THE ALARM.—THE LETTER.
In the meantime Esther de Medina had retired to her own apartment,
immediately after the strange, painful, and exciting scene which had
taken place with her father.
Seating herself upon a sofa, she burst into a violent flood of tears.
The delicate tinge of carnation which usually appeared beneath the
clear, transparent olive hue of her complexion, was now chased away; and
she was pale—very pale.
Her grief was evidently intense: anguish overwhelmed her spirit.
Oh, Esther! if thou art indeed a guilty—frail—fallen being, the eye
cannot refuse a tear of pity to thy lost condition!
No:—for never has even the enamoured poet in his dreams conceived a form
and face more perfect than nature had bestowed upon her. There appeared,
too, such a virgin freshness about that charming creature who was just
bursting into womanhood,—such a halo of innocence seemed to surround
her,—so much modesty, so much propriety characterised her slightest
attitudes and her most unimportant words, that to contemplate her for a
few minutes and yet retain the stubborn conviction that she was a
wanton, amounted almost to an impossibility.
And now—to behold her plunged in grief—alone with her own wretched
thoughts, and weeping,—who could believe that the lips, on which purity
appeared to dwell, had ever been pressed by those of the seducer,—that
the sylph-like form, whose sweeping, undulating outlines were so
gracefully set forth by the mournfulness of her attitude, had ever
unveiled its beauties on the bed of illicit love,—that the rude hand of
licentiousness had ever disturbed the treasures of the bosom so
carefully concealed:—who could believe all this?
Nevertheless, says the reader, appearances are so completely against
her—the evidences of her guilt seem so damning—that, alas! there is not
a hope of her innocence!
But let us continue the thread of our narrative.
For half an hour did Esther remain absorbed in the most profound
affliction—a prey to thoughts and reminiscences of a very painful
nature.
At length she rose abruptly, and evidently strove to conquer her grief.
She wiped away the tears from her fine black eyes, and advanced towards
the window, from behind the curtains of which she gazed into the street
with the view of directing her thoughts into some new channel.
Suddenly an idea struck her; and she hastened to her writing-desk, at
which she sate down and began to pen a letter.
While she was thus engaged, the crystal drops ever and anon started from
her eyes, and trembled on the jetty fringes, the glossy darkness of
which no oriental dye could have enhanced.
In the midst of her occupation—the progress of which was marked by many
an ill-subdued sob—a female servant entered the room to acquaint Miss de
Medina that her father had just received a letter on some business that
required his immediate attention, and that she was not to expect him
home to dinner.
The domestic then withdrew; and Esther finished her letter, which she
folded and concealed in her bosom.
It was now five o'clock; and she descended to the dining-room;—but she
had no appetite—and the ceremony of the repast, to which she was
compelled to sit down alone, was by no means calculated to enliven her
spirits.
Quitting the table as soon as possible, she returned to her chamber, put
on her bonnet and shawl, and hurried into the fresh air, which she hoped
would have an exhilarating influence upon her.
Esther drew her veil closely over her face, and proceeded to Southampton
Row, where she entered a shop at which the local post-office was
stationed.
The woman who stood behind the counter appeared to recognise her, and
immediately handed her a letter which was addressed simply to "_A. B.
C., Post-Office, Southampton Row. To be left till called for._"
Miss de Medina purchased a few articles of fancy stationery—evidently
with the view to recompense the shopkeeper for the trouble of receiving
her letters, and not because she required the things; and while the
woman was occupied in making up the parcel, Esther proceeded to read the
communication just placed in her hands.
For this purpose she raised her veil, and approached the light which
burnt near the window.
The letter was short: but its contents drew tears from the eyes of the
beautiful Jewess.
Scarcely had she terminated the perusal, when she was startled by
hearing a voice at the door distinctly exclaim, "There she is, by
heaven!"
Instinctively glancing in that direction, she beheld a very pale-faced
lad of apparently fifteen or sixteen gazing intently upon her from the
immediate vicinity of the threshold of the shop; and close behind
him—with his eyes also fixed upon her—stood a very tall, thin, old man
of most repulsive aspect.
The instant Esther looked towards them, the old man laid his hand on the
lad's shoulder and hurried him away; and Esther—somewhat alarmed by the
incident—took up the little parcel of stationery, wished the woman a
courteous "good evening," and quitted the shop.
When she again found herself in the street, she drew down her veil, and
hastened towards the nearest hackney-coach stand.
A vehicle speedily drew alongside of the kerb-stone for her
accommodation; and as she was stepping into it, she distinctly beheld,
through the folds of her veil, the tall old man and the pale lad
entering another vehicle at a little distance.
She could not be mistaken—for the shops sent forth a flood of light
which rendered the forms of those two persons plainly visible.
The coachman had to repeat his inquiry whither he was to drive, ere
Esther could recover her presence of mind sufficiently to reply.
