A PAINFUL INTERVIEW.
We must now go back a few hours—only to the morning of this eventful
day—in order to describe the interview which Mr. Clarence Villiers had
with his respectable aunt Mrs. Slingsby, at her residence in Old
Burlington Street.
He called at her abode as early as nine o'clock,—for he had passed a
sleepless night, in consequence of the communication made to him by the
individual whom he as yet knew only as Captain Sparks, and of whose
arrest on the preceding night he was as yet ignorant.
Mrs. Slingsby, Adelais, and Rosamond were seated at breakfast in a
comfortable little parlour, when Clarence was announced.
At first his appearance at so unusual an hour and when he was supposed
to be on his way to his office in Somerset House, excited some alarm,
lest he had bad news to communicate; and the sisters already trembled
for fear their father had discovered their abode. But he speedily
reassured them by declaring that he intended to give himself a holiday
that morning, and had therefore come to join them at the
breakfast-table.
"You are welcome, Clarence," said Mrs. Slingsby, while Adelais appeared
so pleased at this unexpected visit that the enhanced carnation tinge of
her cheeks and the joy that flashed in her fine eyes rendered her
transcendently beautiful.
But Rosamond seemed pensive and even melancholy—although she endeavoured
to smile and appear gay.
"I had a visit from Captain Sparks last evening," observed Clarence. "He
is going to America, and he called to take leave of me, as well as to
entrust me with some little commission, which I of course undertook."
"And we heard a most wholesome and beneficial discourse from the
Reverend Mr. Sawkins," observed Mrs. Slingsby.
"Was Mr. Sheepshanks present?" inquired Villiers, without looking at his
aunt, and apparently intent only on carving the ham.
"My dear Clarence," said Mrs. Slingsby in a serious, reproachful tone,
"your question is light and inconsiderate. You doubtless intended it as
a jest, but the object to which it refers is one painfully calculated to
wound those who have the good cause at heart. Mr. Sheepshanks has
conducted himself in a manner that has produced the most lively grief as
well as the greatest astonishment in what may be strictly termed the
religious world. Sir Henry Courtenay was shocked when I narrated the
incident to him."
"Oh! Sir Henry was shocked, was he?" exclaimed Clarence. "Well, for my
part, I should have conceived that a man of fashion would have cared
very little for all the Sheepshanks' and Sawkins' in the universe."
"Clarence!" said Mrs. Slingsby, "what _is_ the matter with you this
morning? There seems to be an unusual flippancy in your observations——"
"Not at all, my dear aunt. Only, I conceive that a man who is fond of
gaiety—who goes to parties—mixes with the _élite_ of the West End, and
so on, can have but little time to devote to the interests of
Cannibal-Clothing Associations."
"My dear nephew, you astonish me!" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby. "Is it to
affix a vulgar nick-name to an admirable institution, that you call it a
Cannibal-Clothing Association? I once thought you had some degree of
respect for the philanthropic and religious establishments which are the
boast and ornament of your native land. But——"
"My dear aunt, pardon me if I have offended you," said Clarence—but in a
cool and indifferent tone. "I really forgot at the moment the name of
the institution to which that arrant hypocrite and scoundrel Sheepshanks
belonged."
"Use not such harsh words, Clarence," enjoined Mrs. Slingsby, who knew
not what to think of her nephew's unusual manner and discourse. "Mr.
Sheepshanks has lost himself in the estimation of all persons of rightly
constituted minds; but the Christian spirit of forgiveness commands us
to be lenient in our comments on the actions even of the wicked."
"That may be," said Clarence. "But as I read the account in the
newspapers, it certainly looked so black against this Sheepshanks, that
had he been sent to Newgate, he would have had no more than his due.
Now, my opinion is this:—robbery is always a heinous crime; but he who
robs his fellow-creatures under the cloak of religion, is an atrocious
sinner indeed. Hypocrisy, my dear aunt, is a detestable vice; and you,
as a woman of sound sense and discerning judgment, must admit the truth
of my observation. But we were talking of Sir Henry Courtenay."
"You must not utter a word against him," said Adelais, in the most
artless manner possible; "for Rosamond has conceived so high an opinion
of him——"
"Because dear Mrs. Slingsby has represented his virtues—his mental
qualifications—his admirable character to me in terms which make me as
enthusiastic as herself in extolling so good and amiable a man,"
exclaimed Rosamond, speaking with an ardour which was the more striking,
because the natural purity of her soul prevented her from seeing the
necessity of checking it.
Mrs. Slingsby coloured and glanced uneasily towards her nephew, who did
not, however, appear to notice that the conversation had taken a turn
which was disagreeable to her.
In fact, the suspicions originally excited in his mind by the
communications of the preceding evening, were now materially
strengthened; and the more he contemplated the character of his aunt,
the more transparent became the film that had so long blinded him as to
its real nature.
