CLV. THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER…

CLV. THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER

On arriving at the hotel indicated, Mrs. Fitzhardinge alighted, and inquired of the porter whether Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield were residing there. The man referred to a long list of names on a paper posted against the wall; and, after running his eye down the column, turned to the old woman with the laconic, but respectfully uttered observation,--“Removed to No. 9, Rue Monthabor.”

To this new address did Mrs. Fitzhardinge repair, without pausing to ask any further question; and on her arrival at the entrance to a house of handsome appearance in the street named, she inquired for Mr. and Mrs. Hatfield.

“Oh! it is all right,” said the porter. “I was told that if any persons called to ask for Mrs. Hatfield, I was to direct them to the lady who has taken the second floor.”

Mrs. Fitzhardinge was somewhat surprised by this ambiguous answer: but it instantly struck her that Charles might have assumed his title of Viscount Marston, and that the name of Hatfield would, therefore, be unknown to the porter, had no particular instructions been left with him. At all events, she was in too great a hurry to remain bandying words with the man; and she accordingly hastened to ascend to the second floor, which, we should observe by the way, is the most fashionable in Parisian houses.

But as she mounted the staircase, it struck her that the porter, when replying to her query, had made no mention of any gentleman at all, but had plainly and clearly spoken of “the lady who has taken the second floor.” The old woman was puzzled--indeed, bewildered by the mystery which suddenly appeared to envelope her; and a certain misgiving seized upon her mind, the nature of which she could not precisely define.

On gaining the marble landing of the second floor, she rang the bell at the door of the suite of apartments on that flat, and was immediately admitted by Rosalie into a handsomely furnished drawing-room.

“Whom shall I mention to mademoiselle?” inquired the French lady’s-maid.

“Her mother,” was the response.

Rosalie withdrew; and Mrs. Fitzhardinge, seating herself upon an elegant ottoman, cast her eyes around the splendid room.

“Perdita is well lodged, at all events,” she mused inwardly. “But somehow or another, there is a mystery which I cannot comprehend. The porter spoke of no gentleman--the maid was equally silent on that head, and alluded to her mistress as mademoiselle[12] and not as madame. What can it mean?”

At this moment the door opened, and Perdita made her appearance in a charming déshabillée; for she had been assisting to arrange her effects in her newly-hired ready-furnished apartments.

The meeting between the mother and daughter was characterised by nothing cordial--much less affectionate: there was no embracing--not even a shaking of the hand, but only a mutual desire, hastily evinced on either side, to receive explanations.

“Where is Charles?” demanded Mrs. Fitzhardinge.

“Gone,” was the laconic reply.

“Gone!” ejaculated the old woman, now manifesting the most profound astonishment.

“Yes; gone--departed--never to return,” said Perdita, with some degree of bitterness: then, in an altered tone, and with recovered calmness, she asked, “But how have you managed respecting the accusation----”

“Ah! then you have heard of that?” interrupted Mrs. Fitzhardinge, with a subdued feeling of spite; for she thought that her daughter took the matter very quietly. “I was taken back to London--examined at the Marylebone Police-court--and discharged without much difficulty. Now, in your turn, answer my next question--wherefore has Charles left you?”

“In the first place,” said Perdita, “tell me how you discovered my abode?”--and she fixed her large grey eyes in a searching manner upon the old woman, as if to ascertain by that look the precise extent of her mother’s knowledge relative to herself and Charles.

“That is speedily explained,” observed Mrs Fitzhardinge, who instantly perceived that her daughter intended to reveal to her no more than she was actually compelled to do, and it flashed to her mind--she knew not why--that Perdita meant especially to throw a veil over the fact of her marriage with Charles. Else, why had she not immediately mentioned it?--why had she not hastened to satisfy her that the alliance had indeed taken place? But if Perdita had a motive in concealing that fact, then the knowledge of the secret might sooner or later prove serviceable to Mrs. Fitzhardinge; and she therefore resolved to feign ignorance. All these thoughts and calculations swept through the old woman’s brain in a moment; and she preserved the while the most steady composure of countenance. “That is speedily explained,” she repeated. “I went to the Prefecture of Police, and learnt your address.”

“But you knew not by what name to ask for me,” said Perdita, still keeping her eyes fixed on her mother’s countenance.

“I inquired for you by the name of Fitzhardinge,” answered the old woman, hazarding the falsehood; “and was referred to the hotel where you and Charles had put up----”

“And on your calling there?” asked Perdita, impatiently.

“The porter laconically told me that you had removed hither,” returned the old woman. “But what means the absence of Charles? and has he not married you?”

“No,” responded Perdita, reading in her mother’s countenance more intently--more searchingly than hitherto: “he has played a perfidious part, and deserted me.”

“The villain!” ejaculated the old woman, affecting to give full credence to the denial that the matrimonial alliance had taken place; while, on the other hand, Perdita was completely deceived by her mother’s profound duplicity.

“The adventures I have experienced,” said Perdita, “have been numerous and exciting. When every thing was settled for the ceremony to take place, the father of Charles suddenly appeared upon the scene, and exposed me in a cruel manner to his son. In fact, Mr. Hatfield proved himself to be well acquainted with all--every thing--relating to you and me; and he unsparingly availed himself of that knowledge. I retaliated--I convinced him that his family affairs were no secret to me;--and then he again assumed the part of one who triumphs in defeating the hopes of another; for he produced unquestionable evidence to the fact that his son is illegitimate, and entirely dependent upon him.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Fitzhardinge, who now fancied that she read the reason which had induced Perdita to conceal her marriage with the young man. “Then, after all, your suitor is plain Charles Hatfield, and not Viscount Marston?”

“Such is indeed the case, mother,” returned Perdita; “and I think you will agree with me that I have had a fortunate escape.”

“I do congratulate you on that point,” answered the old woman, her dissimulation continuing impenetrable. “But where have you obtained the means to hire this handsome lodging?”

“You cannot suppose that I allowed Mr. Hatfield and his son to depart without making ample provision for me!” exclaimed Perdita. “No; I displayed a too intimate acquaintance with all their family affairs to permit them thus to abandon me. Besides, the very secret of the young man’s illegitimacy--a secret which the father revealed in a moment of excitement, produced by the discussion that took place between us--that secret----”

“I understand you, Perdita,” said Mrs. Fitzhardinge: “it was necessary to purchase your silence respecting a matter that involved the good name and the honour of Lady Georgiana Hatfield. Well, have you made a profitable bargain for yourself?”

“A thousand pounds in ready money; and five hundred a year for life, on condition that I return not to England,” was the response.

“Good!” ejaculated the old woman, her eyes glistening with delight.

“And I have adopted another name, for a variety of reasons,” continued Perdita. “In the first place, having learnt from that hated Mr. Hatfield of your arrest at Dover, and the nature of the charge against you, I feared lest the whole thing should be blazoned in the newspapers----”

“Well, well,” interrupted her mother: “I understand! The name of Fitzhardinge would suit no longer. What is the new one?”

“I have taken that of Mortimer,” answered the daughter. “Laura Mortimer sounds prettily, I think?”

“Then you have not even retained your Christian name?” said the old woman, interrogatively.

“No; for it is so uncommon, that it could not fail to excite attention, wherever whispered,” was the reply.

“In this case, I am to become Mrs. Mortimer?” continued the mother.

“Precisely so; and as a matter of course, you will take up your abode with me.”

“You do not appear particularly unhappy at the loss of the young man whom you fell so deeply in love with?” observed the old woman, whom we must now denominate Mrs. Mortimer.

“That dream has passed--gone by--vanished!” returned Laura--for by this Christian name is Perdita to be henceforth known; and as she spoke, her voice assumed a deep and even menacing tone. “Yes--that illusion is dissipated; and, if circumstances permit, I will have vengeance where I used to think only of love.”

“To what circumstances do you allude?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.

“Can you not understand my position--aye, and your own position also?” exclaimed Laura. “At present we are dependent, to a certain degree, upon Mr. Hatfield, and must adhere to the conditions he imposed upon me: that is to say, we must reside on the continent so long as the income allowed by him shall be indispensably necessary. But the moment that I can carve out a new career of fortune for myself, either by a brilliant marriage, or by enchaining some wealthy individual in my silken meshes,--the instant that I find myself in a condition to spurn the aid of Mr. Hatfield’s purse, and can command treasures from another quarter,--then, mother, then,” added Laura, emphatically, “will be the time for vengeance! For, think you,” she continued, drawing herself proudly up to her full height, while her nostrils dilated and her eyes flashed fire,--“think you that, if I have loved as a woman, I will not likewise be avenged as a woman? Oh! yes--yes; and welcome--most welcome will be that day when I shall see myself independent of the purse of Mr. Hatfield, and able to work out my vengeance after the manner of my own heart! To be exposed by the father and discarded by the son--to have the mask torn away from my countenance by the former, and be looked upon with loathing and abhorrence by the latter,--oh, all this is enough to drive me mad--mad! And if I retained a calm demeanour and a stern composure of countenance in the presence of those men this morning, it was only the triumph of an indomitable pride over feelings wounded in the most sensitive point!”

“Vengeance, indeed, is a pleasing consummation,” said the old woman: then, after an instant’s pause, she added, “And I also have a vengeance to gratify.”

“You, mother!” ejaculated Laura, with unfeigned surprise.

“Yes. You remember the night that we called upon Percival? Well, you may recollect how he spoke of a certain visitor who had been with him----”

“Torrens--your husband,” observed Laura, quietly.

“The same. He was the murderer of Percival,” added Mrs. Mortimer, her countenance assuming an expression so fiend-like, that it was horrible to behold.

“How know you that?” demanded Laura, surprised.

“I am convinced of it,” returned her mother. “Listen! On that night when we visited the miser, Torrens had been with him: indeed, he had departed from the house only the moment before we knocked at the door. You remember that Percival said so? Well--and you also recollect that Torrens was represented to be poor and very miserable? While we were engaged with Percival, the cash-box was produced, and its contents were displayed. A man clambered up to the window, and looked through the holes in the shutters. This was proved at the police-office. We departed, and the miser was left alone. The back gate was forced open--or, rather, the wood-work was cut away in such a manner as to allow the bolt to be shot back with the fingers--and the lock was picked with a piece of iron. All this was done from the outside. Then, again, the stake whereby the old man was killed was taken from a piece of waste ground at the back of the house; and on the damp clayey soil the marks of boots were discovered. The murder was therefore perpetrated by the man whose footsteps were thus traced; and who could that man be but Torrens? I have no doubt of the accuracy of my conjectures.”

“They are reasonable, at the least,” observed Laura. “But wherefore do you trouble your head about him, when I require your assistance here in a matter of importance?”

“One moment, and you shall explain your views when I have made you acquainted with mine,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Percival was a rich man, and that cash-box contained a treasure in notes and gold. Torrens has, no doubt, concealed himself somewhere in London;--a man who has committed such a crime invariably regards the metropolis itself as the safest hiding-place. My design is to ferret him out, and compel him by menaces to surrender into my keeping the treasure which he has obtained. You and I, Perdita--Laura, I mean--will know how to spend those thousands; and it will give me pleasure--unfeigned pleasure,” she added, with a fearful expression of countenance, “to know that he has been plunged back again into misery and want.”

“The project is a good one, mother,” said Laura; “and the money would prove most welcome. Possessed of a few thousands of pounds, I would at once act in complete independence of Mr. Hatfield. But wherefore this bitter vengeance against the man who is still your husband?”

“Because, when he was released from Newgate upwards of nineteen years ago, when imprisoned there on suspicion of having murdered a certain Sir Henry Courtenay,” said the old woman,--“when he was set free, I tell you, I still languished a prisoner in that horrible gaol. And he came not near me: he recognised me not--he loathed and abhorred me; and I knew it! You, Laura, have felt how terrible it is to be hated--shunned--forsaken by one on whom you have claims: you are still smarting under the conduct of Charles Hatfield. Can you not, then, comprehend how I should cherish feelings of bitterness against that sneaking coward--that base wretch, who was a partner in my iniquity, and who abandoned me to my fate, doubtless hoping that a halter would end my days, and for ever rid him of me.”

“But you loved not that man, according to all I have ever heard you say upon the subject,” returned Laura; “whereas,” she added, in a tone of transitory softness, “I did--yes--I did love Charles Hatfield.”

“Granted the difference!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer; “and yet, even making every possible allowance for that, there is still room enough to admit the existence of my bitter hostility against Torrens. What! was I not arrested the other day--dragged ignominiously back to London--compelled to sleep in a prison; and forced to appear at the bar of justice,--and all on account of his crime! He reaped the benefit--I the inconvenience, the fear, the exposure, and the disgrace! It is true that I never loved him--never even liked him;--true, also, that ours was a marriage of convenience--both suspecting, despising, and abhorring each other. From the very first, then, I was his enemy; and ever since I have cherished an undying animosity against him.”

“Well, mother, I shall not attempt to interfere with your vengeance any more than you will seek to mar the progress of mine. You have given me an explanation of your views; and it is now my turn to speak. This morning,” continued Laura, “my hopes were suddenly defeated, and my golden dreams dissipated by the appearance of Mr. Hatfield. At half-past eleven o’clock, I found myself deserted by him whom I had loved, and alone as it were in a strange city. I instantly made up my mind not to yield to sorrow or give way to grief; and when a woman, placed in such circumstances, will not permit her tender feelings to get the better of her pride--when, in fact, she takes refuge in that very pride against the poignancy of sorrow--she necessarily conceives thoughts of vengeance. For the pride which becomes her defence and her shield in such a case, must be vindicated. I therefore determined to cherish this hope of vengeance, and gratify that hope when the proper time shall come. But, in the interval--and first of all--I must create a brilliant social position for myself. On these matters I reflected seriously this morning, so soon as Charles and his father had taken their departure. Then, to a certain extent, I made a confidant of my French lady’s-maid, who has already become deeply attached to me, and in whom I speedily discovered a spirit of intrigue and a shrewd disposition. At the same time, I told her nothing more than was absolutely necessary to account for the abrupt departure of Charles and my change of name; and even those explanations which I did give her were not entirely true. In a word, I acted with caution, while I secured her fidelity and devotion to my interests. Having thus come to a certain understanding, as it were, we repaired to an agency-office, kept by an Englishman, and made inquiries for furnished apartments in a fashionable neighbourhood. The agent conducted us hither: I inspected the suite--approved of it--paid a half-year’s rent in advance--and removed into my new abode, where you now find me, at about three o’clock this afternoon.”

“You have lost no time in settling yourself thus far, at all events,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “But proceed: you have more yet to explain to me.”

“Only to observe that your aid is now required, mother, to help me to that brilliant position which I am determined to reach, and the attainment of which will render us independent for the remainder of our days.”

“My aid and assistance you shall have, Laura--aye, and effectually too,” returned the old woman, with difficulty concealing the joy and triumph which she experienced on finding herself thus again appealed to as a means to work out a grand design: “but a fortnight’s delay will not prejudice your scheme. You will not lose one particle of your beauty in that time: on the contrary, you will recover your wonted hues of health--for your cheeks are somewhat pale this evening, and there is a blueish tint around your eyes. Doubtless,” she added, with a slightly malicious grin, “Charles Hatfield was a husband to you in everything save the indissoluble bonds!”

“No,” replied Laura, with an effrontery so cool, so complete, that, had the old woman been questioning her daughter on suspicion only, and not on a verified certainty, she would have been satisfied with that laconic, but emphatic negative.

“Ah! then your maudlin sentimentalism did not render you altogether pliant and docile to the impetuous passions of that handsome young man?” she observed.

“Believing that we were to be married,” answered Laura, “I necessarily refrained from compromising myself in his estimation. But wherefore these questions, mother?”--and again the fine large eyes of the young woman were fixed searchingly on Mrs. Mortimer’s countenance.

“I had no particular motive in putting those queries,” was the response, apparently delivered off hand, but in reality well weighed and measured, as was every word that the artful old creature uttered upon this occasion. “I was merely curious to learn whether your prudence or your naturally voluptuous temperament had prevailed in the strong wrestle that must have taken place between those feelings, while you were travelling and dwelling alone with a handsome young man whom you almost adored.”

“Not quite alone, mother,” exclaimed Laura, impatiently. “Rosalie was with us.”

“Oh! the French lady’s maid, who is so shrewd in disposition, and who manifests such an admirable capacity for intrigue!” cried the old woman, unable to resist the opportunity of bantering her daughter a little, in revenge for the cool insults which she herself had received at the hands of that daughter during the last few days of their sojourn in England.

“Mother, have you sought me out only to revive a certain bitterness of feeling which you so recently studied to provoke between us!” demanded Laura, her countenance flushing with indignation; and when she had ceased speaking, she bit her under-lip with her pearly teeth.

“No, no: we will not dispute,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “But you must admit that I warned you not to dream of marriage with that Charles Hatfield; and, had you followed my advice, and stayed in London, you might have retained him as a lover----”

“Let us not talk of the past,” interrupted Laura, with an imperiousness of manner which warned her mother not to provoke her farther. “The present is assured, and we are at least independent; but the future is before us--and there is the sphere in which my hopes are soaring.”

“To return, then, to the point whence I ere now diverged,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer, “I will repeat my assertion that one fortnight’s delay will not mar your plans. On the contrary, you will obtain physical rest after the fatigues of travelling, and mental composure after the excitement of recent occurrences. Your charms will be enhanced, and you will thereby become the more irresistible. This fortnight’s interval I require for my own purposes, as just now explained to you; and, whatever be the result of my search after Torrens, I pledge myself that, if alive and in health, I will return to you in the evening of the fourteenth day from the present date.”

