MRS. KENRICK.
The rector of Saint David's returned home a prey to the most unenviable
feelings.
Rage—disappointment—humiliation conspired to make him mad.
The old hag had raised his hopes to the highest pitch; and at the moment
when the cup of bliss seemed to approach his lips, it was rudely dashed
away.
A woman had triumphed over him—mocked his passion—spurned his
offers—read him a lesson of morality—taught him that proud man must not
always domineer over feminine weakness.
Oh! it was too much for that haughty—that vain—that self-sufficient
ecclesiastic to endure!
As he returned home in a hired cab, he threw from the window of the
vehicle the Carmelite gown and cowl which he had worn; and bitterly did
he reproach himself for his folly in having been seduced into the
degradation of that masqued mummery.
Arrived at his own house, he rushed past the housekeeper who opened the
door, and was hurrying up-stairs to the solitude of his chamber, when
the voice of the old lady compelled him to pause.
"Mr. Tracy—Mr. Tracy," she exclaimed; "here is a note from Lady
Harborough."
"Tell Lady Harborough to go to the devil, Mrs. Kenrick!" cried the
rector, goaded almost to madness by this new proof of Cecilia's
indiscretion.
The old housekeeper dropped the candle and the note, as if she were
thunderstruck.
Was it possible that she had heard aright? could such an expression have
emanated from the lips of her master—of that man whom the world
idolized?
"What is the matter now, Mrs. Kenrick?" asked the rector, suddenly
recovering his presence of mind, and perceiving the immense error into
which his excited feelings had betrayed him.
"Nothing, sir—nothing," answered the housekeeper, as she re-lighted her
candle by means of a lamp which was standing on the hall-table; "only I
thought that something very terrible had occurred to annoy you."
"Yes—yes—I have indeed been grievously annoyed," said Reginald; "and you
must forgive my hasty conduct. I was wrong—very wrong. Do not think
anything more of it, Mrs. Kenrick. But did you not observe that Lady
Harborough had sent a message——"
"A note, sir. Here it is."
And as the housekeeper handed her master the perfumed _billet_, she cast
a scrutinizing glance upon his countenance.
He was as pale as death—his lips quivered—and his eyes had a wild
expression.
"I am afraid, sir, that something very dreadful has happened to you,"
she observed timidly. "Shall I send for the physician?"
"No—no, Mrs. Kenrick: I shall be quite well in the morning. I have
received a violent shock—the sudden communication of ill news—the death
of a dear friend——"
"Ah! sir, I was convinced that all was not right," observed the
housekeeper. "If you would follow my advice you would take something to
compose you—to make you sleep well——"
"An excellent thought, Mrs. Kenrick! If it be not too late, I wish you
would send and procure me a little laudanum: I will take a few drops to
ensure a sound slumber."
"I will do so, sir," answered the housekeeper.
She then repaired to the kitchen, while Reginald hurried up to his own
chamber to read Lady Cecilia's letter, the contents of which ran as
follow:—
"Nearly a week has elapsed, dearest Reginald, and I have not seen
you! neither have I heard from you. What is the meaning of this? Is
it neglect, or extreme caution? At all events the interval which you
enjoined for the cessation of my visits to you, has nearly expired;
and my impatience will brook no longer delay. I must see you
to-night! Precisely as the clock strikes twelve, I will be at your
front-door, when you must admit me as on previous occasions—or I
shall imagine that you are already wearied of your
"CECILIA."
"After all," said the rector, "the presence of Cecilia will in some
degree console me for my disappointment of this evening! I cannot remain
alone with my reflections—it drives me mad to think of what I am, and
what I have been! And laudanum is a miserable resource for one who
dreads a sleepless night: it peoples slumber with hideous phantoms.
Yes—I will admit Cecilia at the appointed hour:—my housekeeper does not
suspect me—my guilty conscience alone makes me think at times that she
reads the secrets of my soul?"
The rector seated himself before the cheerful fire which burnt in the
grate, and fell into a long train of voluptuous meditation.
He had become in so short a time a confirmed sensualist; and now that
his long pent-up passions had broken loose, they never left him a moment
of repose.
His reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door; and Mrs. Kenrick
entered.
"Kate was fortunate enough to find a druggist's shop open, sir," she
said, "and procured some laudanum. But pray be cautious how you use it."
"Never fear," returned the rector: "I may not avail myself of it at
all—for I feel more composed now."
The housekeeper wished her master a good night's rest, and withdrew.
The rector then took a decanter of wine from a cupboard, and tossed off
two glasses full, one immediately after the other.