"And so you are a great admirer of Sir Henry Courtenay, Rosamond?" he
said, endeavouring to maintain as calm and placid an exterior as
possible.
"Rosamond is fully aware that virtue deserves respect, wherever it
exists," returned Mrs. Slingsby hastily.
"And Sir Henry Courtenay is the pattern of all virtue, dear madam—is he
not?" exclaimed Rosamond.
"He is a very good man, my dear, as I have frequently assured you," said
the pious widow. "But let us change a conversation which does not appear
agreeable to Clarence?"
"I would not for the world manifest so much selfishness," observed
Villiers, coolly, "as to quit a topic which gives so much gratification
to Rosamond. At the same time—as the future husband of Adelais, and
therefore soon to be your brother-in-law, dear Rosamond—I must warn you
against conceiving extravagant notions of the integrity and immaculate
virtue of any man who belongs to what is called the Fashionable World."
"But dear Mrs. Slingsby has assured me, Clarence," ejaculated Rosamond,
warmly, "that Sir Henry Courtenay is an exception to the general
rule—that he is the very pattern of every thing generous and good—and
that no one could err in following his advice, whatever it might be. Oh!
I can assure you——"
Rosamond stopped short; for Mrs. Slingsby, seeing that her nephew's
countenance was becoming purple with indignation as the artless girl
thus gave vent to the enthusiasm excited in her soul by the most
insidious representations,—Mrs. Slingsby, we say, had touched her with
her foot beneath the table—a movement naturally construed by Rosamond
into a hint to cut short her observations.
"You can retire, dear girls," said Mrs. Slingsby. "I wish to have a
little conversation with Clarence."
"Do not keep us away long, dear madam," exclaimed Adelais, in a playful
manner, as she rose to quit the room with her sister.
Clarence and Mrs. Slingsby were now alone together; and the position of
each was a most painful one.
The aunt saw that something was wrong; and her guilty conscience excited
a thousand vague fears within her bosom; while the nephew felt convinced
that the relative, whom he had hitherto loved and respected, was worthy
only of his abhorrence and contempt.
There was a long pause in the conversation after the sisters had left
the room; but at length the silence, so irksome to both nephew and aunt,
was broken by the latter.
"Clarence—something appears to have vexed—to have annoyed you this
morning," she observed, in a tremulous tone.
"Do you know," he said, turning abruptly round towards her, and fixing a
searching glance upon her countenance, "that you act most unwisely—most
indiscreetly—nay, most incorrectly, to expatiate so much upon the
virtues of Sir Henry Courtenay? When I first entered the room this
morning, I found Rosamond pensive and thoughtful; and she said not a
word until that man's name was mentioned, when she became as it were
enthusiastic in his defence, although no actual attack was made by me
upon his character. What is the meaning of this strange conduct?"
"Clarence—if, in my respect for Sir Henry Courtenay—I have been too warm
in my praises of his character,—if——"
"Aunt, there is no supposition in the case," interrupted Villiers,
almost sternly. "You _have_ been too warm—and heaven only knows with
what object! God forbid that I should impute the worst motives to your
conduct in this respect: but a dreadful suspicion has been excited in my
mind——"
"A suspicion!" murmured Mrs. Slingsby faintly, while the glance which
she threw upon her nephew was full of uneasiness.
"Yes—a suspicion!" he repeated; "and most painful—oh! most painful is it
to me to be compelled to address you in this manner. But the case is too
serious to allow me to remain silent. In one word, have you not made an
impression on the mind of that artless girl which may endanger her
peace?—have you not been encouraging in her breast an admiration for a
man old enough to be her grandfather—an admiration which is not natural,
and which is calculated to inspire her with feelings towards a
sexagenarian dandy——"
"Clarence!" exclaimed the pious lady, in a hysterical manner; "how dare
you address me in this dictatorial tone? Would you seek to invest my
conduct in bestowing well-merited praise on a good man, with an aspect
so black——"
"Your indignation is well feigned!" cried Villiers, his lips quivering
with rage. "But the day of deception has passed—hypocrisy shall no
longer impose upon me. If I accuse you unjustly, I will grovel as an
abject wretch at your feet to manifest my contrition. Before I thus
debase myself, however, you must prove to me that you are indeed the
noble-minded—the open-hearted—the immaculate woman I have so long loved
and revered! Tell me, then, the real—the true history of that night when
a boy was received into this house through charity—a few years ago——"
Mrs. Slingsby became as pale as death, and sate gazing with haggard eyes
upon her nephew—unable to avert _her_ glance, and yet shrinking from
_his_.
"Then you are guilty, madam," he said, after a few moments' pause; "and
the excellent—the virtuous—the upright Sir Henry Courtenay is your
lover! My God! did the world ever know hypocrisy so abominable—so black
as this?"
