LORD WILLIAM TREVELYAN.
The scene changes to the residence of Lord William Trevelyan in Park
Square.
It was evening, and the young nobleman was pacing up and down in an
elegantly furnished parlour, which was lighted by means of a brilliant
gas-jet enclosed in a pale red glass globe--so that the lustre which
filled the room was of roseate hue. The curtains, sofas, and cushions
of the chairs were of a rich crimson; and the paper on the walls
was of a kindred colour and splendid pattern. In each corner of the
apartment stood a marble jar, filled with flowers recently gathered,
and rendering the atmosphere cool and fragrant.
Lord William was tall and handsome, his complexion was somewhat dark,
giving him the appearance of a Spaniard rather than of an Englishman;
and yet the ruddy hues of health were upon his cheeks. His hair was
black as jet, silky as that of a woman, and parted above a brow high,
intellectual, and expressive of a noble mind. His eyes were large
and dark, and full of the fire of genius; and there was something
peculiarly pleasing--almost winning in his smile.
In disposition Lord William was amiable--in manners unassuming: his
character was unimpeachable--and his political opinions were of
the most liberal tendency. His charity was extensive, but entirely
unostentatious: his dependants revered him as a good master, and his
acquaintances loved him as a sincere friend.
He was in his twenty-fourth year; and, until he had set eyes upon
Agnes Vernon, he had never experienced the influence of the tender
passion. But one day, while on a visit to a friend at Norwood, he was
strolling alone in the vicinity, and accident led his footsteps towards
the cottage, in the garden belonging to which he beheld the beauteous
creature whose image had ever since filled his soul.
Truly had he said to Mrs. Mortimer that he adored the fair recluse
of the cottage--that he worshipped the very ground upon which she
trod: his love amounted almost to an idolatry;--and yet he had never
exchanged a word--scarcely even a look, with the object of his
affection!
It could be no world-contaminated heart that entertained such a passion
as this--no selfish soul that could cherish such a pure and holy
attachment.
But it was a generous--upright--noble-minded young man, who was now
anxiously waiting the arrival of the woman with whom he had made an
appointment for the evening in question.
* * * * *
Were the English aristocracy to be judged generally by such nobles
as the Earl of Ellingham and Lord William Trevelyan, the term of its
existence would not now perhaps be within the range of prophecy.
But, as matters now stand,--as the aristocracy is corrupt,
selfish, and cruel--self-sufficient and ignorant--proud and
intolerant--unprincipled, profligate, and tyrannical,--it is not
difficult to predict its speedy downfall.
Therefore is it that we boldly proclaim our conviction that Monarchy
and Aristocracy will not exist ten years longer in enlightened England;
but that a Republic will displace them!
The _hereditary principle_, either in Monarchy or Aristocracy, is the
most detestable idea that ever entered the brains of knaves, or was
adopted by fools.
In respect to Monarchy, we are gravely assured that the principle of
hereditary succession guarantees a nation against the civil wars that
may arise from the pretensions of numerous claimants to the supreme
power. But the history of every monarchical country in the world gives
the lie to this assertion. Crowns have been bones of contention from
time immemorial, and will continue to be so until they be crushed
altogether beneath the heel of Republicanism. Take the history of
England, for instance--that England, where the hereditary principle is
said to be admirable and efficacious beyond all question: thirty-three
Kings or Queens and two minors have reigned in this country since the
Conquest by the Norman ruffian--_and during that period we have had
eight civil wars and nineteen rebellions!_
The LAWS OF GOD, moreover, bear testimony against Monarchy. What said
the Prophet Samuel when the Jews insisted upon having a King? “I will
call unto the Lord, and he shall send thunder and rain, that you may
perceive and see that your wickedness is great which you have done in
the sight of the Lord, _in asking you a King_. So Samuel called unto
the Lord, and the Lord sent thunder and rain that day; and all the
people greatly feared the Lord and Samuel. And all the people said unto
Samuel, Pray for thy servants unto the Lord thy God, that we die not;
_for we have added unto our sins this evil, to ask a King_.”
Either the Bible is true or false. If true--as assuredly it is--then is
the institution of Monarchy _a positive crime,_ tolerated by an entire
nation!
And no wonder that Heaven itself should protest against a system which
is nothing more nor less than setting up an idol for the millions to
worship,--an idol as useless as an Indian pagod, but often as terrible
and slaughterous in its baleful influence as Juggernaut in its fatal
progress.
Never did Satan contrive a scheme more certain of promoting idolatry
than the raising up of Kings and Queens as rivals to the Majesty of
Heaven;--for the root of Monarchy is in hell--the laws of God denounce
the institution as a sin--and the history of the whole world proclaims
that blood inevitably attends upon it!
All men were originally equal; and in no country therefore, could any
privilege of birth give one family a right to monopolise the executive
power for ever: neither can one generation bind that which is as yet
to come. The existing race of human beings has no property in the
one unborn: we of the present day have no right to assume the power
of enslaving posterity:--and, on the same principle, our ancestors
had no right to enslave us. If those ancestors chose to make one set
of laws for themselves, we can institute another code for our own
government. But of course such a change as this can only be made by the
representatives of the People; and in order that the people _may_ have
a fair representation, the following elements of a constitution become
absolutely necessary:--
Universal Suffrage;
Vote by Ballot;
No Property Qualification;
Paid Representatives;
Annual Parliaments; and
Equal Electoral Districts.
Give us these principles--accord us these institutions--and we will
vouch for the happiness, prosperity, and tranquillity of the kingdom.
[Illustration]
The French now stand at the head of the civilisation of Europe. They
are on the same level as the fine people of the United States of
America; and England occupies an inferior grade in the scale.
Alas! that we should be compelled to speak thus of our native land: but
the truth must be told!
As yet almost every country in Europe has demanded and
obtained something of its rulers, in consequence of the French
Revolution;--whereas England has as yet obtained nothing in the shape
of Reform!
Oh! shame--shame! what has become of our national spirit?--are we all
willing slaves, and shall we not agitate--morally, but energetically
agitate--for our rights and liberties?
The aristocracy and the men in power treat the people’s assemblies
with ridicule, and denominate the working-classes, when so assembled,
as “a mob.” They will not discriminate between honest politicians and
the respectable working-classes on the one hand, and the ragamuffinry
of society on the other. They confound us all together in the sweeping
appellation of “_the mob!_”
The insensates! Do they not reflect that if ten or fifteen thousand
persons meet for the purpose of discussing some grand political
question, some five or six hundred pickpockets and mischievous boys are
certain to intrude themselves into the assemblage? Why--black sheep
even find their way into the Houses of Parliament--aye, and into the
very suite of Royalty itself.
* * * * *
But after recording all the above observations, we must once more
declare that we do not recommend violence: we insist upon the necessity
of a grand moral agitation--an agitation which shall pervade the
entire country, as an ocean is roused by the storm into a mass of
mighty waves. The people must assume an imposing attitude; and let the
memorable words of Lafayette be repeated by every tongue:--“_For a
nation to love liberty, it is sufficient that she knows it; and for a
nation to be free, it is sufficient that she wills it!_”
And, oh! my fellow-countrymen, let not this glorious thesis be used
in vain! By the misery and starvation which millions of ye endure--by
the hopeless entombment to which the Poor Law Bastilles condemn ye,
when work fails--by the denial of an honest recognition of the rights
of labour, which is insolently persisted in--by the spectacle of your
famished wives and little ones--by the naked walls of the wretched
hovels in which the labouring population dwells--by the blinding toil
of the poor seamstress--by the insults heaped on ye by a rapacious
aristocracy and an intolerant clergy--by the right which a despicable
oligarchy usurps to hold the reins of power--by the limited suffrage
which leaves the millions unrepresented--by the oppressive weight of
taxation laid upon the productive classes--by the sorrows which the
hard-working operative endures throughout his virility, and the misery
that attends upon his decrepitude--by the badge of pauperism that
the sons and daughters of toil are compelled to wear in the accursed
Union-houses,--by all your wrongs, we adjure ye not to remain at
rest--not to endure the yoke which ye can cast off in a moment--not to
stand still and gaze listlessly, while all the rest of the civilised
world is in motion!
* * * * *
Returning from this digression to the thread of our narrative, we
will suppose that Mrs. Mortimer has at length arrived at the house in
Park Square, and that she is already seated with the young nobleman,
who little suspected the infamous character of the woman whom he had
admitted to his confidence.
“I have been looking forward with much impatience and anxiety to your
coming,” said Lord William: “but even now that you are here, I know not
in which manner you can assist me.”
“_Faint heart never won fair lady_, my lord,” returned the old woman;
“and you must take courage. The maxim which I quoted is a good one.”
“I do not despair, madam,” said the young nobleman: “and yet I seem as
if I were involved in a deep mist, through which I cannot even grope
my way. Alone and unassisted, I cannot hope to obtain access to that
charming creature; and, if assisted, I will do nothing that shall
violate the respect due to one so pure of heart as I believe her to be.”
“I should have proposed to become the bearer of a letter from your
lordship to Miss Vernon,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer, coldly: “but,
perceiving beforehand that your scruples are over nice and your notions
somewhat of the most fastidious, I really do not see how I can serve
you.”
“I am afraid to write to her--she would perhaps be offended to an
extent that might be irremediable,” exclaimed Lord William, a prey to
the most cruel bewilderment.
“And yet your lordship once endeavoured to bribe the servant-girl to
become the bearer of your amatory epistle,” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a
tone of sarcasm--almost of disgust.
“Now you are offended with me,” cried the young nobleman. “It is true
that I did pen a letter to Agnes--telling her how much I loved her and
how honourable were my intentions--imploring her likewise to grant me a
few moments’ interview, and to pardon the means that I thus adopted of
accosting her, having no other mode of procuring an introduction. Such
a letter I did indeed write,” continued Trevelyan: “but it was in a fit
of despair--of madness--of insensate recklessness.--I know not how to
explain myself! The servant refused to deliver that note--and my eyes
were immediately opened to the impropriety of the proceeding which I
had adopted.”
“And you therefore decline to entrust me, who am well acquainted with
Agnes, to deliver a similar letter into her hand? Your lordship is
wrong in thus refusing to be guided by me,” continued the crafty old
woman. “Think you that with one so innocent, so artless as Agnes, I
cannot prepare the way to render your letter acceptable--at least to
prevent it from producing a sudden shock to her notions of maidenly
propriety?”
“Much as I should be rejoiced could you accomplish that aim,” said
Trevelyan, “I should be ten thousand times happier were you able to
procure me an interview with her.”
“This is madness!” exclaimed the old woman. “Can I not more easily
induce her to read a letter from a stranger, than to receive that
stranger in person? Is not the letter the first and most natural step
to the visit? Trust to me, my lord: I know the disposition of Agnes--I
understand affairs of this nature--and I am also well aware that love
blinds you to the ways of prudence.”
“Be it, then, as you propose,” said Lord William, after a long pause,
during which be reflected profoundly. “I will write the letter this
evening: will you call for it early to-morrow morning?”
“I will,” answered the old woman: “and in less than twenty-four hours I
will undertake to bring you tidings calculated to encourage hope--or I
am very much mistaken,” she added emphatically.
“You do not believe--you have no reason to suppose that the father
of Agnes already destines her to become the bride of some person of
his own choice?” asked Trevelyan, now for the first time shaping in
words an idea that had haunted him for some days past. “Because,” he
continued, speaking with the rapidity of excitement, “I cannot possibly
comprehend wherefore he compels her to dwell in that strict seclusion.”
