HYPOCRISY.
Reginald Tracy proceeded from the dwelling of the hangman to the corner
of Tottenham Court Road, where his carriage was waiting for him.
He stepped into the vehicle, and ordered the coachman to drive him to
Markham Place near Lower Holloway.
Richard was not at home: he had gone for a short walk with Mr. Monroe,
who was yet too feeble to move far without the support of a companion's
arm. They were, however, expected to return in a short time;—besides,
Miss Monroe was in the drawing-room; and the rector therefore decided
upon walking in and waiting for Mr. Markham.
The name of Miss Monroe produced a powerful sensation in the breast of
that man whose passions until lately dormant from his birth, now raged
so furiously. He had seen her in a voluptuous _negligee_, attending by
the sick-bed of her father;—he had heard her utter words of strange
self-accusing import, in connection with that parent's illness;—and his
curiosity, as well as his desires, was kindled.
He had been fascinated by that charming girl; and our readers will
remember _that he had felt himself capable of making any sacrifice to
obtain her love_!
His mind, too, entertained a distant suspicion—a very distant one, but
still a suspicion—that she had strayed from the path of virtue;—for of
what else could a daughter, whom he had seen hanging like a ministering
angel over her father's couch, accuse herself?
This suspicion—and, at all events, that mystery which hung around the
accusation alluded to, served to inflame the imagination of a man who
now sought to place no bridle upon his passions. The idea suggested
itself to him, that if another had revelled in her charms, why should
not he? In a word, his heart glowed with secret delight when he learnt
from Whittingham that Miss Monroe was alone in the drawing-room.
On his entrance, Ellen rose from the sofa, and welcomed him with a
cordiality which originated in a sense of gratitude for the spiritual
comfort he had rendered her father during his illness.
At a glance his eyes scanned the fair form of Ellen from head to foot;
and his imagination was instantly fired with the thoughts of her soft
and swelling charms—those graceful undulations which were all her own,
and needed no artificial aids to improve the originals of nature!
"I am pleased to learn from the servant that your father, Miss Monroe,
is able to take a little exercise once more," said the rector.
"Oh! all danger is now past," exclaimed Ellen cheerfully. "But at one
time, Mr. Tracy, I had made up my mind to lose him."
"I saw how much you were afflicted," observed the rector; "and I was
grieved to hear you reproach yourself to some extent——"
"Reproach myself!" interrupted Ellen, blushing deeply. "You heard me
reproach myself?"
"I did," answered the rector. "And now, forgive me, if—by virtue of my
sacred calling—I make bold to remind you that Providence frequently
tries us, through the medium of afflictions visited upon those whom we
love, in order to punish us for our neglectfulness, our unkindness, or
our errors, towards those so afflicted. Pardon me, Miss Monroe, for thus
addressing you; but I should be unfaithful towards Him whom I serve, did
I not avail myself of every opportunity to explain the lessons which his
wise and just dispensations convey."
"Mr. Tracy," exclaimed Ellen, cruelly embarrassed by this language, "do
you really believe that Providence punished my father for some
misconduct on my part?"
"Judging by the reproach—the accusation which your lips uttered against
yourself—perhaps in an unguarded moment—when you ministered with angelic
tenderness at your father's sick-bed——"
"Sir—Mr. Tracy, this is too much!" cried Ellen, tears starting from her
eyes, while her cheeks were suffused with blushes: "it is unmanly—it is
ungenerous to take advantage of any expressions which might have been
wrung from me in a moment of acute anguish."
"Pardon me, young lady," said the rector with apparent meekness: "heaven
knows the purity of my intentions in thus addressing you. It is not
always that my spiritual aid is thus rejected—that my motives are thus
cruelly suspected."
"Forgive me, sir,—I was wrong to excite myself at words which were meant
in kindness," said Ellen, completely deceived by this consummate
hypocrisy.
"Miss Monroe," continued Reginald, "believe me when I assure you that I
feel deep compassion—deep interest, wherever I perceive grief—especially
when that sorrow is secret. And, if my eyes have not deceived me,
methinks I have read in your young heart the existence of some such
secret sorrow. My aim is to console you; for the consolation which I can
offer is not human—it is divine! I am but the humble _instrument_ of the
supernal Goodness; but God imparts solace through even the least worthy
of his ministers."
"I thank you sincerely for your friendly intentions towards me," said
Ellen, now recovering her presence of mind; "but, since my father is
restored to health, I have little to vex me."
"And yet that self-reproach, Miss Monroe," persisted the rector,
determined not to abandon the point to which he had so dexterously
conducted the conversation,—"that self-accusation which escaped your
lips——"
"Is a family secret, Mr. Tracy, which may not be revealed," interrupted
Ellen firmly.