These words were uttered with extreme bitterness—and Mrs. Slingsby burst
into a flood of tears, while she covered her face with her hands.
Clarence possessed a generous heart; and this sight moved him.
"My dear aunt," he said, "I do not wish to mortify you—much less to
humiliate you in my presence. In your own estimation you must
necessarily be humiliated enough. Neither will I dwell at any length
upon the pain—the intense grief which I experience in finding you so
different from what I have ever believed you to be—until _now_!" he
added, in a mournful tone. "Were you my sister, or did you stand with
reference to me in a degree of relationship that would permit me to
remonstrate and advise, I should perhaps both reproach and counsel you.
But it would ill become a nephew to address his aunt in such a manner."
"Clarence, will you expose me? will you ruin me?" demanded Mrs.
Slingsby, in a hysterical tone.
"Not for worlds would I injure you!" ejaculated the young man. "But I
must receive no more favours at your hands! Here—take back the money
which you gave me a few days ago. Thank God! I have not yet expended any
of it—and the arrangements I had made to furnish a house for the
reception of my Adelais, can be countermanded. _She_ will not object to
share a lodging with me—until, by my own honest exertions," he added
proudly, "I may be able to give her a suitable home."
And, as he spoke, he cast a roll of Bank-notes upon the table.
"Oh! Clarence—if I have been weak—frail—culpable," cried the widow, "you
are at least severe and cruel; for I have ever done all I could to serve
your interests."
[Illustration]
"Were I to express my real opinion on that head," answered Villiers, "I
might grieve you still more than I have already done. A bandage has
fallen from my eyes—and I can now understand how necessary an instrument
of publicity I have been for your assumed virtues. But, in the name of
God! let us argue the point no further; for sincerely—sincerely do I
assert my unwillingness to give you additional pain. Pardon me, however,
if I declare how impossible it is—how inconsistent it would be—to leave
those innocent girls in a dwelling which is visited by such a man as
that Sir Henry Courtenay."
"How could you remove them elsewhere, without exposing me, Clarence?"
demanded his aunt in an imploring tone. "What explanation can you or I
give them, to account in a reasonable manner for the suddenness of such
a step?"
Villiers paced the room in an agitated manner.
He knew not how to act.
To leave Adelais and Rosamond in the society of his aunt was repugnant
to his high sense of honour and his correct notions of propriety; and
whither to remove them he knew not.
He had seen and heard enough at the breakfast-table, to convince him
that Mrs. Slingsby had some sinister motive in creating in the mind of
Rosamond,—that innocent, artless mind, which was so susceptible of any
impressions which a designing woman might choose to make upon it,—a
feeling of admiration in favour of the baronet; and although he had to a
considerable extent curbed the resentment and the indignation which his
aunt's conduct in this respect had aroused within him, still to leave
that young maiden any longer within an atmosphere of infection, was
impossible! No: he would sooner restore the sisters to their father, and
leave to circumstances the realization of his hopes in regard to
Adelais!
While he was still deliberating within himself what course to pursue,
and while Mrs. Slingsby was anxiously watching him as he paced the room
with agitated steps, the servant entered with the morning's newspaper.
Clarence took it from the table in a mechanical manner and glanced his
eye over the first page: but his thoughts were too painfully
pre-occupied to permit him to entertain, even for an instant, any idea
of reading the journal.
No:—it was one of those unwitting actions which we often perform when
sorely embarrassed or bewildered,—an action without positive motive and
without aim.
But how often do the most trivial deeds exercise a paramount influence
over our destinies!
And this simple action of glancing at the newspaper proved to be an
instance of the kind.
For at the moment when Clarence was about to throw the journal back
again upon the table and resume his agitated walk, his eyes encountered
an advertisement which instantaneously arrested his attention.
Then, with beating heart and with an expression of joy rapidly spreading
itself over his countenance, he read the following lines:—
"TO A. AND R.—Your distressed and almost heart-broken father
implores you to return to him. The past shall be forgotten on his
side; and no obstacle shall be opposed to the happiness of A. Your
father is lying on a sick bed, and again implores that this prayer
may not be made in vain."
"God be thanked!" cried Villiers, no longer able to restrain his joy;
and handing the newspaper to his aunt, he directed her attention to the
advertisement.
"Here is an apology at once for the removal of the young ladies from
this house, Clarence," observed Mrs. Slingsby. "And now that you are
saved from the embarrassment in which you were plunged but a few minutes
back, will you promise never—never to reveal—and, if possible, to
forget——"
"You allude to your conduct towards Rosamond?" said Villiers. "Tell me
its motive—and I swear solemnly——"
"In one word, then," interrupted his aunt, "let Rosamond beware of Sir
Henry Courtenay! And now answer me a single question—for I see you are
impatient to be gone:—How came you to discover——what meant your
allusion—to—to the boy who was received into this house——"
"I cannot stay to explain all _that_," cried Villiers. "But rest assured
that your character stands no chance of being made the subject of
scandalous talk—unless, indeed, your future actions——"
"Enough, Clarence!" exclaimed Mrs. Slingsby. "I know that you must
despise me: but spare me any farther humiliation!"