“I do not believe that you have any such cause for apprehension,” said
Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone of confidence--as if she were well able to
give the species of assurance which she so emphatically conveyed.
“There is a mystery--a deep mystery attached to the fair recluse,--and
what that mystery is, I am myself completely ignorant. But that the
father of Agnes has no such intention as the one you imagined, and that
Agnes herself has as yet never known the passion of love,--these are
facts to which I do not hesitate to pledge myself most solemnly.”
“Oh! then there is indeed room for hope!” exclaimed Lord William, his
countenance brightening up and joy flashing in his eyes.
“A nobleman in your position--blessed with wealth and a handsome
person--endowed with agreeable manners and a cultivated mind,” said
Mrs. Mortimer, “need not despair of winning the love and securing the
hand of a maiden dwelling in utter obscurity and totally unacquainted
with the world.”
“I would rather that she should learn to love me for my own sake,
madam,” observed Lord William, in a serious tone, “than for any
adventitious advantages of rank or social position that I may possess.”
“Well, my lord--we shall see,” said Mrs. Mortimer, rising to depart.
“To-morrow morning I will call for the letter; and I shall proceed
straight over to the cottage: In the afternoon, or evening, I will do
myself the honour of waiting upon your lordship again.”
“I shall expect you with impatience, madam,” returned Trevelyan, as he
politely hastened to open the door for her.
Mrs. Mortimer took her leave; and the young nobleman sate down to pen a
letter to Agnes Vernon.
But this was not so easy a matter as he had anticipated. Sheet after
sheet of paper did he spoil,--a hundred times did he commence--and as
often did he throw aside his pen in despair. Now he fancied that his
style was too bold--then he conceived it to be too tame and vague: now
he imagined himself to be too complimentary in his language towards
one possessing a mind so chaste and pure--then he felt assured that he
was acting indiscreetly to write at all. In the course of an hour he
was swayed by such an infinite variety of conflicting sentiments and
impressions that he was almost inclined to throw up the task in despair.
At length, however, he made a beginning which pleased him; and his pen
then ran fluently enough over the paper, until the letter was composed
in the following manner:--
“Pardon a stranger who dares to address you, beautiful
Miss Vernon, in a strain that might give you offence,
were he not sincere in his language and honourable in his
intentions:--pardon me, I implore you--and refuse not to
read these few lines to the end! He who thus writes is the
individual that you have observed occasionally in the vicinity
of your dwelling; and you will perceive by the signature to
this letter that he is not a man without ostensible guarantees
for his social position. That his character is unimpeachable
he can proudly declare; and that he will not address to you,
Miss Vernon, a single word which he will fear to repeat in your
father’s presence, he solemnly declares.
“Let me, however, speak of myself in the first person again:
let me assure you that your beauty has captivated my heart--and
that, if anything were wanting to render me your slave, the
description which the bearer of this letter has given me of
your amiable qualities, would be more than sufficient. I am
rich--and therefore I have no selfish motive in addressing
you, even if you be rich also: but I would rather that it were
otherwise with you, so that my present proceeding may appear
to you the more disinterested. Had I any means of obtaining
an introduction to you, beautiful Miss Vernon, I should not
have adopted a measure that gives me pain because I tremble
lest it should wound or offend you. But mine is an honest--a
sincere--and a devoted attachment; and I shall be happy indeed
if you will permit me to open a correspondence with your father
on the subject. Were he to honour me with a visit, I should
be proud to receive him. But if, in the meantime, you seek to
know more of me--if I might venture to solicit you to accord
me an interview of only a few minutes, you cannot divine how
fervently I should thank you--how delighted I should feel! Let
this interview take place in the presence of Mrs. Mortimer, if
you will: I have nothing to communicate to you that I should
hesitate to say before your father or your friends. Oh! how
can I convince you of my sincerity?--how can I testify my
devotion?--how can I prove the extent of my love?
“I beseech you to reflect, Miss Vernon, that my happiness
depends upon your reply. Am I guilty of an indiscretion in
loving you? Love is a passion beyond mortal control! He who
knows no other deity, deserves not blame for worshipping the
sun, because it is glorious and bright; and my heart, which
knows no other idol, adores you, because you are beautiful and
good. Treat not my conduct, then, with anger: let not your
pride be offended by the proceeding which I have adopted in
order to make my sentiments known to you;--and scorn not the
honest--the pure--the ardent affection which an honourable
man dares to proffer you. I do not merit punishment because I
love you;--and your silence would prove a punishment severe
and undeserved indeed! Again, I conjure you to remember that
the happiness of a fellow-creature depends upon you: your
decision will either inspire me with the most joyous hope, or
plunge me into the deepest despair. At the same time, beauteous
Agnes,--(the words--those delightful words, ’beauteous Agnes,’
are written now, and I cannot--will not erase them)--at the
same time, I say, if your affections be already engaged--if
a mortal more blest than myself have received the promise of
your hand,--accept the assurance, sweet maiden, that never
more shall you be molested by me--never again will I intrude
myself upon your attention. For with my love is united the most
profound respect; and not for worlds would I do aught to excite
an angry feeling in your soul.
“Your ardent admirer and devoted friend,
“WILLIAM TREVELYAN.”
With this letter the young nobleman was satisfied. He considered it
to be sufficiently energetic, and at the same time respectful: he saw
nothing in it against which the purest mind could take exceptions; and,
in the sanguine confidence natural to his age, and to the honourable
candour of his disposition, he already looked upon his aims as half
accomplished--his aspirations as half gained.
Having sealed and addressed the letter, he placed it upon the
mantel-piece ready for Mrs. Mortimer when she should call in the
morning: then, fetching a portfolio from an inner room, he opened
it, and from amongst several drawings in water-colours, selected one
on which his gaze was immediately rivetted with deep and absorbing
interest.
For that painting--executed by his own hand--was a portrait of Agnes
Vernon; and even the most fastidious critic, if acquainted with the
original, must have pronounced it to be a living likeness.
Yes: on that paper was delineated, with the most perfect accuracy, the
fair countenance of the _Recluse of the Cottage_,--every feature--every
lineament drawn with a fidelity to which only a first-rate artist, or
an amateur whose pencil was guided by the finger of Love, could have
possibly attained. There were the eyes of deep blackness and melting
softness,--there was the high, intelligent forehead,--there was the
raven hair, silken and glossy, and seeming to flow luxuriantly even in
the very picture,--and there was the rich red mouth, wearing a smile
such as mortals behold upon the lips of angels in their dreams. How
charming was the entire countenance!--how amiable--how heavenly the
expression that it wore!
And no wonder that the likeness was so striking--so accurate--so
faithful;--for the young nobleman had touched and retouched it until
he had delineated on the paper the precise counterpart of the image
that dwelt in his mind. Hours and hours had he devoted to that labour
of love:--on each occasion when he returned home after contemplating,
from behind the green barrier of the garden, the idol of his adoration,
he addressed himself to the improvement of that portrait. At one time
he had beheld the maiden to greater advantage than at another; and
then he studied to convey to the card-board the last and most pleasing
impression thus made upon his mind; until he produced a likeness so
faithful that not another touch was required--no further improvement
could be effected.
And, like Pygmalion with his Galatea, how Lord William Trevelyan
worshipped that portrait! No--the simile is incorrect; because
the sculptor learnt to adore the statue that was cold and
passionless--whereas the young nobleman was blest with the conviction
that there was a living original for the image he had so faithfully
traced upon his paper,--and it was that living original whom he made
the goddess of his thoughts.
The clock had struck ten, and Lord William was still bending over the
portrait that lay upon the table, when a footman entered the room
to announce that a lady who declined to give her name solicited an
interview with the young nobleman.
Lord William, hastily closing the portfolio, desired that she might be
immediately shown into his presence.
The domestic bowed and retired.
In a few minutes he returned, ushering in the unknown visitor, who wore
a veil over her countenance: but the moment the footman had withdrawn,
she raised the veil, and disclosed a face that was strikingly handsome,
though pale and careworn. She was apparently about thirty-six or
thirty-seven years of age--with dark hair, fine hazel eyes, and good
teeth. Tall and well-formed, her figure, which was rather inclined
to _embonpoint_, was set off to advantage by the tasteful--indeed
elegant style of her dress; and in her deportment there was an air of
distinction denoting the polished and well-bred lady.
Lord William received her with becoming courtesy, requested her to be
seated, and then awaited an explanation of her business.
“Your lordship is doubtless surprised at receiving a visit at so
unseasonable an hour, and on the part of a complete stranger,” began
the lady, in a pleasing though mournful tone of voice: “but I know not
to whom else to address myself for the information I now seek--and if
you cannot afford it to me, I shall be unhappy indeed.”
“Madam,” said Lord William, somewhat astonished at this mysterious
opening of the conversation, “if it be in my power to serve you, I
shall render that service cheerfully.”
“You are well acquainted, I believe, my lord, with Sir Gilbert
Heathcote?” observed the lady, somewhat abruptly, as she bowed her
thanks for the assurance the young nobleman had given her.
“Sir Gilbert Heathcote, though much older than I, is an intimate friend
of mine,” observed Trevelyan.
“Do you know where he is--what has become of him?” demanded the lady,
in a still more anxious tone than before.
“I really do not, madam,” was the reply.
“Merciful heavens!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in a
paroxysm of sorrow.
“I have not seen him for this week past,” continued Trevelyan.
“But--are you ill, madam? Can I offer you anything?--shall I summon
assistance?”
And, as he spoke, the nobleman rose from his seat and approached the
bell-pull.
“No--no, my lord!” cried the lady. “Do not ring--do not call your
servants! I shall be better presently. But pardon me if I could not
control my feelings,” she added, wiping the tears from her eyes.
The young nobleman, in spite of the adjuration to the contrary,
hastened into the adjoining room and speedily returned with a decanter
of spring water and a tumbler. He then filled the glass and presented
it to his afflicted visitor, who thanked him for his delicate attention
with a look expressive of gratitude--the words that she would have
uttered being stifled in her throat.
Refreshed with the cooling beverage, she said, after a short pause, “My
lord, have you the slightest conception where your friend Sir Gilbert
Heathcote is? Did he intimate to you his intention to leave London? did
he hint at the probability of his departure from England? Oh! I conjure
you to tell me all you know: for--for--you cannot divine how much--how
deeply I love him!”
Trevelyan was struck with astonishment at these last words,--words
that were uttered in a tone of such convincing, such profound
sincerity, that he could not for an instant question their import. And
yet--though since the days of childhood Trevelyan had known Sir Gilbert
Heathcote--he had never heard that the baronet was married: on the
contrary, he had invariably understood him to be a single man. If this
latter belief were the true one, then, was the lady now in his presence
the mistress of his friend?--for assuredly she had not spoken with the
confidence of a sister, but with the hesitation of one who reveals a
fact that is in some way associated with shame.
The lady perceived what was passing in the mind of Trevelyan; and in a
low but fully audible tone, she said, “My lord, circumstances compel me
to reveal myself to you as your friend’s mistress. Yes: though I love
him more than ever wife could love--yet am I only his mistress,--for,
alas! I am the wife of another! And now, my lord,” she added, with deep
feeling, “you may spurn me from you--you may command your lacquey to
thrust me from your dwelling: but I implore you to give me tidings of
Sir Gilbert!”
