THE ORPHAN'S FILIAL LOVE.
The evening was calm, fresh, and dry: the heavens were covered with
stars; and objects were visible at a considerable distance.
A few minutes before the wished-for hour, Katherine, Ellen, and the
farmer reached the hill at the foot of which was the place of
appointment.
Then Kate left them and proceeded alone, while her two friends hastened
by a circuitous route to gain a clump of trees which would enable them
to remain concealed within a distance of fifty yards of the spot where
Kate was to meet the old woman.
The young girl pursued her way—her heart palpitating with varied
emotions,—vague alarm, exalted hope, and all the re-awakened convictions
of her orphan state.
She reached the foot of the hill, and in a few minutes beheld a human
form emerging, as it were, from the obscurity at a distance—the dim
outline gradually defining itself into a positive shape, and at length
showing the figure of the old woman whom she had seen in the morning.
"You have done well to obey my summons, Miss," said the hag, as she
approached the timid and trembling girl. "But let me look well on your
countenance—let me be satisfied that it is indeed Katherine Wilmot."
Then Kate turned towards the moon, and parted the light chesnut hair:
which clustered around her countenance; so that a pure flood of silvery
lustre streamed on all the features of that sweetly interesting face—a
sight too hallowed for the foul-souled harridan to gaze upon!
It was as if the veil of the Holy of Holies, in the Jewish temple, were
lifted before some being fresh from the grossest pollutions of the
world.
"Yes—I am satisfied!" murmured the hag. "You are Katherine Wilmot—the
Katherine whom I saw and recognised this morning. I feared lest your
artful friend, Ellen Monroe, less timid than yourself, might have come
to play your part."
"Wherefore should you speak ill of Miss Monroe?" inquired Katherine,
mildly. "Malicious allusions to my friends will not serve as a passport
to my confidence."
"Well, well," said the hag, "we will speak no more on that subject. It
was for other purposes that I sought this interview. Tell me, Miss—do
you remember your mother?"
"I remember her, with that faint and dim knowledge which consists only
of many vague and dubious impressions," replied Kate, in a deeply
plaintive tone. "I was but four years of age when God snatched her from
me; and it was not until I was old enough to feel her loss, that my
memory began to exert itself to the utmost to recall every incident
which I could associate with her kindness towards me. For kind she must
have been—because every reminiscence which my mind has ever been able to
shadow forth concerning her, fills my heart with grateful tenderness and
love. Oh! I have sate for hours—in the solitude of my own
chamber—endeavouring to fix the volatile ideas which at times flash
through my memory in reference to the past,—until I have seemed to
connect them in a regular chain;—and then I have fancied that at the end
of the vista of years through which my mental glances retrospected, I
could define a beautiful but melancholy countenance—the mild blue eyes
weeping, and the lips smiling sweetly, over me—the gentle hand smoothing
down my hair, and caressing my cheeks,—and all this in a manner so
touching, so plaintive, so softly sorrowful, that the picture fills my
soul with sad fears lest my mother was not happy! And there have been
times, too," continued Kate, tears trickling down her cheeks, "when it
appeared to me, that I could remember the fervent tenderness with which
my mother clasped me in her arms—fondled me—played with me—did all she
could to make me laugh—and then wept bitterly, because my infantine joy
was so exuberant! Yes—these and many other things of the same kind have
I pondered on and treasured up as holy memories of the past;—and then
the dread thought has suddenly flashed to my brain, that I have been
merely worshipping the images of my own fond creation. At such times, I
have gone down upon my knees—I have prayed that these ideas might really
be reflections of the long-gone truth,—bright reflections which had been
cast in the mirror of my mind during the days of my infancy! Oh! it
would grieve me sadly—it would wring my soul with anguish—it would fill
my heart with desolation, were I to be led to the fearful conviction
that all those pleasing-painful glimpses of my mother's presence and my
mother's love are not the reminiscences of reality, but the creations of
a fond and credulous imagination."
"Your memory has not deceived you, Miss," said the old woman. "Your
mother fondled and caressed you—smiled and wept over you, in the manner
you have described."
"Oh! thank you—thank you for that assurance!" exclaimed Katherine,
forgetting, in the enthusiasm of her filial, but orphan, love, all her
late repugnance to that old woman: "again, I say, thank you! You know
not the consolation you have imparted to me! Oh! were it possible to
recall from the tomb that dear mother who fondled and caressed me—smiled
and wept over me, I would give all the remainder of my life for one day
of her presence here—one day of her love! When I think that she is
really gone for ever—that no tears and no prayers can bring her back—ah!
it seems as if there were an anguish in my heart which no human sympathy
can ever soothe. But you knew my mother, then?" added Kate, suddenly;
"you knew her—did you not? Oh! tell me of her: I could never weary of
hearing you speak of her."
