DR. WAGTAIL.—ROSAMOND TORRENS.
Rosamond Torrens found the pious lady reclining on a sofa, and so
profoundly absorbed—at all events, apparently so—in the perusal of a
chapter in the New Testament, that she did not immediately look up when
the drawing-room door opened to give the young maiden admission.
"Ah! my dearest girl—is it indeed you?" at length said Mrs. Slingsby in
a dolorous tone of voice, as she laid aside the sacred volume. "Come and
embrace me, sweet Rosamond."
"I hope you are better to-day, my dear madam," was the sincere
observation made by the intended victim of a damnable plot, as she
pressed her pure lips to Mrs. Slingsby's polluted brow.
"Heaven blessed me with a good night's rest, my love," returned the
pious lady; "and Dr. Wagtail would insist upon my taking a little warm
brandy-and-water—although, as you well know, I loathe alcoholic liquor,
which I do not consider to be a '_good creature of God_,' nor '_fitted
for our use_.' But, as a medicine, Rosamond—and when accompanied by
urgent prayer—it is beneficial. And now tell me, sweet girl, how passed
off the bridal ceremony? Was the conduct of my nephew becoming and
proper? I could scarcely suppose otherwise—seeing that for years he has
been benefited by the advice and example which it has been my happy lot
to afford him. And Adelais—was she much affected, my love?"
Rosamond described the particulars of the wedding; and Mrs. Slingsby was
in the midst of some very comforting remarks thereon, when the door
opened and Dr. Wagtail made his appearance.
This gentleman was a short, fat, important-looking personage—with a
powdered head and a pig-tail—delighting, too, in small-clothes and black
gaiters, and carrying a thick bamboo cane, the gold head of which he
invariably applied to his nose when he wanted to appear more than
usually solemn. He enjoyed a large practice, and was yet miserably
ignorant of the medical art. What, then, was the secret of his success?
We will explain the mystery.
His father was a very wealthy man, and paid a premium of £800 to
apprentice the subject of this sketch to the house-surgeon of one of the
great metropolitan hospitals. But young Wagtail, though cunning and
crafty enough, was a wretched dolt, and only succeeded in passing his
examination by dint of the most extraordinary cramming. By these means,
however, he became a Member of the Royal College of Surgeons, and set up
in business for himself. The house-surgeon of the hospital soon after
hinted to him that he intended to resign; and Mr. Wagtail senior, on
hearing this private communication made to his son, immediately sent the
house-surgeon a five-hundred pound note in a gold snuff-box, "as a token
of esteem for his high character and of admiration for his splendid
talents." This was intelligible enough. The house-surgeon immediately
began to canvass his friends on behalf of young Wagtail as his
successor; and when the resignation of the said house-surgeon was
publicly announced, the majority of the persons who had a right to vote
were already enlisted in the cause of Mr. Wagtail. Several of the most
eminent surgeons became candidates for the vacancy; but their abilities
stood no chance when weighed against Mr. Wagtail's interest—and Mr.
Wagtail was accordingly elected. He thus jumped into renown and handsome
emolument almost as soon as he entered the profession; and things went
on smoothly enough for three or four years, until he one morning took it
into his head to cut off a man's leg, when amputation was positively
unnecessary. A disturbance ensued—the thing got into the newspapers—and
Mr. Wagtail employed three poor authors constantly, for six months, at
half-a-crown a day each, to get up the pamphlets which he issued in his
defence. He so inundated the British public with his printed statements
that he literally bullied or persuaded the majority into a belief that
he was right after all; and then, with becoming indignation, he threw up
his berth at the hospital—took a magnificent house at the West End—got
his doctor's diploma at the same time—and announced through the medium
of the _Morning Post_, _Morning Herald_, and _St. James's Chronicle_,
that "Dr. Wagtail might be consulted daily, at his residence, from 2
till 7." His father died soon afterwards, leaving him a handsome
fortune; and as the doctor, when the time of mourning (which he cut as
short as possible) had expired, began to give splendid entertainments,
his dinners procured him friends, and his friends procured him patients.
