that it had been removed to a public-house at Blackheath, in order to lie there for recognition. A minute description of the clothing which the corpse had on, was given in the newspapers and also in placards posted in the principal thoroughfares of the metropolis; and it was likewise stated that the clasp-knife, with which the mortal blow was struck, had been left by the murderer sticking in the victim’s head.
Now it happened that Mary Calvert—alias Pig-faced Moll—and whom the reader will recollect to have been already represented as Vitriol Bob’s paramour, was alarmed by the protracted absence of her fancy-man; and while wandering about in search of him at his usual haunts, she observed one of the placards.
The attire therein specified exactly corresponded with the dress which Vitriol Bob wore when he quitted her two days previously; and she at once went to the public-house where the body was lying. A glance was sufficient to convince her that her suspicions were well founded; and on examining the clasp-knife, she instantly recognised it as one which she had frequently seen in the possession of Jack Rily.
Everything was now clearly apparent to Molly Calvert. She knew the deadly animosity that Vitriol Bob had nourished against the Doctor: she was likewise acquainted with the intention of her paramour to wreak his vengeance upon that individual on the first suitable occasion;—and she therefore concluded that a deadly conflict had taken place between them, ending in the murder of her fancy-man.
From the public-house where the body lay, she proceeded straight to a police-station, where she gave such information as led to an immediate search after the Doctor. In the course of the next day a member of the Detectives ascertained that Jack Rily had recently been living in Roupel Street, and that he had only quitted his lodgings there the preceding evening. For the Doctor, alarmed by the publicity given to the discovery of Vitriol Bob’s body, had deemed it prudent to flit.
Several days elapsed without affording the police any clue to his whereabouts: but at the expiration of a week Molly Calvert herself one evening traced him to an obscure pot-house in one of the vilest parts of Bethnal Green; and he was immediately arrested.
Upon his person was found a vast sum in gold and bank-notes—but chiefly consisting of the latter; and this amount was accordingly seized by the officers. Jack Rily was then locked up for the night, and on the following morning he was taken before a magistrate.
When charged with the murder of Vitriol Bob, he at once admitted that he had been the cause of that individual’s death, but declared that it was in self-defence. His story was corroborated by many circumstances, amongst which the loss of his eye was not the least; for the organ had been found, as it was torn out of its socket, close by the corpse. The gashes which the man had received—Vitriol Bob’s own clasp-knife, discovered on the fatal spot—and the evident marks of a fearful struggle having taken place,—all proved that the deed was neither cold-blooded nor accomplished by surprise. On the other hand, might not Jack Rily have himself provoked the contest which terminated so fatally to his opponent? This point the magistrate left to a jury to decide; and the Doctor was ordered to be committed for trial. Relative to the money found upon his person, he persisted in declaring that it was his own, and that he had come by it honestly,—but from what source he refused to state.
CHAPTER CCV.
THE CASTELCICALAN REPUBLIC.
Castelcicala became a Republic; and Richard Markham had the immortal honour of founding a purely democratic government in the finest State belonging to the Italian Peninsula.
The Chamber of Senators voted by an immense majority the very measure which deprived them of their rank of Peers, and abolished titles of nobility altogether. This species of suicidal process, adopted in obedience to the popular will, the interests of the community at large, and the dictates of a consummate civilisation, presented a glorious spectacle to the eyes of all the world. And these good men who thus sacrificed their own family interests to those of their country, experienced a rich reward in the enthusiasm with which they were received by the people when the result of the division on the third reading of the Bill was made known. For no empty honours could outvie that applause which grateful myriads thus poured forth; and if Dukes, Marquises, Counts, Viscounts, and Barons went home that day denuded of those titles, they had the proud recompense of a conviction that their names would shine all the more resplendently in history through their own unartificial light. Their’s was now the aristocracy of VIRTUE and INTELLIGENCE!
The Chamber of Peers was abolished; but all those who had voted in favour of the Government measures were returned by a grateful people as members of the National Assembly which was now convoked—the new system admitting of only one House of Parliament. The moment that august body met, one of its earliest duties was to frame the new Constitution; and this was done on the broadest and most liberal principles. It was resolved, amongst other matters thus definitively settled, that the President of the Republic should be elected on the principle of universal suffrage, and for three years; and we need scarcely inform our readers that there was not even any opposition attempted against General Markham.
But in the meantime—for these proceedings occupied upwards of two months—the other Italian States had become seriously alarmed at the establishment of Democracy in Castelcicala; and the diplomatic agents of Naples, Rome, Tuscany, and Sardinia were ordered by their respective Governments to demand their passports. These were instantaneously granted; and shortly after the departure of the envoys, a league was formed by the Sovereigns of the States which we have named for the purpose of compelling Castelcicala to return into the sisterhood of monarchical countries. Protocols first poured into the Foreign Office at Montoni; and these were logically answered by the Minister presiding over that department. Menaces followed;—and these were treated with a firmness proving how confidently General Markham and his Cabinet relied upon the Castelcicalans to defend the institutions which they had consecrated. An ultimatum, threatening immediate hostilities, was now signed by that blood-thirsty miscreant the King of Naples—by the weak, timid, and vacillating Pope Pius IX.—by the Grand Duke of Tuscany—and by Charles Albert, King of Sardinia. To this document Richard Markham replied, through the Minister of Foreign Affairs, insisting upon the right of the Castelcicalans, as a free people, to choose their own form of Government; and the argument was so well sustained by a mass of reasoning, that the King of Sardinia and the Grand-Duke of Tuscany withdrew from the league, re-accrediting their diplomatic agents to the Castelcicalan Republic. The timid Pope was frightened by a knowledge of Markham’s military prowess into a similar course; and the tyrant Ferdinand of Naples was left alone in hostility against the newly-established Democracy.
This monarch—obstinate, self-willed, and blood-thirsty, like all the Bourbons—was not disheartened by what he called the “defection” of the Pontiff, the Grand Duke of Tuscany, and the King of Piedmont; but he immediately declared war against the Castelcicalan Republic. Thereupon General Markham commenced the most active preparations, not only to prevent an invasion, but to carry hostilities into the enemy’s country. In a short time an army of twenty-six thousand men was collected in the south of the State; and Richard, having taken leave of his family, proceeded to join it, attended by a numerous staff, of which Charles Hatfield was a member. The executive power was in the meantime delegated to Signor Bassano, the General’s brother-in-law; and the utmost enthusiasm pervaded the entire Castelcicalan population, so great was the confidence entertained in the valour of the army and the skill of its commander.
It was in the first week of December, 1846, that the Castelcicalan forces commenced their march towards the Neapolitan frontier. Intelligence had already arrived to the effect that the Neapolitans, to the number of forty thousand men, were advancing under the command of General Avellino; but Markham, well knowing that the spirit of a republican army was far greater than that which animates troops belonging to a monarchy, was not daunted by this immense numerical superiority on the part of the enemy. He was deeply impressed with the opinion that Napoleon Bonaparte had damped the ardour of his soldiers by exchanging the consular cap for the imperial crown: his knowledge of French history told him that Bonaparte’s grandest victories were gained with a republican army;—and he was likewise well aware that the Neapolitan troops loathed and abhorred the monarch who had sent them out to fight against liberal institutions. He therefore resolved to push on and meet the enemy; for his generous nature contemplated with horror the prospect of an invasion of the fertile plains of Castelcicala by an army which even in its own country acted the lawless and ferocious part of a horde of plunderers and ravagers.
On the 7th of December, General Markham entered the Neapolitan territory at the head of his troops; and on the same evening he encamped beneath the walls of Casino, which surrendered without the least attempt at resistance. Here he waited four days in the hope that the Neapolitans would advance to the attack: but hearing that they had halted to rest awhile at Sabino—a place about sixty miles distant—he determined to continue his march. Accordingly, in the afternoon of the 13th, he came within sight of General Avellino’s army, which he found to be occupying a strong position at a short distance from Sabino.
General Markham ascended an elevated flat to reconnoitre the precise distribution of the Neapolitans, and he was speedily convinced that an immense advantage might be gained by placing the artillery upon that height. The task was a difficult one to accomplish: but nothing was impossible to an active commander and enthusiastic troops;—and thus in a few hours, hollows were filled up, projections levelled, and a pathway cleared for the ascent of the cannon. Meantime General Avellino had made no movement on his side; and ere sunset the work of establishing the artillery on the eminence was complete.
The inactivity of the enemy during the entire afternoon led Markham to believe that Avellino meditated an attack in the course of the night; and the Castelcicalans were therefore fully prepared to give the Neapolitans a warm reception. But hour after hour passed without any indication of the approach of the enemy; and General Markham resolved to take the initiative at day-break.
Scarcely had the sun risen on the morning of the 14th of December, when the action commenced by a smart fire on the part of the Castelcicalan light troops, commanded by an active and gallant officer in whom the General had full confidence. The Neapolitans were thereby dislodged from an apparently inaccessible position near Sabino; and the result was that the Castelcicalans were enabled to stretch out upon the plains so as to threaten the enemy’s flanks. Both armies were soon within cannon shot; and by nine o’clock in the forenoon the action became general.
The manœuvres on the Castelcicalan side were performed with a marvellous precision, fully compensating for the numerical inferiority of Markham’s troops; and by mid-day they had succeeded in gaining possession of a wood which covered one of the enemy’s corps. At the same time the cannon upon the height were scattering death throughout the Neapolitan ranks; and General Avellino ordered up his reserve of cavalry to take a share in the conflict. Markham was well prepared for this proceeding; and at the head of his cuirassiers he dashed against the new-comers. This charge was made with an impetuosity altogether irresistible; and the Neapolitans were thrown into disorder in that part of the field. The Castelcicalans pursued their advantage; and by four o’clock in the afternoon the enemy were completely overwhelmed.