The idea that Cecilia would shortly be there and the effects of the wine
inflamed his blood, and brought back the colour to his cheeks.
Midnight soon sounded: the rector threw off his shoes, took a candle in
his hand, and hastened down stairs.
He opened the front-door with the utmost caution; and a female, muffled
in an ample cloak, darted into the hall.
"Cecilia?" whispered the rector.
"Dearest Reginald," answered the lady, in the same under tone.
They then stole noiselessly up stairs, and reached the rector's chamber
without having scarcely awakened the faintest echo in the house.
The remainder of the night was passed by them in the intoxicating joys
of illicit love. Locked in Cecilia's arms, the rector forgot the
humiliation he had received at the hands of Ellen, and abandoned himself
to those pleasures for which he risked so much!
It was still dark—though at a later hour in the morning than Cecilia had
been previously in the habit of quitting the rector's house—when the
guilty pair stole softly down stairs, without a light.
"Hasten, Cecilia," murmured the rector: "it is later than you imagine."
"My God!" whispered the lady: "I hear a step ascending!"
The rector listened for a moment, and then said in a faint tone, "Yes:
we are lost!"
A light flashed on the wall a few steps beneath those on which they were
standing: it was too late to retreat; and in another moment Mrs. Kenrick
made her appearance on the stairs.
"What! Mr. Tracy?" ejaculated the housekeeper, her eyes glancing from
the rector in his dressing-gown to the lady in her cloak.
Then the good woman stood motionless and silent—her tongue tied, and her
feet rooted to the spot, with astonishment.
Lady Cecilia drew her veil hastily over her countenance; but not before
Mrs. Kenrick had recognised her.
A thousand ideas passed rapidly through the rector's brain during the
two or three moments that succeeded this encounter.
At first he thought of inventing some excuse for his awkward
situation;—next he felt inclined to spring upon his old housekeeper and
strangle her;—then he conceived the desperate idea of rushing back to
his room and blowing his brains out.
"Mrs. Kenrick," at length he exclaimed, "I hope you will say nothing of
this."
The housekeeper made no reply to her master; but, turning a contemptuous
glance upon the lady, said, "Madam, allow me to conduct you to the front
door."
Cecilia followed her mechanically; and Reginald rushed up the stairs to
his room, a prey to emotions more readily conceived than described.
The housekeeper preceded Lady Cecilia in silence, and opened the front
door.
"My dear Mrs. Kenrick," said the frail patrician, who had now nearly
recovered her presence of mind, "I hope you will take no notice of this
unpleasant discovery."
"I shall remain silent, madam," answered the housekeeper; "but through
no respect for you. I however value the reputation of a master whom I
have served for many years, too much to be the means of ruining him."
She then closed the door unceremoniously, and, seating herself on one of
the mahogany benches in the hall, burst into tears.
That good woman loved her master with a maternal affection; and she was
shocked at this dread confirmation of the faint suspicions which she had
already entertained, and which had so sorely afflicted her.
"It is then true!" she thought within herself. "He has fallen! He is a
living, breathing falsehood. His eloquence is a mere talent, and not the
spontaneous outpouring of holy conviction! The world adores an idle
delusion—worships a vain phantom. Oh! what a discovery is this! How can
I ever respect him more? how can I ever talk with others of his virtues
again? And yet he may repent—oh! God grant that he may! Yes—he must
repent: he must again become the great, the good man he once was! It
behoves me, then, to shield his guilt:—at the same time all temptation
should be removed from his presence. Ah! now I bethink me that he has
cast wistful eyes upon that poor girl whom he has taken into the
establishment. I must remove her: yes—I will remove her, upon my own
authority. He will thank me hereafter for my prudence."
Thus did the good woman reason within herself.
When she had somewhat recovered from the first shock which the
unpleasant discovery of her master's criminality had produced upon her,
she repaired to her domestic avocations.
Kate was already in the kitchen, occupied with her usual duties.
"Katherine, my dear child," said Mrs. Kenrick, "I am going to give you
my advice—or rather to propose to you a plan which I have
formed—relative to you——"
"To me, ma'am?" exclaimed the young maiden, desisting from her
employment, and preparing to listen with attention.
"Yes, my dear girl," continued the housekeeper; "and when I tell you
that it is for your good—entirely for your good—you would thank me——"
"Oh! I do, ma'am—I thank you in advance," said Kate; "for I have already
experienced too much kindness at your hands not to feel convinced that
all you propose is for my good."
"Well, then, my dear—without giving you any reasons for my present
conduct—I am anxious that you should leave this house——"
"Leave, ma'am?" cried Kate, astonished at this unexpected announcement.