"Yes—I knew your mother well," was the answer: "I knew her before you
were born."
"And was she happy?" demanded Katherine, trembling at the question she
thus put, for fear the reply should not be as she would wish it.
"She knew happiness—and she was also acquainted with sorrow," said the
hag: "but that is the lot of us all—that is the lot of us all!"
"Poor mother!" murmured the young girl, with a profound sob: "it is then
true that, in my infancy, I saw her weep as well as smile! Wherefore was
she unhappy? Was she betrayed and neglected? But, oh! I tremble to ask
those questions, which—"
"To explain the cause of her sorrows would be to tell you all her
history," answered the old woman; "and, ere I can do that, I have some
questions to ask you, and—and some conditions to—to propose."
The hag hesitated:—yes, even _she_, with her soul so hardened in the
tan-pits of vice, as to be on all other occasions proof against the dews
of sympathy,—even _she_ hesitated, as if softened by the ingenuous and
holy outpourings of that young orphan's filial love.
"Speak—say quickly what you require of me," exclaimed Katherine; "and
hasten to tell me of my parents—for in your letter you spoke of both my
father and my mother."
As Katherine entertained not the slightest recollection of her father,
all her thoughts had ever been fixed on the memory of her mother;—but
when she coupled the two names together—when she found her lips
pronouncing the sacred denominations of _father_ and _mother_ in the
same breath, there arose in her soul such varied and overpowering
emotions that she dissolved into a violent agony of weeping.
But that efflux of tears relieved the surcharged heart of the orphan;
and, composing herself as quickly as she could, she exclaimed, "Speak,
good woman—name your conditions: I am rich—and they shall be complied
with,—so that you hasten to tell me of my parents!"
"Did your mother leave no papers behind her—no letters—no private
documents of any kind?" inquired the old hag.
"Nothing,—nothing save the fragment of a note which she commenced when
in a dying state, and which death did not permit her to finish,"
answered Katherine.
"And that fragment—did it suggest no trace—"
"Stay—I will repeat its contents to you," exclaimed Katherine: "the
words are indelibly fixed upon my memory——Oh! how were it possible that
I could ever forget them? Those words ran thus:—'_Should my own gloomy
presages prove true, and the warning of my medical attendant be well
founded,—if, in a word, the hand of death be already extended to snatch
me away thus in the prime of life, while my darling child is——_:'
there," continued Katherine, "is a blank, occasioned—alas! by the tears
of my poor mother! Two or three lines are thus obliterated; and then
appears a short—disjointed—but a most mysterious portion of a sentence,
written thus:—'_and inform Mr. Markham, whose abode is——_.' There's not
another word on the paper!" added the orphan.
"Markham—Markham!" repeated the hag, as if sorely troubled by some
reminiscence; "she mentioned the name of Markham in the letter she wrote
on her death-bed? Young lady, did you ever hear more of that Mr.
Markham?"
"Inquiries were instituted at my mother's death," replied Kate; "but the
Mr. Markham alluded to in the note could not be discovered. The name—the
very name, however, seems to be of good omen to me; for one of that
name,—who is now a noble of exalted rank, and the commander of a mighty
army in a foreign land,—has been my best friend—my benefactor—my
saviour. Yes—it is to Richard Markham——"
"Ah! now I comprehend the cause of your intimacy with Miss Monroe," said
the hag, hastily: "she resides with her father at the house of Mr.
Richard Markham. And so," she continued in a musing tone,—"and so that
same Mr. Richard Markham is your friend—your benefactor?"
"Oh! what should I have been without him?" ejaculated Katherine. "When I
was involved in that fearful situation, of which you have no doubt
heard, _he_ was the only one who came to me and said, '_I believe you to
be innocent_!' May heaven ever prosper him for that boundless
philanthropy—that noble generosity which induced him to espouse the
orphan's cause! Yes—to him I owed the development of my innocence—the
unravelling of that terrible web of circumstantial evidence in which I
was entangled. He employed an active agent to collect evidence in my
favour; and the measures which he adopted led to the results which must
be known to you."
"It is, then, as I thought," said the old woman, scarcely able to subdue
a chuckle of delight. "You know but little concerning your mother—and
nothing relative to your father."
"And it is to receive precious communications on those points that I
have met you now," exclaimed Katherine. "Let us lose no more time—my
friends will grow uneasy at my prolonged absence! Speak—in the name of
heaven, speak on a subject so near and dear to my heart."