The Neapolitan loss was immense: upwards of twelve thousand men of that army lay dead upon the field—while an equal number had been made prisoners. On Markham’s side the number of killed did not exceed two thousand; but the generous-hearted young man considered his splendid victory to be dearly bought even by means of that sacrifice—and the eyes which flashed with the fires of heroism on the battle-field, now melted into tears at the evidences of the sanguinary fight.
We should observe that the conduct of Charles Hatfield was admirable throughout this memorable day. In the charge upon the Neapolitan cavalry, he comported himself in a manner that more than once gained for him the approval of his commander; and when the strife was over and the victory was won, Markham complimented him on his prowess in the presence of the officers gathered about him at the time.
The booty acquired by this great battle was immense; for the Neapolitans who survived the conflict were compelled to retreat with such precipitation as to leave all their baggage and artillery in the hands of their enemy.
On the following day Markham set his army in motion towards the capital, at the gates of which he was determined to force the King to acknowledge the Castelcicalan Republic. But in his progress through the Neapolitan dominions, he adopted the most rigorous measures to protect the innocent inhabitants from plunder or wrong at the hands of his victorious troops; and he issued a proclamation to the effect that any soldier found guilty of an act of oppression or outrage, should be expelled the army and deprived of his civil rights as a Castelcicalan citizen.
It was at about mid-day on the 17th of December that Markham came within sight of Naples; and he was then met by plenipotentiaries sent by King Ferdinand to treat for an armistice, preparatory to negociations for peace. The victorious General received the deputies with the utmost courtesy; he however bade them observe that it was not for him to treat—but to dictate. Thereupon he drew up the conditions on which he would spare the capital and retire from the kingdom,—those terms being the acknowledgment of the Castelcicalan Republic, the payment of all the expenses incurred by Castelcicala in consequence of this war, and a guarantee against the renewal of hostilities on the same pretence.
To these conditions Ferdinand refused to accede; and the citizens of Naples were called upon to arm in defence of the capital. But the people rose up as one man within the walls of the city, and threatened to dethrone the King unless he accepted the terms set forth by General Markham. The blood-thirsty Ferdinand was accordingly compelled to submit to the demands of the Castelcicalan General; and the conditions being fulfilled in the course of a few days, Markham began to retrace his way to the State which he had thus a second time saved from destruction.
It would be impossible to describe the enthusiasm with which the victorious General and his army were received on their return to Castelcicala. The roads were lined with a grateful population, anxious to catch a glimpse of the hero and to testify their joy at the conquest which he had achieved over the enemy. Triumphal arches were raised—flags were waving in all directions—towns were illuminated—municipal corporations appeared with congratulatory addresses—and the peasantry made bonfires on the hills as proofs of their delight.
When the army approached Montoni, the General’s family came out to meet him: and Isabella experienced more sincere pride in embracing a husband whose citizen name it was an honour to bear, than if he still wore a princely title and held a sovereign rank.
Peace was thus ensured to Castelcicala; and the Republic was firmly established, not only by the will of the people, but likewise by the prowess of the army.
Charles Hatfield, who, as one of the General’s aides-de-camp, already held the rank of lieutenant, was now invested with a captaincy; and one of the members of the National Assembly happening to die at the time, the constituency thus left temporarily unrepresented, offered to elect him as their deputy. But he felt anxious to return to England; for letters reached him about this period, informing him that Mr. Hatfield’s health had latterly caused serious apprehensions to his relatives and friends;—and the young man accordingly demanded leave of absence for a period. This was granted without hesitation; and Charles Hatfield took his departure, laden with presents from Markham and his family, and attended with their sincerest wishes for his prosperity.
CHAPTER CCVI.
CHARLES HATFIELD IN LONDON AGAIN.
The information which Charles Hatfield had received respecting his father’s health, was too true. Indeed, the accounts were purposely mitigated in order to alarm him as little as possible; and on his arrival at Lord Ellingham’s mansion in Pall Mall, he found Mr. Hatfield confined to his bed.
Charles was greatly shocked at this circumstance: for he could not help fancying that his conduct had contributed mainly to undermine his father’s health; but Mr. Hatfield reassured him on that head by declaring that a severe cold was the commencement of his illness.
“Were I thrown upon this bed of sickness by any fault of yours, Charles,” he said, pressing his son’s hand affectionately in both his own, “your behaviour during your short sojourn in Italy would speedily raise me from it. Not only have the newspapers mentioned your name in a manner highly creditable to you: but General Markham has sent us accounts of the most satisfactory nature concerning you.”
These words were gratifying indeed to the young man.
“I can assure you, my revered parent,” he said, “that I am indeed fully and completely changed. The image of that vile woman whom we will not name, is loathsome and abhorrent to me—and I would as readily come in contact with a serpent, as meet her again. Respecting that insane ambition which animated me at the same time I formed that disastrous attachment,—an ambition which prompted me to aspire to a noble title,—it has all vanished as if it had never been. I have contemplated Republican institutions—I have seen a mighty Prince and all his family lay aside their high rank without regret and abandon their titles with cheerfulness and at their own free will,—I have likewise beheld the magnates of the land following the same example, so that the equality of citizenship may be fully established;—and I am now astonished that I could ever have aspired to mere titular distinction. My eyes have been opened to the fact that men may be great and rise to fame, without those adventitious aids which savour of feudal barbarism;—and I am prouder of that rank of Captain which the battle of Sabino gave me in the army of Republican Castelcicala, than I could possibly be were the coronet of Ellingham placed upon my brow. Oh! how happy should I feel, could we all proceed to Castelcicala and settle for life in that beautiful city of Montoni which I love so well: yes—all of us to fix our habitation there,” continued Charles, with the enthusiasm that was characteristic of his nature,—“you—my dear mother, who received me so kindly—the excellent Earl and his amiable Countess—myself—”
“And what is to become of poor Lady Frances?” asked Mr. Hatfield, with a smile in spite of his severe indisposition. “Wherefore is she not included in your list? Do you think that the Earl and the Countess would leave their amiable and lovely daughter behind them?”
Charles Hatfield blushed deeply as his father thus addressed him.
“Well, my dear boy—you make no reply,” resumed Mr. Hatfield, with the smile—and a smile of ineffable satisfaction it was—still playing upon his pale countenance: “has Lady Frances offended you? Did she not receive you on your arrival ere now with as much kindness as the rest?”
“Oh! yes—yes,” exclaimed Charles; “and she appeared to me more exquisitely beautiful than ever! Fool that I was—insensate dolt—idiot—madman, ever to place myself in a position which——”
“Do not excite yourself thus, my dear boy,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield. “You admire Lady Frances?” he observed, after a short pause, and now attentively watching his son’s countenance.
“My God! do not ask me that question, my dear father!” ejaculated Charles, with an expression of deep anguish on his features. “I love my beautiful cousin—I love her—and she cannot be mine! Oh! since I have been absent I have pondered on her image—I have cherished it as if it were that of a guardian angel! I have compared the amiability and excellence of Frances with the character of that woman—and you may judge how resplendently the charming girl shines by means of such a contrast!”
“And you may hope—yes, you may hope, Charles,” said Mr. Hatfield, raising himself partially up in the bed. “Happiness yet awaits you.”
“Happiness—hope—my dear father!” ejaculated Charles; “you speak in enigmas—you——”
“Nay—I speak only what I mean; and all I say is intelligible,” interrupted Mr. Hatfield. “I tell you that you may hope for happiness—that Lady Frances may yet become your wife!”
“Is it possible?” cried the young man, clasping his hands in the wildness of his joy. “But how? Is that woman dead?” he demanded, speaking with strange rapidity of utterance.
“No—she is not dead,” responded his father: “but she has married again!”
“Married!” ejaculated Charles. “And yet I do not see how that circumstance will alter my position,” he added, in a desponding tone.
“Listen attentively—and do not excite yourself at one moment, and in the next give way to despair,” said Mr. Hatfield.
Charles seated himself at his father’s bed-side, and prepared to hear with attention the words that were about to be addressed to him.
“Some time ago—when it was first resolved that you should proceed to Italy for a short time,” said Mr. Hatfield, “the Earl of Ellingham communicated to me the generous views which he entertained with regard to you. He observed that, as you had already discarded the woman who had ensnared you, and as she had agreed never more to molest you, you were morally severed in respect to the matrimonial bond. He moreover declared that should this woman contract another marriage and thereby prove that such severance was complete, it would be a despicable fastidiousness and a contemptible affectation to tell you that you must never know matrimonial happiness, but that you must remain in your present false position, a husband without a wife, for the remainder of your days. Those were the very words which his lordship used, Charles, on the occasion to which I am alluding.”
“Oh! am I to understand—” exclaimed the young man.
“Silence!” interrupted Mr. Hatfield: “be not impatient nor impetuous—but hear me out. Lord Ellingham continued to observe that if the woman should contract a new marriage, and if you, Charles, manifested contrition for the past,—if your conduct were such as to afford sure guarantees for the future,—and if your attachment for Lady Frances should revive,—under all those circumstances the Earl declared that he should not consider himself justified in stamping the unhappiness alike of yourself and his daughter by refusing his consent to your union.”
“Do I hear aright?” exclaimed Charles, a giddiness coming over him through excessive joy. “Oh! what generosity on the part of the Earl!”
“Yes—his sentiments on this subject were fraught with liberality,” returned Mr. Hatfield. “He argued in the following manner:—A young man is ensnared into an alliance with a woman whom he believed to be pure, but whom in a few hours he discovered to be a demon of pollution. They separate upon written conditions of the most positive character,—a private arrangement being deemed preferable to the public scandal of an appeal to the tribunals. This woman marries again—and every remnant of a claim which she might have had upon the individual whom she had ensnared and deluded, ceases at once. There is a complete snapping of the bond—a total severance of the tie; and her conduct by the fact of the second marriage proves that she so understands it. The law may certainly proclaim the first marriage to be the only legal one: but morality, which holds marriage to be a covenant between two parties, revolts against the principle which the code establishes. It is upon these grounds that the Earl of Ellingham will give you the hand of his lovely and amiable daughter.”
