lent yourself to an infamous trick. You cannot have been imposed
upon--inasmuch as you have told many deliberate and wilful falsehoods.
You pretend to have arrived straight from Liverpool, whereas you are
undoubtedly a clerk in the office of Mr. James Heathcote--for you
enacted the part of a clerk when I called there ere now. You would
have induced this lady to quit London and repair to a foreign country,
where nothing but disappointment--perhaps beggary--would have awaited
her; and this act is so vile--so atrocious--so horribly base, that I
can scarcely control my feelings--I can scarcely restrain my patience,
while I thus upbraid you with your infamy. Were you a younger man,
sir----”
But the nobleman stopped short, ashamed of wasting a menace upon one so
unworthy of the honest ire of a generous soul.
“Now that your lordship has lavished all your abuse upon me, perhaps I
may be permitted to depart,” said Green, with much apparent coolness,
though in reality he was terribly alarmed.
“Not until you have explained the meaning of this atrocious proceeding
in which you have borne so prominent a part,” replied Lord William.
“Make up your mind to answer my questions in a way that shall carry
truth upon the face of your words--or prepare to give an account of
your conduct to the proper authority.”
“What--what would you have me do, my lord?” asked the miserable wretch,
now unable to conceal his terror--unable also to subdue the trembling
of his limbs.
“Has foul play been adopted with regard to Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”
demanded Lord William, speaking in a measured tone, and fixing his eyes
keenly upon the clerk.
“Good God! Does your lordship suspect that he is murdered?” exclaimed
Green, horrified at the bare idea. “No--no: thank Heaven--it is not so
bad as that!”
“Thank Heaven also!” murmured Mrs. Sefton, her heart experiencing a
relief so great and sudden--for the man was evidently speaking the
truth--that she felt as if she were about to faint through excessive
joy.
“I scarcely apprehended such a frightful alternative as my words may
have seemed to imply,” said Trevelyan. “But delay not, man--speak--tell
me--tell this afflicted lady also--where is Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”
“My lord, I dare not----”
“Hesitate not another moment, sir,” cried the nobleman, grasping the
clerk violently by the collar of his coat: “hesitate not, I say--or I
will drag you into the presence of the magistrate. Tell me--where is my
friend?--where is Sir Gilbert?”
“My lord--my lord”--stammered the affrighted wretch, his countenance
rendered hideous by its workings.
“Speak--sir--I command you!” exclaimed Trevelyan, in a tone of terrible
excitement. “Trifle not with me--or I shall do you a mischief.
Where--where, I ask for the last time, is Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”
“In----But you will kill me, my lord----”
“Speak, villain! Where is he?” demanded the infuriate noble.
“In a mad-house!” was the reply, absolutely wrung by terror from the
clerk.
A piercing scream burst from the lips of Mrs. Sefton--and in another
moment she fell heavily upon the carpet, with a dead sound as if it
were a corpse that had rolled from the sofa.
Trevelyan--stupified by the astounding words that had fallen upon
his ear--let go his hold on the wretched clerk, on whom he stood
gazing for a few moments as if he had become petrified--turned into a
statue--paralysed--motionless. But suddenly he seemed to be struck with
the conviction that Mrs. Sefton needed his assistance; and, forgetting
in the agitation and excitement of his feelings to keep a watch upon
the clerk, he hastened to raise the prostrate lady from the floor.
He placed her upon the sofa, and sprinkled water (of which there
happened to be a decanter full on the table) upon her countenance. In a
few minutes she opened her eyes, and gazed wildly around her.
Trevelyan drew back a few paces so that the air might circulate freely
about her--when, suddenly remembering the clerk, he looked hurriedly
round.
But the villain had stolen away!
At this moment a bitter groan burst from the lips of Mrs. Sefton; for a
remembrance of all that had just occurred came rapidly to her mind--and
the horrible word “mad-house” seemed to echo in her ears and touch a
chord that vibrated with a feeling of anguish to her very brain.
She covered her face with her hands, while her bosom heaved
convulsively.
“Compose yourself, madam, I implore you,” said Trevelyan. “Even this
certainty which we have acquired, is preferable to the suspense
previously endured.”
“But is there hope, my lord--is there any hope left for _me_?” she
inquired, removing her hands from her countenance--now so pale--and
gazing up at the young patrician in a beseechful manner.
“Assuredly there _is_ hope, my dear madam,” returned Trevelyan,
emphatically. “I am confident that Sir Gilbert is in the possession of
his intellects as completely as ever, and that he is a _victim_--but
not a _maniac_. Indeed, I see through it all!”
“Oh! now you inspire me with hope!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, taking
his hand and pressing it with fervent gratitude: and as her face was
upturned towards his own, it suddenly struck him,--struck him like a
flash of lightning,--that there was in that countenance an expression
reminding him of Agnes Vernon,--although he had never beheld the
features of the Recluse of the Cottage otherwise than tranquil, calm,
and serene. Nevertheless, that idea seized upon him: but in the next
moment he said to himself, “It is mere fancy!”--and as Mrs. Sefton at
that instant settled herself in such a manner upon the sofa that her
back became turned to the window and the variation of light produced a
change in the expression of her countenance, that idea was immediately
absorbed in other and more important considerations in the mind of the
young patrician.
“Oh! now you inspire me with hope!” Mrs. Sefton had said; and her face
brightened up--so that it was at the moment when this sudden lustre of
joy was suffused upon her features, that the above mentioned idea had
struck the nobleman.
“Yes, madam--there is every reason to hope,” he responded. “The entire
plot, in all its terrible iniquity, is now before me as clear as the
noon-day sun. I can read it as plainly as if it were in a book. The
brother is at the bottom of it all.”
“Did I not tell your lordship that he was a villain?” asked Mrs. Sefton.
“Yes, my dear madam,” replied Trevelyan: “but I am slow to form
injurious opinions of any man. Now, however, I have the conviction of
his turpitude--and I hesitate no longer to proclaim him to be all that
you represented him.”
“But--merciful heavens! while we are wasting time in words,” exclaimed
Mrs. Sefton, seized with a sudden access of wild excitement, “Gilbert
is in a horrible predicament--and we should be acting--not talking.”
“Haste and precipitation will effect no good in this matter, my dear
madam,” said Trevelyan.
“But we must find out the place where he is confined--we must apply
to the officers of justice--we must release him!” cried the lady, her
excitement increasing.
“Pray, my dear madam, listen to me with some degree of composure,” said
the young nobleman; “and I will explain to you how we must proceed, and
why nothing can be done with that speed which would naturally be most
consonant with your feelings.”
“I am composed--I am tranquil now, my dear friend--for in such a light
you will permit me to consider you,” observed Mrs. Sefton, exercising
as strong a control over her emotions as she possibly could command.
“In the first place I must tell you that I saw Mr. James Heathcote
this morning,” resumed Trevelyan “and when I think of his cool
villainy--his unblushing effrontery--his matchless impudence, I
could tear my hair with rage at the idea of how I was duped. For
though I entered his office with a strong suspicion--in spite of the
remonstrance which I last night made to you--I quitted his presence
with a very different impression.”
“And that man who was ere now with us, is his clerk?” said Mrs. Sefton.
“But what could be the motive of their base attempt to induce me to
quit the country with such extraordinary precipitation?”
“The reason is apparent enough, my dear madam,” answered Trevelyan;
“and I will now explain to you the whole matter, as I understand
it. James Heathcote has suborned two unprincipled villains,
calling themselves medical practitioners, to grant a certificate
of the insanity of his brother. The law of England permits such a
proceeding----”
“Then the law of England is worthy only of barbarians!” exclaimed the
lady, emphatically.
“You are not the only person in the country who entertains the same
conviction,” observed Trevelyan, with a smile: then, instantly resuming
a serious expression of countenance, he said, “By virtue of that
certificate, Sir Gilbert is suddenly seized upon and carried off to a
madhouse.”
“Oh! it is horrible!” cried the lady, in a tone of extreme bitterness
mingled with anguish, while a convulsive shudder passed over her from
head to foot.
“The iniquity is tremendous--and yet it is legal,” said Lord William.
“Yes--I blush for my country when I declare such to be the fact,--I
blush also for my fellow-countrymen that they should tolerate a system
which savages themselves would regard with abhorrence! Well, madam, the
deed is done--the atrocity is consummated--and Sir Gilbert Heathcote,
though in the complete enjoyment of his intellects, is borne off to a
lunatic-asylum. James--his vile brother--will obtain the control over
his property; and that is the aim and object of his wickedness. But
knowing that you are interested--deeply interested in Sir Gilbert’s
welfare----”
“Oh! heaven can witness how deeply!” exclaimed the lady, clasping her
hands with fervour.
“Knowing, I repeat, how profoundly you are interested in all that
concerns my valued friend,” continued Trevelyan, “James Heathcote
sought to expatriate you at least for a season--so that he might
prevent you from adopting any measures to restore the victim to the
enjoyment of freedom.”
“But of what avail would a few weeks’ delay be, even supposing that
the plot devised against myself had succeeded?” asked Mrs. Sefton. “If
I had gone to America, I should have found that Sir Gilbert was not
in New York--and I should have forthwith returned to London. Unless,
indeed,” she added, with a shudder, “my heart had broken with the
immensity of its sorrow!”
“Ah! madam--and it was perhaps upon this catastrophe that the vile man
reckoned!” said Lord William, his blood growing cold at the extent of
the turpitude which he was contemplating. “And yet a more terrible
suspicion still has come into my mind--a suspicion so dreadful----”
“Name it! Keep me not in suspense!” cried the lady, observing that her
young friend was himself becoming painfully excited now.
“During your absence, madam,” returned he, his countenance
darkening,--“during your absence, I say--supposing that you had been
induced to depart--sufficient time would be gained to drive Sir Gilbert
mad in reality; and then, on your reappearance in London, the lawyer
would have defied all that you could possibly attempt or devise!”
“Merciful heaven!” ejaculated the horror-stricken woman; “can so much
black iniquity exist in the human breast?”
“Alas! such schemes as these are of frequent occurrence in this land
which vaunts a consummate civilisation!” said Trevelyan. “Could we
but penetrate into the mysteries of the mad-house, we should behold
scenes that would make our hair stand on end--our blood run cold in
our veins--our very souls sick! Yes, madam--too often, indeed, is the
lunatic asylum rendered the engine of the most hideous cruelty: too
often does it become a prison for the _sane_!”
“You will drive me mad, my lord!” cried Mrs. Sefton, dreadfully
excited: “I shall myself become an inmate--and deservedly so--of one of
those awful places!”
“Pardon me, dear madam--pardon me,” said Trevelyan, deeply afflicted at
having suffered his excited feelings to hurry him into those passionate
exclamations which had so terrified her. “I was wrong thus to dwell on
the subject.”
“No--no: it is better that I should learn the worst,” she cried, with a
strong spasmodic shuddering, while horror--ineffable horror--convulsed
her countenance. “But how shall we rescue him from that living tomb?”
“Abandon not yourself to despair,” replied Trevelyan. “In the first
instance I must discover the place where our friend is confined: and
then, trust to me to effect his deliverance!”
“Excellent man!--generous-hearted noble!” cried Mrs. Sefton, in a tone
indicative of the most fervent gratitude. “But will not the law aid us
in all this?”
