The Mysteries of London, v. 3/4

by George W. M. Reynolds

A week elapsed, and one morning an individual, dressed in a semi-sporting style, called at the house and inquired for Mr. de Medina. But Mr. de Medina had just left home for the purpose of conducting Esther to the dwelling of some friends who resided in the neighbourhood of Liverpool, and with whom she was to pass a few days. Tamar was, however, at home; and as the servant informed her that "the gentleman said his business was important," she desired that he might be shown up into the drawing-room. He was evidently struck by the dazzling beauty of the Jewess who had thus accorded him an audience; and there was something so dashing—so rakish—so off-hand, without vulgarity, in his manner,—a something between the frankness of an open-hearted man and the easy politeness of one who knows the world well,—that Tamar did not treat him with that degree of cold courtesy which seems to say, "Have the kindness to explain your business, and then you may depart." But she requested him to be seated; and when he made a few observations which led to a connected discourse on the gaiety and "doings" of the Liverpool folks, she suffered herself to be drawn into the conversation without pausing to ask the motive of his visit. Thus nearly half-an-hour passed away: and while Tamar thought to herself that she had never met a more agreeable gentleman in her life—and certainly never one who possessed such a brilliant set of teeth, or who looked so well in tops and cords,—the stranger came to a conclusion equally favourable concerning herself. Indeed, he was quite charmed with the personal attractions and the conversation of the beautiful Jewess; and when he took his leave, she forgot that he had not communicated his business, nor even his name.

When her father returned home in the afternoon, she mentioned to him the visit of the stranger; but added that he only remained a few moments, and would not explain his business to her. Mr. de Medina immediately expressed his belief that the call had some reference to his advertisement concerning the lost paper. But Tamar enthusiastically repelled the suspicion; declaring that, though he had not stayed a minute, yet his manners, appearance, and address, were of too superior a nature to be associated with a dishonourable avocation. Mr. de Medina asked if he had intimated when he should call again; to which question Tamar, fearful that it would appear strange to give a negative reply, answered—"In a few days." Thus terminated a conversation in which Tamar had been guilty of much duplicity, and which was marked by the first deliberate falsehood which she ever unblushingly told her father.

On the following day the stranger returned; and Mr. de Medina, not having expected him so soon, was not at home to receive him. But Tamar was in the drawing-room, to which he was conducted as on the previous day. It was summer-time, and she was engaged in tying up the drooping heads of some flowers in the large balcony. The stranger begged her not to desist from her occupation; but, on the contrary, offered, in his gay manner of frank politeness, to assist her. She could not refuse his aid—she did not wish to refuse it; and they were soon engaged in a very interesting conversation. He held the stalks of the flowers, too, while she tied the thread; and her beautiful hand passed over that of the stranger's—not without touching it; while her breath, sweeter than the perfume of the flowers themselves, fanned his cheek. Once, when he stooped a little lower, under pretence of examining a particular rose-bud more closely, his hair mingled with hers, and he could see that the rich glow of excitement flooded her countenance—her neck—and even extended to the bosom, of which he was enabled, by her stooping posture, to catch more than partial glimpses.

When next their eyes met, there seemed to be already a tacit kind of intelligence established between them,—an intelligence which appeared to say she knew he had allowed his hair to mingle with hers on purpose, and that she had not withdrawn her head because the contact pleased her. The interesting conversation was continued; and an hour had passed before either the stranger showed the slightest sign of an intention to take his leave, or Tamar remembered how long they had been alone together. When he did at length take up his hat and his riding-whip, he also picked up a flower which Tamar had accidentally broken off from its stem in the balcony; and placing it in his buttonhole without making the slightest allusion to the little incident, he bowed and quitted the room.