In fact, he eventually rose so high in public estimation at the West
End, that he was quoted as the rival of the celebrated Dr.
Lascelles;—but wise men shook their heads, as much as to intimate that
Dr. Lascelles had more medical knowledge in his little finger than Dr.
Wagtail possessed in his entire form. But then Dr. Wagtail was so
important-looking, and had such a knowing and mysterious way with
him;—and he never insulted his patients, as Dr. Lascelles sometimes did,
by telling them that they had nothing the matter with them, but were
mere hypochondriacs. On the contrary, he would gratify their fancies by
prescribing pills and draughts till he made them ill in reality; and
then he had some little trouble in curing them again. But as he
administered plenty of medicine—shook his head a great many times even
when ordering a foot-bath or a bread poultice—and dropped mysterious
hints about its being very fortunate that he was called in just at that
precise moment, or else there would have been no answering for the
consequences,—as he did all this, and was particularly liberal to
nurses, valets, and ladies-maids, he had worked his way up to a degree
of eminence which real talent, legitimately exercised, struggled
fruitlessly in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred to arrive at.
Such was the physician who now entered the drawing-room where Mrs.
Slingsby was reclining on the sofa with Rosamond seated near her.
Bowing with important condescension to Miss Torrens, the doctor quietly
took the chair which she vacated, because it was close to his patient.
Rosamond was about to quit the room, when Mrs. Slingsby desired her to
remain, adding, "Dr. Wagtail does not require your absence, my love:
there is nothing so very important in my case—is there, doctor?"
"Important, my dear madam, is not precisely the word," returned the
physician, with his gold-headed cane to his nose; "inasmuch as your
ailment _is_ important—as all ailments are, when, though trivial in
themselves, they _may_ lead to dangerous consequences. But how are we
to-day, my dear madam? how is the pain in our legs? did we suffer much
last night? or did we feel a _leetle_ easier?"
"Yes, doctor—thank you," replied the sufferer, who had nothing at all
the matter with her, but who had merely simulated indisposition as an
excuse for absenting herself from the bridal: "I passed a better
night—by the blessing of heaven!"
"Well—come—and so we are getting on nicely, eh?" observed the doctor.
"And what did we take for supper last evening?"
"A little gruel, doctor—as you ordered," answered Mrs. Slingsby, in a
lachrymose tone—which was really natural enough, seeing that she could
have eaten a roast fowl instead of the farinaceous slop.
"And did we take a very _leetle_ brandy-and-water hot?" asked Dr.
Wagtail, in a most insinuating voice, as much as to say that he knew
very well how revolting such a beverage must have been to Mrs. Slingsby;
although, in his heart, he had recommended it simply because experience
had taught him that ladies of a certain age did _not_ object to a small
dose of cognac:—"did we take a _leetle_ brandy-and-water?"
"I did so far follow your advice, doctor," replied Mrs. Slingsby; "but I
hope I am not to continue it?"
"Indeed but we must though, my dear madam," exclaimed the physician,
shaking his head most solemnly and with all the air of a man enforcing
the necessity of swallowing a nauseous draught:—"indeed but we must
though,—and a trifle stronger, too—a mere trifle;—but stronger it must
be, or I really cannot answer for the consequences."
And here he looked at Miss Torrens, as much as to imply that Mrs.
Slingsby's life would perhaps be endangered if his advice were not
punctually and accurately followed.
"Well, doctor," said the suffering lady, in a more doleful tone than
ever, "if it must be stronger, it shall be: but pray make a cure of me
(God willing) as soon as possible, so that I may renounce that vile
alcoholic beverage."
"We must have patience, my dear madam—great patience," said Dr. Wagtail
with increasing solemnity, as he rubbed his nose against the gold-headed
cane. "Indeed, so long as this nasty rheumatism hangs about us, we must
keep to the brandy-and-water."
The physician knew very well that his words would cause the rheumatism
to hang about the excellent lady for a considerable time,—indeed that
she would be in no hurry to get rid of it, so long as he proscribed "the
vile alcoholic beverage";—and he foresaw a goodly number of fees
resulting from the judicious mode which he thus adopted of treating an
ailment that did not exist.