“I have already explained to you, my dear madam, that every thing
has doubtless been done by James Heathcote under colour of the most
monstrous law that disgraces our statute-book,” responded Lord William.
“Were I to apply to a magistrate, I could obtain no redress: he would
be unable to assist me. The Commissioners in Lunacy would view the
matter in the ordinary light, and tell me that when the time for the
usual periodical visit to the various asylums arrived, due inquiries
should be instituted. No--the lawyer must be assailed by other weapons:
cunning must be met by cunning;--and much as I abhor duplicity, I will
not fail to use it, if necessary, in this case. Believe me when I
assure you that no time shall be lost, and that I will without delay
adopt measures to discover the place where our friend is imprisoned.”
“God send you success!” murmured Mrs. Sefton, faintly: then, in a
higher tone and with renewed excitement, she said, “But how can I calm
my feelings--how can I tranquillize myself even for a moment, while
this state of suspense shall last? And when I think of what _his_
feelings must be----Oh! it is enough to drive him mad in reality where
he is, and me likewise mad here!”
“But you _must_ endeavour to exercise some degree of command over your
emotions,” said Trevelyan. “Consider--reflect--I may require your aid
in this work of deliverance; and----”
“Oh! now indeed you hold out an inducement calculated to calm me--to
give me courage!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “Yes--I _will_ be tranquil: I
_will_ exercise a greater control over my feelings. I will throw aside
the weakness of a woman, and become strong in the hope of Sir Gilbert’s
rescue, and in the endeavour to accomplish it.”
“This frame of mind becomes you, my dear madam,” said Trevelyan. “And
now permit me to take my departure--for there is no time to be lost.”
“Farewell for the present,” responded Mrs. Sefton, offering him her
hand; “and accept my most unfeigned gratitude for your noble conduct
towards me and your generous intentions in behalf of Sir Gilbert
Heathcote.”
“You shall thank me when I have succeeded in my endeavour to restore
him to you,” said Trevelyan pressing the lady’s hand with the
cordiality of that friendship which, short as their acquaintance had
been, circumstances had established and even cemented between them.
He then hastened away from her dwelling, and drove to his own house in
Park Square.
CHAPTER CLXX.
AGNES AND MRS. MORTIMER.
In the meantime Mrs. Mortimer had not been idle.
Possessed of the letter which had been entrusted to her, she repaired
in a hired vehicle to the immediate vicinity of the cottage, and
alighted in the lane which was bounded on one side by the thick and
verdant hedge that enclosed the garden.
The old woman had not precisely made up her mind how to proceed in the
business which she had taken in hand: she knew that the task was a
difficult one,--and she trusted rather to the chapter of accidents than
to any settled or preconceived project.
For she naturally reasoned within herself that Mr. Vernon had doubtless
warned his daughter not to hold any further communication with
strangers: she had seen enough, on the evening of her visit to the
cottage, to enable her to judge that her presence there was regarded
suspiciously by that gentleman, and that her tale was not believed
by him;--and she therefore calculated that Agnes had been duly and
impressively counselled not to receive her again. Indeed, it was
likewise probable that the young lady might have been taught to look
upon her as a person having some evil object in view, and that the
servants had been charged to maintain a strict watch upon her movements
should she make her appearance in that neighbourhood again.
All these reflections were duly weighed by Mrs. Mortimer; and, under
the circumstances which they suggested, she found it to be totally
impossible to devise beforehand any particular method of carrying out
her aims.
She, however, more than hoped that, as the morning was remarkably
fine, with a warm summer sun rendering the face of Nature bright and
joyous, Agnes would be certain to walk in her garden, if not farther
abroad. Nor was she mistaken in the former portion of her expectation:
for scarcely had she reached the verdant boundary of the enclosure,
when she beheld, through the high hedge, the light drapery of the
young lady, who, clad in a morning-dress, was advancing slowly along a
gravel-walk, with a book in her hand.
How beautiful did she appear, even to the gaze of the old harridan who
now surveyed her from behind the hedge! There was an æsthetic grace in
her movements--an enchanting sweetness expressed in her countenance--a
gentle refinement in her bearing--and a halo of innocence around her,
which rendered her a being with whom it was impossible to associate
ideas of sensuality, but whom the heart might worship with the purest,
holiest poetic sentiment, as if hers were an ethereal nature.
Her eyes were bent upon the volume which she held in her
delicate, white hands; and her little feet moved slowly along the
gravel-walk--for she was absorbed in the perusal of the book. She
had not fastened the white ribbons of the straw-bonnet that she had
evidently put on with a hasty negligence; and those ribbons were thrown
back over her shoulders, thus allowing a shower of raven curls to
descend on each side of the fair face down to the bosom of her dress.
Around that charming creature streamed the flood of sun-light, making
her tresses, dark though they were, glitter like hyperions, and
imparting a dazzling whiteness to her drapery, which appeared in strong
relief amidst the luxuriant green of the trees and shrubs.
Mrs. Mortimer was rejoiced when she beheld the young lady in the
garden--still more rejoiced when she observed that Agnes was
approaching that part of the hedge behind which the harridan was
concealed.
Several minutes however elapsed before the beauteous creature was
sufficiently nigh for Mrs. Mortimer to address her; because she not
only advanced slowly, but stopped two or three times when she met with
a passage of more than ordinary interest in the work she was reading.
It was the novel of “Ivanhoe” that thus rivetted her attention; and she
was in the midst of the exalting scene of the combat between Brian de
Bois-Gilbert and Wilfred of Ivanhoe.
Suddenly she was startled by hearing her name mentioned;--and she
glanced around almost in affright--but no one met her view.
“Miss Vernon--dear Miss Vernon,” repeated the voice: “approach nearer
to the hedge--’tis a friend who thus addresses you.”
The maiden instantly recognised the peculiar tones of the old woman who
had called upon her nearly a week previously; and, without giving any
response, she stood undecided how to act.
“Pray do not refuse to hear me--pray do not go away, Miss Vernon,”
resumed Mrs. Mortimer, whose form the young lady could now distinguish
through the hedge. “I have something of importance to communicate--and
not for worlds would I injure a hair of your head.”
“But I promised my father not to hold discourse with any one who came
not with a letter from him,” said Agnes, at length breaking silence:
“and moreover,” she added, with some degree of hesitation, “I am afraid
that you do not mean any good towards me.”
“Alas! Miss Vernon, can you entertain such cruel suspicions regarding
me?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, as if deeply afflicted at the mistrust
implied in the maiden’s words. “Of what benefit would it be for me to
injure you? or, indeed, how could I possibly injure you?”
“I know not--and yet----”
“Ah! you hesitate, my dear young lady--and you will accord me a
hearing,” exclaimed the old woman, eagerly. “In fact, I appeal to your
sense of justice not to refuse me this opportunity of vindicating
myself against the suspicions which, I am well aware, your father
entertains concerning me. But, tell me--what book is that which you
hold in your hand?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, half-suspecting that it
might be a novel, and in that case hoping to find a pretext for giving
the conversation a turn towards the topic of love.
“It is ‘Ivanhoe,’ madam,” said Agnes. “But really I must not remain
here any longer: I should be sorry to suspect you--and yet my
father----”
“Dearest lady, not even your parent’s prejudices should render _you_
capable of an act of injustice,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, with an
emphasis that made Agnes pause as she was on the point of retreating.
“You are engaged in the perusal of one of the finest tales in the
English language,” she continued, abruptly diverting the conversation
into another channel: “and doubtless you have sighed over the hopeless
affection which the beautiful Jewess cherished for him whose heart was
given to the Lady Rowena?”
“I have wept for the interesting and charming Rebecca,” said Agnes, in
the natural ingenuousness of her character: “although I am well aware
that she is only the heroine of a romance, and I cannot precisely
understand wherefore she should have been so much attached to Wilfrid.”
“The description is so life-like--is it not?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.
“I know not--and yet it appears to me as if it were all true--as if I
could easily persuade myself that such incidents really occurred, and
such sentiments could positively exist,” responded Agnes. “But I must
leave you----”
“One word, Miss,” interrupted the old woman. “You say that you could
easily persuade yourself that such sentiments as those experienced
by Rebecca for Wilfrid, and by Wilfrid and Rowena mutually, could
actually exist. Believe me, then, when I assure you that although the
incidents of that tale are a fiction, the sentiments are the very
reverse--and that what the author denominates _love_ is a passion felt
and acknowledged throughout the universe.”
“Yes--the love of a father towards his children, and of children
towards their parents,” said Agnes. “Oh! I am well aware that such a
blessed feeling animates the mortal breast.”
“And there is another phase of that sentiment,” resumed the old
woman, immediately: “or rather, the love which you described, is a
_feeling_--whereas the love which Rebecca experienced for Ivanhoe, is a
_passion_.”
“I cannot comprehend you, madam,” observed Agnes, who gradually grew
more and more interested in this conversation, because Scott’s novel
had made a deep impression on her mind, and had raised up a sentiment
of curiosity which, through the very ingenuousness of her disposition,
sought for an elucidation of those descriptions that were entirely
unintelligible or only dimly significant to her.
“Suppose that Rebecca had addressed a letter to Ivanhoe, explaining the
sentiments which she entertained towards him,” said the wily old woman:
“would not Wilfrid have been unkind--ungenerous--even harsh and brutal,
not to have perused that narrative of her feelings?”
“But his character _was_ generous,” exclaimed Agnes, emphatically; “and
he would not have refused to read such a letter.”
“Precisely so,” continued Mrs. Mortimer. “And now, my sweet young lady,
let us suppose that it was Wilfrid who experienced an attachment for
Rebecca, and that Rebecca suspected it not;--and suppose, likewise,
that Wilfrid penned a letter, in respectful and proper language to the
Jewess, describing the sentiments that animated him--what course should
the beautiful Israelite have pursued?”
“She would have proved as generous on her side as we have already
agreed that Wilfrid of Ivanhoe would have been generous on his part,”
answered Agnes, without an instant’s hesitation.
“Such is your opinion, sweet maiden?” cried Mrs. Mortimer,
interrogatively.
“I have no reason to think otherwise,” was the immediate response.
“Then, Miss Vernon,” said the old woman, in a tone of mingled triumph
and solemnity, “I implore you to peruse the letter of which I am the
bearer, and which is intended for you--and for you alone!”
Thus speaking, Mrs. Mortimer thrust Trevelyan’s missive through
the hedge; and Agnes received it mechanically, though startled and
bewildered by so sudden and unexpected a proceeding.
“Read it, Miss Vernon--read it,” cried the old woman: “there is nothing
in its contents to offend you--but perhaps much to please and delight.”
Thus adjured, the young maiden--innocent, artless, and unsophisticated
as she was--hesitated no longer, but, opening the letter, commenced its
perusal.
The first paragraph, as the reader will remember, ran thus:--
“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 those 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.”
At first the maiden’s countenance wore an expression of profound
astonishment when she found herself addressed by a person who avowed
himself to be “a stranger,” and who proceeded to speak of sincerity
of language and honourable intentions. What intentions, then, had he?
This was the thought that flashed to her mind. In the next moment she
discovered that the letter came from the gentleman whom she _had_
observed, on more occasions than one, in the neighbourhood of the
cottage; and now it struck her, as if with a ray of light darting into
her soul, that he must have had some object, beyond that of a mere
lounge, in so frequently loitering about the precincts of the garden.