It were useless to attempt to describe the joy which filled the soul of Charles Hatfield when these tidings met his ears. He seized his father’s hand and pressed it to his lips with grateful fervour: then, promising to return in a few minutes, he flew to the library where he understood the Earl to be at the moment; and casting himself at the feet of that good nobleman, he implored pardon for his past conduct, declaring that nothing should induce him to swerve from the path of rectitude in future.
The Earl of Ellingham raised the contrite young man—embraced him affectionately—and bade him throw a complete veil over all that related to his unfortunate marriage. His lordship then repeated, but more concisely, the observations which Mr. Hatfield had already made to his son; and at the conclusion of the interview he said, “And now, Charles, if your inclinations really and truly prompt you to take the step, you have my permission to solicit Lady Frances to allow you to become the suitor for her hand.”
Captain Hatfield expressed his liveliest gratitude in suitable terms; and hastening back to his father, he narrated all that had just occurred between himself and the Earl. Mr. Hatfield was cheered and delighted by the spectacle of his son’s happiness, and bade him repair to the drawing-room to pass an hour with the ladies.
We need scarcely state that Lady Georgiana was much pleased by the return of Charles to England, especially as he had so highly distinguished himself in the Neapolitan campaign. Nor less was the Countess of Ellingham—the amiable Esther—gratified by an event which restored the missing one to the family circle: while Lady Frances attempted not to conceal the joy that the young soldier’s presence afforded her.
It is not, however, our purpose to dwell upon this subject:—for we have now to relate an incident which led to consequences of great importance to several persons who have figured in our narrative.
The day after Charles Hatfield’s arrival in London, he was proceeding on foot up Regent Street, in order to pay a visit to his tailor for the purpose of making some additions to his wardrobe, when he met Captain Barthelma: for Laura’s husband had lost his title of Count of Carignano, in consequence of the establishment of the Republic in Castelcicala.
The young Italian was alone; and the meeting between the two was most friendly and cordial,—for during the short time that they were acquainted, Charles had observed many excellent qualities on the part of Barthelma, who on his side was enraptured with the heroic conduct that Captain Hatfield had displayed at the battle of Sabino, a full narrative of which had duly appeared in the English newspapers.
Taking the arm of Charles, Captain Barthelma walked with him up Regent Street; and for some time they conversed upon the late Neapolitan campaign—the glorious destinies of Republican Castelcicala—the noble conduct of President Markham—and various other matters connected with the Italian’s native land.
“It has grieved me greatly in one sense,” observed Barthelma, “that I should have been absent from my post about the person of General Markham at a time when such momentous incidents were taking place. But on the other hand I rejoice in my withdrawal from that hero’s service, inasmuch as I thereby secured the hand of one of the most lovely—nay, the most lovely woman in the world.”
“I congratulate you most sincerely upon having formed an alliance which appears to afford you so much happiness,” answered Charles; “and I hope to have the honour of being presented to the signora—for I presume you have espoused a lady belonging to your own country.”
“No—she is an Englishwoman,” returned Captain Barthelma; “and you have seen her.”
“Indeed!” exclaimed Charles.
“Yes—you have seen her,” repeated the Italian. “But tell me—do you recollect that day when you, Lieutenant Di Ponta, and myself walked together in the Champs Elysées in consequence of a mysterious note which we received from a pretended Spanish refugee——”
“Oh! yes—yes—I well remember that day!” exclaimed Captain Hatfield. “Indeed, how could I ever forget it?”
“You speak with excitement, my dear friend,” said Barthelma, surprised at his companion’s manner, but entertaining not the slightest suspicion of the real cause of his agitation.
“Ah! if you only knew all!” observed the young man. “But I will tell you enough to warn you against falling into the power of the vilest woman that ever wore an angel shape to conceal a demon heart: I will reveal to you sufficient to place you on your guard against that syren, should you ever happen to encounter her. For her disposition is such that, to gratify her wantonness, her caprice, or her avarice, she would as readily prey upon a married as on an unmarried man.”
“Indeed! you interest me,” said the Castelcicalan, still altogether unsuspicious of the real meaning of the allusion.
“Yes—but the interest will soon become of an appalling character,” resumed Charles, speaking in a tone of deep solemnity. “For there is in the world a woman whose loveliness is so superhuman and whose witchery is so irresistible that she would move the heart of an anchorite. This woman was born in Newgate, where her mother was incarcerated on a charge of forgery, and whence she was soon afterwards transported to Australia. The child was called Perdita, or ‘The Lost One;’ and the mother took the babe with her to her place of exile. Years passed away—and Perdita had grown up to a lovely girl. But the natural wantonness of her disposition manifested itself at a very early age; and her profligacy soon became notorious at Sydney. Well, in due time the mother returned to England, Perdita accompanying her; and in London did those women commence their grand scheme of preying upon the public. Alas! shall I confess how weak—how mad—how insensate I was? But the delirium has passed away—and I now look back upon it with a loathing which prevents me from contemplating it coolly. For I was ensnared by that vile Perdita—and I became her victim. I proceeded with her to Paris; and my father followed to rescue me from ruin. He discovered the place of our abode, and painted the character of that woman in such frightful—such appalling colours, without the least exaggeration, that I was reduced to despair on account of the conduct which I had pursued. I quitted Paris—returned to London—and was then received into the service of General Markham. But you ere now asked me if I remembered the day when yourself Di Ponta and I walked together in the Champs Elysées. You shall now judge whether I have reason to retain the incident in my memory. For you, Barthelma, cannot have forgotten that lady who so much attracted your notice, and who purposely let fall her parasol——But, heavens! what is the matter with you?” ejaculated Captain Hatfield, perceiving that his companion started as if a ghastly spectre had suddenly sprang up before him.
“My God! is it possible?—that woman—in the Champs Elysées—” gasped the young Italian, a deadly pallor overspreading his countenance, while he staggered backward and would have fallen had not Charles sustained him by the arm.
“That woman—for a lady I can scarcely call her—was Perdita Mortimer,” said Hatfield, emphatically.
“Oh! malediction upon the hateful syren!” exclaimed Barthelma, terribly excited.
“Compose yourself!—what is the matter?” cried Charles. “You will attract observation—the people will notice you——”
“I am composed—yes, I am cool and collected now,” murmured the unhappy young Italian, all his tremendous imprudence bursting upon his comprehension like a thunder-storm. “Here—let us pass up this street—it is comparatively deserted—and we can converse more at our ease,” he faltered painfully, as he dragged his companion up New Burlington Street.
A suspicion had in the meantime flashed to the imagination of Charles Hatfield. Was it possible that Barthelma could have married the profligate Perdita, or Laura? He himself had not learnt from his father how he knew that the syren-demoness was married again, or whom she had thus ensnared;—and the Italian’s sudden excitement could not be accounted for otherwise than by the fact that he had made her his wife.
“My God! this intelligence is overwhelming!” murmured Captain Barthelma. “Oh! my dear friend,” he exclaimed, turning with the abruptness of an almost maddening excitement towards Hatfield, “pity me—pity me; that woman of whom you have spoken is——”
“Is what?” demanded Charles impatiently.
“My wife!” responded Barthelma;—and the moment the words were uttered his excitement gave way to a blank despair.
“Malediction upon my communicativeness—my insane garrulity!” ejaculated Charles. “I shall never—never forgive myself for having made these most uncalled-for revelations!”
“Do not blame yourself, my dear friend,” returned the young Italian, in a tone of the deepest melancholy: “you knew not how painfully your words would affect me—you could not anticipate that the warning which you generously intended to convey would come far too late!”
“And, after all, there may be some error—some mistake,” cried Charles, catching at a straw on behalf of his afflicted companion: “the woman whom I mean may not be the same as the lady whom you have espoused——”
“Yes—yes: ’tis the same!” ejaculated the Italian, impatiently: “Laura Mortimer—the beauteous creature whom we saw in the Champs Elysées, and whose mother met with a horrible death some months ago.”
“Ah! that old woman is no more!” exclaimed Charles. “But of what nature was the death of which you speak so shudderingly?”
“The frightful incident occurred when you were in Italy,” answered Barthelma. “Some villain broke a bottle of aqua-fortis or vitriol over her head—and she died in fearful agonies. But I must leave you now, my dear friend,” said the Castelcicalan, with wild abruptness of manner; and hastily wringing both of Hatfield’s hands, he darted away and was out of sight in a few moments.
CHAPTER CCVII.
MR. GREEN’S OFFICE.
On the same morning, and at about the same time that Charles Hatfield and Captain Barthelma thus encountered each other in Regent Street, certain incidents of importance to the thread of our narrative occurred elsewhere.
We must request the reader to accompany us to a newly fitted up suite of offices in Warwick Court, Holborn; and in the private room we shall find Mr. Green seated at a desk covered with papers.
A material alteration had taken place in the external appearance of this individual. He was well dressed—looked clean and neat—and wore an air of assurance instead of the downcast, obsequious, grovelling demeanour that had characterised him when in the service of Mr. Heathcote.
His private room was neatly furnished and had a business-like aspect: in the front office two clerks were busily employed in drawing up statements to be laid before counsel in several heavy suits; and in the passage outside a process-server was waiting for instructions.
Mr. Green had drawn his table near the fire that blazed in the grate—for the reader must remember that several months had elapsed since the adventures of this individual with Jack Rily, and it was now the commencement of February, 1847.