"And now, my dear madam," he continued, "how is our tongue! Ah—not quite
right yet! And how are our pulse?"
Then, as the case was pronounced to be important, the doctor lugged out
an enormous gold stop-watch, and bent over it with a mysterious and even
ominous expression of countenance as he felt the patient's pulse.
"Well, doctor—what do you think?" asked Mrs. Slingsby, looking as
anxious and miserable as if she had been in the dock at the Old Bailey,
about to hear the verdict of the jury.
"We must take care of ourselves, my dear madam—we must take care of
ourselves," said the physician, shaking his head: "our pulse is not
quite as it ought to be. How is our appetite? do we think we could
manage a little slice of boiled fowl to-day? But we _must_ try, my dear
madam—we _must_ try; and we must take a glass or two of wine—Port wine,
of a good body. We must not reduce ourselves too low. And this evening,
for supper, we must take gruel again—and the brandy-and-water as an
indispensable medicine, afterwards."
"I will endeavour to follow your advice, my dear sir," said Mrs.
Slingsby; "though heaven knows that the idea of the old Port wine at
dinner——"
"Well, my dear madam—I know it is repugnant to you—very repugnant,"
interrupted the physician in a calmly remonstrative tone: "but the world
cannot afford to lose so excellent a member of society as yourself.
Consider your friends, my dear madam—exert yourself on their account.
Triumph over these little aversions to wine and brandy—and take them as
medicines, in which sense do I offer them. And now, my dear madam, I
will write you out a _leetle_ prescription. You had better get it made
up as usual at Timmins and Jakes, in Bond Street. I have no interest in
recommending them, you know—not the slightest;—but I am sure their drugs
_are_ good, my dear madam."
Which was as much as to imply that the drugs of other chemists were
_not_ good; and we may here observe that the disinterested physician
merely received a thousand a-year from Messrs. Timmins and Jakes for
recommending all his patients to send his prescriptions to their shop.
The doctor wrote some professional hieroglyphics upon a slip of paper,
and scrawled at the bottom something which would have represented the
name of Snooks, or Brown, or Thompson, quite as well as it did Wagtail.
He then rose, received from Mrs. Slingsby his fee neatly wrapped up in a
piece of tissue paper, and took his departure, holding his stick to his
nose all the way down stairs.
The afternoon passed away somewhat tediously for Rosamond; and when
dinner was placed on the table, Mrs. Slingsby contrived to do honour to
the boiled fowls; and though she held forth at considerable length upon
her abhorrence for Port wine, she managed to swallow four glasses of the
generous juice in a manner which Rosamond considered highly creditable
to her moral courage, seeing how much she detested it.
Shortly after dinner, which was served in the drawing-room, Sir Henry
Courtenay made his appearance.
The baronet's eyes sparkled with delight when he beheld his intended
victim at the pious lady's abode, and looking more sweetly
beautiful—more divinely interesting than she had ever yet appeared to
him. The blood boiled in his veins, as his glances rapidly swept her
slight but symmetrical form, and as he thought within the recesses of
his own iniquitous heart, "This night thou shall become mine!"
It will be remembered that, during the last few days of her previous
sojourn at Mrs. Slingsby's abode, Rosamond had been taught to form a
very high opinion of the baronet; but the pious lady had not gone so far
as to instil any voluptuous sentiment into the mind of the young maiden.
Thus, when the baronet, on the occasion of his visits to Torrens
Cottage, had addressed her in a somewhat equivocal manner, she did not
comprehend him; and hence Sir Henry's reproach against Mrs. Slingsby,
"that she was but an indifferent tutoress."
Still Rosamond was predisposed to admire the baronet's character, as it
had been represented to her by Mrs. Slingsby; and she was by no means
sorry that he had arrived to vary the monotony of the evening.
He exerted all his conversational powers to please her; and she could
not conceal from herself the delight which she experienced in listening
to those outpourings of a well-informed mind and a richly cultivated
intellect.