Something--a something that was nevertheless incomprehensible--told
her that she ought to read no more; but at that instant the concluding
words of the paragraph above quoted met her eyes--and she murmured to
herself, “There can be no harm in perusing the words that he would
speak to me in my father’s presence.”
She accordingly read on, until she came to the termination of the next
paragraph:--
“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 any thing 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?”
While she perused this portion of the letter, the following thoughts
and ideas ran rapidly through her mind:--
“My beauty has captivated his heart----Oh! then he believes me to be
beautiful! Mrs. Mortimer has spoken well of me to him: in this case,
she cannot be a bad woman, and she cannot mean me any harm. Assuredly
my dear papa was wrong to suspect her. He has no selfish motive in
addressing me--even if I be rich: then, whatever his intentions
be, they must be honourable, as he says--because all wickedness is
undertaken for the sake of gold. He is afraid of offending me. Oh!
how can I be offended with one who addresses me in such a respectful
manner, and who seems to fear that the simple fact of thus writing to
me will excite my anger? ‘_A sincere and a devoted attachment!_’ Ah!
such was the attachment that Rebecca entertained for Wilfrid, and that
Wilfrid experienced for Rowena;--and now I perceive something different
between _their_ attachment and that which the Templar harboured towards
the beautiful Jewess. He wishes to see my father--he wishes to obtain
an interview with me!”--And the maiden’s heart began to palpitate,
she knew not why: but at this moment it struck her that the writer
of the letter was of agreeable person, and that he must be what the
author of “Ivanhoe” would have denominated _handsome_. With a gradually
increasing fluttering in her bosom, the artless maiden read on--until
she suddenly found the paragraph close with the mystic name of _love_!
Then a gentle flush appeared upon her damask cheek; and a veil rapidly
fell from her eyes. She now comprehended how it was possible for
Rebecca to be attached to Wilfrid of Ivanhoe:--Agnes had already
learnt by heart the alphabet of love! At the same time, her soul
retained all its chaste purity, though it lost a trifle of its girlish
artlessness:--love began to be comprehensible to her as a refined
and poetic sentiment--and not as a less divine passion or earthly
sensuousness. A dreamy and unknown joy was stealing into her bosom--as
if she had just been blessed with a glimpse of the realms of ethereal
bliss;--and, under the influence of these feelings, she read the letter
on to its close:--
“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.”
While she perused this last paragraph in the letter, Agnes more than
once felt an involuntary sigh stealing from her bosom--as if it were
called up by a strain of music familiar to her childhood, and reviving
many pleasing reflections.
The last portion of the letter became clearly intelligible to her, in
consequence of the suggestive incidents which she had been reading in
Scott’s novel. For would not Rebecca have received Wilfrid’s hand, had
his love not been already plighted to Rowena? It was evident, then,
that William Trevelyan sought her--yes, _her_--Agnes Vernon--as his
wife; and that he feared lest she should be engaged to wed another! Oh!
now she comprehended the full intent--the full meaning of that letter
which he had addressed to her: she perceived that he loved her--that he
had loitered about the cottage in order to behold her--that he wrote to
her, because he feared to offend by accosting her--and that he dreaded
no refusal on the part of her father, provided that she was not already
pledged to become the wife of another suitor!
“You have read the letter, my child?” asked the old woman, who, even
through the verdant foliage of the hedge, had watched every change in
the expression of the maiden’s countenance, and had thereby obtained a
complete insight into what was passing in her mind.
“Yes, madam,” murmured Agnes, in a tone that was scarcely audible--for
she now felt embarrassed, bashful, and timid, she knew not wherefore.
“And you are not offended with Lord William Trevelyan----”
“Lord William Trevelyan!” exclaimed the beauteous girl, now seized
with surprise: “is he indeed a nobleman? Oh! I am sorry for that!” she
added, giving vent in her artlessness to an expression which confirmed
the old woman’s already existing suspicion that her employer was by no
means indifferent to the Recluse of the Cottage.
“You are sorry that he is a nobleman, my sweet child?” said Mrs.
Mortimer. “Are you afraid that he is too proud to make a humble maiden
his wife?”
Agnes blushed deeply, and remained silent.
“Fear nothing on that head,” continued the old woman. “He is no
deceiver: his intentions are honourable. And now tell me frankly and
candidly--has his letter displeased you?”
“I should be deceiving you were I to answer in the affirmative,”
responded Agnes; “and yet I feel--at least, it seems as if I feel that
I ought to be displeased, although I cannot in truth declare that I am.
But I will send this letter to my dear father, who is in Paris----”
“Ah! Mr. Vernon is in France,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, delighted to
find the way thus cleared for the furtherance of the projects which she
had in hand; for she was resolved to make herself particularly useful
to Lord William in his suit with the beautiful Agnes, so that her
claims upon him might be all the more considerable. “However, my dear
child,” she continued, “you would do well not to trouble your father at
present, since he is doubtless engaged in particular business on the
Continent----”
“Oh! my father will be delighted to find that I communicate to him
everything that occurs,” interrupted Agnes; “and since Lord William
Trevelyan so especially alludes to my dear parent in his letter----”
“Miss Vernon--Miss Vernon,” exclaimed the old woman, impatiently, “this
is a matter of so much delicacy, that I must implore you to be guided
by me----”
“Would you counsel me not to forward this letter to my father?” asked
the maiden, in a tone so low and tremulous that it afforded no aid to
the reading of the thoughts that dictated the question.
“Such is the advice that I should assuredly give you, my dear child--at
least for the present,” was the response.
“And do you think,” continued Agnes, in a tone still lower and still
more tremulous than before,--“do you think that Lord William Trevelyan
would proffer me the same counsel?”
“I have no doubt of it, sweet maiden,” hastily replied Mrs. Mortimer.
“For _his_ sake--for _your_ sake it were best that none save myself
should become acquainted with the secret of your love----”
“Oh! madam,” exclaimed Agnes, in a voice of touching remonstrance and
pathetic reproach, “if this love of which you speak be a feeling that
must alienate me from the sympathies of my father, and compel me to
cherish a secret that I dare not impart to him, I can have no hope that
happiness will be the result! Farewell, madam; restore the letter to
him who honoured me by addressing me in those terms that for an instant
dazzled and bewildered me--and tell him that it were better for him to
think no more of Agnes Vernon!”
Having thus spoken, the maiden tossed the letter hastily, but not
insultingly, over the hedge, and hurried away towards the cottage.
Mrs. Mortimer was for a few minutes stupified by this decisive and
most unexpected proceeding. She had imagined that Agnes had become a
complete dupe to the specious arguments she had used to ensnare her;
and she was astounded to find that fair creature, so innocent and
artless asserting an energy of volition which was inspired by the
purest sentiments of rectitude, and which dominated over the nascent
feelings of affection evidently engendered in her bosom by the suit of
Lord William Trevelyan.
The old woman knew not how to act. She perceived that it was useless
to endeavour to obtain another interview with Agnes--at least on the
present occasion; and she was unwilling to return to her employer with
the acknowledgment that her policy had rather marred than forwarded
his interests. She therefore now began to reflect whether it were
not better to abandon the business altogether, and return to Paris,
where her daughter’s affairs might afford scope for her intriguing
qualifications and likewise augment her pecuniary resources. She was
already possessed of between five and six thousand pounds--the amount
wrung from the hands of her miserable husband; and she came to the
conclusion that it was scarcely worth her while to waste any more time
in a matter which, even were she successful, would only bring her a
recompense of a few hundreds.
Having made these hasty reflections, Mrs. Mortimer thrust Trevelyan’s
letter into her reticule,--for she never destroyed documents that
related to private affairs; and, returning to the hackney-coach,
desired to be driven to the Borough.
She alighted in Blackman Street, and, having dismissed the vehicle,
repaired to the coffee-house where she had taken up her abode.
As she was passing by the bar-parlour, in order to reach the staircase
leading to her own chamber, the mistress of the establishment came
forth and beckoned her into the room: then, closing the door, the woman
said, in a tone savouring somewhat of cool insolence, “I tell you what
it is, Mrs. Mortimer--the sooner you accommodate yourself with other
lodgings, the better: ’cos, though I ain’t over partickler and makes
no imperent inquiries about them as paytronises my house--yet, for all
that, I can’t abide such wisitors as come on your account just now.
Leastways, I’d rayther be vithout ’em.”
“My good woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, surveying the landlady with
an astonishment the most real and unfeigned, “you must be labouring
under some mistake. I hope that I’m a respectable person; and I am sure
that I shall bring no discredit on your house. As for any visitors who
have called on my account, I expect none--and therefore there is an
error in the matter.”
“No such a thing!” cried the landlady, her choler rising. “There was
two men which come just now: and, what’s more, they was officers with a
search-warrant--and I couldn’t perwent them from doing their dooty.”
“Officers!--a search-warrant!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, now becoming
frightened--although she could not conceive what feature of her recent
conduct could have excited any suspicion on the part of the myrmidons
of justice:--but suddenly a fear of an appalling nature seized upon
her--for her money was all concealed in her chamber up-stairs. “Oh!
it’s wery well on your part, ma’am, to put a good face on the bisness,”
said the landlady: “but it’s nevertheless true for all that. A great
tall hulking feller and a seedy-looking old man----”
“An old man!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, now becoming sick at heart.
“Yes--an old man,” proceeded the coffee-house-keeper’s wife; “and he
said he was a officer with a search-warrant, and that t’other was his
assistant----”
[Illustration]
“’Tis a trick--a vile trick! I see it all--I understand it now!” cried
the wretched Mrs. Mortimer, staggering towards a chair and gasping for
breath:--but in a few moments she seemed to be endowed with a sudden
energy, and, bursting from the room, she rushed up-stairs to her own
chamber--the landlady, who was a stout and therefore less active woman,
following as quickly as she could.
Mrs. Mortimer entered her room, and darted towards her trunk. The lid
resisted not her attempt to raise it--for the lock had been forced.
She plunged her hand amidst the clothes that the box contained, and
felt for _something_ underneath:--but the object of her anxious--her
desperate search, was not there;--and, with a groan as it were of
mortal agony, she sank upon the floor.
The landlady, who entered the room at this moment, and who was not
naturally a bad-hearted being, hastened to raise the miserable woman.
She placed her on a chair, and tore off, rather than quietly removed,
her bonnet and shawl: but Mrs. Mortimer’s jaw fell--her countenance was
ghastly pale--she seemed to be dying.
On water being sprinkled on her face, she came to herself; and the
landlady said, “What is the matter with you? I can’t understand the
meaning of all this.”
“I have been robbed--foully robbed,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, in a
hoarse and hollow tone: but she did not reflect that, no matter how
her husband had obtained his money, she had played the part of a foul
robber or extortioner towards _him_.
“Robbed!--what do you mean?” cried the landlady. “Wasn’t them real
officers as come just now?”
“No--a thousand times _no_,” ejaculated the old woman, growing
infuriate as her energies revived. “It was a base plot--a vile
design:--but I will be avenged--terribly avenged! He must have found
someone to advise him--some one to assist him in all this! They watched
me--they marked when I went out--and, under pretence of being officers,
they succeeded in searching my box--and, what is worse,” she added,
with a demoniac contortion of the countenance,--“they succeeded in
robbing me!”
