The Mysteries of London, v. 3/4

by George W. M. Reynolds

And having thus announced the inexorable resolves on which his mind had settled itself during that long, long hour of deep and silent meditation, the Jew bent down and kissed the brow of his kneeling daughter with an affection which in its tenderness contrasted strangely with the stern severity of the conduct that he had determined to pursue in respect to the lost—the guilty—the disowned Tamar! He then hurried from the room; and Esther—poor Esther! was left alone to shed torrents of unavailing tears, and give vent to fruitless sobs and sighs.

But, oh! what pen can describe the acuteness of her affliction—the anguish of her gentle heart, when, not daring altogether to disobey the will of her sire, she removed from their frames the charming landscapes which Tamar had painted in water-colours, and placed out of sight the music copies whereon the name of Tamar was penned in her own sweet, fluent handwriting! And blame not Esther, gentle reader—no, blame her not, if, disobedient as to the literal meaning of her father's commands, she retained those paintings and that music,—retained them as memorials of the lost sister whom she so fondly loved! But she secured them in her own chamber; and, alas—poor girl! as she placed the pictures one by one in a drawer, their best tints and their brightest colours were marred by the scalding tears that fell upon them! For, oh! acute as the pain inflicted by the merciless knife which the surgeon wields to amputate a limb, was this task to the sensitive heart of Esther,—a task involving a deed wearing in her eyes the semblance of profanity,—for little short of that appeared the removal from their wonted places of those memorials of the disowned and cast-off Tamar. 'Twas like crushing all the reminiscences of a sweet sisterhood,—'twas like cutting away from her heart the brightest thoughts that had hitherto clung around it—tearing rudely off the flowers that encircled Hope's youthful brow, and entombing the choice memories of a happy girlhood!

Then, when the music-books and the pictures were thus removed from the places where she had so long been accustomed to see them, how mournful to her was the sight of the tuneful, but now silent piano on which the former had been piled up—how naked appeared the walls to which the latter had hung! And next she was compelled to take down the very hangings which Tamar had embroidered for the drawing-room windows; and there was fresh cause for tears—fresh motive for the renewal, or rather for the continuation of her grief! But the task was nevertheless completed; and the drapery was also retained by Esther as a memorial of her sister. Not for worlds could she have brought herself to that frame of mind which would have been necessary to enable her to achieve the destruction of all those objects,—no—not even were her father to menace her with his direst curse! When Mr. de Medina again appeared in the suite of rooms which had been subject to the changes just detailed, he cast a rapid glance around him, and perceiving that his orders had been obeyed so far as removal went, asked not a question relative to the manner in which the various objects had been disposed of: but, settling his looks upon Esther's countenance, after that hasty survey, he said emphatically, "Thank God! I possess an obedient—a dutiful—an affectionate child!"

In the meantime Tom Rain and the beautiful Tamar were far away from Liverpool, on their road to London; and when they reached the great metropolis, they hired a neat lodging in a secluded neighbourhood—for they entertained apprehensions that Mr. de Medina might endeavour to trace his fugitive daughter. Tamar did not, in this respect, know her father's disposition well. Judging by his past kindness, she argued accordingly—little imagining that he had strength of mind sufficient to adopt the fearful alternative of casting her off for ever! Rainford had so well stocked himself with coin during his sojourn in Liverpool and its neighbourhood, that there was no immediate necessity of exercising his professional skill, or rather valour, to supply resources; and several weeks glided away happily—the happiest of his life! He loved Tamar most tenderly and devotedly; and she not only loved him in return—but absolutely adored him. Oh! how she worshipped her gallant highwayman, who was so brave—so generous—and withal so kind to her. Never was there a better temper than that of Tom Rain: it was impossible for him to be put out of humour. He would have scorned the idea of raising a quarrel for the mere sake of making it up again. He saw no amusement in such maudlin proceedings: dissensions, bickerings, and domestic feuds were his abhorrence. He looked upon woman as the weaker vessel, whom man was bound to protect. He thought it beneath him to dispute with a female; because with him it could be a mere warfare of words, to which none but a coward would put an end by means of a blow. Besides, he hated that strife which is waged with the tongue: if a man offended him, he did not wait to argue the point, but quietly knocked him down. That was his first and last reason when irritated: but he could not adopt the same course with a woman, and he therefore most rationally concluded that it was perfectly useless to quarrel with her.