He had been gone at least ten minutes ere Tamar again recollected that he had not mentioned his business nor told his name. She had been thinking of the incident of the flower;—yes—and also of the commingling of her raven locks with his fine, manly light hair. When her father returned home on this occasion, she did not mention the fact of the stranger's visit at all. Throughout the remainder of that day she wondered whether he would return on the following one; and she made up her mind, if he did, not to suffer him to depart before she had elicited his business and his name. In the evening she went out to make a few purchases at a shop in a neighbouring street; and she was retracing her way, when two young men, walking arm-in-arm, and smoking cigars,—having withal something most offensively obtrusive in their entire appearance,—stopped short in front of Tamar, literally barred her way, and began to address her in that flippant, coarse style which, without being absolutely obscene, is nevertheless particularly insulting. "Gentlemen—if such you be," said Tamar, in a dignified manner, "I request you to let me pass."—"Well, won't you let us escort you home, wherever it is?" demanded one; "for you're a devilish sweet girl, upon my honour."—Scarcely were these words uttered when the long lash of a riding-whip began to belabour the backs of the two young swells in a fashion that made them almost scream with agony; and Tamar, who instantly stepped aside, recognised in the champion that had thus come to her assistance, the very individual who was uppermost in her thoughts at the moment when she was stopped in the insulting manner described.

The two swells were for an instant so taken by surprise that they dropped each other's arm and their cigars simultaneously, and began to caper about in the most extraordinary manner, the stranger continuing to lash them with so good a will, and yet in such an easy, unexcited manner, that Tamar could scarcely forbear from laughing heartily. But when they perceived that there was only one assailant, they rushed in upon the stranger, and endeavoured to close with him. He did not retreat a single step, but hitting one of them a heavy blow on the wrist with the butt-end of his whip, he sent him off roaring, while with his left hand he caught the other by the collar of the coat and swinging him round—apparently without any extraordinary effort—laid him on his back in the dust. He then offered his arm to Tamar, and led her away as quietly as if nothing had happened, at the same time commencing a discourse upon some totally different topic, as if he would not even give her an opportunity of thanking him for the manner in which he had chastised the insulting youngsters.

But Tamar did thank him—and very warmly too; for this feat was just one of the very nature calculated to improve the hold which the stranger already had upon the heart of the beautiful Jewess. She now looked upon him with admiration; for all women love bravery in a man;—and his bravery was so real—so natural—so totally devoid of impetuous excitement when called into action, and so free from any subsequent desire to elicit flattery,—that she beheld in him a character at once generous and noble. She could have thrown her arms round his neck, and said, "Stranger! whoever you may be, I admire—I love you!" And when he did take her hand, as she leant upon his arm, and when he pressed it gently—then let it fall without uttering a word, but fixed his deep blue, laughing, and expressive eyes upon her countenance with a steadiness that meant much though his tongue was silent, a soft—a delicious languor came over her, congenial with the moonlight hour.

He conducted her to within a few doors of her father's house, and then took leave of her, saying, "I shall see you again to-morrow." She entered her dwelling, and retired immediately to her chamber; for her heart was filled with a happiness which she knew that her countenance would betray. When she met her father at supper, she was more composed; and she said not a word to him concerning the occurrence of the evening.

On the following day the stranger called again; and again did he find Tamar alone in the drawing-room. On this occasion she extended to him her hand, which he took and pressed to his lips. The maiden did not withdraw it; and her cheeks—her neck—her bosom were flushed with the thrilling glow of excitement, while her eyes expressed a voluptuous languor. The stranger drew her towards him—their lips met: they embraced tenderly. Then he declared his love for her—and she murmured words in reply which convinced him that he was loved in return. Thus, on the fourth occasion of their meeting, did they pour fourth the secrets of their hearts; and Tamar plighted her affection to one whose name she as yet knew not!

Their happy interview was suddenly disturbed by a loud knock at the street-door; and Tamar exclaimed, "My father!" The stranger implored her to compose herself; and she had succeeded in assuming a collected and tranquil demeanour, when Mr. de Medina entered the room. Her lover was standing at a respectful distance from Tamar, with whom he appeared to be exchanging the mere courteous observations which usually pass between perfect strangers. Mr. de Medina requested him to be seated, and inquired his business. "I have called relative to the advertisements which you inserted in the newspapers," was the reply.—"I thought as much!" ejaculated Mr. de Medina: then, turning towards his daughter, he said, "Tamar, my love, you can leave us."—The maiden dared not disobey the hint thus conveyed; but as she passed behind her father to quit the room, she darted upon her lover a look so full of meaning—so expressive of ardent affection, that it seemed to say, "Be you who and what you may, I shall never cease to adore you!" And he returned that look with a glance more rapid but equally significant of tenderness.