“Was it the old man who did this?” asked the landlady.
“Yes: that ancient villain, with the pale face,” was the reply. “But
tell me--was not his countenance pale and wrinkled?--and did he not
seem nervously excited while speaking to you?”
“Just so,” answered the landlady.
“Ah! I thought that I was not mistaken!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, in
a tone that indicated a concentration of the most ferocious rage and
diabolical hate in her savage breast. “But leave me now--I must be
alone for a short time--I must ponder upon all this, and determine how
to act. I am not altogether without friends--nor yet without resources.”
“Well, ma’am,” said the landlady, “I hope you won’t think no more of
what I told you just now--I mean, about leaving the place. Since those
fellers wasn’t officers, and you ain’t a suspicious person, I’m sure I
don’t want to get rid of you.”
“I shall not leave you quite yet, my good woman,” responded Mrs.
Mortimer; “and I am not angry on account of what you said just now. But
pray let me be alone for the present.”
The landlady withdrew in obedience to this request; and Mrs. Mortimer
sate down upon the bed to ruminate on the misfortune that had produced
so sudden and deplorable a change in her position.
Scarcely, however, had she brought her mind to reflect with some degree
of calmness on the situation of her affairs, when she heard heavy and
hasty footsteps ascending the staircase.
Dreading lest some new calamity were about to overtake her, she
started to her feet in trepidation and nervous excitement: nor was she
reassured when the door was unceremoniously opened, and a man of most
repulsive appearance bounced into the chamber.
CHAPTER CLXXI.
JACK RILY, THE DOCTOR.
The individual who thus intruded himself upon the presence of
the affrighted woman, was about forty years of age--of middle
height--somewhat stout--and of powerful form. He was not corpulent;
but his build denoted immense strength,--his shoulders being broad and
massive, and his limbs of large proportions. His neck was short and
thick, like that of a bull; and his huge hands, when clenched, appeared
as if they could fell an ox or batter down a wall.
His countenance was perfectly hideous. It was of dark complexion; and
on the right cheek was a large scar of livid red, as if the flesh had
been seared with a hot iron and left to heal without any surgical
assistance. The low but broad forehead was overshadowed with coarse,
black, matted hair, which the man wore long, and which he evidently
much neglected--so that it had a dirty appearance, in spite of its
jetty hue. His eyes were small and dark; and the whites--for we know
not what other name to give them--were of a yellow hue,--so that an
ominous fire seemed to animate those eyes, as if they reflected all
the bad passions of a polluted soul. The nose, which was large, thick,
and coarse, projected all on one side, and had enormous nostrils. Add
to all these elements of ugliness a hare-lip, with an opening so large
that it displayed two of the man’s large white teeth up to the very
gum, and the reader may form a tolerably accurate idea of the repulsive
aspect of this individual.
He was dressed in a greasy velveteen shooting-jacket, a rusty black
waistcoat, corduroy trowsers, and heavy high-lows; a blue cotton
handkerchief was negligently tied round his neck;--and his shirt,
which was none of the cleanest, was open in front, the buttons being
deficient--so that a portion of his hirsute chest was visible. On his
head he wore an old fur cap of a tawny colour, but sadly stained with
grease, as if it were tossed in any dirty nook or corner when not in
use.
As the man had no whiskers, and his complexion was so dark, it might
have been supposed that he had some African blood in his veins. Such
was not, however, the case;--he was born in England and of English
parents--aye, and had received an English education likewise. But
nature had given him a hideous aspect; and circumstances had imbued his
soul with the ferocity of a hyena and the subtlety of a serpent.
It is not often that the savage disposition is characterised by a
profound and latent cunning--because the violence of furious passions
usually absorbs all reflection in its sudden impulses and outbursts.
But this man was ferocious by nature, and subtle in consequence of
possessing a powerful intellect and having received a good education.
Not that intelligence and mental cultivation engender craft and
cunning: no--but they teach the necessity of consideration and
forethought;--and the result, in respect to the individual whom we are
describing, was that he knew the world so well as to be fully aware
that intrigue and machination frequently succeeded where brute force
could accomplish nothing.
Thus, when there was no need to have recourse to artifice, this man
appeared as a very demon let loose upon society: but when cunning could
gain an end, he was enabled to control his savage propensities and
exercise a complete domination over his ferocious instincts.
Such was the person who burst upon the view of the terrified Mrs.
Mortimer in the abrupt manner already described.
She had risen from her seat on the bed, and now stood gazing on him in
speechless apprehension and amazement: but he, not heeding the alarm
which his presence inspired, closed the door carefully behind him, and
then, throwing his greasy cap on a chair, approached the old woman,
saying, “So I understand you have been robbed, ma’am? Well--don’t give
way to despair: I think I can help you to the recovery of your money.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, considerably relieved by the hope thus
abruptly held out, and at the same moment animated by the conviction
that the man could not mean her any harm--as she had never seen him
before in her life; and, moreover, the house was neither deserted nor
lonely, and it was now the broad noon-day,--under which circumstances
crimes of violence were seldom perpetrated.
“Yes--I think I can help you,” repeated the man. “But there is plenty
of time before us--and we must have a chat over the matter in the first
instance.”
Thus speaking, he seated himself in a free and easy fashion; and
Mrs. Mortimer likewise took a chair--for she had now become deeply
interested in the present visit, despite the revolting ugliness of the
visitor.
“Who are you?” she asked: “and in what manner do you think you can aid
me?”
“One question at a time, my dear madam,” returned the fellow, with
cool familiarity. “First then, as to who I am. My name is Rily--Mr.
Rily amongst mere acquaintances--John Rily in a police-sheet--and Jack
Rily amongst intimate friends. But those who know me best call me _the
Doctor_, because, you see, I was brought up to the medical profession.
That was against my tastes, and only in obedience to the wishes of my
parents; and so, as soon as they hopped the twig--which was when I
was about two-and-twenty--I gave up mending broken legs, and took to
breaking into houses. Instead of feeling pulses, I fingered purses--and
found the new profession more profitable. Such a hand as this,” he
continued, with a horrible grin, as he extended his broad and horny
palm, “was rather intended to wield a crow-bar than a lancet, or grasp
a pistol in preference to a scalpel. Now, my dear ma’am, I think you
may begin to suspect who and what I am.”
“A burglar and a thief,” said Mrs. Mortimer, who had by this time
recovered all her wonted calmness. “Well--you are the more likely to
aid me in my present embarrassment--I mean, in the recovery of my
money: and, of course, you can dictate your own terms.”
“I am perfectly assured of _that_,” responded the Doctor, again
grinning maliciously with his horrid hare-lip, which seemed as if it
were about to split completely up his cheek. “But, at that same time,
I admit with all possible candour that I cannot act alone in this
business: and therefore you have that guarantee for my good faith.”
“But in what way do you propose to act?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer,
anxious to arrive at a more satisfactory understanding with her hideous
visitor.
“I will tell you,” answered Rily. “I am not known at this coffee-house;
and therefore I came in just now to take some refreshment and read the
paper. I saw you enter, and thought that yours was a countenance which
denoted a soul alive to mischief. That was the impression you made
upon me; for I must tell you that I am a bit of a phrenologist in my
way. However, I had almost ceased to think of you, when I saw you come
rushing out of the bar-parlour and bolt up-stairs like a mad woman.
Then I marked your countenance again--and I was seized with admiration
towards you on account of the horrible expression of your features. I
said to myself that if ever I had beheld a she-fiend, I had seen one
then.”
“I am much obliged to you for the compliment,” observed Mrs. Mortimer,
drily.
“Let me tell my story in my own way, my dear madam,” exclaimed Jack
Rily, with mock politeness. “Well, I saw you bolt up-stairs, and the
landlady after you; and I knew that there must be something queer in
the wind. So I waited quietly reading the paper until the landlady came
down again; and then I went to the bar to pay my money. A question or
two that I put elicited the information that you had been robbed by
two fellows pretending to be officers having a search-warrant; and the
landlady, in her garrulity, gave me a description of those individuals.
One of them--the old man--I know nothing of: he is a complete stranger
to me;--but the other I do know,--and what is more, I owe him a
grudge--it matters not why or for what. I thereupon told the landlady
that I thought I could help you in the matter; and before she had time
to make any answer, I rushed up to your room to introduce myself to
your notice.”
“Now I begin to understand you, Mr. Rily,” said the old woman. “You are
acquainted with one of the robbers--you probably know his haunts--and
you have a spite to vent upon him. Is this it?”
“Just so,” answered the burglar. “You must also learn that the reading
which I had of your countenance convinced me that I might with safety
tell you who and what I am: because I never have any child’s play in
the business I am engaged in. If you want to get back your money, you
must put confidence in me and act as I tell you; and the only way to
make you trust me, is to let you know my real character. You see in me,
then, a cracksman and a prig: but I am stanch to the back-bone amongst
pals.”
“And on what terms do you propose to aid me?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.
“How much have these fellows robbed you of?” asked Rily.
The old woman hesitated for a few moments: she knew not whether it
were prudent to tell the truth to her new friend, who so deliberately
announced himself as a gentleman exercising a profession which could
not possibly be characterised by any particular scruples or punctilios.
“Well--just as you like, ma’am,” said Jack, rising from his seat. “By
declaring on to the swag,[16] I may get my reglars[17] from the two
prigs, whom I can easily trace out; and therefore, if you are afraid to
trust me, I shall be off at once. In this case, mind, you will never
see a penny of the money you have lost.”
“Stay, Mr. Rily--stay!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, who perfectly
comprehended the man’s meaning, which was to the effect that he _might_
obtain some of the booty for himself without her co-operation; whereas
she could not recover a shilling unless assisted by him.
The burglar coolly reseated himself.
“You asked me of how much I was robbed?” she said, interrogatively.
“Yes,” was the laconic response.
“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” observed Mrs. Mortimer.
“My stars! is it possible?” exclaimed Rily, his horrible countenance
expanding with delight.
“It is the truth, I can assure you,” rejoined the old woman.
“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” repeated the burglar, in a slow
and measured tone, as if to prolong the enjoyment of the sweet music
which the mention of such a sum made for his auricular sense.
“It is a serious loss--is it not?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, anxiously
watching his countenance, its expression denoting hope--nay, even
indicating a certainty of success in the endeavour to recover the
amount: but that same tablet of the mind gave no assurance that the
man would act honourably towards her in the end, and content himself
only with a share.
“Five thousand four hundred pounds!” he again repeated, in a musing
tone. “Yes--’tis a serious loss! The recovery, however, would be two
thousand seven hundred a-piece: would that suit you?” he demanded,
turning abruptly towards her.
“What?” she said, affecting not to comprehend the question.
“Will you agree to give me one half of the sum, if I recover the
whole?” asked Rily. “That is plain English, I believe--and now it
depends on you whether our conversation shall be prolonged or not.”
“Yes--I will cheerfully give you one half,” returned Mrs. Mortimer,
making up her mind to keep to the bargain only in the case of her
inability to depart from it with safety to herself.
“Well and good,” resumed Rily. “I must now inform you that the tall
fellow who was with the old man is one of the most noted cracksmen
in London--a desperate ruffian, who would think no more of shooting
a person through the head than of eating his dinner. What his real
name is, I don’t know--I never heard--although he and I have been
acquainted for years past: but he is called _Vitriol Bob_, from a
little peculiarity which he has introduced into _his_ professional mode
of doing business.”