“Madam,” exclaimed Trevelyan, the moment he could recover from the
bewilderment into which this impassioned address plunged him, “not
for worlds could I do or say aught to augment year affliction--much
less to insult you. I declare to you most solemnly that I have neither
heard nor seen anything of Sir Gilbert Heathcote for a week. I called
at his chambers in the Albany the day before yesterday, and was simply
informed that he was not at home. I left my card without thinking to
make further inquiries--not suspecting that his absence had been for
days, instead of hours.”
“Oh! yes--upwards of a week has elapsed since I saw him,” exclaimed the
lady, with difficulty subduing a fresh outburst of grief. “Each day
have I been to the Albany--and still the answer is the same--‘_He has
not returned!_’ No--he has not returned,” she added, clasping her hands
together; “and he has not written to me! O God! I fear that some fatal
accident has befallen him!”
“Do not give way to such a distressing belief,” cried Trevelyan,
feeling deeply for the unfortunate woman, whose grief was so
profound and so sincere. “Shall I make inquiries--immediate
inquiries--concerning him? Perhaps I may learn more than a lady
possibly can.”
“Generous-hearted nobleman!” exclaimed the visitor; “how can I ever
repay you for this kindness towards an utter stranger?”
“Remember also, madam,” said Trevelyan, “that, apart from my readiness
to serve you or any lady whom affliction has overtaken, I begin to
experience some degree of anxiety on behalf of a gentleman who has
ever shown a sincere friendship towards me. Not another minute will I
delay the inquiries which, alike for your sake and his, I now deem it
necessary to institute.”
Thus speaking, the young nobleman rose from his chair.
“My lord,” said the lady, rising also, and speaking in a tone
indicative of deep emotion, “may I hope to receive a communication from
you as early as possible? My suspense will be great--it is even now
intolerable----”
And she burst into tears.
“Madam,” interrupted the young nobleman, profoundly touched by her
affliction, which was evidently most unfeigned, “you can either
accompany me, or remain here until my return. Perhaps the latter will
be the more desirable--at least if you can restrain your impatience, so
natural under the circumstances, for a couple of hours. But perhaps,”
he added, an idea striking him,--“perhaps you live at some distance----”
“I am the occupant of a house in Kentish Town,” said the lady; “and
therefore my dwelling is not very far from your lordship’s. If you see
no impropriety in it--if there be no one here whom my presence would
offend,” she continued, speaking in a subdued and almost timid tone, “I
would rather--oh! much rather wait until you return.”
“By all means, madam,” exclaimed the generous-hearted young noble.
“Should you require anything during my absence, the servants will obey
your summons; and they will receive my orders, ere I depart, to pay you
every attention.”
“I shall not trouble them, my lord,” was the reply: “but I return you
my deepest--sincerest thanks for the kind consideration with which you
treat me.”
Trevelyan bowed, and then quitted the room.
CHAPTER CXLVI.
A SKETCH OF TWO BROTHERS.--A MYSTERY.
The nobleman’s cab was got ready in a very few minutes; and while he is
driving rapidly along towards Piccadilly, we will place on record some
particulars respecting Sir Gilbert Heathcote.
The baronet was a man of about forty years of age, and of very handsome
countenance, as well as of tall, commanding figure. He had never
married; and report stated that a disappointment in love, experienced
when he was very young, had induced him to make a vow to the effect
that, as he had lost the idol of his heart’s devotion, he would never
accompany another to the altar. Such was the rumour which had obtained
currency at the time amongst his friends, and was even repeated at the
period whereof we are writing, whenever astonishment was expressed
that a man enjoying all the advantages of personal appearance and
social position should not have sought to form a brilliant matrimonial
alliance. For the baronet was not only very handsome, as remarked
above, but he also possessed the superior attraction of four thousand
a year. His habits were nevertheless inexpensive: he lived in chambers
at the Albany, and had no country seat. Indeed, he seldom quitted
London, and was altogether of quiet--even retired habits. He was
fond of reading, and was also an admirer of the fine arts: he used
often to observe that the only extravagance of which he was ever
guilty, consisted in the purchase of a fine picture or of articles of
_virtû_;--but these he seldom retained--giving them as presents to his
friends or to museums. Not that he was whimsical or capricious, and
grew tired to-day of what he had bought yesterday: but he was pleased
at the thought of rescuing good paintings and real curiosities from
the auction-room or from Wardour-street; and he was wont to observe
that he experienced more delight in seeing them in the possession of
friends who could appreciate their value, or in museums where their
safety was ensured, than in having them left to the mercy of servants
in his “bachelor apartments.” The fact was, that his disposition was
naturally generous; but this generosity was displayed in a particular
fashion--and as he himself admired objects of _virtû_, he fancied that
they must likewise prove the most welcome gifts he could bestow upon
his friends.
Sir Gilbert had a brother, who was very unlike himself. James Heathcote
was an attorney--grasping, greedy, avaricious, unprincipled--and
therefore rich. He was only two years younger than Sir Gilbert; but
close application to business, evil passions, and parsimonious habits
had exercised such an influence upon his personal appearance, that he
seemed ten years older. His hair was grey--that of Sir Gilbert was
quite dark: his form was slightly bowed--that of the baronet was erect
as a dart. James also was unmarried--but not through any disappointment
in early life. Indeed, he possessed a heart that might be susceptible
of desire, but could not possibly experience the pure feeling of
love. He lived in a handsome house in Bedford-row, Holborn; and his
apartments were elegantly furnished;--for he was wont to observe that
persons who are anxious to get on in this world, must make a good
appearance, and that a mean office frequently turns away a person who
might prove an excellent client. But his aim was to amass money--his
object was to increase his wealth, no matter how: still he had always
contrived matters so cunningly, that no one could positively and
unequivocally prove him to be a rogue.
With such a dissimilitude of character between the two brothers, it
cannot be supposed that any extraordinary degree of intimacy existed
on their part. Indeed, they seldom saw each other--although the more
generous nature of Gilbert would have cheerfully maintained a more
consistent and becoming feeling: but the cold, reserved, matter-of-fact
disposition of James proved absolutely repulsive and forbidding in this
respect. So great, in fine, was the discrepancy between these men,
that people were surprised when they learnt for the first time that
the money-making, hard-hearted attorney was the brother of the urbane,
amiable, and polished baronet.
These hasty outlines will afford the reader some idea of Sir Gilbert
Heathcote on the one hand, and Mr. James Heathcote on the other. We
shall see more of them both hereafter; and their characters will then
become more fully developed. In the meantime we must return to Lord
William Trevelyan, whom we left hastening in his cab, at half-past ten
at night, towards the Albany.
On arriving at that celebrated establishment, the young nobleman
instituted various inquiries concerning Sir Gilbert; but not the least
particle of information of a satisfactory nature could he obtain. It
appeared that the baronet had been absent for eight days, and that no
communication had been received from him--neither had he given any
previous intimation of his intended departure. His brother had been
informed of this unaccountable absence; but it seemed that the attorney
had taken no step to solve the mystery. This was the only fact which
Lord William succeeded in gleaning in addition to the meagre knowledge
he already possessed relative to the matter; and he returned homeward
with a heavy heart, and experiencing strange misgivings in respect to
his friend.
It was near midnight when he re-entered the room where he had left the
lady. The moment he appeared on the threshold of the door, she rose
from her seat and hastened forward to meet him, her looks revealing
the intensity of the anxiety and the acuteness of the suspense which
she experienced. But when she saw by his countenance, even before a
word fell from his lips, that he had no good news to impart, a ghastly
pallor overspread her face, and she would have fallen had he not
supported her and led her back to her chair.
“I grieve to say, madam,” he at length observed, “that I have learnt
nothing more than what you already know--unless indeed it be the fact
that a communication respecting Sir Gilbert’s disappearance has been
made to Mr. James Heathcote, and that he has treated the matter with
unpardonable levity--if not with heartless indifference.”
“I do not know that brother--I never saw him,” said the lady, speaking
in a broken voice: “but I have heard enough of his character to make me
dread him.”
“At the same time, madam,” remarked Lord Trevelyan, in a tone of firm
though gentle remonstrance, “there is not the slightest ground for
suspicion against Mr. James Heathcote; and such an observation as that
which a moment ago fell from your lips, might act most seriously to
the prejudice of an innocent man. I likewise am unacquainted with Mr.
Heathcote, otherwise than by name----”
“And your lordship is well aware that his reputation is not the most
enviable in the world!” exclaimed the lady in an impassioned tone.”
“I have never heard any definite charges against him, madam,” said
Trevelyan.
“No--not positive charges which may fix him with the perpetration
of a special and particular deed of guilt,” she cried, as
if determined to level her suspicions against the attorney:
“but your lordship has doubtless heard a thousand vague
accusations--usury--extortion--grinding down the poor to the very
dust--hurrying on law proceedings with merciless haste--unrelentingly
sweeping away the property of his victims----”
“All these charges I have certainly heard, madam,” said Trevelyan; “but
I will not admit that they warrant the darkest, blackest suspicion
which one human being can possibly entertain towards another.
Understand me, madam--I have no motive in defending James Heathcote,
beyond the true English principle of never judging a person through
the medium of prejudices. For your satisfaction I will call upon Mr.
Heathcote to-morrow--I will speak to him relative to the mysterious
disappearance of his brother--I will hear his replies--I will even
watch his countenance and observe his manner as he speaks. And believe
me, madam,” proceeded the young nobleman, emphatically,--“believe me
when I assure you that if there should transpire the least cause of
suspicion--if there should appear aught to warrant the belief that
James Heathcote could have possibly practised or instigated foul play
in respect to his brother,--believe me, madam, I repeat, that I will
pursue the investigation--I will leave no stone unturned--I will
prosecute my inquiries until I shall have brought home that deep guilt
to his door. But not for an instant--no, not for a single moment can I
believe----”
“Act as you have said, my lord--and, depend upon it, you will find in
the sequel that my opinions are not so unjust--so uncalled for--so
reprehensible, as you now conceive them to be. But, oh!” exclaimed the
lady, clasping her hands wildly together,--“it is terrible--terrible
even for a moment to entertain the idea that he whom I love so
devotedly may be no more!”
“Compose yourself, madam--tranquillise your feelings, I implore you!”
cried Lord William Trevelyan. “We must not give way to despair--we must
not harbour the dreadful thought that Sir Gilbert Heathcote has met
with foul play, and that he ceases to exist. No--no: let us hope----”
“Oh! my lord, how can we hope in the face of such strange--such
mysterious--such suspicious circumstances?” demanded the lady, with
mingled grief and bitterness. “Even if he did not choose to acquaint
his friends with his intended absence and its motives, he would not
be equally reserved towards me. No--he would have seen me ere his
departure--or he would at least have written. For you must now learn,
my lord, that we have loved each other for upwards of twenty years,”
she continued, in a low and plaintive tone. “For twenty years and more
have our hearts beat in unison;--and never--never was love so devoted
as ours! Alas! mine has been a strange and romantic life; and the
influence that has swayed all its incidents was that passion which the
worldly-minded treat so lightly. For my father was a worldly-minded
man; and, though he knew how fondly I loved and how ardently I was
beloved,--though I knelt before him and conjured him by all he held
most sacred, and by the spirit of my mother who died in my childhood,
not to sacrifice me to the object of _his_ choice, and tear me away
from the object of _mine_,--nevertheless, he ridiculed my prayers--he
made naught of my beseechings--and I was immolated upon the altar of a
parent’s sordid interest. Your lordship has perhaps already understood
that the _one_ whom I adored was Gilbert Heathcote. Never--never was
love’s tale told with more enchanting sweetness than by his lips:
never--never did woman cherish more devotedly than I that avowal of
a sincere passion! At that time his personal beauty was sufficient
to ensnare the heart of any maiden, though far less susceptible than
mine;--and I loved him--loved him madly. But a wealthy noble had seen
me; and my father beheld with joy the impression that I had been so
unfortunate as to make upon that patrician’s fancy. Moreover, at that
period, my sire was suffering cruel pecuniary embarrassments; and the
brilliant marriage which he hoped to accomplish for his daughter,
appeared the only means of extricating himself from his difficulties.