Tamar, like all young and beautiful women—especially being placed as it were in an equivocal position—was jealous. Tom Rain loved to visit all the strange places in which London abounds, that he might make himself acquainted with the "lights and shades" of metropolitan life; and sometimes Tamar complained that he was too long absent. "Now, my dear girl," he would say, "I give you as much of my time as possible; and when I tell you that I shall be home at a certain hour, I never disappoint you. But do not show ill-humour because I take a couple of hours to myself. So now kiss me, and do not teach that pretty face to frown." His good temper invariably proved irresistible; and in the course of time his mistress never thought of manifesting any opposite feeling. Indeed, he was so kind—so good—so attentive towards her, that, had it not been for the frequent intrusion of a painful reminiscence concerning her father and sister, Tamar would have been completely happy.

After remaining for some months in London, Rainford and his beautiful mistress set off for the northern counties, where the highwayman reaped a rich harvest. His midnight expeditions were frequent, because his mode of living was by no means economical: he delighted in good cheer—denied himself nothing that he fancied—and yet was neither a drunkard nor a glutton. He was moreover generous and liberal to an extreme, and, emulative of the character of Robin Hood, gave to the poor no inconsiderable portion of what he took from the rich. Tamar was, moreover, fond of handsome apparel and resplendent jewellery; and Rainford took a delight in gratifying all her whims and fancies. Thus money was lavishly expended by them; but the highway was an inexhaustible treasury to which Rainford never had recourse in vain. The perils he incurred, in these predatory expeditions, were of course numerous and great; but his dauntless valour—his wonderful presence of mind—and the determined resolution with which he as it were met danger face to face, invariably saved him from capture. At first Tamar was dreadfully frightened when Rainford took leave of her to "get a draught on his treasury cashed," as he laughingly termed his nocturnal expeditions; but as he invariably returned home about the hour he had promised, those apprehensions wore off, and she at length became comparatively easy in her mind during his absence.

Thus did time pass away, until nearly three years had elapsed since Tamar first met Rainford at Liverpool. During the whole of this period she had heard nothing of her father and sister; and no allusion was ever made to them by her lover or herself when together. But she did not the less devote frequent thoughts to the author of her being and the much-loved Esther, both of whom she longed—oh! ardently longed to embrace once more.

The reader has already learnt the motives which induced Tom Rain to visit the metropolis towards the close of the year 1826. The important information which, during his travels about England in company with Tamar, he gleaned from the gipsy Miranda, led him to betake himself once more to London. It happened that Mr. de Medina and Esther arrived in the capital almost at the same time; for the merchant had not been able to wind up his affairs until that period. Retiring from business with a large fortune, he had resolved to quit Liverpool—a place which constantly brought back the most painful reminiscences to his mind, in spite of his stern resolve to disown his elder daughter for ever. But Esther—had she forgotten Tamar? Oh! no—the memory of the fond sister was immortal; and she would have given whole years of her life to clasp Tamar in her arms again!