“I do not catch your meaning,” said Mrs. Mortimer--though not without
a shudder; for she _did_ entertain a vague suspicion of the frightful
origin of that singular pseudonym.
“I’ll explain myself more fully, ma’am,” returned the Doctor, “since
we have all the day before us, and may chatter a bit to while away
the time. You see that the individual of whom we are speaking,
has an awkward knack of lurking about in bye-streets and secluded
neighbourhoods, to way-lay gentlemen who happen to have gold chains
hanging over their waistcoats or out of their fobs: for those little
articles are pretty faithful evidences that the purses of such folks
are not entirely empty. Well, in case of a struggle, our friend is
apt to break a phial of vitriol over the face of his opponent, so
that he may get away, and also that the said opponent may be blinded,
and unable to identify him on any future occasion. Hence his name of
_Vitriol Bob_; and such is the terror he has inspired throughout the
districts of Kennington, Camberwell, Peckham, and thereabouts, that the
moment any gentleman returning home from a party or from the tavern
hears the ominous sound of ‘_Your money or your eyes_,’ he exclaims,
‘_Don’t throw the vitriol, and I’ll give up everything_.’”
“Is this possible?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, with a shudder that was colder
and more perceptible than the former one.
“Oh! quite possible, ma’am, I can assure you,” said the Doctor, calmly.
“You shall see Vitriol Bob to-night--and then judge for yourself
whether he looks like a fellow who could do such a thing, or not. A
more hang-dog countenance you never saw in your life. I know that I am
not particularly handsome,” he added with a horrible grin and leer:
“but I don’t look quite such a bravo as he does.”
Mrs. Mortimer thought that if Vitriol Bob were more hideous in outward
appearance than Jack Rily, he must be frightful indeed.
“This is the chap we shall have to deal with to-night,” continued the
burglar; “and therefore, as you perceive, we must go well prepared to
play the game properly. Who his companion is in the robbery, I can’t
make out----”
“But I know,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, hastily: “he is a
poor--weak--emaciated--nervous old man, whom I will undertake to subdue
and even bind with cords in a few moments. Oh! he shall find me a very
tiger-cat let loose upon him!” she added, her countenance suddenly
expressing a hyena-like ferocity.
“Now you do seem handsome--royally handsome--although in reality you
are so infernally ugly!” exclaimed Jack Rily. “That is the way in which
I like to see a woman look. Why--perdition seize me! but I could almost
love you. What a splendid couple we should make!”
And the idea tickled the wretch’s fancy to such an extent, that he
laughed until the tears streamed from his yellow eyes, and ran down his
dark countenance, while his hare-lip opened so wide that all his upper
teeth--large, perfect, white, and even--were displayed to the gums.
“Cease this disgusting mirth, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, unable to
restrain her feelings: for--ugly, criminal, and morally degraded as she
knew herself to be--the observations of the monster and his consequent
hilarity outraged her cruelly.
“Come--come; we must not be bad friends,” said Jack Rily, extending
his huge palm towards the old woman, who proffered her hand in return
through fear of offending the wretch that had become too useful for
her to lose him until the contemplated business should have been
accomplished. “There--that’s right,” he added, as he shook her hand
with a violence that made her wince: “now there is no ill-feeling
between us. But really you must pardon me for what I said, and
also forbear from taking offence so easily should I fall into such
remarks again. For, look you, madam,--I do not care about female
beauty--neither is old age disgusting to me. What I admire in a woman
is her disposition--her _mind_: and when I see you flaring up like a
hell-rat--when I behold you waxing infuriate as a beldame--I love you
better than if you was the most lovely virgin on the face of the earth.
However--enough of that----”
“Enough indeed!” cried Mrs. Mortimer, who experienced the most
ineffable repugnance--the most profound loathing for the monster that
thus dinned his hideous idiosyncrasies in her ears: but, veiling her
abhorrence as much as she could, she said, “And now, perhaps, you will
have the goodness to inform me how you intend to proceed in order to
recover this large sum of money.”
“The explanation is simple enough,” responded the Doctor. “Vitriol Bob
has a particular haunt--a certain lurking-hole, not a hundred miles
from here; and I happen to know where the place is. In fact, Bob and I
have been pals for a long, long time----”
“I thought you told me just now that you had a spite against him?”
interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, fixing her eyes keenly upon the Doctor, as
if to read the secrets of his inmost soul and learn whether he were
deceiving her.
“Ah! you may look, ma’am--and look as searchingly as you like,”
exclaimed Jack Rily, who understood what was passing in her mind: “but
you won’t find me out in any contradiction--nor yet to telling you
any lies. I said that Vitriol Bob and I had been friends for a long
time--and I said truly. But that doesn’t prevent me from having a
hankering to be avenged for a trick he played me, and which he does
not think I even suspect. The fact is, we robbed a house together;
and Bob in ransacking a chest of drawers, got hold of a bag full of
sovereigns. He stuck to them, and never uttered a word about them when
we afterwards divided the swag. I found it out through an advertisement
that appeared in the papers offering a reward for the apprehension
of the burglars, and specifying the things stolen. He never saw that
advertisement, I know; and I did not tell him of it. I however swore to
have my turn against him sooner or later;--and I bided my time. That
time is now come--and I shall let him know it before many hours are
over his head.”
“But are you certain that you can find him? and, even supposing that
you do succeed in tracing him to his lurking-hole, how do you know that
the old man will be there also?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.
“There is no tracing out Vitriol Bob in the matter,” exclaimed Jack
Rily. “The moment he has committed a robbery, he always goes straight
to his usual haunt, and remains there for a few days till the storm
has blown over. As a mere precaution, he will compel his pal--this
old man--to go with him; because if the latter was taken up by the
Detectives, he might be induced to peach against Bob--and all that.
So I am sure we shall find them together: unless, indeed,” added the
Doctor, in a tone of diminishing confidence,--“unless, I say, the old
man knows that you dare not raise a hue and cry touching this robbery.”
“On the contrary,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, “that old man, whose name
is Torrens, has every reason to believe that I would persecute him
with the most implacable vengeance which a human being is capable of
experiencing or inflicting.”
“So much the better!” cried Jack Rily, grinning joyously: “in this case
we are sure of our prey.”
“And is the game to be played by violence, or by cunning?” asked Mrs.
Mortimer.
“By violence, my good lady--by violence, to be sure!” responded
the burglar, his eyes glowing savagely, with their ominous yellow
lustre--as if the orbs of a tiger were glaring upon the woman: and,
though the gorgeous sun-light was flooding the small chamber with
its golden haze, still shone that yellow lustre apart--distinct--and
sinister.
“By violence?” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, awful thoughts relative to
Vitriol Bob’s peculiar mode of proceeding rushing in upon her soul.
“How can it be done otherwise?” demanded Jack Rily. “When I first came
up to you just now, I was going to propose to enlist in the service a
pal of mine--and of Vitriol Bob’s also--who would aid and assist: but
then he would require his thirds as a matter of course. Since, however,
you have informed me that Bob’s companion in the robbery is an old,
emaciated, feeble man, and that you can master him by yourself, you and
I will keep the business in our own hands. I will undertake to tackle
Vitriol Bob, if you will make sure of the other.”
“And supposing that your opponent should overpower you?” said Mrs.
Mortimer.
“I will take care that he does not,” returned Rily. “Trust me to subdue
him----”
“And without bloodshed?” observed the old woman, shuddering--for,
depraved and wicked as she was, she grew cold and her heart sank within
her at the idea of murder.
“Come, if you’re squeamish, you had better abandon the project and
leave it all to me,” said the Doctor. “If Vitriol Bob should place my
life in danger, at that moment he is a dead man. Self-preservation,
ma’am, is the first law of nature. At the same time, I shall not kill
_him_, unless it is to save _myself_: of this you may be assured.”
The old woman remained silent for some moments. Should she embark
in an enterprise so replete with danger?--should she incur the risk
of becoming an accomplice in a murder? She trembled at the thought:
and yet her money--the money that she had come over to England to
obtain--would be totally lost to her were she to shrink from the
endeavour to recover it. It was true that, even if it were regained,
one half would pass into the hands of a stranger: but was it not better
to return to Paris with two thousand seven hundred pounds in her
pocket, than with an empty purse? The stake was worth venturing;--and
her indecision vanished.
“I am _not_ squeamish in the matter,” she said at length. “Our bargain
and our arrangements hold good in all respects. That villain Torrens
shall not have the laugh against me: on the contrary, I must be avenged
upon him!”
“There!--now you are my fine old hyena--my adorable tiger-cat, once
again!” cried the Doctor. “I long to see you pounce upon old Torrens,
as you call him; and I would give the best five years of my life,
could I endow you with a complete set of claws, instead of those
comparatively harmless finger-nails! Wouldn’t you tear his eyes out of
his head? wouldn’t you strike them deep into his flesh? Do you know
that Satan will obtain a glorious acquisition when the time comes for
him to make a fiend of you?”
And again the monster’s horrible hilarity rang through the little
chamber, as he threw himself back in the chair and laughed with the
most savage heartiness.
“For mercy’s sake! cease this unnatural gaiety,” exclaimed the old
woman, scarcely able to subdue her rage.
“Oh! I must laugh,” cried the wretch, sputtering through his frightful
hare-lip,--“if it is only to make you look as ferocious as you do now.”
Mrs. Mortimer turned towards the window with disgust; and the wretch’s
mirth died away in guttural sounds.
“Come, now--I told you that you must not be angry with me, madam,”
he said, at length. “It is my nature to laugh heartily at times--and
surely you won’t check such an innocent propensity. But I will take my
leave of you now; and at half-past ten to-night we must meet at some
place as near Stamford Street as you choose.”
“Where shall it be?” asked the old woman. “Name the spot--and I shall
be punctual to the moment.”
“There is a narrow lane running along the side of Christ Church
burial-ground,” responded the burglar, after a few moments’ reflection:
“it leads from the Blackfriars Road into Collingwood Street----I
suppose you know London well----”
“Oh! perfectly. Go on,” said Mrs. Mortimer.
“Well--we will meet in that crooked lane at half-past ten exactly,”
continued Jack Rily. “By the by,” he added, rising from his chair,
“you had better tell the landlady down stairs that you found out I
could do nothing for you, and that you have resigned yourself to put up
with your loss. It will prevent her from suspecting anything queer on
account of your going out so late and remaining away an hour or so.”
“Leave that to me,” replied Mrs. Mortimer: “I shall know how to make
all the excuses that are necessary. Indeed, if we are successful, I
shall not return again to this place,” she observed, sinking her voice
to a low whisper.
“Well--that is your business. And now good-bye for the present: at
half-past ten we meet in the place appointed.”
Mrs. Mortimer spoke a few words of assent; and the Doctor took his
departure, bestowing upon the woman a familiar nod, accompanied by
a grin and a leer, before he crossed the threshold and closed the
chamber-door behind him.
When Mrs. Mortimer was left alone, she began to ponder deeply upon the
particulars of this interview which had just terminated.
The man knew the hiding-place where it was presumed that Vitriol Bob
and Torrens had taken refuge; and it was doubtless some cellar or
dangerous place, where a crime might be committed with impunity, as
well as where the perpetrators of crime might conceal themselves.