Thus the suit of the nobleman was encouraged by my father--and I was
induced by the menaces, the prayers, and the specious reasoning which
he employed by turns to move me,--I was induced, I say, to tolerate
the visits of the peer, although heaven knows I never could encourage
them. Not that his personal appearance was disagreeable--nor that I
paused to reflect that his age was more than double my own: no--for he
was handsome--very handsome; and, though his years were twice mine, yet
he was but in the prime of life. Wherefore, then, did I receive his
addresses with loathing?--wherefore did I implore my father to save
me from an alliance which was so desirable and so brilliant in every
worldly point of view? Oh! it was because my heart was irrevocably
given to another--because Gilbert Heathcote possessed all my love!”
The lady paused, and wiped away the tears which so many varied
reminiscences had wrung from her eyes,--while profound sobs convulsed
her bosom.
Lord William Trevelyan felt the embarrassment and awkwardness of his
position; for it was now past midnight--and he began to reflect that
his servants might look suspiciously upon the fact of this protracted
visit on the part of a lady who was still young enough, and certainly
handsome enough to afford food for scandalous tongues. Not that Lord
William was either a rigid saint or a stern anchorite in respect to
the female sex: but, although unmarried, he behaved with the utmost
circumspection, and would never have outraged decency so far as to
make his own abode the place of an intrigue or gallant _rendezvous_.
Moreover, the love which he entertained for Agnes Vernon had exercised
such a purifying--such a chastening influence upon his soul, that he
shrank from the idea of compromising himself by any real impropriety,
or of becoming compromised by means of any indiscretion which scandal
might think fit to attribute to him.
The lady was however too much absorbed in her own thoughts and emotions
to mark how rapidly time was slipping away, or to reflect upon the
imprudence of prolonging her visit. Her feelings were painfully
excited, not only by the fears which she entertained on account of the
absence of Sir Gilbert Heathcote--but likewise by the reminiscences
which had been stirred up in her soul, and the outpouring of which to
sympathetic ears seemed a necessary vent for a bosom so full of sorrow.
“Yes, my lord,” she resumed, after a short pause, her voice still being
characterised by a tone of the most touching melancholy; “my father
forced me into that hated marriage--and though I gained rank and a
proud position, yet hope and happiness appeared to have forsaken me
for ever. But I cannot tell you all,” she exclaimed, hastily, as if a
sudden thought had struck her, warning her that she was about to be led
by her feelings into revelations of a nature which she would repent, or
which would at least be unbecoming and injudicious.
“Madam,” said Lord William, emphatically,--“I do not seek your
confidence--I do not even desire it: but you have to do with a man of
honour, by whom everything you may impart, whether with premeditation
or unguardedly, will be held as sacred.”
“I thank your lordship for this kind assurance,” observed the
lady. “Do not imagine that I wish to force you into becoming the
depositary of my secrets, in order to establish a species of claim
upon your friendship. No--my lord: I am not selfish--neither am I an
intriguer,--only a most unhappy--a most unfortunate woman! But it
is because you have manifested some little interest in me--because
you have so generously promised to aid me in clearing up the mystery
which surrounds the sudden disappearance of one so dear to me,--it
is for these reasons, my lord, that I am anxious to explain so much
of the circumstances of my connexion with _him_, as will convince
you that nothing but the sincerest affection on my part could have
placed me in a position which the world generally would regard with
scorn. I have told your lordship how, loving Gilbert Heathcote, I was
forced into a most inauspicious marriage with another: but the name of
_that other_ I need not mention. My father saw, when it was too late,
that he had indeed sacrificed my happiness on the altar of his own
selfishness; and he died of remorse--of a broken heart! My husband--my
noble husband--was kind and generous towards me: but I could not love
him--and he knew it. Then he grew jealous--and other circumstances,”
she added, casting down her eyes and blushing deeply, “embittered our
lives. At length--or, I should rather say, at the expiration of a few
short years, I fled from him--fled from the husband who had been forced
upon me--and sought refuge with the object of my heart’s sole and
undivided affection. From that moment I have dwelt under the protection
of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,--dwelt in the strictest privacy--happy in the
possession of his love--a love which, as well as my own, has known no
diminution with the lapse of years. To one of your generous soul--of
your enlightened mind, my position may not appear so degrading--so
humiliating, as it would to one incapable of distinguishing between the
heart’s irresistible affection and a mere sensual depravity. Pardon me,
my lord, for having thus obtruded this slight, and, I fear, rambling
sketch, upon your notice: but I could not endure the conviction that I
must appear in your eyes to be nothing more nor less than the pensioned
mistress of your friend. The length of time that _his_ love for me has
endured, may be alone sufficient to persuade you that I am not to be
confounded amidst the common mass of female degradation and immorality.”
“Madam, I thank you for this explanation--and I comprehend all
the delicacy and peculiarity of your position,” said Lord William
Trevelyan, rising from his seat, the lady herself having set the
example--for it now struck her that she had remained until a very late
hour.
“You will pardon me, my lord,” she said, “for having thus occupied
so much of your time. But I know you to be one of Sir Gilbert’s best
friends--indeed, the one of whom he was principally accustomed to
speak, and whom he loved and relied upon the most. May I hope that you
will favour me with a communication, so soon as you shall have seen
Mr. James Heathcote? Although, in virtue of my marriage, I bear a proud
and a great name, yet for years and years have I been known only as
Mrs. Sefton--and by that appellation must I be known to you.”
The lady then mentioned her address in Kentish Town; and, extending her
hand to the young nobleman, renewed her thanks for the kindness which
he had shown her.
He offered to escort her to her home: but this she declined with a
firmness, at the same time in such delicate terms, as to convince
him that she would neither compromise herself, nor allow him to be
compromised by a courtesy which he could not well have refrained from
proposing, although he might not have been well pleased to carry it
into effect.
He promised to call upon her as soon as he had anything important to
communicate; and Mrs. Sefton then took her departure, Trevelyan ringing
the bell in order that the servant might attend her to the door, so
that there should be nothing clandestine nor stealthy in the appearance
of the visit.
When Trevelyan was once more alone, he threw himself in an arm-chair,
and gave way to his reflections--for the evening’s adventure had, in
all its details, furnished ample food for thought. In the first place,
there was the strange--the unaccountable disappearance of Sir Gilbert
Heathcote--a man to whom the young patrician was much attached, and
whose friendship he valued highly. Then, in spite of the remonstrances
which he had addressed to Mrs. Sefton, he found suspicions existing in
his mind relative to James Heathcote--suspicions of a nature which he
dared not attempt to define even in the secresy of his own soul; but
which nevertheless every moment grew stronger, vague though they were.
Next, he pondered upon the particulars of the slight autobiographical
sketch the lady had given him; and he dwelt with a yet unsubdued
surprise on the fact that his friend Sir Gilbert had maintained,
for so long a time and entirely unsuspected, a connexion that fully
accounted for his bachelor-life. Lastly, Trevelyan meditated upon the
course which he must adopt to discover the baronet’s fate, unless he
should speedily re-appear and relieve from their cruel suspense and
uncertainty those who were interested in him.
The young nobleman felt not the slightest inclination to retire to
rest, although it was now one o’clock in the morning. The adventures of
the evening had excited and unsettled him;--but having pondered on the
various topics above enumerated, his thoughts insensibly reverted to
his beloved Agnes.
Suddenly his eyes caught the portfolio that he had left upon the table;
and, opening it, he took forth the portrait of the Recluse of the
Cottage. But, ah! why did he start?--what did he see?
Rising from his chair, he held the picture in such a manner that the
light gave him a perfect view of it: and, sure enough--beyond all
possibility of mistake--there was a mark upon the dress,--a spot, as if
a drop of water--perhaps a tear--had fallen upon it.
What could this mean?--how could such an accident have happened?
Again and again he looked,--looked steadfastly--earnestly; and the
longer he gazed, the more convinced did he become that his eyes did not
deceive him--that he saw aright--and that the stain or the spot was
there!
Yet he had not noticed it when, after Mrs. Mortimer’s departure, and
previous to Mrs. Sefton’s arrival, he had so long and so ardently
contemplated that portrait. No: the mark was not there _then_; or
else he--the lover, devouring the entire portrait,--he, the artist,
scrutinising with satisfaction every minute detail of his own
drawing,--oh! yes--he could not have failed to observe the slightest
speck--the least, least spot that marred the general effect of that
pleasing delineation!
Was it possible, then, that Mrs. Sefton had inspected the portfolio?
Yes--such a supposition was natural enough. She was left alone in that
room for nearly two hours; and, in spite of her sorrow, the time must
have seemed so irksome to her as to induce her to have recourse to
any means to while it away, if not to divert her thoughts into a less
melancholy channel.
Yes--yes: he had divined the truth now, no doubt! At least such was
his idea;--and then the tear--oh! It was easily accounted for. She
was overwhelmed with grief at the mysterious and alarming absence of
the man whom she loved; and she was weeping while she turned over the
contents of the portfolio.
“Well--it is no matter,” thought Trevelyan, as he arrived at these
conclusions: “It would have been far worse had the tear fallen on the
face of the portrait,--for I might labour for hours--nay, for days,
without being enabled to catch and delineate so faithfully again
that sweet expression of countenance which Agnes wears, and which I
have succeeded in conveying to my paper. But the mark is upon the
dress--and a single touch with the brush will repair the injury. Alas!
poor woman,” he added, in his musings, and alluding to Mrs. Sefton,
“you have indeed enough to weep for, if you have lost all you love on
earth--and, even had you spoilt the portrait altogether, I would have
forgiven you!”
Trevelyan now returned the drawing to the portfolio, which he conveyed
to the little room adjoining; and then, retracing his way into the
parlour, he approached the mantel-piece to take the letter which he had
written to Agnes.
But he was astounded--stupified by the conviction which burst upon him
that the letter was gone!
Gone!--it might have dropped upon the floor--on the rug--in the fender?
No:--vainly did he search--uselessly did he pry into every nook and
corner he could think of;--the letter had disappeared!
He rang the bell furiously.
“Did any one enter this room during my absence just now, and while
that lady was here?” he demanded of the domestic, who responded to the
summons.
“No, my lord,” was the answer.
“You are certain?” said Trevelyan, with interrogative emphasis.
“I am positive, my lord,” replied the man; then, after a pause, he
observed, “I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred, my lord?”
“Yes--no--you may retire,” said the nobleman, abstractedly; and, when
the domestic had left the room, he threw himself into a chair, overcome
with amazement and grief at the mysterious circumstance that had
occurred.
[Illustration]
Could Mrs. Sefton have taken the letter? No: the idea was ridiculous.