“Agreed!” exclaimed Laura. “You purpose, therefore, to retrace your way to London!”

“Such is my intention. A night’s rest will be sufficient to recruit my strength,” continued Mrs. Mortimer; “and to-morrow morning I shall depart.”

“Now let us thoroughly understand each other, and in no way act without a previous constitution and agreement,” said Laura. “You are about to return to the English metropolis, and it may happen that you will encounter Charles Hatfield. It is my wish that you avoid him--that you do not appear even to notice him; and, for the same reasons which urge me to give you this recommendation, I must request that you attempt no extortion with his father--that you will not seek to render available or profitable the knowledge you possess of the private affairs of that family. Were you to act contrary to my wishes in this respect, you would only mar the projects which I have formed to ensure the eventual gratification of my vengeance.”

“I have listened to you with attention,” said the old woman, “because I would not irritate you by interruption. The counsel you have given me was, however, quite unnecessary. My sole object in visiting London is connected with Torrens; and were I to behold Charles Hatfield at a distance, I should avoid him rather than throw myself in his way. His father I know not even by sight. Besides, according to the tacit understanding which appeared to establish itself between you and me just now, we are mutually to forbear from interfering in each other’s special affairs; and on this basis, good feelings will permanently exist between us. On my return to Paris, fourteen days hence, I shall devote myself to the object which you have in view; and rest assured that, ere long, some wealthy, amorous, and docile nobleman--English or French, no matter which--shall be languishing at your feet.”

“Yes--it is for you to find out the individual to be enchained; and it will then be for me to enchain him,” cried Laura, her countenance lighting up with the glow of anticipated triumph.

The mother and daughter thus made their arrangements, and settled their plans in an amicable fashion; and the former, after passing the night at the handsome lodgings which Laura occupied, set out in the morning on her journey back to London.

* * * * *

We must here pause, for a brief space, to explain the sentiments and motives that respectively influenced these designing women during the lengthy discourse above recorded.

We have already stated, that even before Mrs. Mortimer found herself in the presence of her daughter, her suspicions and her curiosity were excited by two or three mysterious though trivial incidents that occurred; and she had not been many minutes in Laura’s company, before she acquired the certainty that the young woman intended to conceal the fact of her marriage with Charles Hatfield. Mrs. Mortimer at first fancied that this desire arose from shame on the part of Laura, whose pride might naturally revolt from the idea of avowing that, in her eagerness to secure the hand of a nobleman, she had only linked herself indissolubly to a simple commoner, of illegitimate birth, and entirely dependent on his father. But, as the conversation embraced ampler details, and exhibited views more positive and minute, Mrs. Mortimer perceived that Laura was not influenced by wounded pride and shame only in concealing the fact of her marriage; but that, as she contemplated another matrimonial alliance, as soon as an opportunity for an eligible match should present itself she was unwilling to allow her mother to attain the knowledge of a secret that would place her so completely in that mother’s power.

And Mrs. Mortimer had accurately read the thoughts and motives that were uppermost in Laura’s mind. For, imagining from the observations made, and the questions put by her mother, that the fact of her marriage with Charles Hatfield was indeed unknown to the old woman, she resolved to cherish so important--so precious a secret. Well aware of the despotic character and arbitrary disposition of her parent, Laura chose to place herself as little as possible at the mercy of one who sought to rule with a rod of iron, and who was unscrupulous and resolute to a degree in adopting any means that might establish her sway over those whom she aspired to controul.

“No--no,” thought Laura within herself: “my secret is safe--I am well assured of that;--and my mother shall not penetrate it! The lips of Rosalie, who alone could reveal it to her now, are sealed by rich bribes. For such a secret in my mother’s keeping would reduce me to the condition of her slave! I should not dare to contract another marriage; because her exigences would be backed by a menace of exposure, and a prosecution for bigamy: and by means of the terrorism which she would thus exercise over me, I should become a mere puppet in her hands--not daring to assert a will of my own!”

On the other hand, Mrs. Mortimer’s thoughts ran thus:--“Laura believes me to be ignorant of her marriage, and my dissimulation shall confirm her in that belief. Yes--I will act so as to lull her into complete security on this point. It would be of no use to me now to proclaim my knowledge of the fact that the marriage has taken place; because, at present, she requires my services, and will be civil and courteous to me of her own accord. But when once I shall have helped her to a wealthy and titled husband, and when my aid shall no longer be required, then she will re-assert her sway and attempt to thrust me aside as a mere cypher! But she shall find herself mistaken; and the secret that I thus treasure up must prove the talisman to give me despotic controul over herself, her husband, her household,--aye, and her purse! Yes--yes: she may marry now, without any opposition from me. For, whereas in the former case her marriage would indeed have reduced me to the condition of a miserable dependant, a new alliance will invest me with the power of a despot. Ah! daughter--daughter, you have at length over-reached yourself.”

And such was indeed the case; for so well did Mrs. Mortimer play her part of deep dissimulation, that Laura felt convinced her secret was safe, and that the circumstance of her marriage was totally unsuspected. And it was as much to confirm the young woman in this belief, as for the purpose of slyly bantering her, that the mother questioned her as to the point to which her connexion with Charles Hatfield had reached, and astutely placed in juxta-position her daughter’s prudence on the one hand, and voluptuousness of temperament on the other. Thus Laura was completely duped, while secretly triumphing in the belief that it was her parent who was deceived!

We must, however, observe, that the two women, under present circumstances, felt dependent on each other in many and important respects; and this mutual necessity rendered them easy to come to terms and settle their affairs upon an amicable basis.

On the one hand, Mrs. Mortimer relied upon her daughter for pecuniary supplies; and this very circumstance prompted her to undertake the journey to London in the hope of finding Torrens, and extorting from him the treasure of which, as she believed, he had plundered Percival. The possession of a few thousands of pounds, added to her knowledge of Laura’s secret, would place her in a condition of complete independence; and that independence she would labour hard to achieve for herself. But she might fail--and then she would again be compelled to fall back on the resources of her daughter. Thus, for the present at least, she was in a state of dependence--and it was by no means certain that her visit to London would change her condition in this respect.

On the other hand, Laura was dependent on her mother for aid in carrying out her ambitious views. Ignorant of the French language as she was, she could not hope to succeed by herself alone; and, in intrigues which required so much delicacy of management, she could not rely solely on a lady’s-maid. The assistance of her mother was therefore necessary; for she reflected that the astute old woman who had succeeded in inducing Charles Hatfield to accompany her to the lodgings in Suffolk-street, could not fall to lead some wealthy and amorous noble within the influence of her daughter’s syren-charms in the Rue Monthabor.

We have now explained the exact position in which these two designing women were placed with regard to each other; and we must request our readers to bear in mind all the observations which we have just recorded, inasmuch as they afford a clue to the motives of many transactions to be hereafter narrated.

For the history of Laura is, as it were, only just commenced; and the most startling, exciting, and surprising incidents of her career have yet to be told.

She was a woman of whom it may be well said, “We ne’er shall look upon her like again!”

But the delineation of such a character as this Perdita--or Laura, as we are henceforth to call her--has the advantage of throwing into glorious contrast the virtues, amenities, and endearing qualities of woman generally,--inasmuch as she is a grand and almost unique exception, proving the rule which asserts the excellent qualities of her sex.

CLVI. THE HALF-BROTHERS

It was about five o’clock in the evening of the second day after the incidents just related, that the Earl of Ellingham received a note, the address of which was written in a feigned hand, and with the word “private” marked in the corner.

The messenger, who left it at the mansion in Pall-mall, had departed immediately his errand was discharged, and without waiting for any reply.

Lord Ellingham happened to be alone in the library when the missive was placed in his hands, and on opening it he recognised the writing of his half-brother; for the address only was disguised--a precaution adopted in case the letter should be observed by the ladies before it reached the hands of the earl.

The contents convoyed a brief intimation that Mr. Hatfield had returned to London with his son, and that they had put up temporarily at the Trafalgar Hotel, Spring-gardens, where the presence of the nobleman was anxiously expected.

Thither the earl accordingly repaired, and a waiter conducted him to an apartment, in which he was received by his half-brother alone--the father having deemed it prudent that the son should not be present while the necessary explanations were being given.

The meeting between the nobleman and Mr. Hatfield was cordial, and even affectionate: how different from that of the mother and daughter in Paris, as described in the preceding chapter!

“You have recovered your son, Thomas,” said the earl; “and under any circumstances I congratulate you. The fact that he has returned to London with you convinces me that the paternal authority is once more recognised.”

“Yes--he is here--in an adjacent room, Arthur,” replied Mr. Hatfield. “I thought it prudent, for many reasons, to send for you privately, and consult you before I ventured to take him back to his mother’s presence. Indeed I know not, after all that has occurred, whether you will permit him to cross your threshold again--whether you can ever forgive him.”

“He is your son, Thomas, and that is sufficient,” interrupted the generous, noble-hearted earl. “Whatever he may have done, I promise to pardon him: however gravely he may have erred, I will yield him my forgiveness. Nay, more--I will undertake to promise the same for my wife, who you know is not a woman that harbours rancour.”

“The amiable, the excellent Esther! Oh! no, no--she would not refuse pardon or sympathy to a living soul!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield. “And you, my generous brother--my never-failing friend--how can I sufficiently thank you for these assurances which you give me, and which so materially tend to lighten the sorrow that weighs upon my heart! I have suffered and undergone much during the few days of my absence from London.”

“But you have recovered your son,” hastily interrupted the earl, pressing his half-brother’s hand with a fervour that was indeed consolatory; “and I am sure that, although his errors may have been great, he has not committed any thing dishonourable. He may have been self-willed--rebellious against the paternal authority--ungrateful--unmindful of those who wish him well; he may have yielded himself up to the wiles of an infamous woman----”

“All that has he assuredly done, Arthur,” said Mr. Hatfield, in a melancholy tone; “and more still! For, as you yourself suspected on that day when we made so many distressing discoveries in the library, he found out who I was--who I am,--he believed himself to be my legitimate son--he even raised money by the name of Viscount Marston--he dared to contemplate measures to force me to assume your title, and claim your estates; and he would have sacrificed you--me--his mother--the countess--aye, and the amiable, excellent Frances--he would have sacrificed us all,” added Mr. Hatfield, profoundly excited, “to his inordinate ambition! Now, my dear Arthur,” he asked, in a milder and more measured tone--“now, can you forgive my son all this?”

“Yes--and more--ten thousand times more!” ejaculated the earl, emphatically. “Had he possessed the right to accomplish all he devised--aye, had he carried out his designs to the very end--even then, Thomas, would I have forgiven him for your sake.”

“It is a god--an angel who speaks thus; and not a mere human being!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, embracing his half-brother with an enthusiasm and a fervour amounting almost to a worship. “Oh! why are not all men like you?--the world would then know not animosity, nor rancour, nor strife; and earth would be heaven!”

“Thomas, Thomas,” cried the earl, reproachfully, “attach not too much importance to a feeling on my part which you yourself would show under similar circumstances! But let us speak of your son. He has erred, and you have forgiven him--you, his father, who are the most deeply wounded by his temporary ingratitude, have pardoned him and taken him again to your heart. Shall not I, then, who look upon him in the light of a nephew--shall not I, an uncle, forgive and forget what a father can pardon and obliterate from his memory? Yes--and I will even find extenuating circumstances in his favour: I will search out and conjure up excuses for him! Endowed with an enthusiastic disposition--an ardent longing to render himself conspicuous in the world--a fervid craving to earn distinction and acquire a proud name,--he paused not to reflect whether it were well to shine with an adventitious lustre, or to win for himself and by himself the glory that should encircle his brow. The splendid career of the Prince of Montoni dazzled--nay, almost blinded him; and while he contemplated the eminence on which that illustrious personage stands, he forgot that his Royal Highness obtained not rank and power by hereditary right, but by his great deeds, his steady perseverance in the course of rectitude, and his ennobling virtues. While filled with lofty aspirations, your son suddenly made the discovery of certain family secrets which appeared to place a title within his reach. Ah! pardon him if he stretched out his hand to grasp the visionary coronet,--pardon him, I say--and wonder not if in the eagerness of his desire to clutch the dreamy bauble, he thrust parents, relatives, and friends rudely aside.”

“The generosity which prompts you to extenuate his grievous faults shall not be cooled nor marred by any opposite opinion on my part,” said Mr. Hatfield. “And, my God! is he not my son?--and have I not already--yes, already--while we were still in Paris--promised to forgive him every thing. But when I think of all the misery his insane ambition would have brought upon you and yours----”

“Oh! the loss of title and wealth would not interfere with my happiness, Thomas,” interrupted the earl, smiling.

“And that loss you cannot now sustain--no--never, never!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, impetuously; “and I thank God that I am enabled to give you this assurance! For the papers--the fatal papers--the family documents, are all burnt--burnt with my own hand, and in the presence of that young man who dared to take them from the secret recess where you had deposited them.”

“Ere now you called me generous, Thomas,” said the earl,--“and for the performance of a common Christian duty--I mean, the forgiveness of one who has offended and who is penitent. But you, my brother--what generosity have you not shown towards me,--yes--and for years--long years;--and now, to crown it all, you have destroyed those evidences which would make you great at any moment. Oh! as the world’s ambition goes, and as human hearts are constituted, your generosity outvalues mine as immeasurably as the boundless Pacific exceeds the stagnant puddle in the street!”

And, as the earl spoke these words with an enthusiasm and a sincerity that came from the inmost recesses of his heart, he dashed away a tear.

Then, as if suddenly animated by the same sentiment--a sentiment of mutual regard, devotion, and admiration,--the half-brothers grasped each other’s hands; and the pressure was long and fervid--a profound silence reigning between them the while,--for, men of years and worldly experience though they were, their souls’ emotions were deeply stirred and their finest feelings were aroused.

“I have not yet told you all--perhaps scarcely even the worst, relative to my unfortunate son,” said Mr. Hatfield, after a long pause. “That vile woman of whom Villiers spoke--that Perdita Slingsby--or Torrens--or Fitzhardinge--whichever her name may be----”

“Ah! I understand you already,” interrupted the earl, in a tone of deep commiseration: “the artful creature has inveigled your son into a hasty marriage. Is it not so?”

“Alas! it is too true, Arthur,” said Mr. Hatfield; and he then proceeded to narrate to his brother all that had occurred during his absence from London,--the accident near Greenwich--the adventure with the officers at Dover--the interview with his son in Paris--the negotiations with Perdita--and the terms which he had finally settled with that designing woman.

“Oh! that you had been one day earlier,” exclaimed Lord Ellingham; “and this odious marriage would not have occurred. It is lamentable indeed, Thomas--and the more so, in consequence of the hopes that I had founded on the attachment which until lately existed between Charles and my daughter.”

“Ah! it is that--it is that which cuts me to the very soul!” cried Mr. Hatfield, with exceeding bitterness of tone and manner.

“And yet there is hope--there is hope for us yet!” exclaimed the earl, who, after pacing the room in deep thought for a few minutes, turned suddenly towards his half-brother.

“Hope do you say?” demanded the latter, his countenance brightening up--though he could not as yet conjecture, much less perceive the source whence the gleam of hope could possibly emanate.

“Yes--hope,” repeated the earl emphatically, but sinking his voice almost to a whisper, as if he were afraid that the very walls should hear the words he was uttering. “Did not that woman tell you she should contract another marriage----”

“She assuredly intimated as much,” answered Mr. Hatfield; “and by her words and manner I have no doubt that the intention was uppermost in her mind.”

“And from the knowledge which we now possess of her character,” added the earl, “we may rest satisfied that she will not refuse the first good offer that presents itself. Well, then--on the day that she contracts another marriage, Charles may consider himself absolved from the alliance which he so unhappily formed.”

“Ah! I comprehend you, my dear Arthur!” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, his heart already feeling lighter. “But the legal tie will still exist,” he added an instant afterwards, his voice again becoming solemn and mournful.

“The law is an unnatural--a vile--and a miserable one, which would for ever exclude either that woman or your son from the portals of the matrimonial temple!” said the earl, speaking with impassioned emphasis, though still in a subdued tone, “Charles has discarded her--and she has consented never more to molest him. Already, then, are they severed in a moral point of view. But should that woman contract another marriage--take unto herself another husband--and thereby prove that her severance from the young man whom she ensnared and inveigled, is complete,--should she adopt the initiative in that respect, it would be a despicable fastidiousness and a contemptible affectation on the part of any one to say to Charles Hatfield, ‘You must never know matrimonial happiness: but you must remain in your present false position, a husband without a wife, for the remainder of your days!’ It were inhuman--base--and unnatural thus to address your son, when once the woman herself shall have ratified by her actions that compact which her words and her signature have already sanctioned. Were a father to consult me under such circumstances, and ask my advice whether he should bestow his daughter on a young man situated as your son will then be,--my counsel would be entirely in the affirmative. Can you therefore suppose for a moment that I shall shrink from acting in accordance with the advice I should assuredly give to another man who is likewise a father? No--no! If then, in the course of time, this Perdita shall contract a new marriage,--and if your son manifest, as I hope and believe he will do, contrition for the past--if his conduct be such as to afford sure guarantees for the future--and if his attachment for Frances should revive, as I am certain that hers, poor girl! will continue unimpaired,--under all these circumstances, Thomas, I should not consider myself justified in stamping the unhappiness of that pair by refusing my consent to their union.”