The cheerful flames roared half-way up the chimney;—and as Green felt the genial heat diffusing a glow throughout his frame, he smiled triumphantly as he contrasted his present position with what it was in those times when he was compelled to sit without a fire, from nine in the morning till six in the evening, on the hard high stool in Heathcote’s front office. Now he was a solicitor on his own account—had his name once more in the Law List—could look with complacency into his banker’s book—and, when business was over for the day, had nothing to do but to step into an omnibus and ride as far as the door of his neat little dwelling at Bayswater.
No wonder, then, that Mr. Green’s countenance had lost its downcast look and its haggard, broken-hearted expression: no wonder that hope beamed in his eyes, and that his tone and manner had recovered the assurance, if not the actual dignity, of former days.
On the particular morning of which we are writing, Mr. Green was more than usually elate; and as he looked over the papers that lay before him, the inward exultation which he experienced imparted the glow of animation to his features.
Presently the door opened and his junior clerk appeared, saying, “Mr. Heathcote, sir.”
“Let him walk in,” returned Green, assuming a cold tone: but his heart was palpitating violently with mingled feelings of joy, triumph, and insatiate revenge.
In a few moments James Heathcote entered the room.
But, oh! how changed was that man, not only in countenance but also in deportment! His face was thin—haggard—care-worn: his eyes, sunken in their sockets, were dim and glazed;—his form was bowed;—and in the course of a few months his hair had turned from an iron grey to a stainless white. His aspect was deplorable; and his manner was indicative of deep mental distress—anxiety—suffering—and humiliation.
“Sit down, sir,” said Green, in a patronising tone.
Heathcote placed his hat upon the floor and took a chair: then, fixing his hollow eyes upon his ex-clerk, he was about to open his business—but, unable to bear up against the tide of reminiscences that rushed to his soul, he burst into tears.
Green affected not to notice this ebullition of grief; but deliberately poked the fire.
For a few minutes the old lawyer sate sobbing in the presence of the man whom he had trampled upon during the long period of his vassalage; and at length recovering sufficient composure to enable his tongue to give utterance to the ideas that were uppermost, he said, “Mr. Green, you are doubtless astonished to receive a visit from me!”
“Not at all, sir: I expected it,” was the laconic reply.
“And wherefore should you have expected it?” asked Heathcote, anxiously.
“Because the result of yesterday’s trial in the Court of Queen’s Bench places you completely in the power of my victorious client,” responded Green; “and you are likewise well aware that every other action pending against you must he decided in the same manner.”
“Yes—I cannot close my eyes to that fact,” observed Heathcote, actually wringing his hands.
“And therefore you are ruined—totally ruined,” returned Green, with a demoniac smile of triumph.
“Ruined—totally ruined!” repeated Heathcote, with that mechanical unconsciousness which is indicative of despair—blank despair.
“Not only ruined in pocket, but in character likewise,” resumed Green, his tone becoming merciless—nay, absolutely savage and ferocious. “That long trial of yesterday—a trial which occupied eight hours—revealed you in your true colours to all the world. The counsel whom I employed, tore you to pieces. All your chicanery was unravelled—all your manœvres traced, followed up, and exposed—all your fraudulent proceedings dragged to light. Oh! you, who never spared a human being, Mr. Heathcote, were not spared yesterday: you, who never pitied a living soul, were not pitied yesterday! The barrister resembled a giant, and you a dwarf whom he held up writhing and shrieking in presence of the whole court—aye, the whole country. Every newspaper published this morning, contains a long account of the proceedings;—and by this time your character stinks in the nostrils of the entire profession.”
“Then am I not sufficiently punished, Mr. Green?” asked Heathcote, the tears rolling down his thin, emaciated, and sallow countenance. “Since you first commenced these numerous suits against me, I have not known a moment’s peace. Sleep has scarcely ever visited my pillow: the awful gulph of infamy and disgrace was always yawning at my feet. Look at me, Mr. Green—look at me! Am I not changed? My God! I am twenty years older than I was on that day when you quitted me in such anger and with such dreadful threats!”
“And those threats shall be fulfilled to the very letter—yes, to the very letter,” said Mr. Green, in a tone of unmitigated bitterness. “I told you that there should be war between us—war to the very knife;—and I have kept my word! I told you that ere a few months had elapsed, you would bitterly repent your conduct to one who only asked for a little kindness in return for his faithful services;—and you have already repented! But my memory is immortal, Mr. Heathcote—and I can never, never forget the injuries, the insults, the degradations, and the wrongs I have received at your hands. My thirst for revenge is therefore insatiable—and this very day shall I adopt another and still more important proceeding with regard to you.”
“My God! all this amounts to a persecution!” ejaculated Heathcote, literally writhing upon his chair.
“Call it what you will, sir,” responded Green, savagely: “no words—no entreaties—no menaces—no prayers on your part can stay me in the course which I am adopting.”
“And that course?” said Heathcote, shuddering with apprehension.
“Is an indictment at the Old Bailey for conspiracy,” answered Green.
“No—no: you cannot do it!” cried Heathcote, now becoming dreadfully excited.
“You are lawyer enough to know that I can do it,” rejoined Green, with a smile of infernal triumph. “The evidence obtained from yesterday’s proceedings inculpated another person with you in the fraud—the damnable fraud that you practised upon my client years ago; and at this very moment my clerks are drawing up the statement to be submitted to counsel with a view to an indictment against yourself and your accomplice!”
“I could have borne everything but this!” exclaimed the miserable man, covering his face with his two thin hands, and then shaking his head wildly, as if in a species of hysteria.
“Yes—and you suspected that such would be the course that I should adopt,” resumed Green: “for it is precisely the measure that you yourself would have taken in similar circumstances. What you have done to others, Mr. Heathcote, shall now be done to you;—and it were as reasonable to implore the forbearance of a ravenous tiger, as to appeal to me for mercy!”
“One word, Mr. Green—one word!” ejaculated Heathcote, starting from his seat. “I will at once—yes, this very moment—surrender up all the various sums and properties you claim on behalf of the numerous clients whom you represent against me,—I will satisfy and liquidate all your demands—leaving myself a beggar—yes, a beggar upon the face of the earth—on condition that you abandon this criminal prosecution!”
“Peruse that list of my clients and the amount of their claims,” said Green, handing the wretched man a paper.
“The sum is enormous—frightful!” exclaimed Heathcote, his countenance becoming hideous to gaze upon.
“And to that amount must be added a thousand pounds to satisfy me for the costs which I shall lose by the compromise,” returned Green, with implacable coldness both of tone and manner.
“As God is my judge, I cannot command that additional thousand pounds which you stipulate for!” cried Heathcote, trembling with nervous excitement.
“Then apply to your brother, Sir Gilbert,” responded Green, a sardonic smile curling his lips.
“He is not in England—he has gone abroad, I know not whither!” exclaimed the miserable man. “Months have now elapsed since his mistress became reconciled to her husband, the Marquis of Delmour—and Gilbert suddenly quitted England about the same time. He refused to see me previous to his departure: he rejected my proposals—my humble proposals for a reconciliation. Therefore, were I even acquainted with his present abode, it would be useless and vain to apply to him for succour.”
“Thus is it that all your grand schemes—your magnificent designs—your comprehensive plans, have fallen in with a tremendous crash, burying you in the ruins!” said Green, in a slow and measured tone that was torturing and intolerable with its diabolical sardonism. “Well,” he continued, after a few moments’ pause, “I will renounce the demand of the thousand pounds, on condition that you at once—and ere you quit my presence—assign all your property, of whatever kind, with a view to the liquidation of these claims and the settlement of all the suits pending against you.”
“I will do so,” said Heathcote, “provided that you give me an undertaking to abandon all criminal proceedings against me.”
“Agreed,” was the response; and the two lawyers drew up certain documents which they forthwith exchanged: and we may observe that whereas Green’s handwriting was firm, clear, and legible, that of his discomfited opponent was trembling, blotted, and indicative of a terrible excitement.
“My ruin—my utter ruin is now consummated!” groaned Heathcote, wringing his hands bitterly. “All that I had heaped up for my old age——”
“And that you had obtained at the sacrifice of the happiness of hundreds,” interrupted Green, his tone suddenly assuming the savage triumph of one who gloats over the downfall of a hated enemy. “But we will not prolong our interview, sir. The day of retribution has come at last—and in a few minutes I have wreaked the pent-up vengeance of long years. Begone, sir—offend me not another moment with your presence! My head clerk shall accompany you to your own office in order that you may place in his hands the securities and the documents specified in the agreement that you have given me.”
Heathcote made no reply: but turning hastily away, took his departure, followed by Green’s managing man, who received the necessary instructions from his master.
Scarcely had the ruined lawyer thus quitted the establishment of his flourishing and merciless oppressor, when a lady wearing a thick black veil entered the front office and requested an immediate interview with Mr. Green. The junior clerk delivered this message to his employer, and the lady was forthwith introduced to the legal gentleman’s presence in the comfortable back room.
A rapid glance at his visitress convinced Mr. Green that she was likely to prove no ordinary client: for the elegance of her dress, the gracefulness of her demeanour, and the dignity of her gait bespoke a lady of distinction;—and when, on taking the chair which he hastened to place for her accommodation, she raised her veil, he was struck by the transcendent beauty of the countenance thus revealed to him.
“We are alone together, sir,” said the lovely stranger, looking intently around: “but can listeners overhear anything that may pass between us?”
“There is no need of apprehension on that head, madam,” answered Green. “Speak freely—and without reserve.”
“I have called upon business of great importance to myself, and which may prove most lucrative to you,” continued the lady.
“Before we proceed farther, madam,” said the lawyer, “may I request to be informed who recommended you to me?”