"Listen attentively, young miss, to what I am about to say—listen
attentively," returned the hag. "Now do not be alarmed at my words: you
will see that I am disposed to act well towards you. The man who was
with me this morning—," and here the old woman cast a rapid glance
around, and lowered her voice to a whisper,—"that man is a bad one, and
he knows I am acquainted with all that concerns your parentage. He is
avaricious, and desires to turn my knowledge to a good account."
"I understand you," said Katherine: "he requires money. But are you
influenced by him?"
"I cannot explain all that, Miss: attend to what I choose to tell you—or
_may_ tell you—and you will act wisely," returned the old woman. "He is
a desperate man—and I dare not offend him. He wants money; and money he
must have—money he must have!"
"How much will satisfy him?" asked Katherine. "And if I procure the sum
that he needs, will you then tell me all you know in connexion with my
parents?"
"Wait a moment—wait a moment, Miss," said the hag. "I am but a
poor—miserable—wretched—oppressed—starving creature myself——"
"Again I understand you," interrupted Katherine, unable to subdue a tone
expressive of contempt. "You declare yourself to be the possessor of a
secret which nearly and dearly concerns me; and you intend to barter it
for gold? But if I meet your demands in all respects,—if I satisfy that
man who exercises such influence over you, and if I reward
yourself,—what security can you give me that you are really acquainted
with those particulars which you offer to communicate? what guarantee
can you show that this first concession on my part will not be followed
by increased demands on yours?"
"I will convince you of my good faith," was the old woman's ready reply.
"Give me wherewithal to satisfy that man; and the reward you intend for
me need not be bestowed until I have told you all I know."
"How much will that man require?" asked Katherine, wearied by this
mercenary trading in matters which to her appeared so sacred.
"Give him a hundred pounds:—you are rich and can well afford it—for
report says that you inherited the fortune of Reginald Tracy," exclaimed
the hag.
"And for yourself?" said Kate, impatiently.
"Alack! I am a poor, starving old creature," was the answer; "I am
miserable—very miserable! Give me wherewith to make my few remaining
days happy—as I shall be able to show you great sources of comfort in
the news I have to impart."
"Listen, now, to me," said Kate, after a moment's hesitation. "I will
give you that sum of one hundred pounds to enable you to satisfy the man
of whom you speak; and, afterwards—if your communications should really
and truly prove a source of comfort to me—I will reward you with a
liberality surpassing your most sanguine expectations. But, alas! some
delay must take place ere I can procure the funds from the solicitor who
has my affairs in his charge; and, oh! I shall know no peace until your
lips reveal those secrets which are to prove such sources of comfort to
me."
There was a temporary pause:—the old woman seemed to be reflecting upon
the orphan's words; and the young girl herself was rapidly conjecturing
of what nature the promised revelations could be. But how vain were all
her attempts to assign a satisfactory solution to that enigma which the
hag, like some horrible sphynx, had set before her!
During this prolonged interview the early loveliness of the evening had
yielded to one of those sudden variations peculiar to our island-climate
at that season of the year:—the sky had become overcast—the moon no
longer poured forth a flood of sweet silver lustre to light up the
innocent countenance of the maiden, or to mock with its chaste halo the
wrinkled expression of the foul hag.
"But perhaps your solicitor may refuse you the advances which you need?"
said the old woman at length.
"No: he will not cast an obstacle in the way of aught which is to
contribute to my happiness," answered Katherine. "I have seen him but
twice, and, inexperienced as I am in the ways of life, I feel confident
that he possesses a kind and generous heart. Oh! if Richard—I mean, the
Marquis of Estella—were in England now, I should not be compelled to
wait many hours in suspense for the want of this money which you
require."
"The Marquis of Estella!" exclaimed the hag, in astonishment: "who is
he? and what connexion can he have with you?"
"Have you not heard or read the news which have doubtless appeared in
all the London journals?" inquired Katherine;—"those glorious news——"
"Alack! dear Miss—I never read a newspaper," said the hag.
"Then you are ignorant that the Richard Markham of whom we have been
speaking, is a great noble—a peer of a foreign realm,—that the coronet
of a Marquis has been conferred upon him for his gallant deeds——"
"Well-a-day! this world sees strange ups and downs!" interrupted the
hag. "Ah! Miss—lose no time in satisfying that man who was with me this
morning, and I will tell you a secret that will be well worth all the
gold you will have to give for its purchase. But what was that noise?
did you not hear something?"
"It seemed to me that there was a rustling along the path," replied
Katherine, in a hasty and timid whisper. "Oh! you would not do me any
harm—you have not been deceiving me? My God! how cruel would it be to
lead the orphan into danger, by the allurements of fond hopes respecting
the memory of her parents!"