“Most solemnly do I assure you, Arthur,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, “that, as an impartial person, and supposing I were disinterested in the matter, I should view it precisely in the same light: but I should not have dared to express those sentiments before you, had you not been the first to give utterance to them.”

“It is, after all, the mere common-sense aspect of the question,” said the earl. “A young man is inveigled into a marriage with a woman whom he looks upon as an angel of purity; and in a few hours he discovers her to be a demon of pollution. They separate upon positive and written conditions. The tribunals would take cognizance of the affair, and grant a legal divorce were they appealed to: but a private arrangement is deemed preferable to a public scandal. Well, the woman marries again--and every remaining shadow of claim which she might still have had upon the individual whom she had entrapped and deluded, ceases at once. The complete snapping of the bond--the total severance of the tie, is her own doing. It is true that the law may proclaim the first marriage to be the only legal one: but morality revolts against such an unnatural averment. These are my solemn convictions;--and, were I to ponder upon them for a hundred years, I should not waver one tittle in my belief.”

“There is more injustice committed by a false morality--more unhappiness inflicted by a ridiculous fastidiousness, than the world generally would believe,” observed Mr. Hatfield.

“Yes--and there is another consideration which weighs with me, Thomas!” exclaimed the earl, turning once more, and now with a smiling countenance, towards his half-brother. “You have shewn so much generosity towards me--you have annihilated documents which ninety-nine men out of a hundred would have prized and availed themselves of--and you have exhibited so much noble feeling in all your actions respecting myself and our family honour, that I consider myself bound to effect the union of my daughter and your son, if it be practicable. This, then, I propose--that the unfortunate marriage of Charles shall be kept a profound secret, and that he shall leave England for a short time, so that active employment may completely and radically wean his mind from any lingering attachment that he may entertain for the polluted Perdita. With regard to this latter suggestion I have a project which I will presently explain to you. Respecting the maintenance of the secret of his unhappy marriage, I should recommend its propriety even were there no ulterior considerations of the nature already stated. For of what avail can it be to distress my wife or yours--much less my daughter--by a revelation of the sad circumstance? In any case, Frances would not be permitted to learn that secret; and I should be loth indeed to afflict Lady Ellingham by the narration of such a history.”

“And you may be wall assured, Arthur,” observed Mr. Hatfield, “that it would prove no pleasant task for me to inform Lady Georgiana that her son, by his mad ambition and his fatal misconceptions, had compelled me to make known to him the fact of his illegitimacy. Neither should I wish to distress her by unfolding to her the secret of this most miserable marriage.”

“It is fortunate that we were so guarded with our wives on that morning when we made such alarming discoveries in the library,” observed Lord Ellingham: “it is a subject for self-congratulation that we merely intimated the fact of Charles’s departure that day with an abandoned woman----”

“Yes--and it was to your prudent representations that I yielded, when I was about to commit the folly of imparting every thing to my wife,--the loss of the papers--the certainty that Charles had not only taken them, but had likewise discovered every thing relating to my own past life----”

“It was scarcely my advice, Thomas, which prevented you from making all those revelations to Georgiana,” said the earl: “but it was when----”

“Yes--I remember: it was when we resolved to depart in search of the fugitive, that I found my wife was so overcome by the first word I uttered--the word which told her he was gone--that I could not feel it in my heart to afflict her by farther revelations.”

“You scarcely require to be informed that Villiers and myself each pursued the road that we respectively took, until we acquired the certainty that no travellers of the description given had passed that way; but it was late at night when I returned to London, and Villiers was an hour or two later still. While we are, however, conversing in this desultory manner,” said the earl, “we forget that Charles is waiting for us in another room.”

“And you forget, my dear Arthur,” observed Mr. Hatfield, “that you have a project respecting him, but which you have not as yet revealed to me.”

“True!” ejaculated Lord Ellingham; “and the explanation can be speedily given. Yesterday afternoon I received a hastily written note from the Prince of Montoni, stating the melancholy intelligence that his illustrious father-in-law, Alberto I., expired after a short illness twelve days ago. The Prince received the news yesterday morning by special courier----”

“And he is now Grand Duke of Castelcicala?” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield.

“Yes--he is a sovereign prince,” returned the nobleman,--“and one who will not only make his people happy, but who, I venture to predict, will be the means of regenerating Italy. His Sovereign Highness departs to-morrow for Castelcicala; and, although it be scarcely consistent with propriety to accost him with a request under such circumstances, yet I will do so--trusting that the explanations which I shall give, may excuse the apparent importunity at the present moment.”

“And that request?” said Mr. Hatfield, interrogatively.

“Is that the Grand Duke--for by this proud title must we now denominate him--will permit Charles to accompany him in the capacity of one of his aides-de-camp. Your son can speak the Italian language as fluently as his own; and his long residence in Castelcicala will have fitted him for the situation I propose to procure for him. Moreover, that aspiring nature--that ardent ambition which has already manifested itself, will be gratified and will find congenial associations and emulative stimulants In the career thus opened to him. If his ambition, in its first strugglings, have unfortunately led him into error, it was on account of the misconceptions to which he yielded, and the baleful influence which a designing woman exercised over him: but, with such a glorious example before him as the illustrious personage into whose service I propose that he shall enter, and keeping in view such legitimate aims as that service naturally suggests, I am much deceived indeed if your son do not prove himself a good, an estimable, and, perhaps, a great man.”

“Your advice is as excellent as your purpose is generous and kind,” exclaimed Mr. Hatfield, overjoyed at the prospects thus held out.

“We may now release Charles,” said the earl, “from the suspense which he is doubtless enduring.”

Mr. Hatfield left the room, and shortly afterwards returned, accompanied by the young man, whose face was pale and whose looks were downcast, as he advanced towards the earl.

“My dear Charles,” said the good nobleman, embracing him,--“not a word relative to the past! All is forgiven--all forgotten, as far as the memory can forget.”

Charles shed tears, while his heart was agitated with many conflicting emotions,--gratitude for the assurance thus given to him--joy that he was so completely pardoned--bitter regret that he should have ever contemplated aught prejudicial to the interests of the generous earl--vexation on account of the facility with which he had been led astray--and shame at the deplorable errors he had committed.

But when he heard the kind, affectionate, and re-assuring language addressed to him alike by his father and Lord Ellingham,--when he learnt that the main particulars of his late proceedings were to be kept a solemn secret in respect to his mother, the countess, and Lady Frances,--and when he was made acquainted with the project which the earl had suggested relative to placing him about the person of the idol of his heroic worship--the new Grand Duke of Castelcicala,--a genial tide of consolation was poured into his soul; and he felt that the future might yet teem with bright hopes for him!

But not a word was breathed either by Mr. Hatfield or Lord Ellingham respecting that other prospect which had evoked so much enlightened reasoning and such liberal sentiments from the lips of the earl: we mean the probability of a marriage eventually taking place between the young man and the beautiful Lady Frances Ellingham.

With the proposal that he should enter the service of the Grand Duke, Charles was delighted; and the earl promised to visit his Sovereign Highness early in the morning, at Markham Place, to proffer the request which he had to make as the necessary preliminary.

The nobleman, Mr. Hatfield, and Charles now repaired to the mansion in Pall Mall, where the presence of the two latter, especially of the last-mentioned, caused feelings of joy which we must leave the reader to imagine.

CLVII. POLITICAL OBSERVATIONS.--THE DEPARTURE OF CHARLES HATFIELD

Yes--it was true that the Prince of Montoni had become Grand Duke of Castelcicala; and those who have read the First Series of “THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON,” have now traced the career of Richard Markham from the period of his obscure boyhood until the time when his brow is circled by a sovereign crown!

And when we reflect that it was a REVOLUTION which evoked his brilliant qualities as a warrior and a statesman,--when we call to mind the fact that it was the cry of “LIBERTY” which became the watch-word of his achievements and the herald of his triumphs,--we cannot do otherwise, on reaching this point in our narrative, than avail ourselves of so fitting an opportunity to notice the grand and glorious struggle that has so lately taken place in the capital of France.

Oh! the French are a fine people, and are destined to teach the world some signal lessons in the school of POLITICAL FREEDOM!

PEOPLE OF ENGLAND! accord your sympathies--your best and most generous sympathies--to that gallant Parisian population which has so recently dethroned a miscreant Monarch, and hurled an execrable Ministry from the seat of power!

Let the English Sons of Toil--oppressed, ground down by taxation, half-starved, and deprived of their electoral rights as they are,--let the Industrious Classes of the British Islands, trampled upon and made tools of by the wealthy few as we know them to be,--let them do honour, at least by words to the working men of France who have dared to expel a demon-hearted tyrant and his bravo-hirelings.

The States of Italy--Bavaria--and France have all, within the last few weeks, manifested their scorn and contempt for the doctrine of “the divine right of kings;”--the PEOPLE in those realms have exercised the power which they possess:--the cause has been righteous--the despots have yielded--and one has been overthrown altogether.

For the cause is always righteous when the People seek to wrest from their rulers that freedom which has been basely usurped, and which the tyrannical oligarchy refuses to surrender by fair means to the millions.

It is a monstrous absurdity and a hideous mockery to prate of treason, and sedition, and rebellion, when a people rises up in its might and its power to demand the privileges which are naturally its own.

The few cannot possibly possess an inherent or hereditary right to enslave the many: nor is the present generation to be bound by the enactments of the preceding one. If that preceding one chose to have a Monarchy, the present one is justified in declaring its will that a Republic shall exist;--and so long as the great majority of the inhabitants of a country are of accord in this respect, they have a right to upset the existing government at any moment and establish another. Nay, more; we will assert that the people need not even be wise or prudent in order to legitimatise their actions:--the great majority may act as they think fit, although they should be unwise or imprudent in respect to the institutions they choose to build up!

We are averse to the exercise of physical force;--but France has shown that when moral agitation fails, violence must be used;--and if freedom can be gained by the loss of a few drops of blood--why, then those drops should be shed cheerfully.

Suppose that in any country the great majority of the people sign a document addressed to the sovereign in these terms:--“We are very much obliged to you for having reigned over us hitherto; but we do not require your services farther. It pleases us to establish another form of government and raise up another ruler; and therefore we request you to descend from the throne and surrender up the power delegated to you.” Were the sovereign to refuse compliance with this demand, then force should be used; and all the antiquated farces of “hereditary rights,” and “treason,” and “sedition,” and such-like nonsense, would of course be disregarded by an insurgent people.

On the other hand, so long as a nation remains tranquil, and addresses to the sovereign no demand of the kind supposed above, that sovereign may continue to occupy the throne, as the people’s executive magistrate; for it is the fault of the millions themselves if they be foolish enough to tolerate either a king or a queen.

Republicanism is the “order of the day;” and there is not a throne in Europe that is worth twenty years’ purchase,--no--not even that of the Austrian Kaiser or the Muscovite Czar;--and from the banks of the Thames to the confines of Asia--from the cheerless regions of the North to the sunny shores of the tideless Mediterranean, the prevailing sentiment is adverse to the antiquated, useless, oppressive institutions of Monarchy.

HONOUR TO THE GREAT AND GLORIOUS FRENCH NATION! And let the Royalty which still exists in England beware how it caress, and pet, and openly sympathise with the ex-Royalty which has taken refuge on this soil. For the Queen of England to adopt such a course, were to offer a gross and flagrant insult to the people of France, and inevitably provoke a war. Besides--is not Louis-Philippe a miscreant deserving universal execration? Did he not calmly and deliberately calculate upon butchering the brave Parisian people, in order to consolidate the power of his despot-throne? Are not his hands imbrued with blood? No sympathy, then--no pity for this royal Greenacre--this horrible assassin!

And were he to be received at the palace of our Queen, the insult would not only be monstrous towards the French people, who have expelled him, but equally great towards the English people, who abhor tyrants, and who are generous, humane, and merciful.

WORKING MEN OF ENGLAND! rejoice and be glad--for amidst the changes which have so recently taken place in France, there is one “sign of the times” that is cheering and full of prophetic significancy for you! I allude to the grand--the glorious fact, that in the list of the Provisional Government which the Revolution raised up, these words appeared--“ALBERT, Working Man.”

Yes: a Working Man was included in that fine category of Republican names; and he has been instrumental in giving to the whole political world that impulse which must inevitably conduct even the present generation to the most glorious destinies.

Honour to Albert, the Working Man!

There is another point on which I must touch, ere I resume the thread of my narrative.

The Prime Minister of England has declared “that he has no intention whatever to interfere with the form of government which the French nation may choose for themselves.” He therefore admits the right of the nation to establish any form of government which it chooses;--and this concession is an important one, when coming from the principal adviser of the Queen, and from a man who is, after all, nothing more nor less than the chief of an aristocratic clique.

Well, then--it being admitted by the Prime Minister that a nation has a right to choose its own form of government, the sooner the people of England begin to think of establishing new institutions for themselves, the better. For there is no use in disguising the fact--and no possibility of exaggerating it,--that England is in a truly awful condition. Already are we enduring a war-tax; and it was only through fear of seeing the glorious example of the Parisians immediately followed by the inhabitants of London, that the Ministers abandoned their iniquitous and execrable scheme of doubling that shameful impost. But the financial ignorance and the wanton extravagance of the Whigs have plunged the country into serious pecuniary embarrassments, from which nothing but the sweeping reform of a purely democratic Ministry can relieve it. With a tremendous national debt,--with no possibility of levying another tax,--with Ireland to care for and almost support,--with a vast amount of absolute penury and positive destitution in the country,--with an aristocracy clinging to old abuses, and with the land in the possession of a contemptibly small oligarchy,--with the industrious classes starving on pitiable wages,--with a pension-list which is a curse and a shame,--with a cumbrous and costly Monarchy,--with a Church grasping at all it can possibly lay hands on,--with a Bench of Bishops in inveterate and banded hostility to all enlightening opinions and popular interests,--and with a franchise so limited that nine-tenths of the people are altogether unrepresented,--with all these, and a thousand other evils which might be readily enumerated, we repeat our assertion that England is in an awful state; and we must add that great, important, and radical changes must be speedily effected.[13]

Oh! how well and how truly has a great French writer declared that “men have only to will it, in order to be free!” France has set England and the world a great and glorious example in this respect.

These English newspapers which are interested in pandering to the prejudices and the selfishness of a bloated aristocracy and an oppressive oligarchy, of landowners, represent revolutions as scenes of spoliation, social ruin, and other demoralisation. But the incidents of the Revolution which gave Louis Philippe a throne in 1830, and those of the grand struggle which has just hurled him from his despot-seat, give the lie--the bold, unequivocal lie--to such statements.[14]

The time has come when all true Reformers must band together for the public weal. Let there be union,--union of all sects and parties who are in favour of progress, no matter what their denomination may be,--whether Republicans, Radicals, Chartists, or Democrats. “Union Is strength,” says the proverb; and the truth thereof maybe fully justified and borne out in the present age, and in the grand work of moral agitation for the People’s Rights.[15]

* * * * *

We now proceed with the thread of our narrative; but it is not necessary to give at any length the particulars of the interview which took place between Lord Ellingham and Richard Markham, now Grand Duke of Castelcicala. Suffice it to say, that his Sovereign Highness, though deeply afflicted by the news of his father-in-law’s demise, welcomed the English nobleman with the utmost cordiality, and immediately consented to receive Charles Hatfield as one of his aides-de-camp. The Earl hastened back to Pall-mall, and, sending for the young man to his private apartment, reasoned with him in an impressive way upon the necessity of retrieving the past by the conduct which he should pursue in future. Charles listened with profound attention to all that the excellent peer said upon this occasion, and promised that his behaviour should henceforth render him worthy of all the signal favours bestowed upon him.

The preparations for his departure were in the meantime made with all possible despatch; and in the course of a few hours Charles Hatfield took leave of his family, and hastened to Markham Place, to join the suite of the new Sovereign of Castelcicala.

CLVIII. Mrs. Mortimer in London

Mrs. Mortimer,--as we must now call her whom we have already known as Mrs. Slingsby, Mrs. Torrens, and Mrs. Fitzhardinge,--arrived in London two days after the scene which took place between her daughter and herself in the Rue Monthabor at Paris.

The wily woman was intent upon accomplishing the aim that had brought her back to the English metropolis; but as the reader may well imagine, she had not the least trace of her husband--nor the slightest clue to his whereabout. Indeed, it was only a conjecture with her that he was in London at all;--but she had worked this suspicion up into a certainty in her own mind; and the object she hoped to gain was quite important enough to lead her to resolve upon leaving no stone unturned in order to arrive at a successful issue.

On setting foot in the metropolis, she took up her abode at a small coffee-house in an obscure street in the Borough of Southwark; and having assumed a somewhat mean attire, she repaired, in the dusk of the evening after her arrival, to the vicinity of the dwelling which in former times bore the name of Torrens Cottage.

This house, as the reader will recollect, was situate between Streatham and Norwood; and the old woman, who knew the world well, and read the human heart profoundly, calculated that Torrens, impelled by that inscrutable and mysterious curiosity which prompts persons under such circumstances, was likely, if indeed in London, to visit the neighbourhood where he had once dwelt, and which had proved for him the scene of such dire misfortune.