The supper-hour arrived while she thought the evening was still young—so
rapidly had the time passed away. Mrs. Slingsby partook of her gruel
with as good a grace as she could possibly assume; but she ever and anon
cast a longing glance towards the more substantial and succulent viands
spread upon the board. The brandy-and-water was, however, a consolation;
and this the baronet, who mixed for her, made as strong as she could
wish, and much stronger than Dr. Wagtail, were he really sincere in his
advice, could have possibly intended her to take it.
[Illustration]
Shortly before eleven the baronet rose and took his departure, Mrs.
Slingsby ringing the drawing-room bell for the servant, to open the
front door for him, with a ceremony the object of which was to let every
one in the house know that he had departed, and the hour at which he
went—_in case of any exposure following the dread plot now in progress_!
Mrs. Slingsby and Rosamond then remained in conversation for a few
minutes, the topic being the excellent qualities of Sir Henry Courtenay.
"Rosamond, my love," at length said Mrs. Slingsby, "before you retire to
your own chamber, have the kindness to lock the side-board in the
drawing-room and bring me the keys. For really servants are so
neglectful——"
The beautiful girl departed with the alacrity of an obliging disposition
to execute this little commission:—but the moment she had quitted the
drawing-room, Mrs. Slingsby emptied the dark contents of a very small
phial into the only half-finished glass of Port wine which Rosamond had
left.
The infamous woman then resumed her recumbent position upon the sofa;
and—oh! the abominable mockery!—appeared to be occupied with her Bible,
when the artless, innocent, and unsuspecting maiden returned to the
room.
"Here are the keys, my dear madam," said Rosamond; "and every thing is
safe down stairs. I shall now wish you a good night's rest."
"Finish your wine, my love, before you retire," observed Mrs. Slingsby,
in a softly persuasive tone: "I am not mean, but you know that I am
averse to waste in any shape."
Rosamond blushed at having merited the species of reproach thus
conveyed, and drank the contents of her wine-glass: then, as it struck
her that the flavour of the _wine_ was somewhat less pleasant than it
should be—but without attaching the least importance to the idea, and
forgetting it altogether a moment afterwards—she ate a small piece of
bread to take away the disagreeable taste.
"Good night, my dear madam," said the maiden, bending over the pious
lady and kissing her cheek.
"Good night, Rosamond my love," returned Mrs. Slingsby. "I shall remain
here for a quarter of an hour to perform my usual devotional exercises;
and then I shall retire to my own chamber."
Rosamond withdrew, and sped to the room prepared for her.
She felt wearied, and made haste to lay aside her garments and arrange
her hair. But in the midst of her occupation a sensation of deep
drowsiness came over her; and she was glad to step into bed as speedily
as possible—omitting, for perhaps the first time since her childhood, to
kneel down first in prayer.
A minute afterwards—and she was sound asleep.
* * * * *
Three persons at that precise period had their minds filled with the
image of Rosamond!
* * * * *
In the solitude of his chamber, at his lonely cottage, Mr. Torrens
endured the torments of the damned,—mental torments, indescribably more
severe than the most agonising of physical pain could possibly be.
Mercenary—selfish—cold—callous as he was, he could not stifle the still
small voice of conscience, which told him he had done a flagrant—a
vile—an awful deed, which would fill his cup with a bitterness, that no
earthly pleasure, no mundane reward, could possibly counteract or
change.
He felt that he was a monster in human shape: he was afraid to catch a
glimpse of his own countenance in the glass—for when he once surveyed it
rapidly, its workings were horrible to behold!
To sell his daughter for the filthy lucre which had tempted him!—It was
horrible—atrocious!
And then,—then, at that very moment while he was pacing his chamber, the
fell deed might be in consummation!
He walked to the window:—how black was the night—how menacing were those
clouds that seemed laden with storm!
He started back with a look of horrified amazement: was there not some
dreadful shape in the air?—assumed not those clouds the form of a
tremendous being, with a countenance of lowering vengeance and awful
threatenings?
No: it was fancy—and yet the temporary creation of that fancy was
dreadful to behold,—as cloud piled on cloud, for an instant wore the
semblance of a supernal, moving phantom, black and menacing with
impending storm!