Then, what guarantee had she that Rily would not make her his victim,
after availing himself of her services in subduing the plunderers and
recovering the stolen treasure?
She shuddered as she thought of the peril into which she was about to
precipitate herself: she trembled from head to foot as she pondered
upon the desperate character of the man who was to be her companion in
the night’s enterprise.
And yet--in spite of his revolting ugliness and his avowal of a dark
career of turpitude--there was something like fairness in his speech
respecting a partner in any enterprise in which he might be engaged:
moreover, had he not shown, by the mere fact of the spite which he
cherished against Vitriol Bob, that his ideas of the honour that ought
to prevail even amongst thieves, were of a fixed and positive nature?
Lastly, had he not stipulated upon the precise amount that he was
to retain for his services? And would he be thus minute and nice in
details, if he cherished the intention of self-appropriating the whole?
These arguments, which Mrs. Mortimer seriously revolved in her mind,
may not perhaps appear very convincing nor very satisfactory to the
reader; for, after all, they were only so many suppositions placed in
juxta-position with the atrocious character of an avowed desperado. But
let it be remembered that we often reason ourselves into what we _wish_
to believe, rather than into what we _ought_ to believe; and we tutor
our minds to put faith in those opinions that best suit our interests
rather than our safety. This is like “hoping against hope:” still it
is a general characteristic of human nature; and Mrs. Mortimer’s case
proved no exception to the general rule.
In fine, she came to the conclusion that Jack Rily was a monstrous
rogue in respect to the world, but an honest man towards his pals--that
he would strip society, were society a single individual, of its
last shirt, but would not lay his finger on the costliest robe if on
the back of an accomplice--and that he meant to act, with regard to
herself, in the fairest way possible.
Whether her expectations were fulfilled, will shortly appear.
We cannot, however, close this chapter without recording a few comments
upon that extraordinary disposition in human nature to reason one-self
into the belief which one wishes to adopt, to the repudiation of that
which one ought to adopt. For instance, the man who is floundering
about in a perfect morass of pecuniary troubles, from which he cannot
possibly see any chance of emerging, incessantly dins in his own mental
ears the most absurd sophisms to convince himself that his position
is not so desperate as it appears. “Well, something must turn up,” he
says: “things are sure to take a turn soon. I can get Jones to renew
the bill which he holds of mine, when it becomes due--Tomkins will
hold his bill over for a few weeks--and Brown will lend me the money
to satisfy Smith.” In this manner does the poor devil go on with his
castle-building, until he can no longer blow from his imagination’s
pipe another soap-bubble wherewith to amuse himself. Jones positively
refuses to renew--Tomkins proves inexorable in his demand for
instantaneous payment--Brown, having heard of his difficulties, will
not lend him a farthing--and Smith, anything but satisfied, puts a
clencher on the whole through the medium of the sheriffs’-officer.
Then, when the self-deluded wretch awakes from his dream, on finding
himself in gaol or on his way to the Bankruptcy Court, he says to
himself in the bitterness of his spirit, “I always knew it would come
to this!”--although for years he had been straining every effort of the
imagination to lull his mind into a contrary belief!
In the same way does the bashful lover, who has not as yet proposed
to the object of his affections, but who nevertheless longs to do so,
yet fears, because he has seen her smile more sweetly upon a handsomer
youth than ever she did on him,--in the same way does he strive to
persuade himself that she _does_ really love him--that he has observed
stealthy glances cast from her brilliant eyes towards him--that her
hand has trembled in his own--that her voice has faltered when she has
responded to his common-place remarks upon the weather, the opera,
and the new novel--that it is a mere flirtation between herself and
the _other_ handsome youth,--in fine, that she is dying to receive
the proposal which he has not the courage to make. And in this manner
does he tutor himself to lead a life of “pleasing pain,” though all
the while aware that the sorest misgivings lie at the bottom of his
heart, beneath the superstructure of delusive hopes and fond imaginings
which perforce he has conjured up there. Then, when at last he hears
from some kind friend that the beautiful Miss So-and-so was married
yesterday morning to the handsome young gentleman whom she had loved
all along, the self-deluded wretch exclaims, “Ah! I never thought that
she cared a fig for _me_!”
But worse--oh! far worse is it with the criminal! Let us take, for
instance, the confidential clerk, who, for the sake of a mistress or
through love of fine clothes and ostentatious display amongst his
acquaintances, pilfers from his master’s till. At first his peculations
were small and insignificant; but, being undiscovered, he grows bolder
and more deeply guilty,--while he endeavours to reason himself out of
the agonising fears that haunt him day and night--pursue him like the
spectres of murdered victims--and turn his wine into gall, and the
sweets of Beauty’s lip into bitterness. “It is impossible that I can
be detected,” he mentally exclaims a thousand times in an hour: “my
precautions are so well devised. In a large business such as this, a
few shillings are not missed. Besides, I so arrange the entries in
the books that the expenditure and the receipts are proportionate.
My employer, too, is kinder towards me than ever: I possess his
confidence--not for an instant would he suspect me! And even if I were
found out,--not that I can be,--but, I say, even if I were, he would
not suffer me to be disgraced--he would hush it up: he would never let
_me_ be dragged into the felon’s dock.” Thus will the infatuated being
reason on, although he sees that his master _is_ growing cold in his
manner, and that there _is_ a suspicion of foul play somewhere,--until
at length the explosion takes place--the self-deluded mortal is hurried
to a felon’s gaol--his employer proves inveterate and inexorable--he
is doomed to transportation--and in the convict-ship he exclaims in
terrible anguish of mind, while writhing as if in mortal agony upon his
hard pallet, “Fool that I was not to have stopped short while it was
yet time: for I always foresaw that this must inevitably be the end of
it all!”
Gentle reader--never against your own settled convictions endeavour to
set up a fabric of delusion: you may at length succeed in throwing the
former into the background, and persuading yourself to believe that the
latter is a substantial truth;--but you will in the long run discover
to your cost that you have stepped out of the broad and straight
highroad to flounder amidst the perils of an interminable bog.
CHAPTER CLXXII.
A MAIDEN’S FIRST LOVE.
The day, the incidents of which we are describing, and which are so
numerous and diversified, was destined to be a memorable one in the
life of Agnes Vernon.
The young maiden, on abruptly quitting Mrs. Mortimer, returned to the
cottage; and, seating herself at the table in the elegant parlour,
she arranged her drawing materials with the intention of continuing a
landscape which she had commenced a few days previously.
But she was unsettled and restless: new sensations stole upon her--new
feelings were excited in her bosom.
The solitude of the cottage suddenly appeared to be irksome; and she
felt discontented with her condition--she knew not why.
Laying down her pencil, she rose from her seat, approached the window,
and gazed forth upon the open country.
A carriage passed by: in it were two young ladies and two young
gentlemen--and they were all in high spirits, conversing cheerfully and
laughing gaily. Agnes sighed--for the thought struck her that she too
might be happy, and she too might laugh gaily, if she only had friends
and companions!
Presently a lady and gentleman, each on horseback, passed along the
road in front of the cottage. They were proceeding at a very gentle
pace, and were engaged in conversation. The veil was raised from the
fair Amazon’s countenance, and was thrown back over her riding-hat;
her cheeks were blooming with a carnation tinge, and her eyes were
bent with melting tenderness on her companion, whose face was turned
towards her, and whose language was doubtless pleasing to her ears.
The countenance of that lady indicated such real pleasure--denoted
such pure and genuine happiness, that again did a sigh escape from the
bosom of Agnes Vernon, as she marvelled why she herself was retained
in the prisonage of solitude, while other maidens of her own age had
their acquaintances and their associates, and were allowed to divert
themselves in walking or riding about the rural lanes and the roads
that stretched amidst the green fields.
Never before had anything in the form of repining--never until this
time had a sentiment partaking of discontent, arisen in the breast
of Agnes Vernon. She endeavoured to conquer the feeling: she turned
away from the window and played with a beautiful canary bird that
fluttered from its perch towards the front of its handsome cage the
moment she approached it;--but its chirping sounded no longer as sweet
music in her ears--and, in the natural goodness of her gentle soul,
she reproached herself for her indifference to the joyous testimonials
offered by the little feathered chorister to its mistress.
She resumed her seat, and once more directed her attention to her
drawing: but she felt in no humour for an employment that until now was
amongst her most favourite recreations. Closing her portfolio, she took
up “Ivanhoe,” in order to read the concluding pages of the tale: she
however found her thoughts speedily wandering to other subjects,--the
letter of Lord William Trevelyan--the discourse of Mrs. Mortimer--and
the abrupt termination of her interview with that female. Throwing
aside the book, she seated herself at the piano, and ran her taper
fingers over the keys: but the music had no cheering influence upon
her--produced no soothing effect on her restless soul.
Vexed and annoyed with herself for what she could not help, and almost
alarmed at the change which had come over her, despite of her exertions
to the contrary, the bewildered maiden returned to the garden and
gathered fresh flowers wherewith to fill the vases in the parlour:
but the tulip seemed less beautiful, the rose less fragrant, and the
pink less sweet than she had ever before known them;--and her task was
accomplished hurriedly and even neglectfully.
At length she sought an arbour in the most shady and retired part of
the garden; and there--alone with her own thoughts--she fell into a
profound reverie upon her secluded life, the mystery that enveloped her
condition, the letter of Lord William Trevelyan, and the explanations
that Mrs. Mortimer had given her respecting the passion of love.
For, oh! the gentle Agnes loved now:--hence this restlessness--hence
this change which had come upon her!
She did not blame herself for the part she had enacted in respect
to Trevelyan’s letter: her conscience told her that she had behaved
with prudence and propriety;--but she was grieved to think that any
words which had fallen from the lips of Mrs. Mortimer should have cast
suspicion upon the sincerity of the individual who had penned the
contents of that missive.
Then she thought within herself that perhaps the old woman had deceived
her--that Trevelyan could not possibly empower his messenger to
contradict with her lips the assurances he had committed to paper!
“Did he not say in his letter that he sought no secresy nor concealment
in respect to my father?” she asked herself, in the course of her
musings: “how, then, could he prompt his agent to enjoin the necessity
of such secresy and such concealment? Ah! she has deceived _me_--and I
have wronged _him_!”
A feeling of bitterness smote the tender heart of Agnes as she came to
this conclusion: but, in the course of a few moments, the idea struck
her that if Lord William Trevelyan received a faithful report of the
particulars of her interview with Mrs. Mortimer that morning, he would
recognise the propriety of her conduct in returning the letter.
But, ah! had she not bade Mrs. Mortimer desire the young nobleman to
think no more of Agnes Vernon?--and might he not obey the injunction?
Poor, innocent Agnes! thine own love is as yet only in its infancy--and
therefore thou comprehendest not the extent of that devotion which
Trevelyan’s bosom harbours with regard to thee! Although within the
space of a few hours thou hast learnt thy first lesson in the school
of love, and though thy mental vision has obtained some insight into
the mysteries of that passion which has at length shed its influence
on thee,--although a portion of the veil has fallen from thine eyes,
and thou canst now read more of the human heart than ever thou could’st
before,--nevertheless, it is but a nascent flame--a germinating
affection that animates thee,--a feeling as yet vague and undefinable:
for thou art still so much the child of natural simplicity and artless
ingenuousness, that thou canst not entertain a conception of the
lasting and persevering nature of love;--thou knowest not enough of its
essence and its power to initiate in thine imagination the thought that
Trevelyan would no more heed thine injunction, even if it reached his
ears, than the tempest will obey the human voice which dares to order
its fury to subside!