Mrs. Mortimer knew that Torrens had passed many happy days at that cottage, and had there cherished the grandest hopes of acquiring a great fortune by means of building-speculations: she was also aware that he had at the same place bargained for the sale of his daughter’s virtue--beheld the ravisher lying murdered upon the sofa--and been arrested on suspicion of the heinous crime. The place, then, was replete with the most varied and conflicting reminiscences for the old man; and Mrs. Mortimer said to herself, “The morbid feelings which must exist in such a heart as his, will probably induce him to visit the neighbourhood of the house that once was his home.”

Such was her calculation; and, acting upon this impression, she sped on foot towards the dwelling where she had once dwelt a few brief hours as the wife of the man whom she was searching after.

It was nine o’clock in the evening when she turned into the lane where twenty years before Tom Rain had robbed Frank Curtis of the two thousand pounds.

In a few minutes Mrs. Mortimer came in sight of the cottage, the walls of which were glistening white amidst the summer evening semi-obscurity; and her heart beat quickly as she thought of the long--long time that had elapsed since she last saw that spot where she also had been arrested on a capital charge!

What changes--what vicissitudes had marked her existence since that epoch!

She had been in Newgate, and had there given birth to a daughter, who had accompanied her into exile:--the daughter had grown up--had become as profligate, though not altogether as criminal as her mother--and had at length defied the authority of that parent who thus surpassed her in the extent of her iniquity!

Yes--many and striking had been the events that had characterised the old woman’s career since last she saw those white, glistening walls:--but there was the cottage apparently unchanged in outward appearance,--although it was more completely hemmed in by trees than when she quitted it upwards of nineteen years back.

For the large trees which were there in her time, had grown larger, and the saplings had expanded into trees also;--and a high, thick, verdant hedge surrounded the garden.

“Ah!” thought the old woman to herself, as she sped down the lane, “I could almost wish that the cottage was mine, and that I might retire with a competency to this sweet seclusion, no more to commingle in the strife and turmoil of the great--the busy--the jarring world. But this may not be! My life is destined to be stormy until the end. I feel that it is--and I must yield to the destiny that urges me on!”

Melancholy sentiments had risen up in her soul as she gave way to these thoughts; but their current was suddenly cut short--or rather diverted into another channel, when, emerging from the lane, she found herself in front of the cottage.

A light was visible through the shutters of the parlour--that very parlour where Sir Henry Courtenay was murdered, and whither she herself was borne in a fainting fit, after having been arrested in the hall on a charge of forgery.

A cold shudder crept over the old wretch, hardened and heartless as she was: for she remembered all the acuteness--all the intensity of the anguish she had experienced, when she had awakened to consciousness on that dread occasion, and found herself in the custody of the servitors of justice.

Exercising, however, a powerful control over her feelings, she stepped up to the front-door, and knocked boldly,--not in a sneaking, timid, uncertain manner, but with firmness and decision.

The summons was almost immediately answered by a pretty-looking, neatly-dressed, and very respectable servant-maid of about eighteen or nineteen; and Mrs. Mortimer’s eyes now commanded a view of the hall where the constables had made her their prisoner,--that fatal incident which became as it were an ominous and most conspicuous finger-post in the road of her chequered existence!

“Can I be permitted, without causing inconvenience, to speak a few words to your master or mistress?” inquired Mrs. Mortimer, subduing the feelings aroused by the reminiscences of the past, and addressing herself to the business of the present.

“Surely you must have made some mistake,” said the servant-girl, speaking, however, in a mild and respectful tone. “No gentleman resides here.”

“Then allow me to see your mistress, young woman,” persisted Mrs. Mortimer, slipping two half-crowns into the maid’s hand.

“I will carry your message to my mistress,” said the domestic coldly, and at the same time indignantly repulsing the proffered bribe. “Walk in, if you please.”

Mrs. Mortimer entered the hall; and as the light of the lamp suspended to the ceiling now fell fully upon her, the servant-maid saw that she was somewhat meanly dressed, and that her countenance was none of the most pleasant to look upon. The impression thus made upon the domestic was not particularly favourable towards the old woman; but the girl was artless and unsuspicious naturally, and therefore strove to smother a feeling which she fancied to be uncharitable towards a complete stranger. She was therefore about to enter the parlour to deliver the message of the visitor, when the door of that room suddenly opened, and a beautiful young creature, of about nineteen, made her appearance.

We must pause for a for minutes to describe the being that burst, like a seraphic vision, upon the amazed and dazzled sight of Mrs. Mortimer.

Picture to yourself, reader, a tall, sylph-like figure of exquisite symmetry, reminding the observer of the Grecian models of classic female beauty,--with the deeply-hollowed back--the swelling chest and bosom, well matured but not voluptuously large--and the high, swan-like neck on which the oval head was gracefully fixed,--then fancy a countenance of the most agreeable expression and rare loveliness, with eyes not very large, but of the deepest black and most melting softness, and with brows finely arched and somewhat thickly pencilled,--a forehead lofty and smooth, and over which the raven hair was parted in two massive, shining bands,--a nose with the slightest trace of the Roman curve, and with the nostrils pink as delicate rose-leaves,--a small mouth, the least thing plump and pouting, and revealing teeth small, even, and white as pearls,--and a complexion of a clear, living white, with the carnation flush of health upon either cheek;--picture to yourself all this assemblage of charms, gentle reader, and you will then have a complete idea of the enchanting creature of nineteen, who suddenly appeared on the threshold of the parlour-door.

We may, however, add, ere we resume the thread of our narrative, that this beauteous being was attired in a white dress, with a high corsage, and that she wore no other ornaments than a pair of ear-rings, and a fancy ring on one of her taper fingers.

Advancing towards Mrs. Mortimer, she said in a musical voice and a kind tone, “I think I overheard you request a few minutes’ interview with the mistress of this house----”

“Such was indeed the favour I solicited,” observed the old woman, hastily. “If my presence would not inconvenience you for a little while,--and if you will accept my sincere apologies for the apparent obtrusiveness of the request, as well as for the lateness of the hour at which it is made----”

“Oh! pray do not deem it necessary to excuse a proceeding which I am sure you will explain to my satisfaction,” interrupted the young lady, with a sincerity which emanated from the artlessness of a disposition entirely unsophisticated. “Walk in, madam,” she added, in a kind and by no means ceremonial tone, as she conducted Mrs. Mortimer into the parlour, the door of which the servant-maid immediately closed behind them.

Mrs. Mortimer now found herself in the very room which was fraught with so many exciting and varied reminiscences for her. The golden lustre of the handsome lamp which stood upon the table, was shed upon the scene of those crushing incidents that had suddenly made her a prisoner for a forgery which she had committed, and her husband a prisoner on a charge of murder of which he was innocent!

The old woman sank into a chair, and gazed around her with no affectation of emotion. The appointments of the room were changed--materially changed, it was true: but her eyes, nevertheless, recognised full well--oh! full well--the very spot where had stood the sofa on which she had awakened to the consciousness of her desperate condition,--the spot, too, where Torrens was standing when the officers arrested him on suspicion of the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay!

For a few minutes the old woman was powerfully affected by the recollections thus vividly conjured up; but, at length calling all her courage to her aid, she regained her self-possession--and then a rapid survey made her acquainted with the elegant and tasteful style in which the parlour was now fitted up. All the furniture seemed to be nearly new. Upon the table in the middle were several drawings, in pencil and in water-colours, lying in an open portfolio--a box of paints and brushes--and several prettily bound volumes of the best modern English poets. Where a sofa had been placed in the time when Mrs. Mortimer last knew the cottage, a handsome upright pianoforte now stood; and in the nearest corner was a magnificent harp. On the cheffoniers in the window-recesses were porcelain vases filled with flowers; and to the walls were suspended several excellent pictures, the subjects of which were chiefly landscapes. Everything, in a word, denoted the chaste elegance and delicate refinement of the taste that had presided in the fitting up of that room.

Mrs. Mortimer, having recovered her self-possession, turned towards the young lady, who had been watching her with mingled interest and surprise.

“You will pardon me,” said the old woman, “if I were for a few moments overcome by reminiscence of an affecting nature----”

“Compose yourself, madam--pray, compose yourself,” interrupted the beauteous girl, in a sweet tone and winning manner; for not only was the most artless amiability natural to her, but she thought she perceived in the language of her visitor something superior to what the condition of her apparel and her personal appearance generally would have otherwise led her to infer.

“Never can I sufficiently thank you for the urbanity--the kindness, with which you treat me, my dear young lady!” exclaimed the old woman. “But am I not intruding upon your leisure--perhaps keeping you away from some companion----”

“Oh! no--I am all alone here,” said the young lady, with an ingenuous frankness that excited a feeling of interest--almost of admiration, even in the breast of such an one as Mrs. Mortimer. “When I say alone,” continued the beauteous creature, “I do not of course allude to the servants--because they cannot be called companions, you know; although the old housekeeper is very kind and good-natured; and Jane--the maid who gave you admission just now--is a sweet-tempered girl.”

“And is it possible that you dwell here in complete seclusion!” demanded the old woman, rendering her voice as mild and her manner as conciliating as possible.

“Oh! I am accustomed to this seclusion, as you style it, madam,” exclaimed the young lady, gaily: “for years I have lived in this manner, with my books--my music--my drawings;--and I am very happy,” she added, in a tone which left not a doubt as to the sincerity of her statement. “At the same time,” she continued, after a few moments’ pause, and in a somewhat more serious voice, “I could wish that my dear papa visited me a little oftener--and that circumstances, of which I am however ignorant did not prevent----”

“What! does not your father live with you, my dear young lady?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, surveying her with the most unfeigned surprise.

“Alas! he does not,” replied the artless girl, her looks and her tone now becoming suddenly mournful: but, in the next moment, her countenance brightened up, and she observed, “At the same time I am wrong to give way to sorrow in that respect, since my dear father assures me that the reasons are most important--most grave----”

She checked herself: for it suddenly struck her that she was bestowing her confidence upon one who was a total stranger to her, and that such frankness might possibly be indiscreet.

“And your mother, my dear lady?” said Mrs. Mortimer, interrogatively.

“I never knew her,” answered the lovely creature, in a low and almost sad tone. “But I have been all this time wearying you with remarks and revelations concerning myself--forgetting that I should have first suffered you to give the promised explanation relative to your visit. You may address me as Miss Vernon--or Agnes Vernon, if you choose: for that is my name. And now, tell me the object of your call.”

Mrs. Mortimer gazed in astonishment upon the charming being who was seated opposite to her. Never had the old woman beheld so fascinating a specimen of infantine artlessness and unsophisticated candour. There was nothing artificial--nothing unreal in Agnes Vernon: the innocence of her soul--the purity of her mind--the chastity of her thoughts, were apparent in every word she uttered and in every feature of her bewitching face!

Yes--the old woman gazed long and ardently upon the sweet countenance of that young creature,--gazed as if in an adoration forced upon a savage mind by the apparition of some radiant being from a heavenly sphere!

“Madam, I am waiting for you to reply to me,” said Agnes, looking down and blushing deeply, beneath the steadfast gaze thus fixed upon her.

“A thousand pardons, Miss Vernon,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, recovering her self-possession. “I was lost in thought: many--many reflections, of a varied and conflicting nature, pressed upon my mind,--for I must inform you that I was once the occupant of this beautiful little house----”

“Indeed!” ejaculated the young lady, who now began to suspect--or, at least, thought that she had obtained a glimpse of--the motive which had brought her visitor thither. “You have come, then, to cast your eyes upon a spot which is familiar to you?”

“Precisely so, Miss Vernon,” said the old woman. “And now let me announce myself to you as Mrs. Mortimer. I am the widow of a General in the army, and have only just returned from India.”

“Oh! then I can well understand, my dear madam,” cried Agnes, firmly believing every word that was said to her,--“I can well understand your anxiety and longing to visit the place where you doubtless once dwelt with the husband you have lost.”

“You have read my purpose accurately, Miss,” said the old woman, wiping her eyes as if she were moved to tears by reminiscences of the past.

“But this is most singular, indeed!” suddenly exclaimed the young lady.

Mrs. Mortimer gazed upon her with astonishment; for the observation that had just escaped Miss Vernon’s lips was as extraordinary as the impulse which had prompted it was mysterious.

“Yes,” continued the beautiful creature: “this is indeed most singular!”

“Are you surprised at my boldness in thus obtruding myself upon your presence?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, fixing her eyes in a searching manner upon the charming countenance of the young lady: “or do you doubt the existence of the sentiment which brought me hither?”

“Oh! no--no, madam!” exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of the deepest sincerity, while her features suddenly betrayed the grief which she experienced at being suspected of what she would have regarded as a cruel scepticism. “I am sure you could have no other motive for coming hither than the one you alleged: but I said it was singular--because, another person--a few days ago----”

“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, a sudden idea striking her: in a word, she already felt confident that her visit would not prove abortive, and that she had acted with sagacity in seeking the first trace of Torrens at the very house which he had inhabited years ago.

“You now appear to be surprised in your turn,” observed Agnes, struck by the ejaculation which had burst from the old woman’s lips.

“Yes, dear young lady,” said Mrs. Mortimer; “I was indeed surprised--inasmuch as I gathered from your words that another person, actuated by the same sentiment as that which brought me to this spot----”

“And do you know that other person, then?” inquired Agnes.

“That is precisely what I have now to ascertain,” answered the old woman. “The moment I understood the sense of your observation respecting the visit of another individual to the cottage, I began to wonder whether it were any friend of my earlier years--perhaps even a relative----”

“He was an old man, with grey hair and a care-worn countenance,” said Agnes, perceiving that Mrs. Mortimer paused and seemed to be deeply affected; “and he told me that he also had once dwelt in this house. He sate down in this very parlour, and appeared to be overcome with grief for a long time. I offered to leave the room, that he might be alone with his mournful reflections: but he conjured me to stay. And then he informed me that he had known griefs so profound--vicissitudes so terrible--privations so great, that they had almost driven him mad; and, when I proposed in as delicate a manner as possible to afford him such relief as my means would permit, he assured me that he was poor no longer, and that he had gold at his command. Then, in another moment, he exclaimed, with an emphasis which almost frightened me--‘But, oh! that I were indeed the penniless, half-starving wretch I was some days ago!’”

“Ah! he said that--did he?” muttered the old woman to herself. “Remorse has already overtaken him--and he will the more easily yield to my menaces and become my victim!”

“I did not catch your observation, madam,” said Agnes.

“I was only musing, my dear child,” hastily responded Mrs. Mortimer, “upon the misfortunes of this strange world of ours. Doubtless some dreadful affliction had touched the brain of that poor old man of whom you have been speaking.”

“Such was indeed my fear,” exclaimed Agnes; “and, much as I pitied him, I confess that I was greatly relieved when he took his departure.”

“Was his visit a long one, my dear young lady?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.

“He remained here for upwards of an hour,” was the reply.

“And was it in the evening that he called?” inquired the old woman.

“Yes--between eight and nine o’clock; and he rose from his seat as the time-piece struck ten,” responded Agnes. “I know not precisely wherefore--but it is nevertheless true that his presence began to alarm me, although I had done him no injury, and indeed had never in my life seen him before. But there was such a wild expression in his eyes----”

“Ah! doubtless the poor old man was overcome by many painful recollections,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “I suppose he did not mention his name to you, Miss Vernon?”

“No--and I did not like to ask him,” was the frank and ingenuous reply. “His mind was evidently much unsettled,--for it alternated between a profound grief and a restless excitement--so that while he was here, I was at one moment moved to sympathise with him, and at another forced to regard him with vague apprehension. When he spoke of the fact that he himself had once been the occupant of this dwelling, he glanced hastily around the parlour, and murmured three or four times in a tone scarcely audible, ‘This is the very room--the very room!’ I could not divine what he meant, and of course dared not ask him,” added Agnes, with that charming ingenuousness of manner which denoted the pure child of nature, untainted by the artificial formalities of a vitiated state of society.

“How long have you resided here, Miss?” inquired the old woman, after a brief pause, during which she reflected on all that the beauteous girl had just told her,--at the same time chuckling inwardly at the certainty of having ascertained two grand facts: namely, that Torrens was possessed of plenty of gold, and that he was in London.

“I have lived in this pretty house for nearly three years, madam,” answered Agnes. “Before that period I----But now,” she added, checking herself, “I am again troubling you with my own affairs, whereas you have sufficient upon your mind to engross all your attention. Oh! yes--you must have,” exclaimed the artless girl,--“having only just returned to England after so long an absence in India! But you did not tell me whether you recognised in the old gentleman of whom I have been speaking, any relative or friend--any person, in fine, in whom you are interested.”

“Yes, my dear young lady,” responded Mrs. Mortimer; “methinks that he cannot be altogether unknown to me;--and yet, my thoughts are so bewildered at this moment--the reminiscences which have been awakened in my mind by this visit to a spot where I myself once dwelt, and where I have passed so many happy hours with my dear deceased husband, General Mortimer----”

“Oh! do not weep, madam--compose yourself, I beseech you!” exclaimed Agnes, whose unsuspicious soul was touched by the grief which her artful visitor simulated so aptly.

“Dear young lady,” murmured Mrs. Mortimer, pressing Miss Vernon’s hand to her lips, “you will perhaps allow me to visit you again?”