“A client of yours who resides in Pimlico, and with whom I am acquainted,” answered the beautiful woman. “Perhaps you have heard mention made of my name. I was the Countess of Carignano: but I presume that, since my husband’s native land has become a Republic and abolished titles of nobility, I must introduce myself to you as Signora Barthelma.”
“I have heard of you, madam,” responded Green: “and I shall be delighted to number you amongst my clients.”
“It is for this purpose that I have addressed myself to you to-day,” observed Laura. “But I must at once inform you that the object of my visit is scarcely connected with law.”
“If I can serve you, madam——” began Green, who was completely fascinated by her beauty and her manners.
“And serve yourself also?” added Laura: “yes—you can do both! Know, then, that I cherish a rancourous—burning hatred against two individuals—father and son—and that the time has now come for me to wreak my vengeance upon them. The son has just returned from Italy—I saw his arrival mentioned in this morning’s paper; and not another day—not another hour can I rest ere a train be laid that must lead to the explosion of all the happiness they now expect to enjoy.”
“And who are these persons, madam?” asked Green.
“Their name is Hatfield—and they reside at the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham, in Pall Mall,” responded Laura. “I am acquainted with a terrific secret regarding that family—a secret which would make the hair of all England’s proud aristocracy stand on end—a secret, in fine, that now affords me the means of humbling my two mortal enemies in the dust. Will you, sir, become the instrument of my vengeance?—will you perform my bidding in all respects? I know that I ask a great deal—that I am about to involve you in no trifling nor unimportant enterprise—and that the business does not with propriety come within the sphere of your professional avocations. But the recompense shall be most liberal; and I proffer this note for five hundred pounds as an earnest of my intentions in that respect.”
Green’s eyes glistened at the sight of this generous gift; and he hastened to assure Signora Barthelma that he not only undertook her business with cheerfulness, but would enter into it with as much enthusiasm as if he were interested in it from personal feeling.
“I thought that I was not deceived in your character, from what I had heard,” observed Laura. “For let there be no mistake nor misunderstanding between us, Mr. Green,” she continued, fixing her fine, large grey eyes intently upon him: “you have no objection to make money—I have money to dispense amongst those who serve me;—you will not feel qualmish nor entertain a maudlin sentiment of honour in matters that are likely to prove lucrative—and I am ready to pay handsomely for the assistance which you can render me.”
“Proceed, madam,” said Green: “we understand each other.”
“Good!” ejaculated Laura; “and now listen attentively. I am about to communicate to you secrets of the most startling character; and it is by the use which must be made of those revelations, that my vengeance is to be gratified. At the same time you are to act in this matter without suffering it to be known that you are instigated by me. If questioned respecting the manner in which you became acquainted with these tremendous secrets, you must give some evasive reply; and if my name be suggested as your probable informant, you must declare boldly that you never even heard of me in your life. For those whom I am anxious to crush—overwhelm—and cover with confusion, might tell certain tales of a disagreeable nature concerning myself: but if they be kept in ignorance that it is I who am in the background, they will remain silent in these respects. You see that I am candid with you, Mr. Green.”
“And that very frankness, madam, renders me the more anxious to serve you,” answered the unprincipled attorney.
“Thanks for this assurance,” said Laura, delighted at having found so ready and willing an instrument to carry out her vindictive designs. “And now for these tremendous secrets to which I have already alluded! Learn, then, that the elder Mr. Hatfield of whom I have spoken, and who is a gentleman apparently of high respectability and enjoying a good reputation,—learn, I say, that he is in reality none other than the celebrated highwayman Thomas Rainford of former times! Yes—you may well start and be amazed, Mr. Green,” continued Laura, emphatically: “but it is the truth—the solemn truth! And it is nothing to that revelation which I have next to make. For this Mr. Hatfield, or rather Thomas Rainford, was the elder son of the late Earl of Ellingham; and, being legitimately born, he is the rightful possessor of the peerage and the entailed estates.”
“This is most wonderful!” ejaculated Green, staring almost stupidly with amazement.
“I have yet other revelations to make,” continued Laura, in a tone of subdued triumph. “Thomas Rainford married a certain Lady Georgiana Hatfield, and adopted her name. They have a son, whose name is Charles, and who passes as their nephew, because he is illegitimate. It is this son whose arrival in London yesterday is announced in this morning’s journals. The same paragraph which records his return from Italy, hints at the probability of his shortly leading Lady Frances Ellingham to the altar. You know the sickening, fulsome terms in which such matters are glanced at in the department of fashionable intelligence? But before such marriage shall take place, it is my purpose to carry woe—desolation of heart—infamy—disgrace—and the deepest, deepest humiliation into that proud mansion! I care not that these Hatfields should remain in ignorance of the fact that it is really I who strike the blow: ’twill be sufficient for me to be convinced that the blow itself is struck. Do you begin to comprehend me?”
“I understand you altogether and completely, madam!” exclaimed Green. “You would have me repair forthwith to Ellingham House, and by seeking some cause of dispute with one or more of its inmates, seize the opportunity to proclaim aloud all the tremendous secrets which you have just revealed to me. Is not this your purpose?”
“It is,” responded Laura: then, in a lower but more emphatic tone, she added, “And take care that the whole proceeding be accompanied with such circumstances of notoriety, that it must inevitably engage the attention of the public press. In a word, contrive that all those revelations shall appear in print, Mr. Green; and a thousand guineas shall be your recompense!”
“It shall be done, madam—it shall be done,” answered the lawyer, his heart exulting at the idea of the munificent reward thus promised.
“To-morrow I shall visit you again,” said Laura. “But remember, this affair rests between you and me! Should you ever encounter me when I am walking or riding out with my husband, you will not appear to know me: we are strangers to each other everywhere save within the four walls of this room!”
“I understand and will obey all your wishes, madam,” returned Green.
The lovely but vindictive and profligate woman then took her departure; and the lawyer lost no time in repairing to Pall Mall.
CHAPTER CCVIII.
PERDITA, THE LOST ONE!
IT was about three o’clock in the afternoon when Laura reached the villa on Westbourne Terrace; and, having laid aside her bonnet and handsome furs, she proceeded to the drawing-room, where, as Rosalie had already informed her, her husband Lorenzo was anxiously awaiting her presence.
The fact that he should have stated to the servant his desire that she would speedily return home, was a proceeding so unusual on his part, appearing, as it did, to imply annoyance at her absence, that it roused the haughty temper of the imperious Laura; and for the first time since their marriage, she wore a frown upon her features when she entered his presence.
It was also for the first time that his handsome countenance denoted a storm raging within his breast, and all the pent-up violence of which was about to explode against the deceitful, wanton creature into whose character he had obtained so complete but fatal an insight that morning.
“You have been asking for me, Lorenzo?” said Laura, in a cold tone, as she seated herself with an air of exhaustion upon a sofa.
“Yes, madam—I was most anxious to see you as soon as possible,” answered the Italian, turning abruptly away from the window at which he had been standing, and now advancing towards her. “When I came home an hour ago I was surprised to find that you had been absent since mid-day.”
“And pray, Lorenzo, am I to be kept a prisoner in this house?” demanded Laura, in a tone of unfeigned surprise. “I had certain purchases to make at different shops—and I went out in the carriage for the purpose. Permit me to observe that your conduct is undignified in the extreme, since you so far forget yourself as to express your feelings to my lady’s-maid.”
“My God! and were I to proclaim my feelings to the whole world, there would be but little cause for wonder!” exclaimed the Italian, vehemently; and as he spoke, he thrust his hand into his bosom, and clutched a dagger which he had concealed there.
But his eyes fell upon the countenance of his wife,—that countenance so glorious in its beauty, though now with the sombre cloud overshadowing it;—and he would have slain her then and there, had not his glance thus suddenly embraced all the loveliness of her features and all the rich contours of her splendid form. For, like a whelming tide, rushed to his soul a thousand tender reminiscences,—vividly recalling to his imagination all the joys and delights he had experienced in her arms—the fervid passion he had seen reflected in those magnificent eyes—the luscious kisses he had imprinted on those lips—the wanton playfulness with which her long luxuriant hair had oft-times swept across his cheeks—the ineffable bliss that had filled his raptured soul when his head was pillowed on that glowing, swelling bosom, which now palpitated with haughty indignation,—oh! he thought of all this, and he felt that he could not slay one so exquisitely lovely—so transcendently beautiful!
“Assuredly, your humour is strange to-day, Lorenzo,” said Laura, who, though longing to make it up with the man whom she really and sincerely loved, nevertheless was resolved to exact the homage which all women under such circumstances require—namely, the first overture towards a reconciliation. “At one moment your eyes glare savagely upon me as if I had given you some mortal offence;—and now they assume an expression of pity and commiseration. Come, sir, confess that you have entertained some outrageous suspicion—that you are jealous of me—and I shall take the avowal as a proof of affection. Do this,” she added, a faint smile of encouragement appearing upon her lips, and allowing a glimpse of her brilliant teeth; “do this, Lorenzo—and I will pardon your unkindness.”
“Pardon me!” exclaimed the Italian, bitterly—for the conduct of his wife now appeared to him to be aggravated by levity and flippancy of the most irritating nature, though in reality she was totally ignorant of the fact that grave and serious charges were agitating in his mind against her: “pardon me!” he repeated, his tone now assuming a fierceness that began to amaze and even alarm the young woman, whose conscience, as the reader is well aware, was not the clearest in the world. “Oh! this is indeed a hideous mockery—a cool, deliberate insult,” he continued,—“yes—a vile insult, to offer to pardon me! What have I ever done to offend you—or merit your forbearance or your forgiveness? My God! ’tis I who have been generous and confiding—and ’tis you who have been the gross deceiver and the unprincipled hypocrite!”