For some hours did the beauteous Agnes remain in the arbour, plunged in
love’s first reverie; and when the pretty housemaid appeared to inform
her that dinner was served up, Miss Vernon started from the seat,
exclaiming, “Is it possible that it can be four o’clock? I did not
suppose that it was more than an hour past mid-day?”
Jane cast a look of surprise upon her mistress--but said nothing; and
almost immediately afterwards the servant ceased to remember that
there had been anything peculiar in the young lady’s manner--for Agnes
composed her countenance, recalled her scattered thoughts, and hurried
back to the cottage,--so that this very haste on her part was mistaken
by the domestic for her usual gleesomeness of disposition.
The afternoon repast was soon disposed of; and Agnes returned to the
garden, where she roamed about until the hour of sunset approached. The
evening was warm and beautiful--the air was fragrant with the perfume
of the flowers--and the hum of insect life was heard around. The scene
had a soothing effect upon the young maiden’s soul; and, though she
was wearied, she was unwilling as yet to return to the cottage. She
felt less lonely in the spacious garden than she should be, as she well
knew, in that parlour where she had vainly endeavoured in the morning
to divert herself with her drawings, her music, and her books.
We know not how it was--but more than once during this evening ramble
in her garden, did Agnes Vernon pass by that very spot where she had
stood in the morning when held in conversation with Mrs. Mortimer.
Those who love, or who have loved, will probably assert that it was
the influence of some vague and undefined hope which thus occasionally
directed the maiden’s footsteps thither,--a hope which nature prompted,
although thus dimly, and in spite of the virgin purity and immaculate
candour of her soul,--a hope, in fine, which whispered, softly as
zephyr’s breath, in her ear, that Trevelyan’s messenger _might_ return
with an assurance from him that no instructions which he had given to
that emissary in any way militated against the honourable, frank, and
straightforward declarations contained in his letter.
And now, then, behold the beauteous Agnes standing on the very spot
where in the morning she had read the letter that first awoke a
scintillation of love’s fire in her bosom: behold her, motionless as
a statue, amidst the foliage of that secluded part of the garden--her
white dress delineating the soft and graceful outlines of her
symmetrical form--and the rays of the sun, now low in the western
horizon, playing upon her angelic countenance, as they penetrated
through the trees that skirted the lane overlooked by the hedge.
Suddenly the maiden starts and listens--like the timid roe disturbed in
the forest by a far-off sound resembling the bay of the hound.
The noise of wheels and of horses’ hoofs falls upon her ear: nearer and
nearer that noise approaches--the vehicle is evidently coming down the
lane!
Yet why does her heart palpitate?--why seems it like the fluttering
bird in its cage? Is it an unusual thing for a carriage or a cart to
pass that way? No: but there is in the maiden’s soul a presentiment
that the occurrence _now_ is not altogether unconnected with her
destinies.
The sounds cease: the vehicle, whatever it may be, has stopped--and
silence once more reigns around.
The sun is sinking lower and lower in the western horizon: yet it is
still quite light;--but the ruddy lustre of the setting orb imparts a
deep autumnal hue to the foliage--brings out into bolder relief the
ripening apples, the yellow pears, and the crimson cherries that gem
the boughs with their fruitage--and imparts a delicate glow to the
beauteous countenance of the young lady, as, with lips apart and in
attitude of suspense, she listens to catch the slightest sound that may
indicate the approach of a human being.
And now there is a rustling as of silk and a tread as of light
footsteps; and Agnes, who, in consequence of the surface of the garden
being much higher than the lane on the other side of the hedge, can
look over that verdant boundary,--Agnes beholds a lady advancing
rapidly down the narrow thoroughfare.
A feeling of disappointment seizes upon her: she sees that it is not
Mrs. Mortimer--and something tells her that Trevelyan would not employ
another female emissary.
[Illustration]
Then it strikes her that she ought to rejoice that no farther progress
should be made in the young nobleman’s suit during her father’s
absence; and she feels that she has done wrong even to remain standing
in that spot under the influence of a contrary expectation and of a
tender though dimly significant hope.
With a sigh, the beauteous creature is about to turn away and re-enter
the cottage, when,--oh! wonder and amazement!--with renewed suspense
and reviving hope, she hears herself called by her name--called, too,
in the tenderest, most melting tones of a woman’s voice.
“Agnes--dearest Agnes! Stay--oh! stay--if only for a few moments!
Stay--I implore you--beloved girl: you know not who it is that thus
addresses you!”
These words were uttered in a voice of warm and passionate
affection--so that a deep and absorbing interest was at once created
in the bosom of Agnes towards that lady of whose handsome countenance
she had now a full view, and the earnest, appealing expression of whose
features gave additional import to her enthusiastic exclamations.
“Madam--I will stay--I will not depart immediately,” faltered Agnes,
forgetting her father’s injunctions relative to the caution which she
was to exercise in regard to strangers: “but how do you know who I
am?--and who are you?”
“Oh! that she should ask me who I am!” cried the lady, clasping her
hands together in deep anguish. “But how beautiful she is!” exclaimed
the stranger, in an altered and rejoicing tone: “how faithful, too, is
the portrait! Agnes--dearest Agnes--I have much to say to you--much
to impart that you will be delighted to learn: but must we continue
to discourse thus, with this barrier between us? Can you not come to
me?--or will you permit me to come to you? I long--oh! how I long to
embrace you, dear girl that you are; and though we are but a few feet
apart--yet does this garden-boundary separate us most cruelly!”
“Madam--I know not how to answer you,” murmured Agnes, strange
feelings of mingled pleasure, apprehension, and hope agitating in her
heart, as if that heart were a well of deep, inexhaustible, and yet
incomprehensible emotions. “Your words seem to move me more than I can
explain----”
“Yes--Agnes--dear Agnes,” ejaculated the lady, stretching out her arms
in an appealing manner towards the maiden: “’tis the voice of nature
that speaks within you! But you hesitate to trust yourself with me?
Ah! doubtless you have been warned--doubtless you have been urged to
act with caution----Oh! my God--that you should look with an eye of
suspicion upon me!”
And with these words, which were uttered in a tone indicative of the
most acute anguish, the lady burst into a flood of tears.
Agnes stood blanched, and trembling, and speechless,--having a deep
conviction that the lady’s fate was in some way linked with her
own--yet not daring to form a conjecture as to the nature of the tie
that thus mysteriously bound them together. A secret impulse appeared
to urge her towards the weeping stranger; and she felt that were the
arms again extended towards her, and were there no barrier in her way,
she should precipitate herself upon that stranger’s bosom, that they
might mingle their tears together and interchange the sympathies that
already drew them to each other.
“Agnes--dearest Agnes,” exclaimed the lady, suddenly breaking silence
and wiping away the traces of her grief,--speaking, too, in a voice of
heart-touching appeal,--“I implore you to come to me--or to show me how
I may enter those precincts without being observed by the inmates of
the dwelling! But, say--tell me,” she added, a sudden thought striking
her,--“is he--your father--_there_?”
“My father is in Paris,” replied Agnes: “he----”
“Thank God!” ejaculated the stranger, with an enthusiasm that
astonished and even startled the maiden. “But Mrs. Gifford--is she
still alive?--is she still in attendance on you?”
“She is in the house at this moment,” returned Agnes, more and more
surprised at these questions--not only on account of their nature,
which showed that the lady was acquainted with many circumstances
regarding her condition; but also in consequence of the vehemence with
which they were put.
“Then how can I join you in that garden?” demanded the lady, in a tone
of bitter disappointment. “Oh! Agnes, you know not how ardent are the
yearnings--how intense the longings that prompt me even to dash through
this hedge and fold you to my bosom! Cruel girl--keep me not thus in an
agony of suspense; but come--come to my arms--as if I were your mother!”
“My mother!” exclaimed Agnes, in a voice of mingled hope and
amazement--while such indescribable emotions started into existence in
her bosom, that she felt overpowered by their influence, and staggering
back a few paces, would have fallen to the ground had she not leant
against a tree for support.
“Agnes--Agnes!” cried the lady, imploringly: “give not way to thoughts
that will deprive you of your presence of mind--for you need all your
self-possession now! Agnes--dear Agnes--answer me----”
“Who are you? O heaven! such strange ideas--such wild hopes--such
bewildering presentiments crowd upon my soul,” exclaimed the beauteous
maiden, “that I know not how to act nor what to conjecture!”
And, again approaching the hedge, she passed her hand across her brow,
throwing from her face the shower of curls that had fallen in disorder
over that charming countenance--the luxuriant locks having been
disturbed by the movement given to the neat little straw bonnet when
she staggered against the tree.
“You ask me who I am,” said the lady: “oh! pity my suspense--have mercy
upon me--come to my arms--and I will tell you all.”
“Stay there, madam--dear madam,” cried Agnes, without another instant’s
hesitation--so earnest, so pathetic was that last appeal: “and I will
join you at all risks!”
CHAPTER CLXXIII.
HOPES FULFILLED.
Without pausing to reflect upon the step which she was
taking--forgetful of all the injunctions she had received from her
father, and all the promises of prudence and caution which she had made
to him--obedient only to the irresistible impulse of her feelings--as
if nature’s voice rose dominant above a sire’s mandates,--the Recluse
of the Cottage disappeared from the view of the lady, who remained in
the path outside the garden, a prey to the most torturing fear lest the
young maiden should be intercepted by the inmates of the dwelling.
But Agnes was not compelled to pass through the house in order to gain
egress from the premises. From the stable-yard a gate opened into
the lane; and by this avenue did she proceed--so that there was no
necessity to exercise any wariness or precaution. Had the contrary been
the case--had she been compelled to pause in order to reflect how she
was to escape the notice of the servants, her artlessness of character
and purity of soul would have prompted her to wait and reflect whether
she were acting in accordance with her father’s counsels. She would
then have flown straight to consult Mrs. Gifford; and the result would
have been inimical to the hopes and wishes of the lady who was so
anxiously expecting her in the lane.
But as nothing impeded the maiden’s progress, nor forced her to stay
her steps even for a single instant,--the gate being always left open
during the day-time for the convenience of the gardeners, and these
men being engaged in front of the house on the present occasion,--the
current of her thoughts, impelling her towards the lady, received no
hindrance--no check; and in a few moments Agnes was speeding along the
lane, with a heart influenced by emotions of hope, curiosity, suspense,
and wild aspiration.
For that word “Mother”--that dear, delightful word, which had so seldom
fallen on her ears, and which in an instant excited so many pleasurable
reflections--so many ineffable feelings in her soul,--that word which,
as if with electric inspiration, had suddenly opened to her view an
elysium of the affections which she had never known before, and which
gave promises of felicity the holiest and the purest,--that word, so
fraught with the tenderest sympathies to one who had hitherto lived
in a semi-orphan state,--that word it was which exercised a magic
influence upon the maiden--absorbed all other considerations--and
rendered her impatient to hear more from the same lips whence this word
had come.