“Oh! certainly,” was the reply, given with cheerful and unaffected cordiality. “You are the widow of an officer of high rank--and therefore I cannot be doing wrong by receiving you at my house. At the same time,” added Agnes, after a moment’s reflection, “I do not imagine that my father----”

But the young lady’s remark was cut short in the middle by a loud knocking at the front-door. Mrs. Mortimer started up, as she felt that she was an intruder, and that her business there was of an equivocal character not likely to stand the test of any inquiry that might be put by a person less artless and unsophisticated than Miss Vernon herself: but that young lady, having a pure conscience, and not dreaming that she had even acted with imprudence in permitting a stranger to foist herself upon her, said in a cheerful manner, “Oh! it is my father’s knock--I know it well! You need not be uneasy.”

At this moment the parlour-door opened, and the pretty maid-servant appeared on the threshold to usher in a gentleman of whose personal appearance we must give a brief description.

CLIX. MRS. MORTIMER’S ADVENTURES CONTINUED

The individual alluded to was a man of middle height, of rather spare form, and slightly bowed--so that although his years in reality had scarcely numbered sixty, a casual beholder might have pronounced him to be above seventy. A closer observation would, however, have dispelled this first impression; for his features were handsome and well-preserved, his teeth remarkably fine, and his hands entirely free from those wrinkles which usually appear upon the fingers of persons in the winter of their existence. His hair was of that iron grey which showed that it still retained a faint shade of its former blackness; and baldness had not even begun to rob him of any part of that natural covering. He wore no whiskers; and his countenance was smooth, but pale. In a word, his frame still preserved much of its pristine vigour; though its spareness and the slightly curved back were calculated, as above mentioned, to impress a casual observer with the idea that the individual whom we are describing was older than in reality he was.

We have said that his features were handsome; and we should now state that their general expression was pleasing, conciliating, and agreeable. Amiability of disposition, generosity of heart, and an acquaintance with affliction, were easily read upon that calm, pensive countenance; but, commingled therewith, was an air of serene dignity which bespoke a consciousness of some kind of superiority--whether of rank, wealth, or intellect, could not, however, be immediately decided by the observer. At all events, the person whom we have now introduced to our readers was not one to be passed by with indifference, nor confounded with the ordinary mass of mankind. We must, however, explain that he was rather characterised by a distinguished air of good breeding and consummate politeness than by aristocratic hauteur; at the same time there was so much dignity and loftiness about him as to debar even the most obtrusive and unceremonious from taking advantage of that blandness of disposition which was expressed by the countenance. We have only to add that he was dressed with taste, if not elegance; and the reader has before him as perfect a picture as we can draw of the personal appearance of the individual who now entered the parlour of the cottage.

The moment he had crossed the threshold of the room, Agnes sprang towards him, saying, “My dearest father, I am delighted to see you! But let me hope that nothing unpleasant has caused this late visit.”

And, as she spoke, she embraced with almost infantine tenderness the parent who affectionately returned her caresses.

“Nothing unpleasant, my dear child,” was the reply; and then the young maiden’s father cast an enquiring glance towards Mrs. Mortimer.

“This lady,” said Agnes, “is the widow of a General who recently died in India; and, having herself occupied the cottage many years ago, she felt anxious, on her return to England, to visit the place which had so many pleasing and some melancholy associations for her.”

“The lady is most welcome,” observed the gentleman; “and her name----”

“Is Mrs. Mortimer,” added Agnes: then, with ingenuous affability, she said, turning to the old woman, “Madam, permit me to introduce my beloved father, Mr. Vernon.”

But Mr. Vernon bowed coldly, and even eyed the visitor suspiciously, as he observed, “I was not aware that any General-officer bearing the name of Mortimer had recently died in India.”

“My deceased husband,” said the old woman, with admirable presence of mind, “was not in the English service. He was in that of the Honourable East India Company.”

“I was not aware,” repeated Mr. Vernon, still in the same chilling tone, “that there were General-officers in the service of the East India Company. Madam,” he continued, now fixing his gaze sternly upon her, “wherefore have you come hither?--on what pretence have you intruded yourself upon the sacred privacy of my daughter?”

“The motive was the one which Miss Vernon has explained to you, sir,” replied Mrs. Mortimer, whose self-possession had been for a few moments considerably disturbed by the confident manner in which the young lady’s father had exposed her second falsehood.

“Then, if that motive were really the true one, madam,” he said, his sternness again changing to freezing politeness, “your object is probably gained by this time; and, as it is now ten o’clock, you will perhaps have the kindness to leave me with my daughter.”

“Oh! assuredly, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, glad of an opportunity to escape from the house; and Mr. Vernon, with constrained courtesy, hastened to open the door to afford her egress.

The old woman breathed more freely when she was once more outside the walls of the cottage; for the sudden advent of the young maiden’s father had not a little embarrassed, even if it had not altogether discomfited her.

But no sooner was she in the open air, when she began to ask herself a thousand questions as she retraced her way up the lane.

What meant the mystery which evidently hung around the present occupant of the cottage?--wherefore did that charming creature dwell there alone?--why was her father only a visitor, instead of being a resident at his daughter’s abode?--and for what aim, or through what motive, was so fair a flower buried in such seclusion?

That Agnes was indeed the pure, innocent, artless creature which she appeared to be, the old crone was sure. Too well acquainted with the world was Mrs. Mortimer not to perceive that the ingenuous naïveté of the young girl was real and natural, and not artificial and assumed. For an instant the impure imagination of the wretch had suggested that Miss Vernon might only be the pensioned mistress of some wealthy individual; but in another moment that hypothesis was altogether discarded. No: Agnes was not tainted with even the slightest--faintest shade of immorality: her mind was innocence itself--and her chastity as unblemished as the driven snow. Even the old woman, whose life had been so tremendously dissolute, was compelled to embrace this conviction; but the very experience which she herself had gained in the sphere of licentiousness, dissimulation, and guile, helped Mrs. Mortimer to arrive at that unquestionable conclusion.

Who and what, then, was Agnes Vernon;--who and what was her father?

Mrs. Mortimer was a person having an eye to her own individual advantage in every circumstance which, coming under her cognisance, seemed to present a chance of affording scope for her selfish, interested, sinister interference. Wherever a mystery appeared, there she beheld an opportunity for her officious meddling: this officious meddling led to the discovery of secrets and to the eliciting of revelations:--and the information thus gleaned became a sort of marketable commodity with Mrs. Mortimer. In a word, she would seek to gain the confidence of those who had matters of importance to communicate, so that she might subsequently render herself so useful as to deserve payment, or at all events acquire the position of one who could exact a good price for her secresy respecting the things so imprudently entrusted to her.

Calculations in accordance with this disposition on her part, and having reference to the cottage which she had just left, were passing in her mind as she sped along the lane,--when, midway in that narrow thoroughfare, she was overtaken by some one who had hurried after her, but whose footsteps she had not heard, in the pre-occupation of her thoughts, until they were close behind her.

She stepped--turned round--and beheld, by the bright starlight, a tall young gentleman, apparently handsome so far as she could distinguish his features, and dressed in an elegant style.

“Pardon me, my good woman,” said he, “for addressing you; but observing that you came from the cottage yonder----”

“Yes, sir--I did,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, who, in her eagerness to learn the motive of the young gentleman’s accosting her, gave him encouragement to proceed.

“Tell me,” said he, speaking with an equal impatience,--“tell me--do you know the beautiful creature who dwells in that seclusion? But of course you must know her--you have been there--perhaps in her company----”

“I have only just left her presence,” observed Mrs. Mortimer.

“And you are well acquainted with her, then?” cried the young gentleman, eagerly.

“Perfectly well,” was the answer. “But wherefore these questions?”

“Oh! if I could trust you!” ejaculated the stranger, in a tone that alike proffered and invited confidence.

“You can--you may,” said the old woman, impressively.

“If I were assured of that, I would reward you well,” was his next remark.

“How can I prove that I am trustworthy?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.

“By telling me all you know concerning the beauteous creature who resides in that strange seclusion,” responded the young gentleman.

“Then you yourself know nothing of her or of her affairs?” said the old woman, interrogatively.

“Nothing--absolutely nothing--save and except that she is the most lovely being that mortal eyes ever beheld!”

“You are not even aware that she has resided there for these three years past?” observed Mrs. Mortimer, assuming a mysterious tone as if about to become more communicative.

“Yes--that fact I have learnt,” replied the young gentleman; “and also that her name is Agnes Vernon. I have moreover ascertained that an elderly gentleman visits her occasionally;--and I have sometimes harboured the worst fears----But, no--no,” he exclaimed, suddenly interrupting himself and speaking in an impassioned tone: “such suspicions are no doubt foully injurious to that charming creature! I have contemplated her, myself being unseen, for hours together when she has been walking in her garden,--and purity, innocence, artlessness are written upon her spotless brow--traced in every lineament of her bewitching countenance. Oh! If I could only obtain the assurance that the old man who thus visits her were a relation--a guardian--or a valued friend,--that he is nothing more to her than----”

“I can relieve you of this suspense, sir,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “and thereby give you a proof of my readiness to assist you. The elderly gentleman whom you have seen visiting at that cottage, and who indeed is there at this moment----”

“Yes--yes--I saw him enter,” exclaimed the young man, impatiently. “But who is he?”

“Her father!” answered Mrs. Mortimer.

“Her father!” repeated the stranger. “Oh! that is scarcely probable! You are deceiving me:--you are pretending to give me explanations relative to mysteries which are likewise enigmas to you,--or you are purposely deluding me! Her father!--impossible! What--would a parent leave his daughter--and that daughter so transcendently lovely--to dwell in such utter seclusion----”

“Such is indeed the case, sir,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have little cause to thank you for thus boldly and even insolently accusing me of wilfully deceiving you.”

And, as she thus spoke, the old woman moved rapidly away, well knowing that the young gentleman would not part with her in this manner.

“Stop one minute--stay--I beseech you--and pardon me!” he exclaimed, hastening after her. “I was wrong to address you in such a style: I insulted you grossly--and I crave your forgiveness. But I was bewildered with the intelligence you gave me: mingled joy and surprise deprived me, as it were, of my reason. I imagined the information to be too welcome and too extraordinary to be true!”

“And yet you ere now sought to persuade yourself that Agnes Vernon was chaste and pure, though you were then ignorant of the connexion subsisting between herself and the elderly gentleman who visits her--a connexion which, previously to the explanation I have given you, must at least have appeared suspicious, and calculated to raise the most serious misgivings in your breast.”

“I admit that my conduct is most inconsistent,” exclaimed the young gentleman, in answer to these reproachful words: “but I love Agnes Vernon--I adore her--I worship the very ground upon which she treads----”

“And you have never yet spoken to her?” asked the old woman.

“I have never dared to intrude myself so far upon her notice,” was the reply: “and yet she has seen me frequently in the neighbourhood----”

“But she never gave you the least encouragement, sir,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, as if making an assertion, instead of throwing out a remark for the sake of gleaning information.

“Never--never!” exclaimed the young man; “and therefore did I think so well of her character, in spite of the suspicious circumstances attending her seclusion.”

“You have, then, the vanity to suppose that if the beautiful Agnes could have smiled upon any man, you were destined to be that happy one;”--and, as Mrs. Mortimer made this remark, her voice assumed a somewhat caustic tone.

“Oh! you have misunderstood my words,” cried the stranger. “I intended to have you infer that I had never seen any thing in the demeanour and deportment of Agnes Vernon save what is becoming to a young lady of good birth, genteel breeding, and taintless soul. At the same time,” he added, proudly, “I flatter myself that there is nothing particularly disagreeable in my personal appearance, as there is assuredly everything favourable in my social position. But of this Agnes is ignorant; and I am desirous to obtain an interview with her--or to write to her in a respectful manner----”

“And what has hitherto prevented you from doing either?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.

“I have already told you that I dared not accost her. Often and often have I longed to burst through the green hedge which has concealed me from her view, and throw myself at her feet: but an invisible hand has restrained me--and I have experienced a species of awe for which I could not account, and which has made me feel as if I were in the vicinity of a goddess. Then, as to writing to her,” continued the impassioned young man, “I was once bold enough to commit a few words to paper--and I endeavoured to persuade the young servant-girl to give the note to her mistress.”

“And she treated you with contempt,” said Mrs. Mortimer, anticipating the fate of the billet from the fact that Jane, the pretty domestic, had so indignantly rejected her own proffer of five shillings.

“You have guessed rightly--and now I am more than ever convinced that you are well acquainted with the honest, upright, disinterested character of the dwellers in that cottage,” said the young gentleman.

Mrs. Mortimer remained silent for a few minutes. She was absorbed in thought. Should she enter into this new affair which seemed almost to force itself upon her? or had she not enough already upon her hands? She had promised to rejoin her daughter Laura by a particular day in Paris; and there was not much time to lose. Nevertheless, she had a good week, or even more, at her disposal--providing that she was speedily successful in tracing out Torrens; and, all things duly considered, she fancied that she might as well undertake a business which promised remuneration, and which would probably place her in a condition to learn secrets and dive into mysteries, a knowledge of which might prove serviceable in the hands of such an intriguing, mercenary disposition as her own. Moreover, the larger were her own special resources, the greater was her independence in respect to her rebellious daughter; and therefore, after a short interval passed in deep reflection, she said, “Sir, I am both ready and able to serve you. But my time is precious now, and will be so for a short time to come. Five days hence I will attend to any appointment that you may name.”

“I will give you my card,” said the young gentleman: “and I shall expect you to call upon me in the evening of the fifth day from this date.”

“Agreed!” ejaculated the old woman, as she received the card. “My name is Mortimer; and, although you do not address me as becomes my position, I can assure you that I am a lady by birth, education, and----”

She was about to say “conduct;” but the young gentleman, interrupted her timeously enough, though unwittingly on his part, to prevent her giving utterance to the atrocious lie;--for he observed, as he thrust his purse into her hand, “Pardon me, madam, if I have not behaved courteously towards you: but I presume that your circumstances are not as flourishing as they ought to be, and gold is no object to me. Five days hence we meet: till then, farewell.”

And, without waiting for any reply, he hurried away.

Mrs. Mortimer followed along the lane not with any purpose of watching him, but simply because her own route lay in the same direction. The echoes of his retreating steps, however, soon died in the distance; and the old woman sped along until she reached that public-house where, as the reader may remember, Tom Rain and Clarence Villiers met on the night of the elopement nearly twenty years before.

Approaching the window, whence a bright glare streamed forth, Mrs. Mortimer examined the card that had been placed in her hands, and, to her astonishment, found that the hero of her most recent adventure was Lord William Trevelyan, and that his residence was in Park Square. She knew enough of the English peerage to be well aware that the nobleman whom chance had thus thrown in her way was the second son of the Marquis of Curzon, a peer of immense wealth, and who permitted his three male children--all fine young men--to enjoy each a separate establishment for himself, for which purpose he allowed them handsome incomes.

Mrs. Mortimer was therefore well pleased at the encounter which she had that evening made; and in more ways than one was she rejoiced at having visited the cottage in the neighbourhood of Streatham,--especially as the purse which Lord William had given her contained thirty guineas.

An omnibus passing at this moment, the old woman entered the vehicle, and alighted in the Borough. She was speeding homeward--that is to say, to the coffee-house where she had fixed her temporary abode--when, as she was threading a narrow street that offered her a short cut to the place of destination, she was suddenly struck by the certainty that a man who was walking slowly in advance, and whom she had nearly overtaken, was neither more nor less than the object of her search!

For, as he had turned to cast a rapid, stealthy glance around, the light of a lamp had beamed fully upon his countenance;--and that countenance, altered though it were, was too well known to the old woman not to be immediately recognised.

Yes: there indeed was Torrens,--there--in her power--within a few paces of her;--and thus had accident once more materially served his malignant, evil-intentioned pursuer.

Mrs. Mortimer was so excited by this sudden discovery, that she was compelled to pause for a moment and lean against a wall for support. But, almost immediately afterwards recovering her energy and presence of mind, she hastened on, and came near enough up with Torrens to behold him enter a house of mean and miserable appearance.

“Now you are in my power!” muttered the old woman to herself, but in reality apostrophising the individual who was still her husband: and, without another moment’s hesitation, she knocked at the door of the dwelling.

Some minutes elapsed before it was opened; and at length a dirty, slipshod drab of a girl made her appearance.

“I wish to speak to the man who has just entered here,” said Mrs. Mortimer, unceremoniously pushing her way into the narrow, dark, and unpleasantly smelling passage.

“Oh! you means old Mr. Smith what lives down stairs, I des say,” observed the girl.

“I have no doubt of it,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, officiously closing the street-door. “Come, my dear, show me the way--and I will give you sixpence for yourself.”

This promise acted like magic upon the girl, who forthwith fetched a lighted candle from a room opening from the passage, and conducted the old woman to a precipitate flight of steps, down which she pointed, saying, “There--right at the bottom: the door faces you.”

Mrs. Mortimer placed the promised gratuity in her hand, and the girl held the candle high up to light her as she descended.

“That will do, my dear,” said the old woman when she had reached the last step of the dangerous flight; and the girl disappeared, leaving the place in utter darkness.

Before the candle had been thus removed, however, Mrs. Mortimer had hastily reconnoitred the locality; and, applying her hand to a latch, she opened a door, and in another moment found herself in the presence of her husband!

CLX. THE HUSBAND AND WIFE

The place where the husband and wife met thus, after a separation of upwards of nineteen years, was what the poor term “a kitchen,” but which rather merited the designation of “a cellar.” The roof was low and arched--the rough brick-work of the walls, once smeared with white-wash, was now dingy all over--and in the day-time a gleam of light was admitted by means of a miserably small window protected and also darkened by a grating set in the foot-way of the street. The den contained a fire-place, where the inmate might cook his victuals if he were able to bear the intolerable heat of a fire in the midst of summer; and at the extremity facing the window was a small bed. A table, two chairs, a few articles of crockery, and a washing-stand, completed the appointments of this wretched place, which was dimly lighted by a solitary candle.