“These are harsh words, Lorenzo,” exclaimed Laura, rising from the sofa, and drawing herself up to her full height; and though not tall in stature, there was nevertheless something regal and majestically imperious in her air and bearing: “yes—they are harsh words, I repeat—and they may lead to a quarrel which no subsequent regrets nor apologies can repair.”
“Let the quarrel be eternal—or to the very death!” returned Lorenzo, his handsome countenance now distorted with rage. “Oh! I am sick of this world with its hideous deceits—its hollow hearts—its boundless profligacy! I care not how soon I throw off the coil of this life’s trammels: but with my last breath shall I curse—bitterly, bitterly curse—the odious name of Perdita!”
“Ah!” ejaculated the guilty woman, now perceiving that she was indeed unmasked: but almost immediately recovering her self-possession, she approached her husband and said in her softest, most seductive tones, “You have heard evil reports concerning me, Lorenzo: and I hope ere you prejudge me, that I shall be allowed an opportunity to give a full explanation. Consider my position:—it is that of a friendless and orphan woman, about to lose, perhaps, the only being on earth whom she ever loved, or who has ever sincerely loved her!”
“Oh! how is it that such a demon heart is harboured in such an angelic form!” cried Lorenzo Barthelma, surveying her for a moment with mingled pity and admiration: then immediately afterwards, a full sense of all her tremendous profligacy and deceit springing up in his soul, his eyes glared upon her with the ferocity of a lynx, and a feeling of deep and burning hatred took possession of him.
“If you refuse me a hearing—if you intend to cast me off with contumely and insult,” said Perdita, her own eyes flashing fire in their turn—but it seemed like living fire!—“if such be your intentions,” she continued, in a tone of mingled bitterness and haughty indifference, “the sooner this interview be terminated, the better.”
And she advanced towards the door, her bosom heaving with convulsions almost to bursting from its confinement.
“No—no—you shall not leave me yet, nor thus!” cried the Italian, darting after and catching her violently by the arm. “You shall have the opportunity of explanation which you desire; and God help you in the task!”
Thus speaking he forced her back to the sofa; and then locked the door of the apartment, putting the key in his pocket.
“This behaviour on your part, signor,” said Perdita, assuming a composure which she did not—could not feel, “is alike mean and cowardly. You seek to intimidate me—and that is mean: you use violence towards me—and that is cowardly. What have you heard against me? Name the calumniator, and recite the calumnies. But if the accusation resolve itself into this,—that I was frail—weak—unchaste before I became your wife, remember that I never deceived you on that subject! You yourself were my paramour before you were my husband; and when you offered me your hand, I reminded you that it was no virgin-bride whom you would receive to the bridal-bed. Ere now you called me Perdita—and I admit that such is my Christian name. But am I responsible for the circumstances which induced my mother to bestow it upon me? You are doubtless aware, from the same source whence you have gleaned evil tidings concerning me, that I was born in Newgate, and that my maternal parent gave me that odious name in a moment of contrition. Well—is this my fault? Be just, Lorenzo—I do not ask you to be generous;—but again I say, be just!”
“I have listened to you with attention, Perdita—and I am bound to declare that you seek to veil a hideous depravity beneath the most specious sophistry,” said Barthelma, speaking in a slow, measured tone, but with a concentrated fury in his soul. “I do not reproach you for your mother’s crimes—I commiserate you on that score. But I feel indignant—oh! bitterly, bitterly indignant at all the treachery—the perfidy you have practised towards me! I knew that you were unchaste, as you yourself express it—but I believed that it was mere frailty on your part, and not inveterate profligacy? Oh! Perdita, how dared you bring to the marriage-bed of an honourable man a body polluted with all the vice and iniquity of a penal colony, and which had been for years common as that of the vilest prostitute? I gave you a noble name—circumstances have robbed it of its aristocratic lustre—but it is still honourable;—and now how is it menaced? You have lavished your favours upon hundreds—you have led a life of such frightful wantonness, young in years as you are, that your soul has grown old in iniquity! Oh! I know it all—I know everything, Perdita: all the intricacies of your character are revealed to me—I have read the mysteries of its darkest depths—and my eyes are at length opened to the astounding folly that I perpetrated in linking my fate with such as you!”
“Then let us separate at once,” exclaimed Perdita, her cheeks flushing with indignation. “Wherefore prolong this interview? Our quarrel has gone too far and become too serious ever to admit of pardon or oblivion.”
“It is not I who will seek such reconciliation,” returned Barthelma, with terrible malignity in his tone and manner. “I loved you, Perdita—God only knows how tenderly, how sincerely, how devotedly I loved you! I would have died for you,—aye, and should have rejoiced to surrender up my life, could such a sacrifice have benefitted you! Confident, frank, and full of generous candour, I gave you the love of an honourable man;—and you deceived me! Oh! I am now no stranger to all your syren wiles—your Circean witcheries: I recognise all that artifice and all that duplicity in many of the circumstances which marked our first meetings, and which rivetted the chains that you threw around me. What! do you suppose that I can consent to live and become the scorn, the laughing-stock, and the scandal of all who know me?—and think you that I will permit you to go forth into the world and point me out with taunting finger to the first idiot whom you may win as your paramour? My God! the thought is maddening—it sears my very brain!”
And so terrible became the young Italian’s aspect,—with his flashing eyes, convulsing countenance, and quivering lips,—that Perdita, now seriously alarmed, rushed to the door, forgetting that it was locked.
But it opened not to her touch, and, with a cry of terror, she turned towards her husband, who was evidently exercising superhuman efforts to restrain the fury that boiled in his breast and darted in lightning-shafts from his wild eyes.
“O Lorenzo—Lorenzo!” she exclaimed, joining her hands together; “what do you mean to do?—what is it that you require of me? My God! I know that I have been wicked—vile—profligate: but I have been faithful to you—I have never ceased to love you from the first moment we met! That day in the Champs Elysées has ever been a bright one—aye, the brightest on which my retrospective looks could dwell—”
“That day in the Champs Elysées,” repeated Barthelma, in a low and hollow tone, “is one accursed in my memory and in my life! Wretch—profligate—shameless wanton,” he exclaimed, all his infuriate passion now bursting forth,—“how dare you allude to that day?—how can you think of it without the crimson blush of shame? For whose sake did you deck yourself out so meretriciously on that occasion?—whose jealousy was it to inspire, that you bent your warm and lustful looks on me that day?—whom to beguile and win back to your arms, perhaps, was that deceptive note written that induced me, Di Ponta, and Charles Hatfield—”
“Ah! then you know every thing!” exclaimed Perdita, suddenly throwing off the suppliant air and the appealing looks which she had ere now assumed, and resolving to act with the energy natural to her character. “It is useless, signor, to prolong this painful interview: I have already made the same observation—and I now wish you to understand that I will not remain a prisoner any longer here. Open that door and let me depart—or I shall summon the servants.”
Thus speaking, she advanced towards the bell-pull.
“You menace me—you dare to menace me?” exclaimed Barthelma, springing forward and confronting her so as to bar the way; and his whole frame was quivering with a rage that appeared ready to burst forth into the ungovernable fury of a perfect madness.
“How dare you thus coerce me?” demanded Perdita, her eyes flashing fire. “Out of my path, coward—unless you intend to enact the Italian bravo in this country where men are wont to be brave and chivalrous.”
And, as she spoke, she pushed him disdainfully aside.
But ere the eye had time to wink or the heart to palpitate once—and while a sound, between a cry and a yell, of frenzied rage burst from the lips of the maddened Barthelma,—his dagger flashed before the sight of Perdita, and was instantly buried deep in her bosom.
A thrilling, agonising scream proclaimed her mortal agony—then ceased suddenly; and, staggering forward a few paces, she fell heavily on the carpet—and expired!
Barthelma stood for a few moments rivetted to the spot, silent and motionless with horror at the deed which he had perpetrated; while in his soul a revulsion of feeling took place with the whelming rapidity that marks the ebb of a portentous tide.
A mortal dread came over him—and then he burst into an agony of tears; and throwing himself on the still palpitating body of her whose wondrous beauty had been his pride and his joy, he began to lament her death in the most passionate terms.
But suddenly there was a sound as of several footsteps rushing up the stairs—and then came a loud knocking at the door, and the voices of the valet, Rosalie, and another servant demanding what was the matter and what meant the piercing scream that had reached their ears.
Then Barthelma recollected that, as a murderer, he would receive a murderer’s doom; and in a moment to his appalled soul started up all the grim and terrible array of the criminal tribunal—the executioner—the assembled myriads—and the gibbet!
All the frenzy of his maddening mind returned;—and tearing forth the stiletto from the bosom of his slaughtered wife, he plunged it deep into his own breast.
At the same instant the door of the apartment was forced in; and the horror-stricken domestics caught sight of their master just at the moment that he fell upon the corpse of their mistress!
So perished this youthful pair,—each endowed with a beauty of no ordinary kind!
Yes—thus died the tender, impassioned Lorenzo, and the profligate, wanton Perdita!
The world has seen no loveliness superior to hers, nor known a depravity more inveterate.
But was she to be blamed only, and not pitied in the slightest degree? It were unjust thus to regard her memory:—for, when her eyes first saw the light, had some kind hand been nigh to receive the innocent babe—to bear it away from that Newgate-cell which was the ominous scene of its birth—to rear it tenderly and save it from passing in the arms of a felon-mother into a penal settlement,—then to foster and cherish the growing girl with a true maternal care—bend her mind to the contemplation of virtue, and protect it from all bad influences—preserve her soul from the effects of vile examples, and inculcate principles of chastity, rectitude, and religion,—Oh! then would the prison-born Perdita have given by her conduct a refutation to her name, and she would have haply excelled in every accomplishment, every amiable characteristic, and every endearing qualification that combine like brilliant gems to form for the chaste woman’s brow a diadem such as angels wear!
