THE PIOUS LADY.
The baronet entered the room with a smiling countenance and a graceful
salutation.
"Pray be seated, ladies," he exclaimed, addressing himself to Adelais
and Rosamond, who had risen from their chairs. "My dear Mrs. Slingsby, I
need not inquire concerning your health—for you look quite charming this
morning."
"You know, Sir Henry, that I am not pleased by flattery," said the lady
in a reproachful tone.
"A thousand pardons, my dear madam," returned the baronet. "But you must
remember that we have now been acquainted for some years—that our
friendship is not only of yesterday's date—and that if I venture on a
little freedom with you, it is as a brother might address himself to a
sister for whom he has the highest esteem. Yes, ladies," he added,
turning towards Adelais and Rosamond, "this excellent woman—this almost
angel, as I may denominate her—was a mother to my children; and _that_
is a circumstance which I can never forget."
"You attach more importance than is necessary, Sir Henry, to the mere
performance of a duty," observed Mrs. Slingsby, in a calm and modest
manner.
Adelais and Rosamond exchanged glances, which seemed to say, "Admirable
woman! we already love her as much as if she were our maternal parent!"
"But I am afraid that I am interrupting an occupation of more value than
my idle chit-chat can possibly prove to be?" exclaimed Sir Henry, who
surveyed Rosamond with an ill-concealed admiration. "Some useful or
pious labour was engaging you, young ladies, no doubt;—for, in the
society of Mrs. Slingsby, not a moment is likely to be passed without
producing a benefit to at least some section of the great human family."
"The anniversary of that holy day on which the Saviour of Mankind
suffered on the cross, is approaching, Sir Henry," observed Mrs.
Slingsby, in a tone and manner suiting the solemnity of her remark; "and
you know that I am in the habit of forwarding my mite at this season of
the year to those humane, religious, or philanthropic institutions which
deserve support."
"I never forget any of those pious duties which you have taken upon
yourself, my dear madam," said the baronet. "And, indeed, the object of
my present visit is——But the act of charity of which I am desirous to
make you the instrument," he added, glancing towards the young ladies,
"involves details of so painful a nature, that——"
"I understand you, Sir Henry," interrupted Mrs. Slingsby; "and this
consideration for the feelings of those who are not accustomed to look
upon the dark side of the world's picture, is worthy of your generous
disposition. Adelais, my love—Rosamond, dearest—pray retire for a short
period."
[Illustration]
This request was conveyed in a manner so affectionate and with such
witching softness, that the maidens to whom it was addressed, could not
help embracing their kind friend ere they left the room.
The moment the door had closed behind them, Sir Henry drew his chair
close to that of Mrs. Slingsby, and, placing his arm round her waist,
imprinted a kiss of burning desire upon her lips.
"Martha, you are really surprisingly beautiful to-day," he whispered in
her ear.
"Do you think so, Henry?" she murmured, her eyes lighting up with the
excitement of that contiguity. "And yet I have fancied that your
behaviour has been somewhat cold towards me of late."
"Do not entertain such a suspicion, my dearest creature!" exclaimed the
baronet, plunging his hand into the bosom of this pious lady's dress.
"Had either of us a right to complain, I think it would be myself;
for——"
"Oh! do not reproach me, Henry!" she murmured, abandoning herself to his
lustful toyings. "But ever since the difficulty I experienced in
producing that last miscarriage, I have been so frightened lest——"
"Nonsense, Martha! do not alarm yourself without a cause," interrupted
the baronet. "Even if it did come to _that_, the matter could be easily
arranged. A few weeks' retirement into the country, on some charitable
mission—ha! ha!"
"True!" said the frail fair one. "But the chances of detection—oh! I
shudder when I think of it! Consider how admirably we have hitherto
managed——"
"And how completely the world is deceived in regard to us," added the
baronet, laughing. "There is nothing like a religious demeanour to throw
dust in people's eyes. Were a syllable of scandal breathed against you,
you have the patrons of all those humbugging Societies to defend you.
But what are you going to do with yourself this evening? Can you not
devote a few hours to me?"
"I wish I could, Henry," returned the lady; "but it is impossible! A
dreadful bore named Sheepshanks is going to entertain the devout with
his nonsense; and it would seem so odd—so very odd if I were not
present."
"It is now upwards of three weeks since we slept together," said the
baronet, in a tone of reproach.