"To the nearest post-office in Holborn," she at length said.
"Why, Lord bless you, ma'am—there's one close by here—not ten yards
off," answered the Jarvey, who was an honest fellow in his way.
"Never mind," said Esther. "I wish to be taken to another."
The man urged no farther objection, but mounted his box and drove
away—quietly settling in his own mind that his "fare" was either mad or
tipsy, he neither knew nor cared which.
Miss de Medina could not shake off an oppressive suspicion which had
forced itself upon her. She fancied that she was watched;—and, for the
simple reason that she knew nothing of the old man and the lad, her
uneasiness increased into actual alarm.
This feeling was enhanced, too, when her quick ears caught the rumbling
sound of another vehicle behind: and she began to blame herself for
having ventured abroad at such an hour.
Then she reasoned with herself that no harm could possibly happen to her
in the midst of a densely populated city, and while people were walking
about in all directions:—but still, in spite of this attempt at
self-assurance, the pale countenance of the lad and the sinister looks
of the old man haunted her like spirits of evil.
But in a few minutes the hackney-coach entered Holborn; and the blaze of
light—the bustle—the throng of vehicles—the crowd of foot-passengers—and
the animated appearance of the whole scene, dispelled nearly all her
alarms.
The vehicle draw up nearly at the corner of Fetter Lane; and Esther
alighted.
Another hackney-coach stopped simultaneously at a short distance; and
her eyes were immediately directed towards it.
"Here's the post-office, ma'am," said the driver of the vehicle which
she had hired.
Miss de Medina started—recollected herself—and hastened to thrust into
the letter-box the epistle which she had written ere she left home.
The address on that epistle was—"_T. R., No. 5, Brandon Street, Lock's
Fields._"
This superscription was caught by the sharp eyes of the pale-faced boy,
who had stolen—quick as thought—up to the shop-window, and now stood by
Esther's side as she dropped the letter into the box.
When Esther turned hastily to regain the vehicle, she beheld the lad
retreating with strange speed from the spot.
"What can this mean?" she thought within herself. "Who is it that is
thus watching my movements?"
And, seriously alarmed, she hurried back to the coach, giving orders to
be driven direct to Great Ormond Street.
Away went the vehicle again; and the noise of crowded Holborn prevented
the Jewess from judging by sounds whether the other hackney-coach was
following——for that she was watched, she had no longer any doubt.
Suddenly a suspicion struck her like an icy chill. Could her father have
employed spies to dog her—to mark her movements? Circumstances, on the
one hand, suggested the probability of such an occurrence; while, on the
other, the character of her parent was of a nature repugnant to such a
proceeding. He was stern and severe, but strictly honourable; and Esther
knew that he was not a man likely to adopt underhand measures.
Then wherefore was she watched? and why had the lad crept close up to
her as she put the letter into the box?
The coach had turned up Gray's Inn Lane, which thoroughfare was more
quiet than Holborn; and Esther could hear no sounds of a second vehicle.
Our readers are probably aware that the generality of hackney-coaches
have, or rather _had_ (for they are nearly extinct at the present day) a
little window behind, covered with a sort of flap made of the same
material as the lining.
Esther turned round and raised the flap to assure herself that there was
really no vehicle following the one in which she was. But at the same
instant a face disappeared as if it had suddenly sunk into the earth;
but not before the Jewess had recognised the pale features and dark eyes
of the lad.
A faint cry escaped her lips; and she fell back on the seat, a prey to
vague but serious alarm.
In a few moments she recovered her self-possession, and again
endeavoured to dispel her fears by arguing that no harm could possibly
befall her—that, if any outrage were intended, her screams would
speedily bring hundreds to her rescue—and that after all no real cause
for apprehension might exist.
She arrived without accident in Great Ormond Street; and when she
alighted at her own door, the lad who had terrified her was no longer to
be seen.
Her father had not yet returned; and she was therefore again left to the
companionship of her own thoughts. But when she was seated by the
cheerful fire in the drawing-room, and with the bright lamp burning on
the table, she smiled at those alarms which had ere now oppressed her.
The entire adventure now wore quite another aspect in her imagination.
The old man and the boy were probably thieves who prowled about to
pursue their avocation where they could: she had most likely been
mistaken in the idea that they had entered a hackney-coach in
Southampton Row simultaneously with herself; but they had followed her
vehicle on foot; and when she stepped out to post her letter, the lad
had taken that opportunity of creeping close up to her to pick her
pocket. Having failed by the suddenness with which she had turned round,
he had afterwards got up behind the coach to dog her to the end of her
journey, with the hope of still succeeding in his predatory design; but
when she had looked through the back-window, he had disappeared.