Oh! my Lady Duchess—or you, highborn daughter of some proud Peer whose line of ancestry may be traced back to the period of the Norman Conquest,—look not with unmitigated disgust upon the character of Perdita, the Lost One! Let pity temper the feeling;—for—though the truth which we are about to tell may be not over palatable—yet is the moral which the Lost One’s history affords deserving of consideration. Suppose, my Lady Duchess—or you, highborn maiden,—suppose that either of you had been ushered into this world under such circumstances as those which attended on the birth of Perdita;—suppose that you first saw the light in Newgate—that you had been taken by a vile mother to the far-off place of her exile—that you had been reared where temptations abounded and virtuous influences were unknown—and that every example you had before you was evil and profligate,—what would have been the result? Do not dare to say, my Lady Duchess—or you, highborn maiden—that an innate perception of right and wrong, and a natural inclination to virtue, would have preserved you pure, and chaste, and untainted throughout the terrible ordeal! No—no—you would have fallen as Perdita fell—you would have been dragged through the mire of demoralisation as she was—you would have imbibed the infectious poison of vice as she did,—and, under such circumstances, you, my Lady Duchess—and you, highborn maiden—would have justified and illustrated in your own lives the history of the Lost One!
What, then, do we wish to impress upon our readers?—what do we seek to impress upon the Legislature and the Government? That it is better to adopt means to prevent crime, than to study how to punish it when it is committed. We have a thousand laws which proclaim how a man may be sent to the treadmill, or to the bulks, or to the penal colonies, or to the gibbet: but we have none devising measures to keep him away from those places. Everything is to punish—nothing to prevent. The codes are crowded with enactments inflicting penalties upon grown-up criminals,—but do not contain a single statute for the protection of the children of the poor against contamination. Look at those emaciated little beings rolling about all day long in the gutters, or eating the offal off dust-heaps: does the law stretch forth its hand and pluck them out of that filth which is only too painfully emblematical of the moral mire in which their minds are likewise wallowing? No: the law allows them to play on unheeded; but when, a few years afterwards, these unhappy creatures, who can neither read nor write, and have no idea of God nor hope nor heaven, pilfer a slice of rusty bacon or a morsel of cheese from a shop-board in order to satisfy the cravings of hunger—then does the Law thrust forth its long arm and its great hand, and seize upon the victims of——what?—its own neglect!
Yes: those are truths which we are never wearied of insisting upon. Session after session is frittered away in party squabbles; but what remedial steps are taken to moralise, christianise, and civilise the children of the poor?
CHAPTER CCIX.
MR. GREEN’S MISSION.
In the meantime Mr. Green had taken a cab, and ordered himself to be driven to the mansion of the Earl of Ellingham in Pall Mall.
While he was proceeding thither, he threw himself back in the vehicle and gave way to a variety of pleasurable reflections. He considered his prospects to be most brilliant; and he believed that he was on the high road to amass as considerable a fortune as that which his late master Heathcote had once enjoyed. It was fortunate for him that he had applied to Jack Rily in the hour of his need: the Doctor had proved of the greatest assistance to him;—and he resolved to run down to Woolwich some day and call upon his old friend at the hulks. For Jack Rily had been tried for the murder of Vitriol Bob, and acquitted of the capital charge: but he was condemned to two years’ imprisonment in a convict-ship for manslaughter, the police having appeared to give him a character which by no means recommended him to the good opinion of the jury nor the mercy of the Court. As for the immense quantity of Bank-notes found upon his person at the time of his arrest, he had positively refused to give any satisfactory account concerning them; and as no one stood forward to claim them, nor to throw any light upon this mysterious subject, they were declared to be forfeited to the Crown on the prisoner’s conviction for manslaughter.
Pondering upon these and other matters, Mr. Green arrived in due course at the noble mansion in Pall Mall; and on inquiring for Mr. Hatfield, he was informed that this gentleman was ill in bed.
“But my business is of the most urgent character,” said the attorney; “and I must see him.”
The domestic to whom this assurance was given, conducted Mr. Green into a parlour, and hastened to report to the Earl of Ellingham the presence of the visitor.
The nobleman accordingly repaired to the room in which Green was waiting, and represented to him that Mr. Hatfield was too much indisposed to receive any stranger.
“If, however,” added the Earl, “you will communicate to me the nature of the affair which has brought you hither, your object will be gained as readily as if you saw Mr. Hatfield. He is an intimate friend of mine—indeed, a bosom friend,” said the nobleman, emphatically; “and we have no secrets from each other.”
“I must respectfully decline to open my business to your lordship in the first instance,” returned Mr. Green. “But I should be glad if your lordship would witness what I have to say to Mr. Hatfield.”
“Your card informs me that you are an attorney, sir,” said the Earl of Ellingham: “may I ask if the object of your visit be of a legal nature?—because in that case, you would do well to address yourself to my solicitor.”
“You must excuse me, my lord,” was the laconic answer, “if I decline giving any explanations.”
“Although I consider your behaviour to be far from courteous, Mr. Green,” said the Earl, “I will communicate to Mr. Hatfield your desire to have an interview with him; and perhaps, under the circumstances, he may see you.”
“Good, my lord,” responded the attorney. “I am in no particular hurry—and will cheerfully wait an hour or two in order to have the pleasure of seeing Mr. Hatfield.”
The Earl of Ellingham forthwith repaired to his half-brother’s room, and mentioned to him all that had occurred. Mr. Hatfield, though feeling weak after the long illness which he had experienced, considered the behaviour of the visitor to be so extraordinary that it was advisable to grant the interview demanded.
Lord Ellingham accordingly returned to the parlour, and thence conducted the attorney to the chamber where Mr. Hatfield was lying in bed.
The invalid cast a rapid and searching glance at Green as he entered the room; but he recognised in the visitor no one with whom he remembered to have ever been acquainted.
Scarcely was the door closed, when it opened again—and the Countess of Ellingham, accompanied by Lady Georgiana, made her appearance: but, on perceiving a stranger, they both drew back and were about to withdraw.
“There are no secrets here, ladies—no secrets, I can assure you,” exclaimed Mr. Green, with a smirking expression of countenance, which, nevertheless, had a deep malignity in it.
“In that case, come in,” said Lord Ellingham; and the two ladies accordingly entered the room.
“Will you now explain the object of your visit, sir?” asked Mr. Hatfield, who had observed the sinister aspect which the attorney’s features had ere now assumed, and who entertained a vague presentiment of evil.
“I must begin by informing you,” said Green, taking a seat, and glancing around on those present, as much as to intimate that he spoke to no one in particular, but was addressing them all collectively,—“I must begin by informing you that I am a very extraordinary person in one respect—which is, that I am constantly ferretting about amongst old papers, musty documents, and ancient records; and while engaged in this occupation I frequently light upon strange secrets—very strange indeed.”
While he was yet uttering these last words, the rapid look which he threw around convinced him that he had already made a most unpleasant impression upon his auditory: for the ladies both turned pale and started—while the Earl and Mr. Hatfield exchanged glances significant of alarm.
“Yes—such is the case,” continued Mr. Green, chuckling inwardly, though maintaining an external composure: “and amongst the most singular—the most astounding of the secrets which I have thus dragged to light, the one that I have discovered in connexion with your lordship’s family, is not the least remarkable.”
As he thus spoke, the attorney fixed his eyes upon the nobleman, who coloured deeply in spite of himself: for it naturally struck him that Green alluded to matters with which the reader is already well acquainted. The same apprehension seized upon Hatfield, Lady Georgiana, and the Countess of Ellingham; and the suspense which the lawyer’s auditory now endured, was poignant in the extreme.
“Your lordship can of course conjecture to what I allude,” continued Green; “and you, Mr. Hatfield,” he added, turning towards the invalid, “cannot possibly misunderstand me.”
Lady Georgiana rose from the seat which she had taken on entering the room, and proceeded to place herself instinctively as it were near the head of the couch, so as to be close to her husband. It was a movement which said as eloquently as if her lips had simultaneously explained it—“This man menaces evil: but I am near to console you with all the sympathy of a loving wife.”
“Mr. Green,” exclaimed the Earl of Ellingham, after a few moments’ reflection, “I appeal to you whether it will not be better that these matters at which you have glanced should be discussed privately between yourself and me. Mr. Hatfield has been ill—very ill: and it would be cruel to excite him at the moment when he is approaching convalescence.”
“I have already stated to your lordship that whatever communication I have to make must be in the presence of witnesses,” returned the implacable Green. “I presume that this lady,” he added, with a gentle inclination of his head towards the invalid’s wife, “is Lady Georgiana Hatfield?”
“You are correct, sir,” observed the lady herself, with a haughty tone and distant manner.
“And this lady is the Countess of Ellingham, doubtless?” said Green, altogether unabashed.
The beautiful Esther bowed in an affirmative reply.
“But what mean these questions, sir?” demanded the Earl, impatiently. “Surely you will not use language that may prove outrageous to the feelings of ladies who have never offended you?”
“If the truths which I am about to utter should prove so very disagreeable to hear, my lord,” responded Green, “they must be equally unpleasant to cherish in the depths of the soul. In a word, you are doubtless all too much accustomed to contemplate these truths to be liable to any startling effect when they are shaped in words and whispered to the ear.”
“This is an insolence of behaviour, sir, which I cannot—will not tolerate,” exclaimed the Earl of Ellingham. “You shall not force your way into the bosom of a family with a view to play upon their feelings with a cruelty that is as refined as it is unaccountable.”
“Very good, my lord,” returned Green, rising from his seat, and taking up his hat; “I can as easily proclaim from the head of the stairs—or in the hall of your mansion—every thing I know relative to your family, as I can talk the matter quietly over with you in this room.”