"Yes, Katherine: you must leave this house," proceeded Mrs. Kenrick.
"But think not that you will be unprovided for. I have a sister who
resides a few miles from London; and to her care I shall recommend you.
She will be a mother to you."
"But why would you remove me from the roof of my benefactor?" asked
Kate: "why would you send me away from London, where my only relations
on the face of the earth reside?" she added, bursting into tears; for
she thought of her poor persecuted cousin the hump-back.
"Do not ask me, my good child," returned Mrs. Kenrick: "my reasons are
of a nature which cannot be communicated to you. And yet—if you knew
them, and could rightly understand them—you would not object——"
"Alas! ma'am, I am afraid that I understand them but too well,"
interrupted the girl: "the executioner's niece brings discredit upon the
house of her benefactor."
"Oh! no—no," exclaimed the good-natured housekeeper; "do not entertain
such an idea! Not for worlds would I have you labour under such an
error. You know I would not tell a falsehood; and I declare most
solemnly that you have totally misunderstood me and my motives."
There was an earnestness in the way in which Mrs. Kenrick spoke that
immediately removed from Katherine's mind the suspicion she had
entertained.
"Why should you send the poor girl away, Mrs. Kenrick?" said the
footman, now suddenly emerging from the pantry, which joined the
kitchen.
"Have you overheard our conversation, then, Thomas?" exclaimed Mrs.
Kenrick, angrily.
"I couldn't very well avoid it," answered the footman, "since I was in
there all the time."
"It would have been more discreet on your part to have let us know that
you were there, when you heard a private conversation begin," remarked
the housekeeper.
"How should I know the conversation was private?" exclaimed Thomas. "I
suppose you're jealous of the girl, and want to get rid of her."
"You must value your place very little by speaking to me in this way,"
said Mrs. Kenrick. "However, I scorn your base allusions. And you, my
dear," she continued, now addressing herself to Katherine, "look upon me
as your friend—your very sincere friend. What I am doing is for your
good: to-day I will write to my sister—and to-morrow you shall, proceed
to her abode."
The housekeeper then resumed her avocations with the complacency of one
conscious of having performed a duty.
"Thomas," she said, after a pause, "go up and inquire if your master
will have breakfast served in his own chamber, or in the parlour."
The footman hastened to obey this order.
"Master says he is very unwell, and desires no breakfast at all," was
the information which the man gave on his return to the kitchen.
The housekeeper made no reply: she was however pleased when she
reflected that the rector felt his situation—a state of mind which she
hoped would lead to complete repentance and reform.
The morning passed: the afternoon arrived: and still Reginald Tracy kept
his room.
The housekeeper sent the footman up to ask if he required any thing.
Thomas returned with a negative answer, adding "Master spoke to me
without opening the door, and seemed by his tone of voice to be very
unwell."
Again the housekeeper remained silent, more convinced than before that
contrition was working its good effects with her master.
Hour after hour passed; the sun went down; and darkness once more drew
its veil over the mighty city.
Mrs. Kenrick again sent up Thomas with the same inquiry as before.
The servant returned to the kitchen with a letter in his hand.
"This time master opened the door," he said; "and gave me this letter to
take up to Mr. Markham at Holloway. But I shall take the omnibus there
and back."
Thomas then departed to execute his commission.
Shortly after he was gone, the bell of the rector's room rang.
Mrs. Kenrick hastened to answer it.
She found Mr. Tracy sitting in a musing attitude before the fire in his
bed-room.
"My dear Mrs. Kenrick," he said, "I wish to have some conversation with
you—I need scarcely now explain upon what subject. I have sent Thomas
out of the way with an excuse: do you get rid of Katherine for an hour;
I am faint—and require refreshment; and I will take my tea with you in
the kitchen."
"In the kitchen, sir!" exclaimed the housekeeper, in surprise.
"Yes—if you will permit me," answered the rector: "I can then converse
with you at the same time."
Mrs. Kenrick left the room to execute her master's wishes; and, as she
descended the stairs, she thought within herself, "I am right! he has
repented: he will become the virtuous and upright man he once was!"
And the good woman experienced a pleasure as sincere as if any one had
announced to her that she was entitled to a princely fortune.
To send Katherine out of the way for an hour was no difficult matter.
The old housekeeper gave her leave to repair to Saint Giles's to visit
her relatives; and the young girl, thinking that her uncle might repent
of his recent harshness towards her, now that she was no longer
dependant upon him, gladly availed herself of this permission.
Katherine accordingly proceeded to Saint Giles's; and the moment she had
left the house Mrs. Kenrick spread the kitchen table with the
tea-things.