The Mysteries of London, v. 2/4

by George W. M. Reynolds

"Well, well," said the hag, "we will speak no more on that subject. It was for other purposes that I sought this interview. Tell me, Miss—do you remember your mother?"

"I remember her, with that faint and dim knowledge which consists only of many vague and dubious impressions," replied Kate, in a deeply plaintive tone. "I was but four years of age when God snatched her from me; and it was not until I was old enough to feel her loss, that my memory began to exert itself to the utmost to recall every incident which I could associate with her kindness towards me. For kind she must have been—because every reminiscence which my mind has ever been able to shadow forth concerning her, fills my heart with grateful tenderness and love. Oh! I have sate for hours—in the solitude of my own chamber—endeavouring to fix the volatile ideas which at times flash through my memory in reference to the past,—until I have seemed to connect them in a regular chain;—and then I have fancied that at the end of the vista of years through which my mental glances retrospected, I could define a beautiful but melancholy countenance—the mild blue eyes weeping, and the lips smiling sweetly, over me—the gentle hand smoothing down my hair, and caressing my cheeks,—and all this in a manner so touching, so plaintive, so softly sorrowful, that the picture fills my soul with sad fears lest my mother was not happy! And there have been times, too," continued Kate, tears trickling down her cheeks, "when it appeared to me, that I could remember the fervent tenderness with which my mother clasped me in her arms—fondled me—played with me—did all she could to make me laugh—and then wept bitterly, because my infantine joy was so exuberant! Yes—these and many other things of the same kind have I pondered on and treasured up as holy memories of the past;—and then the dread thought has suddenly flashed to my brain, that I have been merely worshipping the images of my own fond creation. At such times, I have gone down upon my knees—I have prayed that these ideas might really be reflections of the long-gone truth,—bright reflections which had been cast in the mirror of my mind during the days of my infancy! Oh! it would grieve me sadly—it would wring my soul with anguish—it would fill my heart with desolation, were I to be led to the fearful conviction that all those pleasing-painful glimpses of my mother's presence and my mother's love are not the reminiscences of reality, but the creations of a fond and credulous imagination."

"Your memory has not deceived you, Miss," said the old woman. "Your mother fondled and caressed you—smiled and wept over you, in the manner you have described."

"Oh! thank you—thank you for that assurance!" exclaimed Katherine, forgetting, in the enthusiasm of her filial, but orphan, love, all her late repugnance to that old woman: "again, I say, thank you! You know not the consolation you have imparted to me! Oh! were it possible to recall from the tomb that dear mother who fondled and caressed me—smiled and wept over me, I would give all the remainder of my life for one day of her presence here—one day of her love! When I think that she is really gone for ever—that no tears and no prayers can bring her back—ah! it seems as if there were an anguish in my heart which no human sympathy can ever soothe. But you knew my mother, then?" added Kate, suddenly; "you knew her—did you not? Oh! tell me of her: I could never weary of hearing you speak of her."

"Yes—I knew your mother well," was the answer: "I knew her before you were born."

"And was she happy?" demanded Katherine, trembling at the question she thus put, for fear the reply should not be as she would wish it.

"She knew happiness—and she was also acquainted with sorrow," said the hag: "but that is the lot of us all—that is the lot of us all!"

"Poor mother!" murmured the young girl, with a profound sob: "it is then true that, in my infancy, I saw her weep as well as smile! Wherefore was she unhappy? Was she betrayed and neglected? But, oh! I tremble to ask those questions, which—"

"To explain the cause of her sorrows would be to tell you all her history," answered the old woman; "and, ere I can do that, I have some questions to ask you, and—and some conditions to—to propose."

The hag hesitated:—yes, even she, with her soul so hardened in the tan-pits of vice, as to be on all other occasions proof against the dews of sympathy,—even she hesitated, as if softened by the ingenuous and holy outpourings of that young orphan's filial love.