"Yes—but you know that I cannot pretend too often to pass the entire
night by the sick-bed of some poor woman," returned Mrs. Slingsby. "And
now, dearest Henry, I have a favour to ask of you."
"Name it," said the baronet, in a low murmur—for his passions were
furiously excited by his voluptuous toyings with his mistress.
"You must write me a check for a thousand pounds," replied the lady,
winding her arms round his neck, and then literally glueing her lips to
his.
"Oh! you are becoming very extravagant, Martha," said the baronet. "But
I suppose I must yield——"
"You are a dear, generous fellow," murmured the lady, as she suffered
herself to be led to the sofa.
* * * * *
A quarter of an hour afterwards, Mrs. Slingsby rang the bell; and a
sleek, comfortable-looking footman answered the summons.
The lady was then sitting, in her usual quiet, placid manner, in a chair
near the table; and the baronet was placed at a respectful distance from
her.
"Bring up luncheon, James," said Mrs. Slingsby. "Sir Henry, you will
take a glass of champagne? I know you are somewhat partial to it. But a
decanter of water for me, James."
"Yes, madam;"—and the domestic withdrew.
In a short time he returned, bearing a tray, which he placed on the
table, and then retired again.
Having paid their respects to the cold viands placed before them, the
lady and gentleman did honour to the champagne, both drinking out of the
same glass, the servant having only brought up one of the description
suited to that particular wine.
When the collation was ended, Mrs. Slingsby drank a tumbler of water to
take away the smell of the champagne from her mouth; but she did not
appear to relish the limpid beverage quite so well as the rich juice of
Epernay.
The baronet then wrote the lady a cheque on his banker for a thousand
pounds; and, having made a certain little appointment with her for a
particular evening in the ensuing week, and at a place of _rendezvous_
as convenient as it was safe, he took his departure.
Immediately after Sir Henry had left the abode of Mrs. Slingsby, that
lady's housekeeper sought the presence of her mistress, and was
forthwith admitted to the private interview which she desired.
"What is it, Magdalen?" inquired Mrs. Slingsby, when the housekeeper
stood in her presence.
"I'm sorry, ma'am, to have any thing unpleasant for such ears as yours,"
was the answer; "but I am convinced that scullion-girl is in the
family-way."
"Magdalen!" ejaculated the pious lady, horrified at the mere idea. "Oh!
do not utter any thing so uncharitable!"
"I am sure of it, ma'am, I repeat," persisted the housekeeper. "In fact
I've had my suspicions about it for a long—long time; and now I'm
certain."
"Magdalen," said Mrs. Slingsby, in a tone of profound solemnity, "this
is a dreadful occurrence to take place in a house which, I may safely
assert, has never yet been tainted with the breath of scandal—at least
so long as I have occupied it. Are you sure that your conjecture is
right?"
"I would take my salvation oath that it is, ma'am," responded the
housekeeper.
"That expression on your part is incorrect, Magdalen," observed Mrs.
Slingsby, in a tone of mild reproach. "But I of course believe all you
tell me relative to that miserable—degraded girl. Let her be sent from
the house this minute, Magdalen—this very minute! Pay her any wages that
may be due to her, and inform her that her box shall be sent after her
to her parents, with a note acquainting them of the reason for her
abrupt discharge."
"She has no parents, ma'am—she is an orphan."
"But she has friends, no doubt?" said Mrs. Slingsby, inquiringly.
"No, ma'am: I took her from the workhouse, on the recommendation of
lady—a friend of yours, ma'am—who visits them kind of places on a
Sunday, distributing hymn-books."
"Disagreeable as the duty is, it must nevertheless be performed,
Magdalen. And that duty, so incumbent upon us, is to turn the lost girl
into the street. Pay her the wages——"
"She has nothing to receive, ma'am. I advanced her money to buy herself
decent clothes——"
"Then let her go away without any money—since she has none to receive,"
interrupted Mrs. Slingsby. "To give her a single shilling, were to
encourage her in that shameless career of profligacy whereon she has
already so far entered."
"Your orders shall be obeyed, ma'am," replied Magdalen; and she withdrew
to execute them—for she had a spite against the poor scullery-girl, who
had been intriguing with one of this over-particular housekeeper's own
lovers.
Shortly after this little occurrence which we have just related, Mr.
Clarence Villiers made his appearance in Old Burlington Street.
He found his aunt alone in the drawing-room; and, the moment he had paid
his respects to her, he inquired for his much-beloved Adelais and her
sister.