The reader is already aware that Torrens was much altered in personal appearance: nevertheless, his wife had recognised him in the street without any difficulty. But it was not precisely the same on his part: had he met her in an accidental manner, he would not have known her, so remarkable was the change that had taken place in her. Yet he did know her now--for he had seen her in the little parlour at Percival’s house; and the moment she stood before him on the threshold of his present hiding-place, a cry of horror and alarm escaped his lips.

Mrs. Mortimer closed the door, and, taking a chair, motioned her husband likewise to be seated--a kind of command which he mechanically obeyed; for something told him that he was in the power of the woman whom he hated and abhorred.

“We meet after a long, long separation,” she said, in a low tone, which left him still in utter doubt as to whether the object of her visit was peace or war.

“Yes--yes,” he observed, nervously: “but wherefore should we meet at all?”

“Not to exchange caresses and endearing words--not to unite our fortunes or our misfortunes, as husband and wife,” responded the old woman. “Of that you may be well assured!”

“Then, again I ask--wherefore should we meet?” demanded Torrens.

“Because this interview suits my purposes,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, with a malignant grin; “and I may as well commence by assuring you that you are completely in my power.”

“In your power!” repeated the old man, casting a ghastly look of mingled apprehension and appeal on her who thus proclaimed her authority, and who seemed resolved to exercise it.

“Yes--in my power,” she exclaimed, in an impressive manner. “Do you know that I was arrested on suspicion of being the murderess, or at all events concerned in the murder--”

“Murder! oh--my God!” moaned Torrens, clasping his hands together in convulsive anguish, as he glared wildly around.

“Do not affect ignorance of the fact,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “because you are doubtless well aware that I was arrested for your crime.”

“No--no: you cannot prove that I did it--you can prove nothing!” cried Torrens, with a species of hysterical violence.

“I can prove that you were the murderer of Percival,” responded the old woman, fixing her eyes sternly upon her husband.

“Liar--wretch--I defy you!” exclaimed Torrens, his energy suddenly reviving as he saw the absolute necessity of meeting with boldness a charge which he felt convinced his wife could not prove against him: for how could she possibly entertain anything more serious than a bare suspicion?

“Harsh words and abuse will not intimidate me,” said she, in a quiet voice; “and all these variations in your manner--nervousness at one moment, terror the next, and then excitement--only tend to confirm me in my ideas. Listen, old man--and see whether I have just ground for those ideas, and whether you could explain away my tale, if told to the nearest police-magistrate.”

Torrens groaned audibly, and fell back in his chair--but not insensible--only in the exhaustion of his physical and the prostration of his moral energies; and his eyes glared in consternation on the countenance of the accusing fiend whose very presence would have been intolerable, even if he had committed no crime for her to be able to accuse him of.

“Listen, I say,” resumed the implacable old woman. “You were at Percival’s house a few moments before myself and daughter called upon him. You seemed to be very miserable--so miserable that you wished to obtain assistance from him. These were the very words he used to me; and he observed likewise that he never gave--consequently you extorted nothing from him. But you watched through the window-shutters, from the outside, the interview which took place between him and myself and daughter: you beheld the gold and the notes displayed upon the table; and when the old miser was once more alone, you entered the house--and--and you murdered him with a bludgeon!”

Torrens started convulsively, and endeavoured to give utterance to an ejaculation of denial; but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and his throat was as parched as if he had been swallowing ashes.

“Yes--you murdered him,” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, apparently dwelling with fiendish delight upon the horrible accusation: “you beat the wretched man to death--your blows were dealt with a cruel, a merciless effect. Then you plundered the iron safe--you took all the treasure contained in the tin-case--gold and bank-notes to the amount of several thousands of pounds!”

“It is not true--it is not true!” said Torrens, partially recovering the power of speech.

“But it is true--all true--precisely as I now repeat the details,” cried Mrs. Mortimer, emphatically.

“You are mad to think me the possessor of such a treasure, when you find me in this miserable place, with thread-bare garments, and surrounded by every proof of a poverty amounting almost to utter destitution,” said Torrens, his courage to meet the charge somewhat reviving as he flattered himself that the argument just used was decisive and unanswerable.

“Do you imagine me to be so thoroughly ignorant of the world as to become your dupe on such easy terms?” demanded the old woman, in a tone of withering scorn. “Look at all I have passed through, and then ask yourself whether it be possible to deceive and mislead me! No, no--I understand it all. You believe that suspicion will never fall upon the wretched inmate of such a wretched place,” she continued, glancing slowly around the cellar--“and your calculation is a correct one. Here might you have concealed yourself--here might you have passed some weeks in apparent poverty, until the storm should have blown over. But it was destined that one person should obtain a clue to your guilt and a trace to your lurking-hole--and that person is myself! Nay, to convince you how well all your late proceedings are known to me, I have only to mention the fact that a few days ago you visited the cottage which once bore your name----”

“Ah!” ejaculated Torrens, startled by this new proof of how well-informed his hated wife in reality was concerning his movements.

“Yes--and to the fair inmate of that dwelling,” she added, with a look full of malignant meaning, “you admitted that you were poor no longer, but that you wished you indeed were the penniless and half-starving wretch you had so recently been! Thus the very outpourings of your remorse, old man, have furnished me with arguments--damning arguments--against you, and confirmed all my previous suspicions, if such confirmation were for an instant needed.”

“Why do you now come to me?” asked Torrens, in a faint and faltering tone, while his entire frame trembled nervously, and his countenance became so ghastly, that it was absolutely hideous to behold.

“My purpose is stern and immoveable,” replied the old woman.

“And that purpose--is----” faltered Torrens, trembling like an aspen.

“The surrender of every shilling--yes, every shilling--of the treasure which you plundered from the murdered Percival,” was the answer.

“Malediction!” ejaculated the wretched man, starting wildly from his seat as if he had received a sudden wound: then, sinking back again through sheer exhaustion, he pressed his hand to his throbbing brows, murmuring and lamenting in broken sentences such as these:--“My gold--my notes--the treasure I lost my soul to gain--the riches I had hoped to enjoy--the wealth to acquire which I imbrued my hands in blood--the blood of a fellow-creature--no--no--you shall not have my treasure.”

And he started up, flinging his arms wildly about him, while his eyes rolled horribly in their sockets, as if he were attacked by delirium.

Mrs. Mortimer sate calm and motionless, resolved to allow the paroxysm to pass ere she reiterated her stern demand. She knew--she saw that he was in her power,--now more so than ever, since he had admitted the dread crime by his unguarded exclamations.

“Woman, you will drive me mad!” suddenly cried her husband, falling back again into his seat, and looking at her with a hyena-like rage expressed upon his countenance.

“I do not seek such a catastrophe,” she observed, coolly.

“But you an urging me to it,” he replied, with savage fierceness. “No--no--I will not surrender my gold: you cannot compel me!”

“It is for you to decide whether you will adopt that alternative, or pass hence in a few minutes to the nearest station-house,” responded Mrs. Mortimer, her voice being still characterised by a calmness and deliberation indicative of the most implacable sternness of purpose.

“The station-house!” moaned Torrens, with a cold shudder: then, again becoming dreadfully excited, he exclaimed, “I will die first--and you shall perish also! Yes--I will murder you, and afterwards----”

“This is child’s play!” said Mrs. Mortimer, laughing at the threat, as she took up a knife which lay upon the table. “Advance towards me another pace--and I will plunge this sharp blade into your heart. The treasure, which is no doubt concealed somewhere in the room, will then fall into my hands all the same.”

“You are determined to rifle me of all I possess--to plunder me--to make me penniless!” cried Torrens, falling back in his seat, and giving way to his despair. “Can nothing move you? But, listen--listen: I will give you half--yes--one-half of the whole amount----”

“I came not to receive terms, but to dictate them,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer. “And now reflect well upon your position, old man;--and remember also that your wild ravings may draw listeners to the door, and your guilt will be no longer a secret existing between you and me. Then, naught--naught can save your neck from the halter!”

“My God! she speaks truly,” murmured Torrens, bewildered by the dreadful thoughts that rushed to his brain as the woman spoke so calmly and deliberately of the ignominious death which might overtake him: “yes--she speaks truly!” he repeated; “and yet, if I give up all--surrender everything--on what am I to live? how am I to sustain my miserable existence?”

“You had no kind thought--no compassion for me, when you had friends to help you, and I was banished across the wide ocean,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “you cared not what became of me at that time, Torrens--and I have now no pity, no sympathy for you! I am aware that you loathe and detest me;--but your aversion surpasses not that which I entertain for you. There we are well matched: it is however in our relative positions that I have gained the ascendancy and can wield the authority of a despot. My crime is of old date, and has been expiated by many long, long years of horrible exile and servitude in a penal colony: your crime is new--the blood is scarcely dry upon your hands--your victim is scarcely cold in his grave--and your guilt can only be expiated on the scaffold.”

“Spare me--spare me,” groaned the wretched man, clasping his hands together in an anguish which, assassin as he was, would have moved any other than the soul-hardened, implacable Mrs. Mortimer.

“Spare you, indeed!” she repeated, in a contemptuous tone: “in what way can I spare you? If you ask me not to betray you into the hands of the officers of justice, I at once reassure you on that head--but with the one condition that you surrender up to me, and without further parley, every sixpence of the amount you have secreted somewhere in this place. I do not seek your life: I wish you to live, that you may be miserable--that you may know what starvation is--that you may wander the streets, houseless and penniless--dependent upon eleemosynary charity--begging your bread----”

“Merciful heaven! it is a fiend who is addressing these frightful words to me now!” ejaculated Torrens, surveying his wife with horror and astonishment.

“No--it is a woman,--a woman whom you deserted in her bitter trouble, and who now wreaks her vengeance upon you,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Carry back your reminiscences some nineteen years or upwards, and contrast our positions then. You found friends and relations to console you while still in gaol, and to assist you after your release. But did you come near me? did you even send a word or a line to sympathise or to proffer aid! Miserable wretch that you are, I could wish that you were ten thousand times more miserable still!”

“Oh! that is impossible--impossible!” exclaimed Torrens, his cadaverous countenance denoting, by its hideous, painful workings, the sincerity--the profound sincerity that prompted the averment he had just made. “Were you to search the earth over, you could not find a being more miserable than I! And now--and now,” he continued, in a faltering tone, while tears trickled down his furrowed cheeks,--“now, will you have compassion upon me?”

“No--ten thousand times no!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer. “And I warn you to hasten and surrender your wealth--or I shall lose all power of restraining my impatience.”

Torrens rose from his seat, cast one look of malignant--diabolical hate upon the merciless woman, dashed the traces of grief away from his cheeks, and then turned towards the bed.

Mrs. Mortimer followed him with her eyes--those eyes now so greedy, suspicions, and anxious lest by any possibility her prey should escape her!

The wretched old man, whose heart experienced all the pains of hell, slowly and with trembling hands raised the miserable mattresses; and from beneath he drew forth a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a thick string. This he handed to Mrs. Mortimer, who, heedless of the terrible glance which accompanied it, hastened to open the packet and examine its contents.

And now her triumph was complete;--for the parcel enclosed gold and notes to an amount which she proceeded in a leisurely manner to compute.

“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” she said aloud, casting a malignant look upon Torrens, who had resumed his seat and appeared to be the victim of a despair that must terminate in the total wreck of his reason. “And here,” she continued, now musing to herself rather than speaking for his behoof,--“here is a document that may prove of some importance to me,--the promissory note of the young man who called himself Viscount Marston.”

Thus speaking, she carefully packed up the parcel once more, and secured it about her person.

“And you will not leave me a guinea--a single guinea?” asked Torrent, in a low, hollow voice--his entire aspect indicating that he was almost stupified by the merciless cupidity of his wife.

“Not a single guinea,” she replied. “The only consolation I can afford you is the assurance that your secret is safe with me. If you are ever sent to the scaffold--it will not be through my instrumentality.”

With these words, she retreated towards the door, walking backwards, so as to keep her eyes fixed upon Torrens the whole time, and thus be prepared for a sudden attack should he meditate mischief, or, in an ungovernable paroxysm of rage and despair, attempt it.

But the old man moved not from his seat, although he appeared to reel and sway unsteadily backward and forward in his chair; and at the moment when Mrs. Mortimer placed her hand on the latch, he fell heavily upon the floor.

She was about to depart when it struck her that, if he were dead, unpleasant suspicions might attach themselves to her, should she hurry away without raising any alarm; and she accordingly hastened towards him. He was senseless--but the spark of life was not extinct; and now through fear did the woman perform those duties to which she never could have been otherwise urged in respect to him. She raised him in her arms--she placed him on the bed--removed his neckcloth--and sprinkled water upon his face. In a few minutes he began to revive, and his eyes opened slowly.

“Where am I?--is it a dream?” he murmured in a faint tone: then, as his recollection returned with speed and vividness, and he knew the countenance that was bending over him, and remembered why the woman herself was there, he exclaimed, “Fiend! give me back my gold!”

“Never!” was the emphatic word that fell upon his ear in reply--and in another moment he was alone.

No--not alone: for Despair was now his companion.

And Despair is an appalling guest:--for, murderer as the man was, he had some kind of worldly consolation left in his treasure until the implacable woman wrested it from him. But now that only solace was gone--and he was left to the horror of his thoughts, and to the ghost of his victim. Beggary was before him--beggary, with all its hideous train of evils, and those evils rendered the more terrible because beyond loomed the black and ominous gibbet!

Oh! how was it that madness did not seize upon the old man’s brain, and rob him of the power of making these agonizing reflections?

Was it that his punishment was to begin upon earth? If so, assuredly the retribution was appalling, even on this side of the tomb;--and he had not even left to him the consolation that the gold for which he had bartered his soul was still in his possession--still at his command, and available for his use!

CLXI. AGNES VERNON AND HER FATHER

We must now return to the cottage near Streatham, were we left the beautiful and artless Agnes Vernon with her father.

The moment the old woman had quitted the house, Mr. Vernon turned towards his daughter, and, taking her hand, said, “My dearest child, how came you to admit a complete stranger into your presence in so unguarded a manner?”

“As I had never seen her in my life before, dear father,” replied the charming girl, “I could not for an instant suppose that she had any evil intention in visiting the cottage; because, having done her no harm----”

“But, my beloved Agnes,” interrupted her parent kindly, as he made her sit down near him as he also took a chair, “I have often told you that the world contains many wicked people, who frequently harbour the basest and most infamous designs towards young women who are pretty and unsuspecting as you; and this Mrs. Mortimer, as she calls herself, may be one of the class I have alluded to.”

“I am sorry indeed that I should have acted in a way to cause you any displeasure, my dearest father,” said Agnes, her eyes filling with tears; “but--”

“You do not understand me, my sweet child,” again interrupted Mr. Vernon, passing his hand affectionately over her glossy hair, and pure, polished brow; “I am not angry with you--indeed, it would be impossible to experience any irritation with such an amiable, excellent girl as you are. But I am alarmed lest evil-disposed persons should seek to do you an injury--and therefore I recommend caution and prudence on your part.”

“I cannot comprehend how the old lady who was here just now could possibly seek to harm me,” said the amiable Agnes, “since I have never harmed her, and, on the contrary, treated her with the respect due to her years and her afflictions.”

“What did she tell you, my love?” inquired Mr. Vernon.

Agnes forthwith related, in her own natural, simple, yet agreeable manner, the entire conversation which had passed between herself and Mrs. Mortimer.

Her father listened with earnest attention; and for some minutes after she had ceased speaking, he remained absorbed in deep thought.

“You are not pleased with the incident of this evening,” said Agnes, at length, and speaking in a timid voice, as she gazed with anxious fondness on her parent’s pensive countenance.

“Once more I assure you, my well-beloved child,” he responded, “that I am not angry with you. But you will, perhaps, be somewhat surprised to hear me declare that I do not believe one syllable of all the old woman told you. In the great world, Agnes, there is no such thing as that sentimentalism and sympathy which she professed to be the motives that led her to visit the cottage ere now. I detected her in two falsehoods--and I have every reason to suspect all the rest.”

“But was it not natural, dear papa, for her to be desirous to behold once more the scene where she had passed many happy days with her deceased husband?” inquired Agnes. “Oh! I can well understand such a feeling--and I therefore honoured and respected her for entertaining it.”

“Yes--there are a few generous hearts that would experience such sentiments,” observed Mr. Vernon; “for perhaps I was too hasty ere now in the sweeping condemnation which I levelled at what I termed the great world. At the same time, Agnes, you must not judge the world by your own pure and unsophisticated soul. And would to God that experience might never be destined to teach you other lessons than those which seclusion and good training have already inculcated: would to God that you might never be compelled to look upon the dark side of human affairs!”

“Have I other lessons to learn--other teachings to undergo--other experience to acquire, beyond what I already know?” asked the ingenuous and candid Agnes.

“Alas! yes--and in a variety of ways,” responded her father, with a sigh. “You have as yet seen only one phase of the world--that of tranquillity, serene happiness, and peace. You have not even heard the storms of that world in the distance. Hitherto your life has been passed under the most genial influences; and you know nothing--absolutely nothing, of what may be termed life. Again I say, therefore, how deeply--how earnestly it is to be wished that your mind may never become acquainted with the bitter teachings of vicissitude or misfortune.”