She was too much absorbed in her own sorrows to have leisure for the
gratification of an idle and impertinent curiosity. Besides, was she
a common thief?--for, let a lady be possessed with ever so prying a
disposition, she would not carry her mania to such a point as to steal
a letter--a sealed letter--unless she were absolutely dishonest and
unprincipled. Surely this could not be the character of the woman whom
he had seen in such deep affliction that evening,--a woman who was
assuredly what she had represented herself to be, and whose appearance,
manners, and language all forbade the idea that she was an abandoned
wretch.
“No--I wrong her by entertaining such an injurious suspicion even for
an instant!” thought Lord William, when those reflections had passed
through his brain. “It is impossible that this afflicted lady can have
taken my letter. Besides, had she done so, would she have waited until
my return? And again, of what use--of what benefit could the letter be
to her?”
He glanced around, and beheld several articles of value lying about
in their accustomed places. He had gone out in such a hurry that he
had left a purse containing gold upon the mantel--and, remembering the
precise amount, he reckoned it and found it to be correct. Lying upon
the table was a splendid gold seal, which he had used in closing the
letter that was now missed:--in fine, there were numerous objects,
either costly or curious, which an ill-disposed person might have
self-appropriated, but all of which had been left untouched.
How, then, was it possible to suppose that Mrs. Sefton had purloined
the letter?
Nevertheless, it had disappeared; and therefore some one must have
taken it?--or else some accident must have happened whereby it was lost?
Trevelyan racked his brain to discover whether it was possible that he
himself had removed it from the mantel after he had placed it there:
but he felt assured that during the interval which elapsed between
the writing of that letter and the arrival of Mrs. Sefton, he had not
quitted the apartment.
The affair was most mysterious: nay--it was also alarming;--for how
could he possibly account for the disappearance of a sealed letter? If
it had indeed been taken by an ill-disposed person, the contents might
be made known--perhaps to the prejudice of his suit with Agnes. But he
was assured that no one had entered the room during his absence;--and
he was so reluctant to fix the deed on Mrs. Sefton, and had so many
reasons against such a supposition, that he became equally confident
she was in no way connected with the strange occurrence.
At length he reasoned himself into the belief that he must have
deposited the letter in some place which he could not recollect; and,
as he had in the first instance made a rough draught, he resolved to
write a fair copy all over again. This was soon accomplished; and,
having sealed and addressed it, he took the new letter with him to his
own bed-chamber, so that he might retain it in security until Mrs.
Mortimer should call for it in the morning.
It was past two o’clock when Lord William retired to rest; but, though
much fatigued, he could not immediately close his eyes in slumber. The
affair of the letter haunted him--filled him with vague and undefined
misgivings--and assumed an aspect the more mysterious, the longer he
contemplated it. He endeavoured to persuade himself that the belief to
which he had ere now temporarily lulled his mind was the real solution
of the theory: but then would come the evidence of memory, proclaiming
that he _had_ placed the letter on the mantel in the parlour, and that
he had _not_ touched it afterwards.
In fine, he was bewildered amidst a variety of conflicting
thoughts--and his brain grew wearied with the agitation which their
jarring contention produced,--so that at length sleep stole upon him
insensibly: but though it sealed his eyes in slumber, it did not
protect him against the troubled dreams that visited his pillow.
At about nine o’clock in the morning he was awakened by the entrance of
his valet, who came to inform him that Mrs. Mortimer had called for a
letter which was to be in readiness for her.
Trevelyan started up and glanced anxiously towards the night-table,
almost dreading lest that second _billet_ should have disappeared as
well as the first:--but it was there in safety--and he now desired his
dependant to deliver it to Mrs. Mortimer.
CHAPTER CLXVII.
THE LAWYER.
Mr. James Heathcote, the attorney, was seated at a writing-table
covered with papers, in his private office. He was wrapped in a loose
dressing-gown, and his feet were thrust into large buff slippers. His
grey hair was uncombed and his beard unshaven that morning; and his
shirt was none of the cleanest. Indeed, his appearance denoted that, on
awakening, he had risen hastily, thrown on a few clothes, and repaired
straight to his office, where he immediately became absorbed in the
study of certain documents in which he was deeply interested.
The countenance of this individual was by no means pleasing. A
malignant light shone in his small, restless, dark eyes; and he had
a habit, when vexed or irritated, of frowning--or rather contracting
his brow to such a degree, that he brought them as it were to cover
his very eye-lids: but, if pleased--especially when he had solved a
difficult question or was struck by an idea that seemed particularly
lucid or valuable--he would then elevate his brows to such a height
that the movement displayed the whites all round his eyes, while the
upper part of his forehead gathered into innumerable small wrinkles.
A superficial observer would have pronounced the expression of his
pale features to be intellectual: but a more experienced phrenologist
would be enabled to draw the proper distinction between an air of noble
intelligence and one of profound cunning, shrewdness, and selfish
watchfulness. These latter qualities were the real characteristics of
James Heathcote: but with his clerks, and amongst the generality of his
clients, he passed as a man of very fine intellect and great talents.
The room in which he was seated had what is usually called “a
business-like air” about it. The grey drugget that covered the
door would have sustained no harm from a vigorous application of a
carpet-broom; and the window, which looked into a little yard at the
back of the house, might have lost much of its dinginess if only
cleaned once a week. But the panes appeared as if they had been
purposely tinged a dirty yellow, so incrusted were they with the dust
that had gathered upon them.
On one side of the room were rows of shelves containing a number of
law-books, the relative ages of which were marked by the colour of the
leather binding--there being a perfect ascending scale, from the bright
buff, indicating the most recent purchase, to the deepest, dirtiest
brown that characterised the long-standing and well-thumbed volume of
remote date. Along the edges of these shelves were nailed long slips of
dark-green serge--a meagre kind of drapery meant to protect the upper
part of the volumes from the dust, and impart to the whole arrangement
somewhat of the air of a regular book-case.
On another side of the room were rows of shelves much deeper and
also much wider apart; and on these were huge japanned tin boxes,
with names painted on them in yellow letters. To every box there was
a little padlock; and the whole seemed to tell of title-deeds to
vast estates--and mortgages--and bonds--and charges--and rent-rolls,
contained in those sombre-looking repositories. But, alas! how few of
the persons whose names were still recorded on the outside of those
boxes, had any longer an interest in the deeds preserved within: how
many had lodged their parchments in those usurious chests, never to
recover them!
Over the mantel-piece was a portrait of Lord Eldon--a lawyer whom
thousands and thousands were doomed to curse, but whom the “profession”
still continues to cry up as the greatest of modern judges. Yes--for if
clients complain of the law’s delays, the lawyers themselves rejoice;
and he who is an execrable judge in respect to the former, is an
admirable one in the eyes of the latter.
Stuck into the frame of that portrait was an infinite number of
visitors’ cards, all covered with dust, as if that assemblage of
bits of pasteboard were something sacred which the profane hand of a
housemaid or charwoman dared not touch. On the mantel itself was an
old time-piece, the mechanism of which was exposed; and how the wheels
could move at all, clogged with dust as they were, must have appeared
marvellous to any one who, entering that room, gave himself the trouble
to devote a thought to the matter.
We have already stated that the table was covered with papers. Along
that side opposite to the one at which the lawyer sate, were piles of
those documents, all tied up in the usual fashion with tape that once
was red, but which was now so faded that in many instances it was of
a dirty white. They seemed to have been undisturbed for a long, long
time; and perhaps were kept for show. Those papers that referred to
matters actually pending, were placed more conveniently within the
attorney’s reach, and were fresher in appearance, the tape also being
of a livelier red. Three or four files, two feet long, and covered
with letters densely packed one above another, lay upon the drugget;
and near the lawyer’s feet was a waste-basket overflowing with letters
crumpled up, and looking uncommonly like appeals for mercy and delay on
the part of unfortunate debtors, but which had been tossed with cool
contempt into that receptacle for all such useless applications!
It was now ten o’clock in the morning; and Mr. James Heathcote was,
as we have represented, completely absorbed in the study of the
documents that lay spread before him upon the table. A thin, yellow
hand supported his head; and every now and then he ran his long fingers
through his iron-grey hair, as if that action aided him in the solution
of a difficult subject.
Presently a low and timid knock at the door fell on the lawyer’s ears;
and he said “Come in” without raising his head or desisting from his
occupation.
Thereupon a middle-aged man, dressed in a suit of rusty black--his
office garb--made his appearance, holding in his hand a long thin book
which was the diary of the business-proceedings of the establishment.
This individual had a pale, sinister countenance, with brown hair
combed sleekly down over his low forehead. He was, however, an
important personage in many respects--being Mr. Heathcote’s head clerk,
and exercising despotic sway over half-a-dozen subordinates in the
front office. With them and towards poor clients or unfortunate debtors
he was cold--stern--harsh--and inexorable; but in the presence of his
employer he was cringing--mean--sycophantic--and spaniel-like.
Advancing slowly and with noiseless steps--or rather creeping up
towards the table, he stood in a respectful attitude--no, with a
servile demeanour and in deep silence until it should please his master
to take notice of him.
“Well, Green--what have you to say to me this morning?” at length
demanded Mr. Heathcote, raising his head and throwing himself back in
his capacious arm-chair.
“Gregson the upholsterer, sir, cannot meet the third instalment due
this day on his warrant-of-attorney for eight hundred pounds,” said Mr.
Green, referring to the diary; “but he called just now and told me that
if you would give him till next Monday----”
“Not an hour, Green,” interrupted Mr. Heathcote, imperiously. “Let
execution issue. He has enough property to satisfy the greater
portion--and, as his brother-in-law is his security, we shall slap at
him without delay for the residue. He is a toiling, striving man, and
will beat up amongst his friends to raise the necessary amount by the
time we have run him up some twenty pounds’ costs. What is the next?”
“Sir Thomas Skeffington’s bill for five hundred pounds comes due
to-day, sir,” continued the head clerk; “and he proposes to renew it.”
“Let me see?” mused Mr. Heathcote. “It was originally two hundred
pounds that I lent this young spendthrift baronet; and he has already
renewed six times. Well--let him give another bill--for five hundred
and fifty, mind--don’t forget to tack on the fifty, Green. His uncle
will pay the debt eventually--it is all safe. Go on.”
“Thompson, sir, the defendant in Jones’s case, has let judgment go
by default,” continued Mr. Green: “he says that he would do anything
rather than run up expenses; and he has been here this morning to beg
and implore that time may be granted. His wife has just been confined,
and his eldest child is at the point of death. The debt is a hundred
and eleven pounds with costs--and he proposes to pay it at five pounds
a week.”
“No such thing!” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote, almost savagely. “Let him go
to prison! He will be writing imploring letters, and his father-in-law
will call to make terms. Those letters and visits, Green, will be
another six or seven pounds in my pocket: and _then_ we will let him
out on his warrant-of-attorney to pay the five pounds a-week. It is
always better to send a man in his case to prison first, although you
mean all the time to accede to his proposal in the long run. He is an
industrious, enterprising fellow--and his father-in-law is a highly
respectable man. So he will not knock up for this little affair. Go on.”
“Beale’s wife called last evening, sir,” resumed Mr. Green, “and
says that her husband is lying in a sad state in the infirmary at
Whitecross-street prison. She and her children are starving--and she
begs you for the love of God to let her husband out. It is their only
chance; and he will pay you when he can.”
“When he can!” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote, in bitter contempt. “And that
will be _never_. I am surprised, Mr. Green, that you should have
bothered me with such a trifle, instead of telling the woman at once
that her husband may rot in gaol until he pays me every farthing.”
