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.