The guilty, wretched father clenched his fists—gnashed his teeth—knit
his brows—and compressed his lips together to prevent his voice from
suddenly shrieking forth in accents of heart-felt agony.
* * * * *
Having remained for about twenty minutes in the drawing-room, Mrs.
Slingsby summoned her maid, by whose assistance she gained her own
chamber—although she in reality no more required such aid than did the
servant who afforded it.
The maid helped her mistress to divest herself of her clothing, and then
retired.
And now Mrs. Slingsby, instead of seeking her couch—that couch which had
been the scene of guilty pleasure, when Jacob Smith had lain concealed
beneath it—seated herself in a large arm-chair, to wait until the house
was quiet.
"I could wish that any thing rather than _this_ was to take place!" she
murmured two or three times. "Heaven only knows what will be the end of
it! But Henry appears so confident of being able to appease her—so
certain of reducing her even to the position of one who beseeches
instead of menacing—that I am inclined to suppose he has well weighed
all the difficulties of his task. At all events he has promised to spare
me—to make me appear innocent! But will Rosamond be so deceived? No—no:
she will view me with suspicion—her eyes will gradually open——And yet,"
thought Mrs. Slingsby, suddenly interrupting the current of her
reflections, "she will be so completely in my power—at my mercy,—her
honour will be in my hands—her reputation will depend on my secresy——Oh!
how I wish this night was past!" she cried passionately: "for the deed
which is to mark it, is horrible to contemplate!"
* * * * *
And the third person whose mind was so full of the image of Rosamond
Torrens, at the time when she lay down—beauteous and chaste virgin as
she was—to rest beneath the roof of one whom, in her ingenuous
confidence, she believed to be a pattern of female excellence and
virtue,—that third person was Sir Henry Courtenay.
The baronet, on quitting Mrs. Slingsby's house, had returned home in his
carriage, which was at the door ready to convey him thither; and, on
entering his abode, he had immediately repaired to his own chamber.
Dispensing with the services of his valet, he sate down to pass away in
voluptuous reflections the hour that must elapse before he could set
forth again, to return to the dwelling of his mistress in Old Burlington
Street.
He was of that age when the physical powers somewhat require the
stimulus of an ardent and excited imagination; and he now began to gloat
in anticipation of the joys which he promised himself to experience in
the ruin of the hapless Rosamond.
Remorse and compunction touched him not:—if he thought of the grief that
was to ensue, it was merely because he re-arranged in his head all the
details of the eloquent representations he must make to soothe that woe!
Besides, his licentious imagination represented to him the beauteous
Rosamond, more beauteous in her tears; and he had worked himself up to a
pitch of such maddening desire, by the time it was necessary for him to
sally forth, that he would not have resigned his expected prize—no, not
if the ruin and disgrace of ten thousand families were to ensue.
Leaving his house stealthily, by a means of egress at the back, Sir
Henry Courtenay hastened back to Old Burlington Street.
A few moments after he had reached the immediate vicinity of Mrs.
Slingsby's residence, the clocks of the West-end churches proclaimed the
hour of one.
That was the appointed time for his admission into the house.
Nor had he long to wait—for the front-door was soon opened noiselessly
and cautiously, and by a person bearing no light: but the voice which
whispered, "Is it you, Henry?" was that of Mrs. Slingsby.
And noiselessly and cautiously, too, she led the way up stairs, he
having previously put off his shoes, which he carried in his hand.
At the door of her own bed-room, Mrs. Slingsby made the baronet pause
for an instant while she procured a taper; and as she handed it to him,
and the light revealed their countenances to each other, they shrank
from each other's gaze,—for human nature at that instant asserted its
rightful empire, and while the woman recoiled with horror from the man
who was about to commit an awful outrage on a member of her own sex, the
man felt a momentary loathing for the woman who was aiding and abetting
in the work of this foul night.
Mrs. Slingsby hurriedly pointed towards a door at the bottom of the
passage, in the most retired part of the house; and she then retreated
into her own room, a prey to feelings which a convict in Newgate need
not have envied.
Meantime Sir Henry Courtenay had passed on to the extremity of the
passage: and now his hand is upon the door.