“I am already well aware, my dear father, from my historical studies and from the perusal of the books which you have selected for me, that mankind pursues many and varied conflicting interests, and that gain is the chief object thus sought after, But I am still at a loss,” continued the beautiful Agnes, “to understand how people can be wicked enough to injure others who have never injured them, and when the infliction of such injury can confer no benefit upon the individual who is guilty of such flagrant wrong. Suppose, for instance, that this Mrs. Mortimer who was here just now, should in reality entertain some evil design towards me, how could she possibly acquire any personal advantage from the pursuit of such conduct?”

“You are as yet too innocent--oh! far too innocent, if not too young, to understand these matters,” said Mr. Vernon, gazing with all a father’s affection upon his beauteous and artless child. “Neither is it for me to remove the film from your eyes in this respect.”

“And yet, dear papa,” she observed, with the most endearing, amiable naïveté, “if no one will point out the shoals, rocks, and quicksands to me, how can I possibly avoid them? You see that just now I erred by receiving that person too frankly--too cordially----”

“And the old man who called the other evening, too,” said her father, with a smile. “Now, do you not perceive, my dear child, that there is something suspicious in these two visits, which indeed appear to have some degree of relationship to each other, and perhaps had the same instigation. I cannot conceive that accident should send two persons hither, separately and at a short interval, on the same pretence, unless they were acting in collusion. That such an accidental coincidence might happen, I admit; but prudence--worldly prudence, my love, makes us look suspiciously upon such events; and I confess that this is the light in which I view the present occurrences. The woman represented herself as the widow of a General who had lately died in India: now I happen to be so well-informed on these matters as to be enabled to state most emphatically that no General-officer of that name has existed for many years past. Finding herself at fault in respect to her first assertion, your visitor endeavoured to make good her tale by means of a second; but the falsehood was equally palpable in this latter case. Now, therefore, my dearest Agnes, you comprehend that there are good and just grounds for suspecting the motive which led her hither.”

“Is it possible that persons can be so wicked?” exclaimed the young maiden.

“It is, alas! too true,” replied her father; “and therefore you cannot be too much upon your guard in respect to strangers. I wonder that Mrs. Gifford did not represent to you the impropriety of allowing the old man to force his way into your presence a few days ago----”

“Both Mrs. Gifford and Jane spoke to me on the subject after he was gone,” said Agnes, desirous to rescue her two servants from blame: “but I fancied their timidity had made them conjure up visions of thieves and housebreakers, and I only laughed while they remonstrated.”

“Then you now perceive, dear Agnes, that they were right in the observations which they undertook to address to you,” said Mr. Vernon.

“Yes--and I am sorry that I did not listen with more attention,” answered the amiable girl. “In future, my dear father, I will allow no one to enter the house unless he or she be the bearer of a letter from you.”

“This is precisely what I could desire, Agnes,” exclaimed Mr. Vernon; “and you will afford me unfeigned pleasure if you adhere to this resolution.”

“You know that I will do all you enjoin--even without questioning your motives,” observed Agnes. “Command--and I obey.”

“My dear child, the word ‘command’ exists not in the vocabulary that I have to use when conveying my wishes to you. So dutiful--so good--so willing are you, Agnes, that I have never had occasion to speak with imperiousness or harshness to you. You do not even question me concerning those matters which might naturally awaken your curiosity and your interest.”

“It is sufficient for me to know that you desire me to dwell in this seclusion,” said Agnes; “and as you have exerted yourself, my dearest father, to surround me with every comfort--every element of happiness, I should be indeed ungrateful and unjust were I to seek prematurely those explanations which you have promised to give me when the proper time shall arrive.”

“And that time is not so very far distant, Agnes,” said Mr. Vernon. “Two years more--and I shall no longer have any secrets from you. But while we are thus conversing, I forget that it is waxing late and that I have not even as yet begun to account for the sudden and unexpected visit which circumstances have compelled me to pay you this evening.”

Agnes now regarded her parent with some degree of suspense; for his remark had brought back to her memory the circumstance that he had never called at so late an hour before, and, moreover, that this was the third time he had visited her within the week--an occurrence at variance with his ordinary habit.

“My dear child,” said Mr. Vernon, speaking in the kindest tone possible, “I am compelled to leave England on urgent business to-morrow.”

“Leave England!” repeated Agnes, tears starting into her eyes.

“Yes, my beloved--and I regret to add that my absence may be of some weeks’ duration. Paris is the place whither this sudden and unexpected business calls me; and though I shall be away from you, yet will you ever be present in my thoughts, and I shall write to you frequently.”

“But how many weeks shall you be absent, my dear father?” asked Agnes, the pearly drops now chasing each other adown her cheeks.

“Eight or ten, my child,” responded Mr. Vernon: “but at the expiration of that period you will be certain to see me again. Remember, Agnes, that far longer intervals than this have occurred during which we have been completely separated--”

“Yes, my dear father--when I was staying in the country with my governess, who is now no more,” interrupted Agnes, unable to stifle her sobs: “but ever since her death I have seen you frequently--far more frequently.”

“Because I removed you to this cottage which I purchased for you, and which is so much nearer to London than was Mrs. Clement’s abode at St. Alban’s. However, my sweet Agnes--compose yourself--cheer up--and wipe away those tears. I cannot bear to see you weep,” he added, his own voice growing tremulous. “Two months or two months and a half will soon glide away; and I shall bring you a number of presents from Paris.”

“You spoil me with your kindness, my dear father,” exclaimed the beautiful girl, throwing her arms about his neck, and embracing him tenderly. “I am afraid that I must cost you a great deal of money--for you are always buying me something new. But then, you are very rich--are you not, dear papa!”

“Thank God, I am--and for your sake!” cried Mr. Vernon, returning her fond caresses. “The time will come, Agnes, when you will learn how powerful a talisman, in respect to happiness, is money. Some of the books which I have selected for you inculcate maxims against avarice, covetousness, and selfishness: while others even go further, and endeavour to prove that a moderate competency is more compatible with true happiness than an immense fortune can possibly be. But I much question whether the authors of those works would not have leapt at the chance of giving the truth of their assertions a fair trial through the medium of experience in respect to the possession of riches. Such books, however, do good; they infuse salutary thoughts into the mind--although the influence thereof must inevitably become subdued, if not altogether destroyed, in proportion as the individual advances in worldly knowledge, and finds worldly interests crowding upon him. Riches, my dearest Agnes, may become a blessing or a curse according to the manner in which the possessor uses them; and by this observation I believe that I shall have opened a new field for the exercise of your reflections and good sense.”

“Oh! you have indeed, my kind father!” exclaimed Agnes. “But--to return to the object of your visit this evening--may I express a hope that the business which calls you to Paris is of no unpleasant nature?”

“By no means, my love,” answered Mr. Vernon, smiling affectionately upon his amiable daughter. “And now I must take my departure--for it is eleven o’clock. You will remark, dear Agnes, the advice I gave you relative to the visits of strangers; for I should be unhappy indeed, if I thought that your artless, unsuspecting character were likely to be the very cause of exposing you to peril.”

“You may depend upon my prudence in future, dear father,” said Agnes; “and I am rejoiced that you have given me such timely warning. Oh! who could have thought that the old man who seemed so deeply affected, and the woman who spoke so tenderly of her deceased husband, could have harboured any sinister design? It is really enough to render one suspicious of everything and everybody in future.”

“No, my dear child--you must not fall into the opposite extreme,” cried Mr. Vernon, hastily. “Because, for instance, a mendicant to whom you give alms should turn out to be an imposter, do not argue therefrom that all destitute persons are rogues. I do not wish distrust and suspicion to take the place of your generous frankness and amiable candour; but I am desirous that, while preserving the artlessness and ingenuousness of your disposition, you should at the same time adopt those precautions which common prudence suggests. And now, my sweet Agnes, embrace me and then retire to your own chamber--for, ere I depart, I have a few instructions to give to Mrs. Gifford, whom you will please to send hither to me.”

The beauteous maiden once more threw her arms round her father’s neck and covered his face with her kisses and her tears: then, having received his blessing--a blessing which he gave from the very bottom of his heart--she reluctantly tore herself away from his arms, and quitted the room.

In a few minutes Mrs. Gifford, the housekeeper, made her appearance. She was a woman of about fifty-six years of age--stout, respectable-looking, and with a countenance in which honesty and good-temper were alike read as plainly as the words in a book.

On entering the parlour, she closed the door carefully behind her; and then her demeanour suddenly became profoundly reverential as she advanced towards the father of her young mistress.

“Mrs. Gifford,” said he, in a tone of friendly confidence, “I am about to visit Paris, and therefore thought it necessary to see you for a few moments, previous to my departure. Not that I need recommend my beloved child to your care--for I am well assured that you watch over her safety and her happiness as zealously as if she were your own daughter.”

“Your lordship--” began the housekeeper, in a tone of the deepest respect.

“Hush!” exclaimed he whom we must still call Mr. Vernon, in spite of the aristocratic title by which Mrs. Gifford had addressed him: “remember that walls have ears, my good friend! I was about to observe to you that Agnes, through the amiable confidence and ingenuousness which are natural to her, has allowed two strangers,--one a few evenings ago--the other this very night,--to intrude themselves upon her; and I tremble lest their motive be a bad one. The gardener and his assistant invariably sleep in the out-house, I hope?”

“Yes, my--I mean, sir,” answered Mrs. Gifford; “and they are resolute, determined men, who would not permit plunderers to enter these premises with impunity.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Vernon. “Did you yourself see the old man who called here the other night?”

“I did not, sir,” replied Mrs. Gifford. “But Jane assured me his appearance was that of a man worn down with old age, wretchedness, and poverty, rather than of an evil-intentioned person. Shall I tell your lord--shall I tell you, sir,” said the good woman, hastily correcting herself, “what is my impression relative to that old man? Why, sir,” she continued, perceiving that Mr. Vernon nodded approvingly, “it struck me that it might be that Mr. Torrens, who used to live here many, many years ago, and of whom we heard such dreadful tales shortly after your lord--I mean, shortly after you bought the cottage.”

“But those tales--has Agnes learnt them?--have they reached her ears?” demanded Mr. Vernon, hastily: “because they might terrify and alarm her.”

“No, sir--she is entirely ignorant of all the legends attached to this house,” was the reply; “and it is not by any means likely that they can reach her ears. Jane is a discreet, good girl, and would not allude to them for worlds.”

“Thank God!” ejaculated Mr. Vernon; “for were Agnes to learn what we ourselves only heard after the entire purchase was concluded and you were located here,--were she to learn, I say, that a horrible murder had been committed in this house, I would at once procure her another dwelling. But you were speaking ere now about the very Torrens who was so unjustly accused of that foul crime.”

“I was observing, sir, that I fancied the old man who called here the other night might be he; for as Miss afterwards told me, he spoke of having lived here many years ago, and of the terrible misfortunes he had endured; and then he glanced round the parlour repeatedly, observing in an audible though anguished tone, ‘This is the very room--this is the very room!’ And this is the room,” continued Mrs. Gifford, “where the baronet was murdered; and therefore I conclude that the old man was none other than the wretched Torrens.”

“Your surmises are most natural,” said Mr. Vernon, after a few moments’ reflection. “But who, then, was the old woman that came just now? And yet,” he proceeded, “though I spoke of her lightly and irreverently as an old woman, I am bound to admit that there was really a something about her which gave me the idea of one who had seen better days. Her language was especially lady-like and correct. She said she had lived here many years ago--”

“And yet,” interrupted Mrs. Gifford, “the cottage was shut up for nearly eight years after the murder; and then the landlord into whose hands it had fallen, and who was a widower, came and resided here himself, as no one would take it. He occupied it until his death; and then your lord--and then, I mean, you purchased it, sir, together with the garden and orchard attached to it.”

“And what would you infer from all these circumstances?” inquired Mr. Vernon.

“That if the old woman really did live here many years ago, it must have been during Torrens’ time,” explained the housekeeper; “because he built the cottage, and resided in it until the murder; after which, as I just now said, it was shut up for a lengthened period. Now, strange though it may seem, an idea has likewise struck me relative to the old woman--or old lady--”

“And what is your idea!” asked Mr. Vernon.

“That she is that Mrs. Slingsby--or Mrs. Torrens, who got into trouble at the same time as the husband she had just married. If my conjectures are correct, sir, I do not think that you have any cause for apprehension in the two visits which have been paid to the cottage.”

“I congratulate you upon the shrewdness which you have displayed in dealing with the subject,” said Mr. Vernon, smiling; “and I am inclined to adopt the views which your sagacity suggests. Perhaps, then, there is really nothing to fear: but, of course, Mrs. Gifford, you will exercise the utmost prudence and the most unwearying vigilance in regard to my darling child. You know how dear she is to me--you are also acquainted with the unhappy circumstances which force me to condemn her to this seclusion until she shall have attained her twenty-first year--unless,” he added, in a more measured tone, “death shall in the meantime snatch away that woman whom I cannot call my----”

“My lord! my lord!” exclaimed the housekeeper, in an imploring voice; “give not way to recollections which always excite you so painfully! With me your charming Agnes is safe--and you are well aware that I love her as much as if she were my own child! Besides, the deep--the many debts of gratitude which I owe to your lordship----”

“Hush! hush!” interrupted Mr. Vernon; “for again I tell you that the very walls have ears--and I would not that my rank should be even suspected----”

“Pardon me--I forgot your oft-repeated injunctions on that head,” said Mrs. Gifford. “But you must not suppose that because I am thus sometimes oblivious in your presence, I ever allow a single word to slip from my tongue that may create a suspicion in the mind of Miss Agnes or Jane.”

“And now, Mrs. Gifford,” observed Mr. Vernon, “I have one more question to ask you:--has that young gentleman who once dared to ask Jane to deliver a note to my daughter--has he ventured into this neighbourhood since?”

“I must confess, sir,” was the answer, “that I have seen him loitering about the cottage on one or two occasions: but as he never seeks to obtrude himself upon the notice of Miss Agnes, I have not thought it worth while, nor even prudent, to suggest to the dear young lady what course she ought to pursue in case he should address her. Besides, he appears to be a gentleman in every sense of the word; and I do not apprehend any rudeness on his part towards your daughter. Indeed, he appeared much humiliated and very penitent when Jane so resolutely refused to become the bearer of his missive or to receive his bribe.”

“You have acted with prudence: it would be unwise to make any observation to Agnes relative to this stranger, under present circumstances,” said Mr. Vernon. “Were you to speak to her on the subject, you must necessarily explain the nature of that sentiment which has attracted the young gentleman to this neighbourhood--and to talk to her relative to the passion of love, were to destroy some portion of that artless innocence--that infantine purity of soul, which characterises her. In a word, I trust my dear child to your care and discretion, Mrs. Gifford;--and I shall expect that you will write to me at least once a week during my absence.”

Mr. Vernon then wrote upon a slip of paper the address where letters would reach him in Paris; and, having next placed a roll of bank notes in Mrs. Gifford’s hands for the expenses of the little establishment until his return, he took his departure.

CLXII. LAURA IN PARIS

We must now return for a short time to the beautiful, but licentious and profligate Laura, whom we left in Paris.

Although she reckoned materially upon her mother’s aid in respect to her new designs, she nevertheless resolved to enjoy herself during the old woman’s absence; and the thought even struck her that it was possible--though not very probable--for her to form some brilliant connexion without the assistance of her parent. At all events, she reasoned that there was no harm in making the trial; and therefore, the moment Mrs. Mortimer had taken her departure for England, Laura commenced her preparations for pleasure, and perhaps for intrigue.

She hired a private box at each of the principal theatres, and purchased a handsome carriage and a pair of beautiful horses; and then she engaged a celebrated artist to paint her portrait, well knowing that his studio was frequented by men of rank and fortune, and calculating that a view of the splendid countenance on the canvass would inspire the liveliest curiosity to behold the living original. She likewise secured the services of an eminent musician to give her lessons in the divine art; and this gentleman, believing her to be highly respectable, introduced her to his wife, and invited her to a musical soirée, where her beauty and the report which had been spread to the effect that she was an heiress who had just succeeded to her property, rendered her the centre of attraction.

By the means just enumerated, Laura gained one grand object--an entrance into respectable society; and this difficult point was accomplished in less than four days after her mother’s departure from Paris.

She soon began to be talked about--but not with suspicion. No--it was her transcendent beauty that became the theme of discourse; and the admiration with which she had inspired both the French and English gentlemen at the soirée, rendered them so enthusiastic in her praise, that they unconsciously suffered themselves to be hurried into assertions guaranteeing her respectability and virtue, as well as expatiating on her charms.