And the villain was moving towards the door, when Lord Ellingham caught him by the arm, saying, “Nay—you must not leave us thus! What object have you in view?—what use do you propose to make of the secrets which you have discovered? Speak frankly—candidly—openly: is it money that you require?”
A new idea flashed to the mind of Mr. Green, as these words fell upon his ears.
By serving Signora Barthelma he would gain a thousand guineas, half of which sum was already in his possession: he had therefore only another five hundred to receive—and it was possible that he might obtain as many thousands by striking a bargain with the nobleman and making a market of the secrets in his possession.
“Wherefore does your lordship ask me if I require money?” he demanded, by way of sounding the Earl’s intentions.
“Because I am rich enough to bribe you,” was the unhesitating response: for the nobleman had already formed a pretty accurate idea of the attorney’s character.
Green paused—reflected—and began to grow embarrassed. He knew not how to act—how much to demand—what terms to propose. Fearful of spoiling all, by carrying his extortionate views too high, he was likewise apprehensive of losing a large by agreeing to take a small amount.
The Earl guessed what was passing in his mind; and, pointing to writing materials that lay upon the table, he said, “Draw a cheque—and I will sign it.”
Mr. Green sat down, and with trembling hand wrote a draft for five thousand pounds.
Lord Ellingham glanced over it, and immediately affixed his signature to the document, inserting the names of his bankers in the corner.
“Stop!” ejaculated Mr. Hatfield, starting up in his couch: “Arthur, retain that cheque—let not the villain take it!”
And the Earl of Ellingham instantly obeyed this injunction; while Green turned, with a countenance livid through rage and disappointment, towards the invalid.
“Not one shilling shall this man extort from us!” continued Mr. Hatfield, powerfully excited. “His story is a fabrication! There are no documents in existence which can have revealed our family secrets to him. He has been sent hither by an enemy—and who that enemy is I can too well divine!”
“Yes—yes—I understand you!” cried the Earl, the name of Perdita suggesting itself immediately to his memory: but at the same time he recollected that neither the Countess of Ellingham nor Lady Georgiana was acquainted with the secret of that fatal marriage which Charles had contracted.
“Vile—despicable tool that you are!” resumed Mr. Hatfield, addressing himself to the attorney: “I can see through all your conduct as if your very soul were transparent! The vengeance of an enemy sent you hither—and the demand which the Earl of Ellingham made respecting your object, was suggestive of this extortionate deed that you sought to perpetrate. Begone, sir—do your worst—we fear you not! You may reveal family matters that may cause pain—but you can do no serious injury: for if you allude to the secrets which I myself am referring to, your malignant aim is completely baffled—inasmuch as the documents that could alone corroborate your assertions, are no longer in existence. I myself destroyed them!”
And thoroughly exhausted, Mr. Hatfield sank back upon the pillow.
At this moment the door was hastily opened; and Clarence Villiers rushed into the room.
“Pardon this abrupt intrusion,” he exclaimed, not immediately noticing Green: “but I have news of some importance—though of horrible interest—to communicate. That woman Perdita, who ensnared my friend Charles with her wiles and witcheries, is no more!”
“Dead?” cried Mr. Hatfield, again starting up in the couch.
“Murdered—assassinated—and by her own husband!” ejaculated Villiers. “I was driving past Westbourne Terrace ere now—I saw a crowd—I heard appalling rumours—I enquired the cause—and I learnt the outline of the frightful tragedy! She is dead—and Barthelma, her husband, who destroyed her, has perished by his own hand!”
“Then Charles is beyond all danger for the future!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield;—and again did he fall back on his pillow.
Lady Georgiana and the Countess of Ellingham hastened to administer restoratives to the invalid: although they themselves were greatly excited by the intelligence which had just arrived—for, it will be remembered, they were aware that Charles had fled from London with an abandoned woman who had gained a powerful ascendancy over him; and horrified as they were at the tidings of the murder, they could not help feeling that all apprehension of a relapse on the young man’s part into the meshes of the intriguing Perdita, was now suddenly removed.
While the ladies were ministering to Mr. Hatfield, Clarence Villiers had turned and recognised Green, who was standing stupefied and motionless at the sudden news which revealed to him that his fair client Perdita Barthelma had been murdered!
“Ah! Mr. Green,” exclaimed Villiers, in astonishment at beholding the attorney in the room; “what brings you hither?”
“Do you know this person, Clarence?” demanded the Earl, bending his looks with mingled indignation and abhorrence upon the man.
“I have been acquainted with him for many years——” began Villiers.
“Stop, sir!” cried the nobleman, again seizing the arm of the attorney, who was making for the door. “Before you leave us, you shall be thoroughly unmasked in the presence of a gentleman who appears to address you as a friend.”
“Let me go, my lord!” exclaimed Green, struggling to get away; for he knew that Villiers could reveal a secret which would at once place the infamy of his character beyond question: “let me go, I say—you have no right to detain me against my will!”
“You shall remain yet a few minutes!” cried the Earl, holding his arm with a strong grasp. “This villain,” continued the nobleman, turning towards Clarence, “came hither as the instrument of that woman Perdita’s vengeance! That such is the fact, I have no doubt. But in a short time he changed his character—he began to act a part for himself—he played the scoundrel on his own account—and he attempted to extort from me the sum of five thousand pounds, as the purchase-money for retaining all the secrets which Perdita could alone have revealed to him!”
“You offered me the money—and the amount was not extravagant, considering the purpose for which it was to have been given,” said Green, glancing anxiously at Clarence Villiers.
“I told you to name your own terms—and you drew up this draft,” exclaimed the Earl, exhibiting the slip of paper.
“Then, by heaven! forbearance in respect to such a man as you, is a positive crime on my part!” said Villiers, in an excited tone; and, seizing the wretched attorney by the collar, he cried, “You go not hence, Mr. Green, save in the custody of an officer, and under an accusation of forgery!”
“Forgery!” exclaimed the Earl, in amazement; and at the same time the ladies and Mr. Hatfield became interested observers of the scene that was now passing.
“Yes—forgery, my lord!” cried Villiers, still retaining his hold upon Green. “This man was left joint trustee with myself, on behalf of a youth who had a small sum bequeathed to him: the money was sold out of the funds years ago, my signature to the power of attorney being forged! That forgery was perpetrated by the villain before you. Some six months ago he replaced the money—he called upon me—he confessed the deed—he avowed his contrition—and I promised to shield him. But now, my lord—now, that he dares to set himself up as the persecutor of those whom I have so many reasons to esteem and revere,—now, that he has ventured to direct his villanies against the peace of an amiable family,—I cannot—will not—must not spare him!”
“No, Clarence—you shall keep your promise,” said the Earl; “and perhaps the man may be moved by gratitude to repentance.”
“My promise was conditional, my lord,” exclaimed Villiers: “and if he have represented it otherwise to a living soul, he has uttered a falsehood. I declared to him at the time that I would forgive him, provided he undertook to enter upon the ways of rectitude and honesty: and it is he who has now forfeited his solemn pledge to that effect! No mercy, then, for this bad—this heartless man!”
“One word!” cried Green, in a menacing tone. “Fulfil your threat, Mr. Villiers, and I will at once—without the slightest hesitation or remorse—proclaim to all the world that the man known as Mr. Hatfield—”
“Silence, villain!” thundered Clarence: “silence!—or I will strangle you!”
“No—no—you shall not coerce me! I will speak out!” cried Green, struggling to disengage himself from the strong grasp in which he was held. “Mark what I say—hear me—hear me, all of you! Mr. Hatfield bears an assumed name—he is the Earl’s eldest brother—the heir to the title—aye, and also Thomas Rainford, who was hanged at Horsemonger Lane Gaol!”
A blow from the clenched fist of Villiers felled the attorney as these last words burst from his lips;—and at the same instant a wild shriek, uttered by Lady Georgiana, rang through the room. For Mr. Hatfield had sunk back upon the pillow, with a low moan and a death-like pallor of countenance;—and almost immediately afterwards, blood oozed from his mouth.
All was now confusion and dismay in the chamber of the invalid: but at this juncture, Sir John Lascelles made his appearance. A few words, hurriedly spoken by the Earl of Ellingham, conveyed to the physician an idea of what had caused the relapse of his patient; and the worthy man speedily ordered the requisite restoratives. But these were all in vain:—Mr. Hatfield had broken a blood-vessel internally—and a few minutes after the arrival of the doctor, he expired without a groan!
We must draw a veil over the scene of sorrow which the chamber of death presented, and which we cannot find words to describe. The intensity of that anguish was increased by the almost frantic grief of Charles Hatfield, who, having been out for several hours upon his own and his father’s business, returned but a few minutes too late to witness the sad catastrophe.
He threw himself upon the corpse of his sire—uttered the most passionate lamentations—and even pushed his mother aside when she endeavoured to console him.
But at length a reaction came; and the violence of the young man’s grief gave way to a profound sorrow,—a sorrow that was deeply, deeply shared by many other hearts!
In the confusion that had taken place when Lady Georgiana’s scream echoed through the room, denoting the occurrence of something dreadful,—Green had risen from the floor and made his escape, inwardly cursing himself for having undertaken to become the agent of Perdita’s vengeance.
But Villiers, who entertained the most sincere friendship for Mr. Hatfield, and who was goaded almost to madness by the conduct of the vile attorney towards the man whom he thus loved as a brother, vowed that such infamy should not go unpunished. Scarcely, therefore, had the terrible conviction burst upon all present in the chamber of death, that Mr. Hatfield was indeed no more, when Villiers rushed franticly in pursuit of him whom he looked upon as the murderer!
The chase was successful—and in less than half an hour, Green was in custody on a charge of forgery!