He opens that door—he enters—he closes and fastens it behind him.
Advancing towards the bed, he holds the taper so that its light falls
upon the pillow; and the soft, mellow lustre of the wax-candle reveals a
charming countenance, with flushed cheeks and with rosy lips apart.
For Rosamond's slumber is uneasy, though profound,—doubtless the effect
of laudanum upon the nerves of one so entirely unaccustomed to its use,
and who has imbibed so large a dose!
And one of those flushed cheeks reposed on a round, full, and naked arm,
like a red rose-leaf upon Parian marble;—and the other arm was thrown
over the bed-clothes, which had been somewhat disturbed by the
uneasiness of the maiden's sleep, and left exposed the polished
shoulders of dazzling whiteness and the bosom of virgin rotundity and
plumpness.
Oh! what a charming picture was thus revealed to the eyes of the lustful
miscreant, whose desires were increased to almost raging madness by the
spectacle!
He placed the taper on the mantel, and hastened to lay aside—nay, almost
to tear off his garments; and in less than three minutes he was lying by
the side of the young virgin.
But scarcely had his rude hand invaded the treasures of her bosom, when
she awoke with a faint scream and a sudden start—the result of some
disagreeable dream; and then the baronet clasped her with all the fury
of licentiousness in his arms.
A few moments elapsed ere she was aroused sufficiently to comprehend the
dreadful—the horrible truth; but when the torpor produced by the
laudanum had somewhat subsided, she became a prey to the most frightful
alarms, produced by the conviction that some one had invaded the
sanctity of her couch—and a glance showed her the features of Sir Henry
Courtenay.
She would have given vent to her anguish and her horror in appalling
screams; but he placed his hand over her mouth—he muttered fearful
menaces in her ears—he called God to witness his resolution to possess
her; and, though she became bewildered and dismayed—though her brain
whirled, and her reason seemed to be deserting her—yet she battled with
the ravisher—she maintained a desperate, an awful struggle,—and so
unrelenting was the violence which he used to restrain and overpower
her, that murder would have perhaps been done, had not the poor victim
become insensible in his arms!
And then her ruin was accomplished.
Oh! ye clouds, laden with storm, why gave ye not forth your forked
lightnings—why sent ye not abroad your thunders—to smite the hero of
that foul night?
For, oh! while the father was still pacing his chamber in his own
dwelling, the hell that raged in his breast defying all hope of
slumber,—while, too, the no less infamous woman who had pandered to this
work of ruin, was trembling rather for what might be the consequences
than for the deed itself,—there, in that room to which Rosamond had
retired in the pride of innocence and chastity—there was she
despoiled—there became she the victim of the miscreant ravisher!
* * * * *
"Release me—let me depart—let me fly!" implored the wretched Rosamond,
in a tone so subdued with anguish and with weakness, that there was no
fear of its alarming the house.
"Rosamond, hear me—I beseech you!" exclaimed the baronet, as he held her
by the arms in such a manner that she could not escape from the bed.
"Hear reason, if you can! What would you do? Whither can you fly? The
past cannot be recalled; but there is much to think of for the future.
The occurrence of this night is a secret known only to yourself and to
me: your dishonour need never transpire to the world?"
"Oh! my God! my God!" murmured Rosamond, in a tone of ineffable anguish:
"my dishonour!—my dishonour!"
And she repeated the word—the terrible word, in so thrilling,
penetrating, and yet subdued a voice, that even the remorseless baronet
was for a moment touched.
"O Rosamond!" he said, in a hurried and excited manner; "do not repine
so bitterly for what cannot be recalled! Think how I love you, dearest
one—remember that my passion for thee amounted to a frenzy,—and it was
in frenzy that I acted thus. Instead of loathing me——"
"No—no, I do not loathe you!—my God—no!" said Rosamond, becoming the
least degree calmer. "I now perceive how dependant I am upon you—how
necessary it is that your love should console me! But my dear
father—should he learn his daughter's disgrace—Oh! heaven, have mercy
upon me!"
And she once more burst into an agony of weeping.