"Silence, Miss—listen!" said the hag, in a subdued but earnest tone: "I
mean you no harm."
Then they both held their breath;—but all was still—not a sound met
their ears, save the low murmur of the breeze which had sprung up within
the last few minutes.
"It is nothing," observed the old woman. "But why should you mistrust
me?"
"Pardon me if I wrong you," returned Kate:—"you are a stranger to
me—and, although you may mean to serve me, your proceedings are
conducted with so much mystery—so much secrecy—that I must be forgiven
if vague suspicions——"
"I know it—I know it," interrupted the old woman; and after a short
pause, she added, "Yes—I will ensure your confidence, Miss; and then you
will understand my sincerity. That man who was with me this morning
discovered your place of abode at my desire. He demanded to be present
at our interview but I refused—for reasons of my own. I assured him I
would speak to you alone, or not at all. I was therefore compelled, this
morning, in his presence, to insist on having none by to overhear the
business that made me seek you; and the same reason forced me to
stipulate that you should meet me this evening unaccompanied by any of
your friends. For if I had permitted one to be present at our interview,
then there was no reason to exclude another; and that man might have
insisted on being a witness as well as any companion of yours."
"If that be the only reason for this mystery," observed Katherine,
considerably relieved by the old woman's explanation, "you cannot object
to Miss Monroe accompanying me on the next occasion of our meeting."
"No," answered the old woman; "that may not be, for the man who is to be
satisfied with money will watch me at a distance when we meet again.
But, afterwards—at any future interview that may be necessary—Miss
Monroe may accompany you."
"I understand you," said Kate. "To-morrow evening I will meet you
again—here—and at the same hour. I shall then doubtless be prepared to
give you the amount necessary to satisfy that man's avarice; and his
interference will be disposed of. It will afterwards remain for _you_ to
satisfy _me_—and for _me_ to reward _you_."
"Agreed, young lady—agreed!" answered the old woman. "We have now no
more to say—except," she added, as a sudden thought struck her,—"except
that, should the man insist on speaking to you to-morrow evening, you
need not tell him that you have any intention of bestowing a separate
recompense on me."
"I hope that he will not dare to approach me," said Katherine,
indignantly; "and, were he to force his disagreeable presence upon me, I
should scarcely permit myself to be catechised by him."
"'Tis well, Miss," returned the hag, apparently well pleased with the
resolute manner of the young orphan.
They then separated.
The old woman went one way; and Katherine proceeded direct to the clump
of trees where Ellen and the farmer were concealed;—for it was now so
dark that there was no fear of the direction she took being observed.
It may be naturally supposed that Ellen and Mr. Bennet were deeply
anxious to be made acquainted with the particulars of an interview
concerning which they had some few misgivings.
On the return of the trio to the farm-house, they found Mrs. Bennet very
uneasy on Kate's account. The appearance of the young maiden reassured
the good-hearted woman; and Katherine then gave a detailed account of
all that had passed between herself and the hag.
The impression produced was, that there was really a legitimate
foundation for the old woman's proceedings, and that she was actually
possessed of secrets touching Kate's parentage. The agreement that the
recompense was only to be awarded to her after she had made the promised
communications, was considered a proof of good faith; and Kate's promise
to supply the sum demanded in the first instance to satisfy the avarice
of the Resurrection Man, met with the approval of her friends.
"To-morrow, then," said Kate, "I must repair to London, and procure the
necessary funds from Mr. Wharton. You will accompany me, Ellen?"
"That journey is not requisite," observed the farmer. "Mr. Wharton would
demand an explanation of the business for which the money is intended;
and he would only view it with the calm and severe eye of a lawyer. He
might even go so far as to insist upon having those persons arrested as
extortioners. He might not fully appreciate your filial anxiety, Kate,
to risk every chance to know more of the authors of your being. I can
well comprehend your feelings; and, after all, the venture is but a
hundred pounds—for the old woman is to make her revelations before she
receives a recompense. No—you shall say nothing to Mr. Wharton on the
subject. I am going to London to-morrow; and on my return I will supply
you with the sum required."
It is needless to say that Katherine expressed her gratitude to Mr.
Bennet for his goodness; and Ellen readily promised to stay at the farm
for a day or two longer, until the pending mysteries should be cleared
up. Mr. Bennet moreover undertook to call at Markham Place, with a note
from Ellen to relieve Mr. Monroe of any anxiety which he might feel on
her account, as her absence from home would be protracted beyond the
time originally contemplated.