“I should not have thought of troubling you, sir, in the matter,”
observed the clerk, in a tone of servile contrition; “only the woman
did seem so very, very miserable--and she cried so bitterly--and she
had a young child that looked half-famished in her arms----”
“And you pitied her, I suppose?” interrupted Mr. Heathcote, in a tone
of cool irony. “You have been in my service for twelve years to some
purpose.”
“Pray forgive me, sir: but--but--I happen to know that Beale’s wife and
family are really starving,” said the clerk, whose heart was a trifle
less hardened than that of his master.
“Let them starve!” rejoined the latter, with an air of brutal
indifference. “Now, what have you next upon your list?”
“William Fox, the ironmonger, sir, has called a meeting of his
creditors,” resumed Mr. Green, now regretting that he should have
allowed himself to be carried away by a scintillation of humane feeling
so far as to merit a rebuke at Mr. Heathcote’s hands.
“Well--I know that,” observed the lawyer. “But _I_ never attend
meetings of creditors--_I_ never accept compositions, Mr. Green. But
has the fellow been here? and what does he say?”
“It appears, sir, that he laid a full and complete account of his
affairs before his creditors,” continued the clerk; “and that they
were well satisfied with the statement. He showed them that his
embarrassments arose from no fault of his own, but simply from the
failure of a large house in Birmingham.”
“And what did he offer?” demanded Mr. Heathcote.
“He asked for two years to pay off all his liabilities,” was the
answer. “He did not propose a composition, but will settle everything
in full. His brother has offered to become security for him.”
“Well, he must pay me at once--within twenty-four hours--or I shall
sign judgment, Green,” exclaimed the lawyer. “Or stop--it will be
better to sign judgment at once, and issue execution. I shall then,
get my money directly--and his other creditors may wait the two years.
If he calls again to-day, tell him that I am out--and mind and have a
seizure in his house by the evening.”
“It shall be done, sir,” said the head clerk: then, again referring
to the diary, he proceeded thus:--“You remember that affair of
Williamson, sir? He called and left seventy-two pounds the other
evening to take up his bill, which had been sent back; and as you were
out at the time, he could not have the bill delivered over to him. I
offered him a receipt for the money: but he left it without taking any
acknowledgment--saying, ‘_Oh! I can trust to your honour_,’--or words
to that effect. Well, sir, he has called two or three times since for
the bill----”
“Do the other clerks know that he paid the money?” demanded Mr.
Heathcote, fixing his keen eyes significantly upon Green.
“No, sir,” was the answer, accompanied by a look of intelligence
showing that the man comprehended his master’s meaning. “They were all
gone--and I was just on the point of leaving likewise when Williamson
called.”
“Then issue a writ this very day for the recovery of the amount,” said
the lawyer. “Of course, Green, you will know nothing at all about
having received the money from him?”
“Of course not, sir,” replied the clerk.
“And should he go to trial, you will swear that he never paid you?”
continued the lawyer, speaking with the imperious authority of a man
who knew that the other was in his power.
“It would not be the first time, sir, that I have perjured----”
“Well--well!” cried Mr. Heathcote, hastily; for though he did not mind
suborning his clerk to commit a crime, yet he did not like to have the
deed designated in plain terms and exhibited to his eyes in all its
dreadful nakedness and reality. “Let this be done, Green: and take a
guinea for yourself--charging it in the office-expenses of the week.
You are a faithful servant--and I am pleased with you,” he added, in a
patronising manner.
“I am truly grateful, sir, for your kindness and for your good
opinion,” said the clerk, with a low bow: but at the same time he
was compelled to stifle the sigh that rose to his very lips at the
idea of being so dependent upon his master, and so enthralled by
circumstances as to be compelled to submit to be made the tool--the
base instrument--the despicable agent of that master’s hidden villany.
“Have you anything more in the diary?” demanded Mr. Heathcote.
“Nothing, sir,” responded the clerk: “unless it be that the two doctors
are to call to-day for the second halves of the reward promised them
for signing the certificate.”
“Good! pay them each immediately, the affair having been attended with
complete success,” said the lawyer: “and indeed, you may give them each
five guineas beyond the sum originally promised.”
“It shall be done, sir,” returned Mr. Green. “Have you any farther
commands?”
“I am at a loss how to proceed with respect to that woman,” said Mr.
Heathcote, his brows lowering in token of vexation, while at the same
time he ran his skinny fingers through his wiry hair.
“You mean Mrs. Sefton, sir?” said the clerk.
“Mrs. Sefton--as she calls herself,” observed Mr. Heathcote, with a
grim smile. “Ah! little thought Gilbert,” he continued in a musing,
but also triumphant tone, “that for years past I have known all
and everything connected with him! Little did he imagine that his
_liaison_--his amour with that lady was no secret to me, secure and
safe as he deemed it to be from all the world! But what am I do with
regard to her, Green?” he demanded, as he abruptly turned towards the
clerk, who stood like a menial in his presence.
“Your wisdom, sir, can doubtless suggest some plan,” was the
sycophantic reply. “Do you imagine that she is likely to be dangerous?”
“She loves my brother, Green,” answered the lawyer: “she entertains for
him that passion which never has warmed my breast--and never shall,”
he continued, in a contemptuous tone. “Oh! how I hate the very name
of love! It is a sickly sentimentalism--a maudlin feeling, which is
derogatory to the character of a man of the world, but which makes a
woman dangerous indeed, when the object of her passion is outraged
or wronged. Yes, Green--I do fear this Mrs. Sefton, as we will call
her--since thus she chooses to denominate herself: I do consider her
to be dangerous--and I know that she is of an intrepid, resolute
character. She will leave no stone unturned to have what she will call
_justice_ done towards my brother; and by some means must I take from
her the power of doing me an injury.”
“And those means, sir?” asked the clerk, timidly.
“I have thought of many plans, Green,” replied Mr. Heathcote: “but
not one appears to be sufficiently decisive to meet the exigencies of
the case. Could I only get her out of the country, or else have her
locked up in some place of security, for a few weeks, I should in that
interval have all my schemes so effectually carried out, as to be able
to defy not only that woman, but likewise all the world.”
“And is it so very difficult, sir, to encompass one or the other of the
two aims you have mentioned?” inquired Green.
“On what pretence can I imprison her?” demanded Mr. Heathcote,
impatiently. “But I _might_ be able to induce her to quit the country,”
he added, in a more measured tone, and with a steadfast look at his
clerk--a look which seemed to say, “Can I trust you?”
“Is there any way, sir, wherein my humble services will avail?” asked
the man, thoroughly understanding the intent of that look.
“Yes--on you must I rely in this matter,” said the lawyer, after a
few minutes’ deep cogitation. “Mr. Green,” continued Heathcote, again
fixing on him his small, malignant, soul-reading eyes, “you will
excuse me for a moment if I recall the past to your recollection----”
“But why, sir--why!” exclaimed the clerk, his pale face suddenly
becoming paler still and his limbs trembling convulsively.
“Because I choose,” returned his master, brutally: “because it suits my
present purpose to remind you how much you are in my power.”
The wretched clerk moaned audibly, but uttered not another word.
“Twelve years ago, Mr. Green,” resumed Heathcote, with deep emphasis
and in a measured tone, as if he were determined that not a syllable
which he intended to say should be lost on the unhappy man who was
thus undergoing a painful--agonising infliction,--“twelve years ago,
Mr. Green, you were an attorney in practice for yourself. An accident,
the particulars of which it is not necessary for me to recite, made me
acquainted with a fact which placed you entirely at my mercy. You and
a gentleman named Clarence Villiers had been left the joint guardians
of a boy then a little more than eight years old; and a thousand
pounds were invested in the funds in the name of yourself and the said
Clarence Villiers. It had been agreed that you should be the acting
trustee. You wanted money--you forged the name of Clarence Villiers to
the necessary deed--and you sold out the thousand pounds.”
The miserable clerk groaned again, more audibly than before: but his
master heeded not the intense agony his words inflicted.
“Yes--you sold out the money, and appropriated it to your
purposes,” continued the remorseless attorney. “The fact came to my
knowledge,--and I offered to save you, on condition that you should
serve me--that you should devote yourself to me, body and soul--that
you should see only with my eyes, hear only with my ears, and use
your hands and your intellectual powers as I directed. I required a
person of this description: I was looking out for such an one at the
moment when accident thus placed you in my power. We soon came to
terms. You gave up a business that was not worth retaining--and you
became my head clerk. I have paid you two guineas a week with the most
scrupulous regularity--and I have often made you little presents, as
even this very morning have I done. But what more have I been generous
enough to do for you? Why--I have regularly paid the interest of the
thousand pounds for you, as if it were still in the Bank of England;
and your ward suspects not that his capital is gone. Neither does your
co-trustee Clarence Villiers suspect it, Mr. Green,” added Heathcote,
emphatically. “But in six weeks’ time, the youth will have completed
his twenty-first year; and he will apply to Mr. Villiers and yourself
for his thousand pounds. Mr. Villiers will ask to accompany you to
the Bank to make over the money in due form--for Mr. Villiers is an
honourable man. But the money will not be there--unless I replace it
for you, and thus save you from transportation for life!”
“And you have promised that you will replace it, kind sir--you have
undertaken to save me from exposure, degradation, and punishment!”
exclaimed the clerk, his voice and manner becoming almost wild in the
earnestness of their appeal.
“Yes--and I will keep my word, Green,” responded Heathcote. “If I have
now recapitulated circumstances which are necessarily so indelibly
stamped upon your memory, it was merely to convince you that I have
it in my power to save you from a terrible fate--or to crush you as
I would a viper beneath my heel. We shall not be the worse friends
because we understand our relative positions; and mark me--never, never
would I place myself in the power of a man unless he were ten thousand
times more entangled in my meshes than I could possibly be in his.”
“Surely--surely, sir, you do not suspect my fidelity?” said the clerk,
the workings of whose pale countenance were dreadful to behold;
“surely you do not think that I should be ungrateful or mad enough to
breathe a word to your prejudice? If you have done much for me, sir,
I have served you faithfully; and this I can assert without fear of
contradiction. I am ever at your disposal--ever in readiness to obey
your commands, without questioning their propriety.”
“All this I know, my friend,” said Heathcote, his brows now elevating
themselves with triumph; for he saw that the trembling wretch before
him was docile, pliant, and obedient as a deaf and dumb slave following
the signals made by an oriental despot: “all this I know,” repeated
the lawyer;--“but there is no harm in occasionally setting forth the
grounds on which our connexion is based. This being accomplished in the
present instance, we may at once revert to the business that we have
now in hand.”
“Relative to Mrs. Sefton, sir?” remarked Green, anxious to convince his
master that he was mindful of the grave and important interests now
involved in connexion with that lady’s name.
“Yes--relative to Mrs. Sefton,” said Heathcote. “I have already
observed that there are only two ways of dealing with her: either to
lock her up in a place of security for a time, or to get her out of the
country. The latter alternative must be adopted; and it is for you to
play a part which, if ingeniously enacted, cannot fail of success.”
Mr. Green placed himself in an attitude of deep attention--for all this
while, as the reader will observe, he had remained standing, his master
never desiring him to be seated, however long their conference might
last.