She then rang the bell, and desired the servant to summon Adelais and
Rosamond.
We need not pause to describe the joy which those fair beings
experienced when Clarence showed them the advertisement inviting them to
return home; although tears immediately afterwards started into their
eyes, when they read that their father was upon a bed of sickness.
They once more retired to their bed-chamber to prepare their toilette
for departure; and, when a hackney-coach drove round to the door, they
took leave of Mrs. Slingsby with demonstrations of gratitude which
struck to her heart like a remorse.
Clarence accompanied them back to the cottage; and his heart palpitated
violently—he scarcely knew wherefore—when he assisted them to alight.
The front door was opened by the female servant, who uttered a cry of
joy on beholding the young ladies once more; and with trembling steps
Adelais and Rosamond entered the parlour, followed by Clarence.
To their surprise—and, at first, to their great delight—the sisters
found themselves, on crossing the threshold of the room, in the presence
of their father, who was looking pale, it was true—but with concentrated
anger, and not with illness.
Adelais and Rosamond fell on their knees before him, exclaiming,
"Forgive us, dear father—forgive us!"
"How am I to receive you, Adelais?" he asked in a cold voice: "as Miss
Torrens—or as——"
"As Miss Torrens at present, sir," answered Clarence stepping forward,
and speaking in a firm though respectful tone. "But, in accordance with
the promise held out in that advertisement which appears in to-day's
journal, I hope that your elder daughter will soon be mine—and with your
permission and blessing also."
"Where have my daughters been residing during their absence, sir?"
inquired Mr. Torrens, without appearing to notice the latter portion of
Villiers' observations.
"Under the protection of a female relative of mine, sir," answered
Clarence, with increasing misgivings at the cold demeanour of the father
of his beloved.
"Thank you for the information, sir," said Mr. Torrens, with a smile of
triumph. "At least you have so far disarmed my resentment, that you have
brought me back my daughter pure and innocent as when you enticed her
away, with the aid of a villanous robber."
"A robber!" ejaculated Clarence indignantly.
"Yes, sir," continued Mr. Torrens, in a sneering tone; "your worthy
colleague, Captain Sparks, is a common highwayman—a thief—properly named
Thomas Rainford; and at this moment he is a prisoner in Horsemonger Lane
Gaol. Scarcely ten minutes have elapsed since I received a note from Mr.
Howard, a solicitor, informing me of the fact."
Clarence was so astounded by this announcement, that for a few moments
he could make no reply; and the young ladies, who had in the meantime
slowly risen from their suppliant posture and were now standing timidly
by their father's side, exchanged glances of painful surprise.
"Yes," resumed Mr. Torrens in a stern and severe tone, "that man, who
aided you to effect the abduction of these disobedient girls, is a
common highwayman—and you could not be ignorant of that fact!"
"As I live, sir," ejaculated Clarence, at length recovering the power of
speech. "I _was_ ignorant of the fact; and even now——But," he added,
correcting himself, "I cannot doubt your word! At the same time, permit
me to assure you that I had never seen him until that night——"
"I require no farther explanation, sir," interrupted Mr. Torrens. "My
daughters are now once more under the paternal roof—inveigled back
again, it is true, by a stratagem on my part——"
"A stratagem!" repeated Clarence, while Adelais uttered a faint shriek,
and sank weeping into her sister's arms.
"Yes—a stratagem, sir!" ejaculated Mr. Torrens. "And now learn my
decision, Mr. Villiers! Sooner than she shall become your wife," he
continued, pointing towards the unhappy girl, "I would give her to the
meanest hind who toils for his daily bread. Depart, sir:—this house is
at least a place where my authority can alone prevail!"
"Mr. Torrens—I beseech—I implore you——" began the wretched young man,
whose hopes were thus suddenly menaced so cruelly.
"Depart, sir!" thundered the angry father; "or I shall use violence—and
we will then see whether you will strike in return the parent of her
whom you affect to love!"
And he advanced towards Villiers in a menacing manner.
"I will not stay to irritate you, sir," said Clarence, feeling as if his
heart were ready to burst. "Adelais—remember one who will never cease to
remember you! Rosamond, farewell!"
Mr. Torrens became more and more impatient; and Villiers quitted the
house with feelings as different from those which had animated him when
he entered it, as the deepest despair is different from the most joyous
hope.
But the anguish of his heart was not greater than that which now filled
the bosom of her from whom he was so unexpectedly and cruelly separated.