"Rosamond—Rosamond, compose yourself!" said Sir Henry Courtenay, with
that tenderness of tone which he so well knew how to assume, and on
which he had so much relied as an emollient means to be applied to
soothe the grief of the victim of his desires. "Shall I repeat how
deeply I love thee—how ardently I adore thee? Oh! my best beloved, do
not thus abandon yourself to the wildness of a vain and useless
despair!"
"But have I not been made the victim of a dreadful conspiracy?" said
Rosamond; "was I not inveigled hither to be ruined? Oh! I will fly—I
will fly—I will hasten home to my father—I will throw myself at his feet
and tell him all—and he will pardon and avenge me!"
Again she endeavoured to spring from the bed; but Sir Henry Courtenay
held her back—and, through sheer exhaustion, she fell weeping on his
breast.
Then the task of consoling her—or rather of somewhat moderating the
excess of her anguish, became more easy; and the baronet reasoned and
vowed—argued and protested—and pleaded for pardon so touchingly and with
so much apparent contrition, that Rosamond began to believe there was
indeed some extenuation for one who loved her so passionately, and who
had been led away by the frenzy of those feelings of which she was the
object.
"Oh! why, my adored girl, are you so beautiful?" murmured the baronet:
"rather attribute my crime to the influence—the irresistible influence
of thine own charms, than to any deeply-seated wickedness on my part! I
should have become raving mad for love of thee, had not the fury of my
passion hurried me on to that point, when, reckless of all consequences,
I had recourse to this stratagem. I know that my conduct is
horrible—that it is vile and base in the extreme;—but I sue to thee for
pardon,—I, so proud and haughty—yes, I implore thee, my darling
Rosamond, to forgive me! And, oh! if all the remainder of my life,
devoted to thine happiness, can atone for my turpitude of this night,—if
the most unwearied affection—the most tender love can impart consolation
to thee, my angel—then wilt thou yet smile upon me, and the past shall
be forgotten."
"Then you will make me your wife?" murmured Rosamond.
"Yes, sweet girl—thou shall become mine—mine in the sight of heaven!"
said the baronet, who would have made any pledge at that moment, in
order to solace and reassure his victim.
"But wherefore not have told me that you loved me—why not have demanded
my hand of my father, and have married me as Clarence did my sister?"
asked Rosamond, a doubt striking to her heart's core.
"I said many things to make you understand how dear you were to me,"
answered the baronet; "and you did not comprehend my meaning. Remember
you not that, one day when I called at your father's house, I met you
alone in the parlour; and as you offered me your hand, I said, '_Happy
will the man be on whom this fair hand shall be bestowed!_' And on
another occasion, when you and I were again alone together, the
conversation happened to turn upon death, and I remarked that '_it was
dreadful to contemplate the idea of dying, but that I could lay down my
life to serve you!_'"
"Oh! yes—I remember now!" murmured Rosamond. "And I even thought of
those observations after you were gone; and they seemed to afford me
pleasure to ponder upon them."
"Do you not now understand, then, dearest angel, how disappointment at
finding that I was not at once comprehended, drove me to despair?" said
the wily baronet. "Can you not pardon me, if—thus driven to
desperation—I vowed to possess you—to make you mine—so that you would be
compelled to accept my hand, as you already reigned undisputed mistress
over my heart?"
"If you will fulfil your solemn promise to make me your wife, I shall
yet be happy—and this dreadful night may be forgotten. No—not
forgotten," continued Rosamond, hastily; "because the memory is immortal
for such hours of anguish as these! But you will, at least, make all the
atonement that lies in your power—and I may yet look the world in the
face!"
"Rosamond—my sweet Rosamond, within a month from this time thou shalt be
my wife!" said the baronet.
"With that assurance I must console myself," returned the still weeping
girl. "And now, I adjure you—by the solemnity of the pledge which you
have made me, and which I believe—I implore, you, by that love which you
declare you entertain for me,—to leave me this moment!"
The baronet was fearful of reviving the storm of grief which his
perfidious language had succeeded in quelling; and he accordingly rose
and resumed his apparel.