Such was the explanation which she now arranged in her mind for her own
satisfaction. But, then, what could mean the words uttered at the door
of the shop in Southampton Row—"There she is, by heaven!"
Fancy again came to her aid to set this point at rest:—she had most
probably been watched by the old man and the lad before she was aware of
the fact; and they had lost sight of her; but when they passed the shop
her presence there had elicited the ejaculation from the youth.
Such was the manner in which Esther tranquillised herself relative to
the little occurrence that had so much alarmed her:—whether her
conjectures were well-founded, or not, the reader may judge by what we
are about to relate.
No sooner had she posted her letter in Holborn, than Jacob, who had
managed to get sight of its superscription, darted back to the second
hackney-coach which had stopped near the top of Fetter Lane, and leaping
in, said to Old Death, who was inside, "The letter is addressed to '_T.
R., No. 5, Brandon Street, Lock's Fields_.'"
"And that is Tom Rain's place," ejaculated Bones. "Well—do you follow
her—get up behind the coach—and meet me at Bunce's presently."
Away started Jacob; and when he was gone, Old Death alighted from the
vehicle which he had hired in Southampton Row to follow Esther,
dismissed it, and walked boldly into the shop where that young lady had
posted her letter.
A lad was in attendance behind the counter.
"My boy," said Old Death, in as pleasant a tone as he could assume, "I
just this minute dropped a letter into the box; and I remember that I
have made a mistake in a particular circumstance mentioned in its
contents."
"You can't have it back again," replied the boy. "It's against the
rules."
"Well, I know it is," said Old Death coaxingly. "But it's of the
greatest consequence to me to alter a particular part of it; and, if
you'll oblige me, here's half-a-crown for your trouble."
Thus speaking, he displayed the proffered coin.
Now half-a-crown was a great temptation to a lad who only earned
eighteen-pence a week in addition to his food: moreover, the master of
the shop was absent at the moment, and not very likely to return in a
hurry—for the boy knew he was with a party of friends at a neighbouring
public-house:—and thus Old Death's silver argument was effectual.
"Well—I s'pose I must," said the youth. "But don't tell any body about
it, though. What's the address?"
"_T. R., No. 5, Brandon Street, Lock's Fields._"
The boy unlocked the letter-box, selected the particular epistle, and
handed it to Old Death, who threw the half-crown on the counter, and
marched off with the letter.
He could not restrain his curiosity until he reached Seven Dials or any
other place which he was in the habit of frequenting, and accordingly
turned into a public-house in the neighbourhood. There he ordered some
refreshment, seated himself in a corner of the parlour, and carefully
opened the letter in such a way that it might be re-sealed without
exciting a suspicion of having ever been tampered with.
He then read the contents, which ran as follow:—
"I sit down in anguish of heart to pen a few lines to you—to you
whom I love so sincerely, but whom I must never see more. My father
has just made me take a terrible oath to that effect; and so
determined was his manner—so resolute was he—so stern—so
severe—(alas! that I should be compelled to say so!)—that I dared
not refuse to obey his command. And yet you know that I am as
devotedly attached to you as ever:—all I have suffered—all I have
undergone on your account, must convince you of my unchanged,
unchangeable affection. Do not, then, think ill of me on account of
the oath which my father wrested—tore from me! My God! how my heart
palpitates, as I write these lines! Oh! If you knew the state of my
mind you would pity me! I am wretched:—heaven send that you are more
happy than I! Alas! cannot you take compassion upon me—upon _me_,
your own tender Esther—and quit the path which you are pursuing? It
is not too late to do so—it is never too late. All might yet be
well: my father would forget the past—and we should be re-united.
Think of this—ponder well upon it—and remember how much happiness
will be wrecked for ever, if you persist in a course which I tremble
to reflect upon. To be connected with a highwayman is dreadful!
Pardon me—forgive me for speaking thus plainly;—but you know how
sincerely I love you—and if I write that terrible word
'_highwayman_,' it is merely to fix your thoughts the more seriously
on that point. What must be the end of this course of life? Public
infamy—or perhaps a scaffold! Again I say, forgive me for writing
thus:—I scarcely know what I commit to paper—there are moments when
my brain reels as I contemplate the subject of my letter.
"I can write no more. Perhaps I shall find a note from you at the
post office in Southampton Row: I hope so—and I also hope that I may
discover in it some cause of satisfaction to myself. Adieu—dearest,
adieu.
"ESTHER."
The contents of this letter sadly puzzled Old Death. They were quite
different from what he had expected to find them; but without waiting to
reflect upon their nature, he obtained a piece of sealing-wax from the
waiter, and so cleverly closed the letter again that even a clerk in the
General Post-Office could not have told it had been opened.
He then retraced his way to the shop in Holborn where it was originally
posted, and threw it back into the box.
This being done, he bent his way towards Toby Bunce's house in Earl
Street, Seven Dials.