“The impatience of this Mrs. Sefton is doubtless growing intolerable,”
continued the lawyer: “a week has now passed since Sir Gilbert
disappeared--and she will speedily initiate active measures to
discover what has become of him. There is not therefore another moment
to lose;--and her own affection shall be made the means of which
we will avail ourselves in order to baffle and defeat her. Do you
repair at once to Kentish Town and seek an interview with her. She
does not know you--she never saw you: she will suspect nothing--but
believe everything. You will tell her that you have just arrived from
Liverpool--that you are an intimate friend of Sir Gilbert--and that
he has embarked for America, in consequence of serious pecuniary
embarrassments. You must assure her that those embarrassments came on
him so suddenly, menacing his person with arrest--and that he was so
bewildered and excited by the danger and disgrace which thus threatened
him, that he fled without having time to communicate even with her.
You will then go on to say that he sent you up to London to break
these news to her--to supply her with money--and to implore her to
hasten after Sir Gilbert, whom she will join at New York. All this must
you tell her;--and if you play your part properly, it is, as I have
already observed, certain to experience success.”
“You may rely upon me, sir,” said the clerk.
“All your presence of mind--all your readiness of invention--all your
impudence, will be requisite in the matter,” continued Heathcote: “for
Mrs. Sefton is an intelligent woman--and the least hesitation in giving
a reply to any of her questions, will assuredly awaken her suspicions,
and spoil all. But if you be wary and cautious, you must come off
triumphant. Believing that her connexion with Sir Gilbert is a profound
secret, she will at once receive you as a friend of her lover’s, from
the mere fact of your knowledge of their _liaison_: because she will
suppose that you could not have become aware of it, unless he had
in reality made you his confident. Then, again, the circumstance of
your being the bearer of fifty guineas--which I will presently give
you--as the means to defray the expenses of her voyage to New York,
will confirm all you have stated and give a complete colouring to all
your representations. Do you thoroughly understand me, Green?--and do
you consider yourself competent to undertake this mission?--for I can
assure you that it is of the highest importance for me to remove that
dangerous woman from England for a few weeks.”
“I do not hesitate to charge myself with the enterprise, sir,” said
Green, meekly,--“delicate though its management may be;--and, should it
fail, it will be through no fault on my part.”
“Then it will _not_ fail, sir!” cried Mr. Heathcote, emphatically. “And
now I will give you the money necessary for your purpose--and you must
accompany the lady to Liverpool, remember. If a packet be not about to
start immediately, then lodge her at an hotel, alleging that you are an
unmarried man as an apology for not inviting her to stay at your own
house until her departure. You can put up at another hotel. But all
these minor details I leave to your judgment and discretion.”
Mr. Heathcote now placed a quantity of notes and some gold in the hands
of his clerk, who forthwith took leave of his wily master: ere he
departed, however, he stopped in the outer office to issue instructions
relative to the various matters entered in the diary. At length he
was ready to issue forth on the mission entrusted to him; but at that
moment a cab stopped at the door, and a tall, handsome, well-dressed
gentleman alighted.
Entering the clerk’s office, the visitor inquired if Mr. Heathcote was
at home.
“What name shall I say, sir?” asked Green.
“That is of no consequence,” was the hasty reply: “my business is of
great importance.”
“Walk in, then, if you please, sir,” said Green: and, having shown the
visitor into the lawyer’s private apartment, the head clerk was at
length enabled to hurry away to his own lodgings, in order to make some
change in his toilette ere he proceeded to Kentish Town.
CHAPTER CLXVIII.
THE NOBLEMAN AND THE LAWYER.
On entering into the presence of Mr. Heathcote, the handsome visitor
tendered his card; and the moment the lawyer cast his eyes upon it,
a cloud passed hastily over his countenance--for he knew that Lord
William Trevelyan, whose name appeared on that card, was an intimate
friend of Sir Gilbert. He however composed himself in an instant, and,
pointing to a chair, said, “Be seated, my lord.”
The young nobleman accepted the invitation, and then observed, “I have
to apologise for intruding myself upon you----”
“Not if you come on matters of business, my lord,” interrupted the
lawyer, in a tone which was intended to imply that his time was
nevertheless very precious.
“I fear that you will scarcely consider my visit to be connected
with business in the sense you would have me infer,” said Trevelyan,
courteously: “at the same time, you will give me credit for the best
intentions----”
“Pray, my lord, come to the point,” exclaimed Heathcote, impatiently.
“I have a vast amount of work upon my hands--several appointments to
keep--and my toilette not yet performed.”
“In one word, sir,” said Trevelyan, “may I inquire if you have received
any tidings concerning your brother, who is a dear and valued friend of
mine?”
“I have heard that my brother is absent, my lord,” answered Heathcote,
coldly: “but I have no control over his movements--and he is not in the
habit of consulting me respecting his actions.”
“At the same time, sir----”
“Pardon me, my lord: I have answered you--and I have not a moment to
spare.”
“But as your brother’s friend, sir--his intimate friend----”
“I do not know you, my lord: neither do I trouble myself with my
brother’s friendships.”
These last words were uttered so rudely--almost brutally, that the
young nobleman’s countenance became the colour of scarlet, and he
felt that were the lawyer a man less advanced in years, he would have
knocked him down for his insolence.
“I am aware, sir,” he said, subduing his indignation as well as he
was able, “that I have no claim upon your courtesy, beyond that which
social conventions establish: but I regret to find that you should
think it necessary to treat with such extreme incivility a person who
has never offended you.”
“Then wherefore does your lordship force yourself into my presence,
and persist in remaining here, when I tell you that I am occupied with
serious matters?” demanded the lawyer, rising from his seat, while his
brows were bent in such a way as to render his countenance particularly
displeasing and sinister at that moment.
“Serious matters, indeed!” ejaculated Lord William, also rising; “is it
not a serious matter that your brother--your own brother--has suddenly
disappeared----”
“I have already told your lordship that I have no control over the
actions of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,” said the lawyer; “and I am not to
be forced into a discussion on any subject with one who is a complete
stranger to me.”
“I repeat, sir, that I am your brother’s intimate friend,” cried the
young patrician, indignantly.
“But I repeat, on my side, that you are no friend of mine--nor likely
to be,” responded Heathcote. “Will your lordship, therefore, leave me
to those pursuits which have better claims upon my time and attention?”
“Better claims! And yet you must surely have some of the ordinary
feelings of human nature,” urged the nobleman, in a tone of mingled
remonstrance and earnest appeal. “One word more, if you please, sir,”
he continued, seeing that Heathcote was again about to interrupt him:
“this matter is becoming serious! For eight days has your brother been
missed from his place of abode and from the circle of his friends:
an investigation into so mysterious an occurrence must necessarily
take place--and without delay, too. What will the world think of you,
sir--_you_, the nearest living relative of one who may perhaps be no
more--if you refuse your co-operation in this endeavour to ascertain
what has become of him? I will even go farther, sir, and declare that a
certain degree of odium will attach itself to you----”
“Young man, by what right do you thus insult me?” demanded the lawyer,
completely unabashed, and measuring Lord William Trevelyan from head to
foot with his keen, searching eyes. “Do you for a single instant dare
to assert that if my brother should have met with foul play--as your
words just now implied such a suspicion,--do you dare to assert, I ask,
that the world would couple the slightest imputation with my good name?
Though not of an aristocratic rank, my social position is an honourable
one; and such as it is, my own talents--my own energies--my own hard
toils, have made it. But because I can see nothing extraordinary in the
absence of a man who has no domestic ties to bind him to one place,
and who, acting upon a sudden caprice or fancy, may choose to depart
from the metropolis, perhaps,--because I behold nothing remarkable in
all this, am I to be reproached, vituperated, and even insulted by
you, who adopt another view of the matter? Why, my lord, you are far
more intimate with Sir Gilbert Heathcote than I, even though he is my
brother;--and what would you say, were I to repair to your house--force
myself into your presence--refuse to leave when solicited--and actually
level the most injurious language, amounting almost to positive
imputations, at your head? I appeal to your good sense, if you possess
any, to consider the impropriety of your conduct here this morning, and
to take your departure at once, before you irritate me more deeply than
you have already done.”
“I have listened, sir, with respectful attention to all you have said,”
returned Lord William Trevelyan; “and I declare emphatically that I am
not satisfied with your reasoning. I impute nothing to you--because
I know not what suspicions to entertain in the case. I frankly
confess that I am bewildered, not only by the fact of my friend’s
unaccountable disappearance, but also by the manner in which you treat
that circumstance. You declare that you cannot bring yourself to look
seriously on this disappearance: surely it ought to alarm you, when I,
who am so well acquainted with your brother, solemnly aver that I have
particular reasons for knowing that he would _not_ leave the metropolis
in obedience to any sudden fancy or whim, without previously making a
communication in a certain quarter.”
“To you, I presume?” said Heathcote, fixing his eyes searchingly upon
the patrician.
“No--not to myself,” was the reply: “but to another.”
“And that other?” observed the lawyer interrogatively: for he now began
to fear that Trevelyan alluded to Mrs. Sefton, in which case he might
repair straight to her abode after quitting that office--he might
there meet the clerk whom he had seen on his arrival just now--and he
might mar the entire scheme that had been concocted for the purpose of
inducing the lady to leave England.
“Unless you yourself are acquainted with _that other person_ to whom I
alluded--or at least have some knowledge to whom I could so allude--I
am not at liberty to make any revelations,” observed Lord William.
“Oh! this is admirable!” ejaculated the lawyer, reseating himself and
appearing no longer in a hurry to break off the conference: for he now
perceived the necessity of detaining the nobleman as long as possible,
so as to afford Green ample time to carry the deeply-concocted scheme
into effect.
“You are pleased to be jocular at something, sir,” said Trevelyan,
biting his lip with vexation at an insolence which he could not
chastise: and leaning against the mantel-piece, he surveyed the
attorney with mingled anger and aversion.
“Yes--I am jocular,” exclaimed the latter; “and I again declare that
your conduct is admirable! You come to me to aid you in investigating
what you are pleased to denominate a most mysterious occurrence; and,
by way of inducing me thus to co-operate, you yourself start fresh
mysteries, and make enigmatic allusions to unintelligible matters,
concerning which you refuse to enter into any explanations.”
“There may be certain circumstances, sir, which a man of honour dares
not reveal,” said Lord William, sternly; “and such is the case in the
present instance.”
“You have therefore a positive proof that Sir Gilbert’s friends were
more in his confidence than his own brother,” replied the lawyer, in a
sarcastic tone; “and this is tantamount to what I told you just now.”
“Yes, sir--but the circumstances to which I allude have no reference
to the mysterious disappearance of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,” rejoined
Trevelyan; “nor do they in any way relieve you from your responsibility
as a brother.”
“But, since you yourself are acquainted with some mysterious and
unmentionable circumstances connected with my brother,” said the
lawyer, still in a tone of bitter sarcasm, “I have much more reason to
accuse you of possessing a clue to the causes of his disappearance,
than you have to level the same charge at me. Now, from your words--for
I am a man of the world, my lord--I naturally infer that the _other
person_ to whom you so emphatically alluded, must be a lady----”
“I did not say so, sir--I gave you no reason for entertaining such an
opinion,” exclaimed Trevelyan fearful of now compromising a matter of
great delicacy.
“But I choose to think so,” said the lawyer, elevating his brows to an
extraordinary degree, while a malignant light gleamed in his restless
eyes: “and is it strange--is it unusual in the world, for a man to
absent himself suddenly and even mysteriously, in order to break off a
connexion of which he is wearied, and which no longer has any charms
for him?”
“One word, sir,” interjected Trevelyan, annoyed with himself for having
made any allusion to his friend’s connexion with Mrs. Sefton: “your
brother has undertaken no sudden journey--of _that_ I am well assured.