And yet she could not have accounted, had she paused to search, for
the spring of the excitement that now ruled her actions. It was not
that she cherished the conviction of finding a mother in the lady who
was waiting to embrace her; but she did half suspect that such would be
the case,--and she certainly hoped--oh! most fervently hoped that she
was not destined to experience disappointment. The very artlessness of
her disposition made her sanguine;--and under these influences did she
hasten along.
The lady advanced to meet her;--and in a few moments they were clasped
in each other’s arms.
“My child--my dearest child!” murmured the fond mother, who had indeed
recovered a daughter in Agnes Vernon.
“Oh! Is it possible?” exclaimed the beautiful creature, in an ecstasy
of joy: “is it possible that you are my parent?”
“I am, my beloved Agnes--I am: and heaven can attest that, though
separated from thee since thine infancy, I have never ceased to think
of thee--never ceased to love thee!”
A faintness now came upon Agnes;--and her mother felt that she was
clinging the more firmly to her in a convulsive effort to prevent
herself from falling.
“Lean on me, my child--here--let me sustain you, my darling Agnes!”
cried the lady. “Oh! how happy am I at this moment--with thee in my
arms! But----My God! she faints!”
And the maiden, overcome by her emotions, fell into a state of
insensibility.
The lady carried her in her arms along the lane: great was the strength
which now animated the mother who had just recovered a long-lost
daughter;--and in a few minutes a hackney-coach, that was waiting
higher up the avenue, received the precious burthen.
When Agnes came to herself, she started as if, on waking from a
delicious dream, she feared that it might prove all a delusion: but
when, by the rays of the setting sun which streamed through the open
windows of the vehicle, she beheld the handsome, pleasing, and yet
mournful countenance of her mother bending over her, a glow of joy
suffused the charming creature’s face--and, throwing her arms around
her parent’s neck, she exclaimed, “Oh! tell me that it is not a dream!
assure me once more who you are!”
“I am your mother, Agnes dearest--your own fond and loving mother, who
has languished after you for years, and who will never separate from
you again, unless by your own consent, or through the stern decree of
an iron tyranny! Yes, Agnes--I am your mother;--and, beautiful though
you be, I may without vanity declare that the stamp of nature proclaims
you to be my child?”
“Yes--and my own heart’s emotions assure me that you are indeed my
parent,” said the lovely girl. “But you observed that we should not
part without my consent. Oh! can you suppose, dear mother, that I
should ever ask to leave you--ever seek to separate myself from you?”
“No, my child--I am sure that you will not!” exclaimed the lady. “At
the same time, Agnes,” she added, in a different and mournful tone, “it
is my duty to inform you that if you choose to live with me, you must
resign all hope of seeing your father again--at least for two years----”
“Oh! say not so!” ejaculated Agnes, bursting into tears. “Surely it
must be with my father’s knowledge that you came to see me--that you
are taking me away with you. And yet,” she added, a sudden reminiscence
flashing to her mind, and causing her to start painfully,--“and yet,
I recollect now that I left the garden stealthily--that you urged me
to come round to you in the lane, unperceived by the servants--that
you knew not my father was in Paris. Oh! mother, mother,” cried the
young girl, again interrupting herself, and speaking with a burst
of anguish,--“what does all this mean? Whom am I to obey--you or my
father?--for it is clear to me that in yielding deference to the
counsel of the one, I must prove disobedient to the other!”
“Tranquillise yourself, dearest Agnes--tranquillise yourself, I implore
you!” exclaimed the lady, straining the trembling--almost affrighted
maiden to her breast.
“Ah! dearest mother, when I hear your voice and receive your kisses, I
have no thought save for you,” murmured the young girl. “Oh! and now
your tears fall upon my cheek. Mother--dear mother--forgive me for what
I said ere now--I will obey you--and you only. But do not--do not weep,
my beloved parent!”
“May God Almighty bless you, Agnes!” fervently exclaimed the lady, her
tears streaming in blinding torrents from her eyes.
“Oh! do not weep--I implore you!” cried Agnes, in a tone of the most
tender affection. “Are you unhappy, dear mother? If so, tell me the
cause of your sorrow!”
“I am both happy and unhappy, Agnes,” was the response, almost choked
with sobs. “I experience ineffable pleasure and acute pain, all at the
same moment! But your words soothe me--your voice descends into my
soul like sweet music--your caresses are as a balm to my bruised and
weltering spirit!”
“Dear mother, let me embrace you closer still!” murmured Agnes,
clinging to her parent in that narrow chaise as if there were an
imminent danger of their immediate separation. “But wherefore are you
happy and unhappy at the same time?”
“I am happy because I have this evening recovered you, and thus seen
accomplished the hope of long, long years,” returned the lady; “and I
am unhappy because I fear that some untoward circumstance will part us
again.”
“Oh! what circumstance can part us, dear mother?” asked Agnes, her
bosom filled with vague alarms. “May I not dwell with you, if I
choose--and if you choose to have me with you?”
“Yes--oh! yes, Agnes,” replied her mother, earnestly and in an
impassioned tone. “But will you not pine--when the excitement of these
new feelings shall have passed away,--will you not pine, I say, for
your secluded cottage--your beautiful garden--and--and your father?”
she added, her voice suddenly becoming low and tremulously plaintive.
“What is that lovely cottage--what are the choicest flowers of that
garden, in comparison with thy love, my dearest--dearest mother?”
exclaimed Agnes: “and, oh! if I must decide between you, on the one
hand, and my father on the other----And yet he has been so kind--so
very kind to me--that it goes to my very heart----”
“Agnes--Agnes--you love your father better than me!” exclaimed the
mother, in a voice of the most piercing, rending anguish. “But it is
natural--oh! it is natural--for you never knew me until now--at least
not since your infancy! Yes, it is natural, I say! Oh! fool that I was
to hope that you could love me well enough to consent to dwell beneath
my roof in future! No--no--it is impossible: I see it all, Agnes--you
would be wretched--miserable, were you to part from your father! I
will take you back to your cottage, then, my child--I will leave you
then--and we must separate upon its threshold, never--never to meet
again, perhaps, in this life!”
“No, dearest mother--speak not thus despairingly--or you will kill
me--you will break my heart!” cried Agnes, her voice choking with sobs.
“You are unhappy--and it is my duty to remain with you----Oh! and God
forgive me for saying it, if it be a crime--but--but--it is also my
wish!”
And with these words, the maiden again threw herself upon her mother’s
bosom and wept plenteously, while her arms clasped that parent’s neck
with almost convulsive violence--as if she feared to lose her.
“Now, Agnes, I am happy--oh! supremely happy!” exclaimed the fond
woman. “You will remain with me--and I shall not again submit your
feelings to a painful test by proposing the alternatives which have
already rent your bosom. Listen, however, to me for a short space.
I am a lonely and desolate woman, and have experienced a recent
affliction of an almost overpowering nature. Indeed, I should have
succumbed beneath its weight, had not accident--an accident of a most
extraordinary character--last night revealed to me the place where you
dwelt in such seclusion. Then I suddenly felt that I had something
worth living for--and I came to you this evening, with the hope of
seeing you--yes--and also with the hope of inducing you to accompany
me, that we might dwell together in future. For, oh! Agnes, you cannot
divine how tender--how lasting--how invincible is the love of a mother
for her child. Years and years have passed since I saw you; and I have
pictured to myself my darling daughter growing up in beauty and in
virtue--endowed with elegant accomplishments, and trained in all that
she ought to learn or that would become her--save a knowledge of her
mother! Now, my dearest Agnes, you repay me for that immense--that
boundless love which I have ever cherished for you: now you reward me
for the anxious years--the age of sorrow, as I may term the period
which has elapsed, for me, between your infancy and the present time.
Your father is rich--is possessed of many resources for recreation and
pleasure in the world, which a woman cannot enjoy. He has many, many
friends;--and, deeply though he loves you, he will not miss you so much
as I have missed you, and should miss you still, were you now to be
separated from me. It is, then, a mother who implores her daughter to
give her a daughter’s love--to yield her a daughter’s affection--and
perform towards her a daughter’s duty. All this, my Agnes, I see that
you are prepared to accomplish--even at the sacrifice of your feelings
in respect to your sire. Moreover, that sire has been blessed with
your smiles ever since your birth--or at least has had you under his
guardianship and control: and now--oh! now, am I asking too much when
I beseech you to devote a few years of love to me,--to me who am your
mother--who am unhappy--and who, without you, should now feel so lonely
and desolate that the sooner the cold grave were to close over me, the
better!”
“I will not leave you--I will die sooner!” murmured Agnes, her eyes
streaming and her bosom heaving with convulsive sobs. “But you will not
leave my father--nor that kind and good Mrs. Gifford--in ignorance of
what has become of me?”
“I could not be guilty of such cruelty, my darling child,” responded
the mother. “And now,” she continued, after a rapid glance from the
window of the vehicle, which was at this moment passing by Kennington
Common,--“and now listen again to what I have to say to you. My own
house is in the northern suburb of London; and it is possible that
Mrs. Gifford may be acquainted with the place of my abode. I know not
whether she be; and I should conceive that she is _not_--nevertheless,
there _is_ the possibility, as I observed--and, in that case, she would
adopt measures to tear you from my arms. For this night, then, you must
consent to remain at the house of some ladies of my acquaintance. They
will take care of you--they will be rejoiced to have you with them,
though only for a few hours; and by to-morrow evening I shall have a
dwelling fitted up for our reception. It is my intention to give up
my villa which I now possess--and I know of a sweet cottage, with a
beautiful garden, in the neighbourhood of Bayswater, which I shall
hire at once. All these arrangements can be effected in the course of
to-morrow--for by means of money incredible things are accomplished in
London.”
“Be it as you say, my dear mother,” observed Agnes. “But you will
remain with me this night?--you will not leave me with strangers?” she
exclaimed anxiously.
“Certainly, my child, if you wish it, I will stay with you,” returned
her mother. “Listen, however, to me once again. The friends in whose
care I propose to place you, are two elderly ladles, who will receive
you as the daughter of one whom they sincerely love--for they are as
devoted to me as if I were a near and dear relative, and are acquainted
with much that concerns me. You will be as safe in their charge as if I
myself were with you: for, remember,--by to-morrow night I must have a
home--a good home--prepared for my Agnes,--and it will occupy me until
a late hour _this_ night to make the arrangements for the removal of
all my furniture and other property in the morning. In addition to all
this, Agnes, I should be compelled in any case to return to my house
this evening,--as there may be a communication of importance for me
there,--a communication from a generous friend--noble by nature as well
as by name--and who is interesting himself for me and for _another_----”
“Say no more, my dearest parent,” interrupted Agnes. “I am ready to
obey you in all things and to follow your counsel: but promise to
return and take me away with you as early as you can to-morrow,” she
added imploringly.
“Fear not, my darling Agnes,” replied the mother: “I shall be as
anxious to embrace you to-morrow as you possibly can be to see me.”
While this conversation was in progress between the two ladles in
the hackney-coach, the sun had set--twilight had become absorbed in
the shades of night--but the vehicle was now proceeding along the
Blackfriars-road, which was brilliant with the gas-lamps stretching
away in two approximating lines, and ultimately becoming confounded
together on the arching bridge in the distance.