This tender aspiration was speedily destined to be gratified. One afternoon, towards the close of October, 1826, Esther de Medina was returning home to Great Ormond Street, after having been to make a few purchases in Holborn, when she encountered her sister Tamar, who was also alone at the time. Fortunately the street where they thus met was in a quiet neighbourhood and at that moment almost deserted: otherwise, the ejaculations of surprise and delight which the sisters uttered, and the eagerness with which they flew into each other's arms, might have drawn upon them an attention by no means agreeable. As it was, they escaped any particular notice; and hastening to the least frequented side of Queen Square, they entered into long and serious conversation together. Tamar implored Esther to tell her how their father had received the tidings of her flight; and the younger sister was so overcome by her emotions, that she allowed the entire truth to be extracted from her by the questioning and cross-questioning of the impatient Tamar. Thus was it that the latter learnt how she had been disowned—cast off for ever! Terrible were the efforts which it cost her to subdue a violent outburst of grief; and her heart seemed as if it would break, when in a low tone she addressed her sister thus:—"Esther dearest, my father has no cause to apprehend that I shall proclaim myself his daughter. No—let him boldly declare that he has but one child—thyself! I know not how long I may remain in London; but this I faithfully promise you, that I will appear abroad as little as possible, and then only with my countenance concealed by a dark veil, so long as the interests of him whom I love may compel him to dwell in this city. That we shall be long here, I do not believe. Tell our father, Esther, that we have thus met; and communicate to him those assurances that I have now given thee."—Esther clung to her sister for support: that language was distressing to the young maiden to hear.—"And are you happy, Tamar?" she asked, weeping bitterly.—"As happy as woman can be, whose father has disowned her and who is separated from her sister," replied Tamar, now weeping also. "Yes, dearest Esther, I am happy with him whom I love so well, and who is so kind, so fond towards me!"—"This assurance diminishes my grief," murmured Esther. "Oh! how glad I am that we have thus met: this interview has suddenly relieved me of a tremendous weight of cruel uncertainty regarding thee! But, alas! Tamar, why did you desert your happy home? why did you abandon a father and a sister who loved you so tenderly?"—"Esther, hast thou not yet known that love which is so different from the affection existing even between parents and their children, or between those who are so closely linked in the bonds of kinship as yourself and I?"—"No!"—"Well, then, Esther, I can scarcely make you comprehend how much more deserving of pity than blame I am! He whom I love so well came to the house—I did not seek him; and my heart soon—oh! full soon became his. Could I help it? It were vain and idle to say that we can control those feelings which constitute the passion of Love! No earthly power could have restrained the current of that attachment which hurried me along to the accomplishment of what became my destiny. And when one loves as I loved and still love, Esther,—and as I am loved in return,—father, sister, home, kindred, friends—all are forgotten! Oh! this is true—so true, that you would not blame me, did you know what it is to love as I love!"—"Blame you, dearest sister!" exclaimed Esther. "Never! never!" And she clasped Tamar fervently in her arms; but it was now dark, and that part of the square to which they had retired for the purpose of unrestrained discourse, echoed to no voices save their own.

When the sisters were a little more composed, Esther informed Tamar of all that had occurred since they had last seen each other,—how their father had renounced the cares and fatigues of business, and had resolved to settle altogether in London; and how he was then negotiating with the Earl of Ellingham for the tenancy of a small but compact estate near Finchley. The sisters then agreed to correspond together; for Esther secretly hoped that her father would not deny her the pleasure of receiving letters from her sister. Tamar was accordingly to address her correspondence to Great Ormond Street; and Esther was to direct her letters to "T. J., South Moulton Street," where Rainford and his mistress were then passing under the name of Jameson. The sisters were now about to part, when, Esther, drawing a diamond ring from her finger placed it in Tamar's hand: then taking a small pair of scissors from her reticule, she cut off the end of one of her own ringlets, which, having folded in a piece of paper, she also presented to her sister, saying in her softest, sweetest tones,—"Tamar, the love which subsists between us, no circumstances can destroy—no length of absence impair. We are about to separate: and, though with the hope of meeting again, still that meeting might be deferred by accidents at present unforeseen. I would that you should possess some memorial of your sister——"—"Oh! is it necessary?" exclaimed Tamar, in an impassioned tone of profound sincerity.—"If not necessary, it would be at least soothing to my feelings," said Esther; "for I possess memorials of you, in your drawings and your music. Grant me, then, the favour which I am about to ask you."—"Name it, sister," replied Tamar, now deeply affected in her turn.—"It is, dearest," continued the amiable Esther, "that you dispose of the ring which I have now presented to you, and that with the proceeds you will have made a locket in which my hair may be set, and on the inner side of which my name may be engraved. This I implore you to do, my sister; and I know that you will not refuse me."—"The next time we meet, Esther," said Tamar, in a tone tremulous with emotion, "I will show you the locket."—The sisters then separated with aching hearts.