Would he quit his residence without leaving even a message behind him?
Would he depart without even so much as a change of raiment--without
the necessaries of the toilette?”
“Pooh! pooh!” ejaculated the lawyer, now throwing an expression of
sovereign contempt into his tone. “A man with money can purchase a
carpetbag or a portmanteau at the first town he stops at, and can stock
it well, too, with linen and hairbrushes for a few shillings. Really,
my lord, you compel me to treat you as an inexperienced child, who,
having got some wild or romantic notion into his head, is determined to
maintain it by any argument, no matter how preposterous or far-fetched.”
Trevelyan bit his lip again: for he saw that the lawyer had really the
advantage of him now; and he more than ever blamed his own indiscretion
in having alluded to the affair of Mrs. Sefton.
“Come, my lord, be reasonable,” proceeded Heathcote, in a conciliatory
tone; “and I will pardon you the rudeness--or I will rather call it
the _brusquerie_, of your first proceedings with regard to me. You
cannot deny that there is a lady in the case: I am far-sighted enough
to have made that discovery. Well, my brother is tired of her, or has
quarrelled with her--or something of that sort; and he has therefore
taken a sudden trip, heaven only knows where. Do you really imagine
that if I had any serious fears, I would refuse to co-operate with you
in instituting the necessary inquiries? Depend upon it, Sir Gilbert
will re-appear again shortly amongst his friends; and he would not
be over-well pleased if he found on his return, or if the newspapers
wafted to him the fact, that a terrible hubbub had taken place in
consequence of his sudden departure. I am a much older man than you, my
lord,--and I look at these matters more calmly--more deliberately.”
Trevelyan knew not how to reply to these observations. Though they did
not dissipate the alarm which he experienced at the absence of Sir
Gilbert, yet he began to think that the lawyer was really sincere in
giving utterance to them. He, on one side, was disposed to view the
affair seriously: Heathcote, on the other, put his own interpretation
on it;--and, in the same way that Trevelyan could not resist the
impressions made upon himself, he felt bound to allow the merit of
equal conscientiousness on the part of the attorney.
At all events, there was no utility in protracting the discourse; and
the young nobleman accordingly resolved to take his leave, suspending
for the present any opinion relative to the conduct of Mr. James
Heathcote.
“I am sorry, sir,” said he, “that I should have intruded so long upon
your valuable time: I am likewise sorry if, at the commencement of our
interview, I should have been hurried by the excitement of my feelings
into anything uncourteous or rude.”
“Now that you speak in the manner that best becomes a nobleman and
a gentleman,” observed Heathcote, adopting the part of one who has
something to forgive and overlook, “I am most anxious to welcome you as
my brother’s friend. Will you step up into the drawing-room, and honour
my humble abode so far as to partake of such refreshment as at the
moment I can offer you?”
This proposal was only made with a view to gain as much time as
possible: for the lawyer in his heart had cordially hated the young
nobleman from the instant that he had read his name upon the card.
“I return you my best thanks, sir,” said Trevelyan; “but I am compelled
to decline your hospitality on the present occasion.”
Thus speaking, the young nobleman bowed and retired; and the moment the
door closed behind him, the lawyer’s countenance assumed an expression
of such malignant triumph, that it seemed as if he were suddenly
animated with the spirit of a fiend.
“Green has got her off by this time--there can be no doubt of _that_,”
he muttered to himself, as he rubbed his mummy-like hands gleefully
together. “The woman loves my brother--and she will start away
directly. Even her vanity will not induce her to tarry to pack up all
her things, unless they are ready to hand; for the love of a woman who
is sincere in her passion, rises superior to every other consideration.
Oh! I know the human heart well; I know all its intricacies--its ins
and its outs--the ravellings and unravellings of its smallest, most
delicate fibres! It has been my business to study my fellow-creatures,
in order that I might make them my instruments--my tools--my slaves.
And I have succeeded!” he continued, with a chuckling laugh, while his
brows were elevated with joy. “Otherwise I should not be the rich man
that I am now. But if my wealth be already great--it must be greater. I
must possess countless treasures--riches beyond computation; and until
I have gained _them_ I shall not be satisfied--neither shall I cease
from toiling. That young aristocratic fool who was with me ere now--he
affected to bully me, did he? I got the better of him. He affected to
reason with me: I beat him with pure sophism,--and he has gone away
entertaining a better opinion of me than when he first entered my
presence. But I must examine these abstracts thoroughly,” he added,
still in a muttering tone, as he bent his eyes upon the documents
which he had been studying; “I must note every point in these copies
of the titles by virtue of which my brother holds his estates--for the
management of these estates is already as good as in my own hands: and
who knows--who knows how soon they may be mine altogether--yes--lands,
messuages, tenements--aye, baronetcy and all?”
And as these last thoughts passed through his brain,--for he had
not dared to give audible utterance to _them_,--there came such a
diabolical expression--an expression of dark menace strangely mingled
with the confidence of approaching triumph--over his countenance, that
had any one been by at the time, the beholder must have dreaded lest
that terrible man were about to throw off the mask of humanity and
reveal himself in all the horrors of a demoniac nature.
We must however take leave of him for the present, and return to one
whose generous and noble character forms such a striking contrast with
this bad, designing man.
CHAPTER CLXIX.
A SCENE.
Lord William entered his cab, and drove rapidly away towards Kentish
Town.
It was mid-day when he reached the abode of Mrs. Sefton--for his
interview with the attorney had been a very long one: but at length
his equipage stopped at the gate of a beautiful little villa standing
in the midst of a garden well laid out, and having iron railings along
the side adjoining the main-road.
[Illustration]
Leaping from the vehicle, Lord William opened the gate and hastened up
to the front door, which was immediately opened to his summons, by a
little page in a plain but neat livery.
To his inquiry whether Mrs. Sefton were at home, an answer in the
affirmative was given--the boy however adding that his mistress was
engaged at the moment.
Scarcely was the response thus conveyed, when the lady herself, having
caught the sound of the young patrician’s voice, came forth from a
parlour opening from the hall; and, tendering him her hand, she said,
“Oh! I am so glad you are come, my lord--for I am cruelly bewildered
how to act!”
“Has anything new transpired, madam?” asked Trevelyan, unable to gather
anything decisive from the expression of her countenance, which seemed
to denote mingled hope and uncertainty--a gleam of satisfaction shining
from amidst dark clouds of suspense.
“Come with me, my lord,” she said; “and you will advise me how to act.”
Thus speaking, she led the way into the parlour, followed by Trevelyan.
A man rose from a chair on his entrance; and the sinister countenance
of that individual appeared to be not altogether unfamiliar to the
young patrician, who could not however conjecture at the moment where
he had seen or met that person before.
The individual himself seemed to recognise the nobleman--or at least
to be troubled by his presence: but, almost immediately recovering his
self-possession, he bowed low and resumed his seat.
“This gentleman, my lord,” said Mrs. Sefton, “is a Mr. Green of
Liverpool,--and he has brought me strange--nay, the strangest tidings
relative to Sir Gilbert.”
“And what may those tidings be, madam?” asked Trevelyan, addressing his
words to the lady, but keeping his eyes fixed suspiciously on Mr. Green
all the time.
“Remember, madam, that all I have said has been in the strictest
confidence!” exclaimed the latter hastily, and with a manner which
only tended to increase the young nobleman’s suspicions.
“But Lord William Trevelyan is an intimate--a very intimate friend of
Sir Gilbert,” said Mrs. Sefton.
“It matters not, madam,” observed Mr. Green: “my instructions were
positive----”
“It matters greatly, however, sir,” interrupted the lady. “Your tale
appeared to me strange and inconsistent from the very first--though
Heaven knows what motive you can have in deceiving me so cruelly, if
deceit it be: but now my suspicions are painfully increased----”
“Madam, you know not what you are saying,” exclaimed Green: “you are
insulting me, after all the trouble I have taken in this matter. But
have your own way--my presence is no longer necessary here.”
And, rising from his seat, he was moving towards the door, when a
light suddenly broke in upon Trevelyan’s mind--and it flashed to his
recollection that he had encountered this individual that very forenoon
in the office of Mr. James Heathcote, the attorney.
“Stop, sir!” he cried, seizing the clerk by the collar of his coat, and
forcibly detaining him: “we have met before--I know you now! Scarcely
two hours have elapsed since you conducted me into the presence of Mr.
Heathcote, who is doubtless your master.”
“Mr. Heathcote!” ejaculated Mrs. Sefton, a deadly pallor covering her
countenance. “Ah! then my suspicions are to be confirmed--and he is
persecuting _me_ now!”
“Be seated, sir,” said Trevelyan, pushing the discomfited clerk back
into the chair which he had so recently left. “And now, madam,” he
continued, turning towards the lady, “will you have the kindness to
explain to me all that this man has told you--the object of his visit,
in fine?”
“Oh! my lord, what hideous treachery is at work!” exclaimed Mrs.
Sefton, sinking upon a sofa, almost overcome by the varied emotions
that agitated in her bosom. “This man introduced himself to me as Mr.
Green of Liverpool, and as having brought me tidings of Sir Gilbert.
He represented that Sir Gilbert, seized with a sudden terror through
pecuniary difficulties, had fled to America----”
“’Tis false! false as ever diabolical deceit could be!” cried
Trevelyan, emphatically. “I will stake my existence that so far from
being in any financial embarrassment, Sir Gilbert Heathcote owes not a
farthing in the world, and does not live even up to his income.”
“Your lordship takes too much upon yourself in making such random
statements,” said Green: “since I am well assured of the exact truth of
the story I have told the lady.”
“This is a singular way for a man to express himself, if he be an
actual emissary from Sir Gilbert,” observed Trevelyan. “You are well
assured of the exact truth of your story--are you? Then you would have
us infer that you had received it second-hand. But pray continue,
madam:--what else did this fellow tell you? We shall unmask him
altogether presently--and perhaps his next move will be from hence to
the presence of a magistrate.”
Mr. Green endeavoured to assume as much composure as he could possibly
call to his aid: but he did not at all admire the aspect that things
were taking--nor did he feel comfortable under the threat so plainly
held out.
“Oh! my lord, what a snare has been spread for me!” exclaimed Mrs.
Sefton, clasping her hands together in profound thankfulness that
she had escaped the danger. “This bad man who now trembles in your
presence, would have induced me to accompany him with the least
possible delay to Liverpool,--thence to embark by myself in order
to rejoin Sir Gilbert in New York. He has even about his person the
funds to bear the expenses of my voyage:--and he would at once have
hurried me away to Liverpool,--only, in the first place, a vague
suspicion was excited in my mind,--and, secondly, I had particular--oh!
very particular reasons for remaining in London at least a few hours
longer----”
Mrs. Sefton suddenly checked herself: she was being hurried away by her
excited feelings into allusions or positive revelations, on the verge
of which she thus stopped short. Trevelyan did not, however, comprehend
the motive of the abrupt pause which she made, but attributed it to the
influence of her over-wrought emotions.
“Mr. Green--or whatever your real name may be,” exclaimed the nobleman,
turning round upon the clerk, “what explanation can you give, sir, in
respect to all this?”
“I know not by what right you demand any explanation, my lord,” said
the man, determined to put as good a face upon the matter as possible.
“I will tell you by what right,” returned the patrician: “by the
right which every man has to protect and defend a lady against the
machinations of her enemies--by the right that every honest member of
society has to unmask a villain----”
“Do you allude to me, my lord?” demanded Green, rising from his seat.