Not a word was spoken during the two or three minutes which thus passed;
and when Sir Henry was once more dressed, he approached the ruined girl,
saying, "One embrace, Rosamond, and I leave thee till the morrow."
"One word ere we part," she said, in a hurried and almost hollow tone:
"does Mrs. Slingsby know——But surely, surely, she could not have lent
herself——And yet," added the bewildered Rosamond, a second time
interrupting herself abruptly, "how could you have gained admittance
into the house, and in the middle of the night? Oh! heavens, the most
fearful suspicions——"
"Calm yourself—compose your feelings, dearest," said the baronet. "Mrs.
Slingsby knows that I adore you—is aware that I love you: because the
long acquaintance—indeed the sincere friendship which exists between
us—prevents me from having any secrets unrevealed to her. But wrong not
that amiable, that excellent, that pure-minded woman, by unjust
suspicions! I entered her house like a thief—by means of a window
accidentally left unfastened; and in the same manner must I escape now.
Not for worlds would I have her suspect the occurrences of this night!
Therefore, my angel, compose yourself, so that your appearance may not
engender any suspicion in her mind when you meet at the breakfast table
in the morning:—for, remember, my Rosamond, you will shortly become my
wife,—and then, as you yourself observed, you will be enabled to look
the world in the face!"
"And until that moment comes," said Rosamond, with a deep sob, "I shall
blush and be compelled to cast down my eyes in the presence of every one
who knows me. Oh! my God—what cruel fears—what dread thoughts oppress
me! And my sister is doubtless so happy! Heaven grant that she may never
know the anguish which wrings my heart at this moment!"
"By every thing sacred, I conjure you to compose yourself, Rosamond,"
exclaimed Sir Henry Courtenay, now afraid to leave her, lest in the
dread excitement which was reanimating her, she might lay violent hands
upon herself:—for, by the light of the taper, he could perceive that her
countenance was ashy pale, and that while she was uttering those last
words relative to her sister, her features were suddenly distorted by an
expression of intense mental agony.
"Compose myself! Oh! how can I compose myself?" she exclaimed; and then
she burst into a torrent of tears.
The baronet knew the female heart too well not to allow her to give full
vent to the pearly tide of anguish; and three or four minutes
elapsed,—he standing by the bed, contemplating with but little emotion,
unless, indeed, it were of lust, the beauteous being whom he had so
ruthlessly ruined,—and she burying her face in her hands, the tears
trickling between her fingers, and her agonising sobs alone breaking the
solemn stillness of the night.
Sir Henry Courtenay waited until the violence of this renewed outburst
of ineffable woe had somewhat abated; and then he again endeavoured to
console the unhappy victim of his foul desires—the ruined sufferer by
his hellish turpitude!
And Rosamond had so much need of solace, and was so dependent on hope
for the future to enable her to sustain the almost crushing misery of
the present, that she threw herself upon his honour—his mercy—his
deceitful promises; and she even smiled—but faintly—oh! very
faintly—when he again employed his infernal sophistry to prove the deed
of that dread night to be the surest testimony to his ardent love.
At length she was sufficiently composed to induce him to take his
departure; and, like a vile snake as he was in heart, he crept away from
the chamber of the deflowered—the ravished girl.
As he stole thus stealthily along the passage, he observed a light
streaming from Mrs. Slingsby's room, the door of which had been
purposely left ajar.
He entered, and found his accomplice still up; nor had the abandoned
woman felt the least inclination to retire to rest.
For her mind had been a prey to the most terrible alarms, from the
moment when the baronet had first set foot in Rosamond's chamber.
"I have succeeded—and she will not proclaim the outrage to the world,"
said Sir Henry Courtenay, in a low tone. "I have, moreover, kept my word
with you, and have made her believe that you are innocent of any share
in the proceeding."
Mrs. Slingsby gave no answer, but bit her under lip forcibly—for vile as
she herself was, she could hardly prevent herself from exclaiming to her
companion, "You are a black-hearted monster!"
Sir Henry did not, however, notice that she was influenced by any
emotion hostile to him; or if he did, he cared not to show that he
perceived it;—but, wishing his mistress "good night," he quitted the
room, and stole out of the house.