"They are safe and well, Clarence," answered Mrs. Slingsby. "But before
I summon them, it will be necessary that we should have a little
conversation relative to the proper and prudent course now to be
adopted. Sit down, Clarence, and grant me your attention."
The young man obeyed, and prepared to listen with all the patience he
could call to his aid; for much as he respected and really loved his
aunt—whom he looked upon as a pattern of moral excellence and virtue—he
nevertheless experienced the anxiety of a lover to find himself in the
presence of Adelais.
"I shall not detain you long, Clarence," resumed Mrs. Slingsby: "and it
is for your good that I am about to speak. In the first place, I feel it
due to myself to explain to you that, in receiving those young ladies
into my house the other evening—and at so late an hour—I was influenced
solely by that affection which I entertain towards you, and by my
conviction of your thorough integrity of purpose."
"The mere fact of my bringing those almost friendless girls to seek an
asylum with you, dear aunt," said Clarence, "must prove to you how
careful I was of their reputation."
"And it was to assist your upright views that I received them without a
moment's hesitation," added Mrs. Slingsby. "You know that if I had the
means, you should long ago have been put in possession of a sufficient
fortune to have enabled you to compete with Mr. Francis Curtis in
bidding with the mercenary Mr. Torrens for his daughter. But—although my
income is sufficient for my wants, and, thank heaven! for a few little
purposes of charity——"
"My dear aunt!" interrupted Villiers; "wherefore renew an explanation so
unnecessary?"
"Because I would not have you suppose, Clarence, that I would for an
instant sanction any underhand proceedings in respect to your union with
Miss Torrens, had it been possible to have ensured that aim by means of
her father's consent. But," continued Mrs. Slingsby, "I conceive that
there are so many extenuating features in the case, that I cannot regret
having granted an asylum to that dear girl and her sister, and in thus
securing them alike from the perils of London, and from the pursuit of
their father."
"Your kindness towards them will render their hearts as grateful as mine
is," exclaimed the young man warmly.
"During the few days that my house has become their home," continued
Mrs. Slingsby, "they have endeared themselves to me by their
affectionate dispositions—their tranquil habits—their readiness to
please—and a thousand amiable qualities; and therefore—for their own
sakes, as well as yours—I am ready to do all in my power to serve them.
But should Mr. Torrens happen to discover their abode, conceive the
scandal that would be created—the observations that would be excited!"
"My dear aunt, I would not for worlds compromise you in any way!"
ejaculated Clarence. "But still——"
"Do not fear that I am anxious to rid myself of their charming company,"
added Mrs. Slingsby. "I am only desirous that you yourself should adopt
due caution, so as to avoid being followed hither by any one who might
be employed by Mr. Torrens to watch you."
"No imprudence on my part shall mar the success of my plans," returned
Clarence. "The banns have been published at St. George's once
already—and next Sunday will be the second time! It is scarcely probable
that Mr. Torrens will become aware of this circumstance; and he
certainly would not, without any previous hint, conjecture that the
preliminaries for our union had been adopted in so fashionable a church
as that in Hanover Square," added Clarence, with a smile. "Let two more
Sundays pass without the abode of my Adelais being discovered, and she
will then become indissolubly mine!"
"Have you seen any more of your kind friend, who so generously took your
part the other evening?" inquired Mrs. Slingsby, after a pause.
"Captain Sparks!" exclaimed Clarence. "Not since I met him, as I before
informed you, at a tavern in the Strand——"
"Avoid taverns, my dear nephew!" interrupted Mrs. Slingsby, a cloud
overspreading her countenance; "for—by all I have ever heard or read
concerning them—they are fearful sinks of iniquity."
"Oh! not the respectable taverns, aunt," replied Villiers. "I had
purchased a very handsome pair of pistols to present to the Captain as a
token of my esteem; and then I recollected that I was totally
unacquainted with his address. I flew to the great army-agents at
Charing Cross; but there was no such name as Captain Sparks in the List.
Well—I thought he might be in the Navy, and off I went to the Admiralty;
but no Captain Sparks! I therefore considered it fortunate when I
accidentally met him in a tavern which I entered to procure some
refreshment. He positively refused to accept the pistols—declaring that
he had done nothing more than I should have done for him under similar
circumstances. But I thought there was something singular in the merry
laugh which burst from his lips, when I proffered the case containing
the pistols. However, he is an excellent-hearted fellow—and I shall
always hold myself his debtor. We walked together, on that occasion, as
far as my own lodgings in Bridge Street, and he entertained me with a
perfect fund of anecdote all the time. Indeed, I am as much pleased with
him, as I feel myself under an obligation to him."