"I ask you not for your confidence, Miss Monroe: think not that I seek
to pry into your affairs with an impertinent curiosity——"
"Once more, sir, I thank you for the kindness which prompts you thus to
address me; but—pray, let us change the conversation."
These words were uttered in so decided a tone, that Reginald dared not
persist in his attempt to thrust himself into the young lady's
confidence.
An awkward silence ensued; and the rector was thinking how he should
break it, when the door opened.
Almost at the same moment, a female voice was heard outside the room,
saying, in tender playfulness, "Come to mamma! come to mamma!"
Then, immediately afterwards, Marian entered the apartment, bearing an
infant in her arms.
Whittingham had neglected to tell her that there was a visitor in the
drawing-room.
Poor Marian, astounded at the presence of the rector, could neither
advance nor retreat for some moments.
At length she turned abruptly away.
Ellen sank back upon the sofa, overcome with shame and grief.
The rector threw upon her a glance full of meaning; but she saw it
not—for her own eyes were cast down.
This depression, however, lasted only for a moment. Suddenly raising her
head, she exclaimed with that boldness and firm frankness which had been
taught her by the various circumstances of the last few years of her
life, "You now know my secret, sir: but you are a man of honour. I need
say no more."
"Who has been base enough to leave this grievous wrong unrepaired?"
asked Reginald, taking her hand—that soft, warm, delicate hand.
"Nay—seek to know no more," returned Ellen, withdrawing her hand hastily
from what she however conceived to be only the pressure of a friendly or
fraternal interest; "you have learnt too much already. For God's sake,
let not my father know that you have discovered his daughter's shame!"
"Not for worlds would I do aught to cause you pain!" cried the rector,
enthusiastically.
"Thank you—thank you," murmured Ellen, completely deceived in respect to
the cause of Tracy's warmth, and mistaking for friendly interest an
ebullition of feeling which was in reality gross and sensual.
With these words Ellen hurried from the room.
"I have discovered her secret!" said the rector triumphantly to himself,
as he rose and paced the apartment, mad passions raging in his breast;
"and that discovery shall make her mine. Oh! no sacrifice were too great
to obtain possession of that charming creature! I would give the ten
best years of my life to clasp her in my arms, in the revels of love!
Happy—thrice happy should I be to feel that lovely form become supple
and yielding in my embrace! But my brain burns—my heart beats—my eyes
throb—my blood seems liquid fire!"
Reginald threw himself, exhausted by the indomitable violence of his
passions, upon the sofa.
Scarcely had he time to compose himself, when Markham entered the room.
The rector communicated to him the particulars of his interview with
Katherine Wilmot, and concluded by saying that, as the girl was known to
his housekeeper, he had determined upon taking her into his service.
"With regard to the fragment of the letter," observed Richard, "allusion
must have been made to some person of the name of Markham who is totally
unconnected with our family. We have no relations of that name. I feel
convinced that the mention of the name could not in any way refer to my
father; and my brother and myself were children at the time when that
letter must have been written."
"It is a coincidence—and that is all," observed the rector. "But as you
have to some extent constituted yourself the benefactor of this young
person, do you approve of the arrangement which I have made for her to
enter my household?"
"My dear sir, how can I object?" exclaimed Richard, who, in the natural
generosity of his heart, gave the rector credit for the most worthy
motives. "I consider myself your debtor for your noble conduct in this
instance. Under your roof, Mr. Tracy, the breath of calumny cannot reach
that poor creature; and _there_ no one will dare to make her family
connexions a subject of reproach."
Some farther conversation took place between Reginald Tracy and Richard
Markham upon this subject, and when the former rose to depart, they both
observed, for the first time during their interview, that a violent
shower of rain was pouring down.
[Illustration]
Richard pressed the rector to remain to dinner—an invitation which he,
whose head was filled with Ellen, did not hesitate to accept.
The rector's carriage and horses were accordingly housed in the
stables attached to Markham Place; and Whittingham was desired to make
Mr. Tracy's coachman and livery-servant as comfortable as
possible—instructions with which the hospitable old butler did not
fail to comply.
Dinner was served up at five o'clock; and Reginald had the felicity of
sitting next to Miss Monroe.
The more he saw of this young lady, the more did he become enraptured
with her,—not, however, experiencing a pure and chaste affection, but
one whose ingredients were completely sensual.
The evening passed rapidly away;—the rain continued to pour in torrents.
As a matter of courtesy—indeed, of hospitality, for Richard's nature was
generosity itself—the rector was pressed to stay the night at the Place;
and, although he had a good close carriage to convey him home (and
persons who have such equipages are seldom over careful of their
servants), he accepted the invitation.
There was something so pleasing—so intoxicating in the idea of passing
the night under the same roof with Ellen!