"Gratitude is a rare virtue in this world," remarked Mrs. Slingsby, who
seldom lost an opportunity of letting drop a moral maxim. "And now," she
continued, with a smile, "having taxed your patience to such an extent,
I must give you the well-merited reward. My kind and generous friend,
Sir Henry Courtenay, has advanced me a certain sum of money, one half of
which I require for charitable purposes of my own; but the other I place
at your disposal, to enable you to hire and furnish a suitable dwelling
to receive your bride. Take this cheque, and to-morrow you can bring me
my moiety."
"Oh! my dear aunt, have you borrowed of your friends to assist me?"
exclaimed Clarence, overwhelmed by so much apparent generosity.
"Not entirely to assist you, my dear nephew," was the calm reply; "but
partly, as you perceive, for myself. However,—say no more about the
trifle which I present to you; and reward me by making a good use of
it."
Clarence embraced his relative: Adelais and Rosamond were then summoned;
and the lovers were soon happy in each other's society.
We must now afford the reader some explanation relative to Mrs.
Slingsby's behaviour towards her nephew: and, in so doing, we shall
throw additional light upon the character of this lady.
She was of a crafty—calculating disposition, and seldom performed any
act, however trivial, without a selfish motive. The fact was that she
had a very difficult part to play. Devoured with raging desires, she was
compelled to adopt a calm, modest, and reserved exterior, and to conceal
her debauchery beneath the cloak of religion. Sir Henry Courtenay was
necessary to her in more ways than one: necessary as a lover—and
necessary as a treasurer, for she was totally dependent upon him in a
pecuniary sense. The report relative to the recovery of a portion of her
late husband's fortune, was a mere fabrication to account for her
comfortable mode of life. Still she considered her position to be so
dangerous, that she was compelled to fortify it by all possible means.
She really loved her nephew—for it often occurs that women of her
description are capable of a strong attachment of this nature:—but even
had she entertained no regard for him at all, she would have pretended
to do so—because he was necessary to her. He was a means by which she
could constantly trumpet forth her "charitable deeds," while she herself
appeared unconscious that they ever transpired. Taking good care that he
should know all she did in the cause of religion or humanity, she led
him to believe in a great many things which she did not do; and the
consequence was that Clarence was never wearied of repeating, wherever
he went, those praises which he conscientiously considered to be his
aunt's due.
Now, when a near _relation_ corroborates the statements made by
_friends_, those statements receive a weight which places them beyond
the pale of disbelief. Thus the world read Mrs. Slingsby's character as
Clarence himself read it and reported it; and with such an amount of
testimony in her favour, she could defy scandal. Even the most
maliciously-inclined dared not venture a shake of the head, nor a shrug
of the shoulder; for "surely her own nephew must know whether she were
as good as she was represented? Relations seldom praise each other
behind their backs; and when a dashing young fellow, like Clarence, was
so enthusiastic in praise of his aunt, it was that he was thoroughly
convinced of the sterling merit of her character?" Such would have been
the arguments opposed to any detractive observations that scandal might
dare to let drop concerning Mrs. Slingsby.
The lady, finding her nephew so necessary to her interests, naturally
sought not only to maintain the most complete deception relative to
herself in his mind, but also to attach him towards her by substantial
acts of kindness. Thus she had readily consented to receive Adelais and
Rosamond into her house, to oblige Clarence; and she now, with the same
interested motive, made him a handsome pecuniary present. She let him
know that she had been compelled to borrow the money (in advance of her
imaginary income), to enhance the value of the gift, and also that the
natural impression should arise in his mind—"Excellent aunt! she
embarrasses herself to benefit me!"
The reader now fully understands how complete a mistress of
duplicity—hypocrisy—and deceit was the widow of Old Burlington Street.
Beneath that calm and placid demeanour—under that veil of sanctity—raged
the most ardent lusts, and agitated the most selfish feelings. She was a
living—walking—breathing lie. Her existence was one immense falsehood;
and yet so well did she maintain the semblance of even the sternest
virtue, that her real character was known only to two persons—Sir Henry
Courtenay, and another whom it is not at present necessary to name.