Thus was it, for instance, that one of her French admirers would speak:--

“Never in my life did I behold so beauteous a creature as Miss Laura Mortimer, an English lady whom I met at the soirée last evening. What a pity it is that she cannot talk French: how sweet would our language sound when wafted by such a melodious voice! It is, however, fortunate that I myself understand the English tongue, or I should have been debarred the pleasure of exchanging a syllable with that houri. Houri! Mahommed never dreamt of such a glorious creature! Her hair is of the richest brown that I ever saw--glossy, luxuriant, and shining: her forehead is of a height and width deserving to sustain a queenly diadem; and her eyes, large and brilliant, are of a dark grey when looked into attentively, but seem to be of a deeper hue to the casual observer. Then her teeth--never were beheld such pearls! But her form--her figure--oh, it were impossible to find words to describe the charms of that magnificent shape! A critic, having the ancient models of classic female beauty in his mind, would perhaps pronounce her bust to be in proportions too voluptuous: but let him contemplate that graceful slope of the shoulders--the arching of the swan-like neck--the fine expansion of the chest--the perfect roundness of the bosom--the just symmetry of the waist--and the dazzling whiteness of the charms revealed by the low corsage of the evening toilette,--let the admirer of ancient models behold all this, and he will soon confess that he would have nothing changed in the contours of Laura Mortimer’s figure. Oh! she was indeed heavenly in her elegant, but tasteful attire; and the lustre of her eyes outvied the brilliancy of her diamonds. But, in addition to her faultless beauty there is about her an air of virgin freshness that indicates a mind pure and untainted; though, at the same time, it is easy to perceive that Laura Mortimer is no inexperienced girl. She is, on the contrary, a young woman of fine intellect, proud soul, and independent spirit,--energetic, without being masculine,--firm, yet endowed with all the natural softness of her sex. That her passions are strong and her disposition even sensual, you may read in her eyes and in the lineaments of her aquiline countenance;--but that an honest pride enables her to put a curb upon her ardent imagination, is equally certain. Happy will be the man who shall win so inestimable a prize!”

“I understand,” another enthusiastic admirer would observe, “that she is possessed of a fine property. Her deceased father, I am told, was a wealthy nabob; and she expects her mother shortly to join her in Paris. The old lady has gone to England to make certain transfers from the British to the French funds, in behalf of her daughter. Miss Mortimer is decidedly the most charming creature that ever burst thus suddenly upon the dazzled sight of the fashionable world in Paris. Oh! how I envy the professor of music who gives her lessons, and the artist who is painting her portrait! Never could I grow weary of contemplating that splendid countenance, or of listening to that voice so full of melody!”

In a word, within a very few days from the time when she took the handsome suite of apartments in the Rue Monthabor, Laura became the topic of conversation amongst all the nobles and gentlemen, French or foreign, in the fashionable quarters of Paris; and those who heard the praises so lavishly bestowed upon her by the envied few that had already formed her acquaintance, longed to be presented to this goddess of beauty!

One danger she incurred--and of this she was sensible: it consisted in the fact that the persons belonging to the hotel where she and Charles Hatfield had at first put up, and likewise the British chaplain and his clerk, were aware that she was married! But she calculated that the chances of detection or exposure at their hands were very insignificant and scarcely worth a thought: for even though any of the parties alluded to should meet and recognise her, they would believe themselves to be mistaken in respect to the identity of Laura Mortimer with Perdita Hatfield. Besides, Paris was a very large city; and months might elapse before such a meeting or recognition took place; and in the meantime she hoped to have so successfully conducted her intrigues as to be able to return to England in complete independence of her convention with Mr. Hatfield.

It was on the sixth morning after Laura had taken up her abode in the Rue Monthabor that she saw a paragraph in Galignani’s Messenger, the English journal published in Paris, announcing that His Sovereign Highness the Grand Duke of Castelcicala, who had just succeeded to that lofty rank in consequence of his father-in-law’s demise, had arrived on the preceding evening in the French capital, on his way to Italy. The article, in the usual fulsome manner, stated that his Sovereign Highness intended to remain one day in Paris, in order to have a private interview with the King of the French; and the journalist proceeded to give a list of the noblemen and gentlemen composing the suite of the Grand Duke. In that category there was one English name;--and that name was CHARLES HATFIELD!

“Charles Hatfield!” exclaimed Laura, in astonishment, and scarcely able to believe the evidence of her own eyes; but a second reference to the paragraph assured her that she had indeed made no mistake. “Ah! I comprehend,” she murmured to herself, as she laid the paper upon the breakfast table, at which she was seated; “this is the course that his stern father has adopted in order to throw him amidst new scenes, and remove him afar from the meridian of London as well as from that of Paris! He is to be sent into a species of ostracism in Italy, until he shall have been weaned from the lingering affection he entertains for me!”

Thus reasoning within herself, Laura rose from the sofa whereon she had been reclining, and approached a mirror, on whose bright and polished surface she beheld the glorious reflection of her countenance,--that countenance which was now radiant with the triumph that filled her soul.

“Yes,” she murmured to herself, as she still continued to survey her image in the glass,--“his father is afraid that he will yet fly back to my arms--afraid that the magic of my beauty may once more draw him within the sphere of its influence!”

As these thoughts passed through her brain, her soul was filled with an ineffable exultation;--for she marked the flashing of her fine eyes, and the dazzling brilliancy of the teeth that appeared like pearls set between two rubies,--marked also the glow of rich carnation on her cheeks, in such striking contrast to the alabaster shoulders and swelling bosom whiter than Parian marble, and which, according to a habit produced by the natural voluptuousness of her temperament, were purposely left more than half exposed even when she was alone,--all those beauties--her own transcendent beauties--she beheld reflected in the faithful mirror; and never was woman more profoundly conscious of the sovereign power which perfect loveliness exercises over the heart of man, than was Laura Mortimer on this occasion.

The reader has already seen enough of this young woman to be well aware that she was a most extraordinary character; and, though her conduct would in another often warrant the belief that she was made up of contradictions, yet with her those very deeds or thoughts that might seem to deserve such a name, were in reality in perfect keeping with a disposition to the reading of whose depths and intricacies the key of no ordinary experience of the female heart would serve.

Thus was it that a wild--a strange--and a daring scheme rose up in her mind, as, surveying her peerless charms in the polished mirror, she repeated to herself, “Charles Hatfield is in Paris! He will be in the capital for twenty-four hours; and in twenty-four hours so much may be done! May I not take the first step in my meditated vengeance--a small step, it is true,--and yet a commencement! Yes--at the same time I may prove the irresistible power of my beauty, and wring his recreant heart with a jealousy--a jealousy so keen, so acute, so galling that he shall writhe in agony of spirit, and yet dare not utter a word! All this I can do, and still not violate my compact with his father. For how run the conditions? Never to molest the young man in any way--never to return to England, but to fix my abode in some continental State--and never to reveal the fact of our marriage! Not one of those conditions shall I break by the plan which now engages my attention. For if we happen to meet in the same room, or at the same public resort, it cannot be said that I molest him. No:--and now for the execution of my project--a project that, in its carrying out, will excite in his breast the tortures of hell!”

And the beauteous mouth was wreathed into a smile of malignant--almost fiend-like triumph, as those last words came hissing between her pearly teeth--not borne upon a voice melodious as a silver bell, but in a tone so changed for a few moments, that had she spoken in the dark, with her own mother or Charles Hatfield present, but able only to hear and not to see, that voice would not have been recognised by them!

Rosalie, the adept and intriguing lady’s-maid, was now summoned to hold a conference with her mistress.

“It is my intention to appear in the Champs Elysées this afternoon, attired in the most becoming manner,” said Laura. “The day is gloriously fine, and the carriage will be open. I wish you to exercise all your judgment and your best taste in the superintendence of my toilette. Let me have no gaudy colours--nothing savouring of splendour. Chaste elegance must characterise my costume: in a word, Rosalie, let my beauty be enhanced by my apparel, without appearing to be in any way indebted to artificial means.”

“I understand you, mademoiselle,” said Rosalie; “and you may depend upon me.”

“But now I wish to appeal to your ingenuity, my dear girl,” proceeded Laura,--“having thus recommended myself to your good taste. Listen attentively! The Grand Duke of Castelcicala is in Paris; and his stay is limited to a few hours. Charles Hatfield,” she continued, sinking her voice almost to a whisper, as if the very walls had ears, “is in his suite; and I am desirous that he--Charles Hatfield--accompanied by three or four other gentlemen in the Duke’s service, should be allured by some means to the Champs Elysées this afternoon.”

“You wish that Mr. Charles and his companions may appear, either on foot or horseback, in the fashionable lounge at the time when you yourself will be there?” said Rosalie, interrogatively.

“You have expressed my desire with accuracy,” observed Laura. “Does your imagination suggest any plan by which this aim can be accomplished?”

Rosalie reflected profoundly for upwards of a minute: then, suddenly turning towards her mistress, she said, “Can you tell me the names of any of the nobles or gentlemen in the Duke’s suite, besides Mr. Charles Hatfield?”

Laura immediately directed Rosalie’s attention to the paragraph in the Messenger; and the cunning lady’s-maid, having perused it, exclaimed, “Will you leave this matter entirely in my hands, mademoiselle?”

“I will,” answered Laura. “But, whatever be your plan, remember that you must not compromise me. All I demand or require is that Charles Hatfield, accompanied by three or four of his comrades in the Duke’s service, shall visit the Champs Elysées this afternoon. The rest concerns me.”

“I understand you, mademoiselle,” said Rosalie: “you may trust entirely to my discretion, without entertaining the least dread of being in any way compromised.”

The abigail then retired, and Laura was left alone to meditate upon the scheme she had thus set on foot.

How her dependant proposed to act, in order to accomplish that part of the design which had been entrusted to her, Laura could not conceive: nor indeed did she give herself much trouble to conjecture. She placed full reliance upon the tact, discretion, and ability of Rosalie; and regarded success as certain.

In order to while away the time, she turned to her writing-table, and examined a packet which her music-master had left with her on the previous evening. The enclosure consisted of English translations of several of the most popular French songs and national airs; and Laura set herself deliberately to the study of these pieces, well aware that an acquaintance with their tendency and spirit would prove of advantage to her in conversation.

The first manuscript to which she thus earnestly addressed herself, was a free version of that soul-stirring hymn, La Marseillaise:--

LA MARSEILLAISE.

Sons of heroes, famed in story, Onward march to death or glory! For see, the foemen’s standard waves O’er fields that soon must be their graves! Hear ye the clashing of their arms-- Their shouts portending dire alarms? Eager for slaughter, on they press To make your children fatherless. Then let each warrior grasp the gleaming brand, And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilise the land!

Wherefore to our peaceful coast Rush those sanguinary hosts? For whom have they prepared the chains Which now they drag o’er verdant plains?-- Children of France, to us they come-- Those chains are forged to stamp our doom! Just Heaven, that such disgrace should fall Upon the free-born sons of Gaul! Then let each warrior grasp the gleaming brand, And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!

What! shall we, afraid of war, Take from tyrant hands the law? What! shall a foreign cohort’s pride Intimidate our warriors tried? Great God! our necks can never be Subject to despots’ tyranny: Nor shall th’ invaders of the State Decide upon its people’s fate! Then let each warrior grasp the gleaming brand, And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!

Tremble! chiefs, perfidious all-- On your heads our curses fall! Tremble! your projects, soon made vain, Their merited return will gain;-- For France has armed her serried bands, And placed her safety in their hands: So that if hundreds fall to day, To-morrow thousands join th’ array. Then let each warrior grasp the vengeful brand, And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!

In the darkling battle’s strife, Soldier! spare your victim’s life, When, armed against you in the field, Feeble and weak, he cries--“I yield!” Him may’st thou spare: but to the grave Shalt thou pursue the chief who gave Such dire example to the rest That tear for food their mother’s breast!-- Then let each warrior grasp the vengeful brand, And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!

Sacred fervour--patriot flame, Urge us on to deeds of fame! Freedom! assist the deadly blow That we direct against the foe: Conquest! may we to war be led, Thy banners amply o’er us spread;-- And may the tyrant hosts retreat, Or beg for mercy at our feet! Then let each warrior grasp the gleaming brand, And shed th’ invaders’ blood to fertilize the land!

The next manuscript which Laura studied on this occasion contained a translation of Casimir Delavigne’s celebrated national air, written after the Revolution of 1830:--

LA PARISIENNE.

Gallant nation, now before you Freedom, beckoning onward, stands: Let no tyrant’s sway be o’er you-- Wrest the sceptre from his hands! Paris gave the general cry, “Glory, Fame, and Liberty!” Speed, warriors, speed, Though thousands bleed, Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:-- Conquest waits--your foemen die!

Keep your serried ranks in order: Sons of France, your country calls! Gory hecatombs award her-- Well she merits each who falls. Happy day! the general cry Echoed “Fame and Liberty!” Speed, warriors, speed, Though thousands bleed, Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:-- Conquest waits--your foemen die!

Vain the shot may sweep along you, Banks of warriors now arrayed: Youthful generals are among you, By the great occasion made! Happy day! the fervent cry Echoed “Fame and Liberty!” Speed, warriors, speed, Though thousands bleed, Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:-- Conquest waits--your foemen die!

Foremost, who the Carlist lances With the banner-staff has met?-- Freedom’s votary advances-- Venerable Lafayette! Happy day! the fervent cry Echoed “Fame and Liberty!” Speed, warriors, speed, Though thousands bleed, Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:-- Conquest waits--your foemen die!

Triple dyes again combining, See the squadrons onward go: In the country’s heaven shining, Mark the bold tri-coloured bow! Happy day! the general cry Echoed “Fame and Liberty!” Speed, warriors, speed, Though thousands bleed, Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:-- Conquest waits--your foemen die!

Heroes of that banner gleaming, Ye who bore it in the fray-- Orleans’ troops! your blood was streaming Freely on that fatal day! From the page of history We have learnt the general cry. Speed, warriors, speed, Though thousands bleed, Pierced by the leaden ball, or crushed by thundering steed:-- Conquest waits--your foemen die!

Muffled drum, thy music lonely Answers to the mourners’ sighs: Laurels, for the valiant only, Ornament their obsequies! Sacred fane of Liberty, Let their memories never die! Bear to his grave Each warrior brave, Who fell in Freedom’s cause, his country’s rights to save, Crowned with fame and victory!

There was one more translation from the French in the packet which had been placed at Laura’s disposal: and this was a portion of Victor Hugo’s celebrated

ODE,

WRITTEN AFTER THE REVOLUTION OF 1830.

O friends of your country, immortal in story, Adorned with the laurels ye won in the fight;-- When thousands around you fell covered with glory, Ye turned not away from the enemy’s might; But ye raised up your banners, all tattered and torn, Like those which your sires had at Austerlitz borne!

Ye have rivalled those sires--ye have conquered for France: The rights of the people from tyrants are saved:-- Ye beckoned to Freedom--ye saw her advance-- And danger was laughed at, and peril was braved. Then, if they were admired who destroyed the Bastille, What for you should not France in her gratitude feel?

Ye are worthy your fathers--your souls are the same-- Ye add to their glory, their pride, and renown;-- Your arms are well nerved--ye are noted by Fame, That the laurel and oak may unite for your crown! Your mother--’tis France! who for ever will be The mother of heroes--the great--and the free!

E’en England the jealous, and Greece the poetic-- All Europe admired,--and the great Western World Arose to applaud with a heart sympathetic, When it marked the French banners of freedom unfurled. Three days were sufficient to shake off the chain, And ye proved yourselves friends to your country again!

’Twas for you that your ancestors traced round the earth The circle of conquest, triumphant and glorious, Which, extending to Cairo, from France took its birth, And proceeded through slaughter, but ever victorious:-- ’Twas for you they encountered the Muscovite snows, Or in Italy plucked for their trophies the rose!

O offspring of heroes and children of Fame! Applaud the achievements your sires did before you! Extend their renown, while ye honour their name, And fight for the banners that proudly wave o’er you. Remember, Napoleon has oft cast his eye Through the long serried ranks of the French chivalry!

Thou, Herald of Jupiter--Eagle of France! ’Tis thou that hast carried our thunders afar: With thee for a sign did our armies advance-- With thee as their symbol, they went to the war! Look around thee--rejoice! for the sons of thy land Are worthy the sires that thou erst didst command! And France has awakened from stupor profound, And the watch-word has raised all her champions around; And the din of their weapons struck loud on the ear, As it hearkened the tread of the cavalry near. But the tyrant has marshalled his warriors in vain, And his culverins thundered again and again;-- For the stones that the citizens tore from the street, Laid the cohorts of Royalty dead at their feet! And their numbers increased--for they fought to be free, And they poured on the foe like the waves of the sea, While the din of the tocsin that echoed on high, Was drowned in the fervour of Liberty’s cry!

The tyrant has left you with sorrow and anguish, Fair city--the glory of France and the world: Three days have elapsed since in chains you did languish-- You have fought--you have won--and your banners are furled! And wise were your counsels succeeding the strife-- For Revenge even smiled with the rest, When Clemency bade her surrender the knife Ere ’twas plunged in the enemy’s breast!

The friends of the monarch with him are o’erthrown-- ’Tis thus that a people its rights will defend; For if Fate have determined the fall of a crown, The schemes of the council accomplish the end. The wretches! they deemed, in their insolent pride, That France to their sceptre would bow; But the Lord found them light when their balance was tried, And reduced them to what they are now!

And, oh! let the lesson for ever remain-- _When we raise up a King, we are forging a chain. When we humble our necks to a monarch, we make A bond that we leave for our children to break_; Since the breath of a King is the spark to the pan-- The musket explodes, and its victim is--man!

Now let the funeral dirge be said, And let the priests lament the dead: But let them come with modest vest-- No more in tinsel splendour drest;-- No more with ostentatious air Need they commence a lofty prayer: No sign of worldly pomp should be Mingled with aught of sanctity;-- Less welcome to the Lord on high Is grandeur than sincerity!

Henceforth to the priest be all splendour unknown-- Let his cross be of wood, and his cushion of stone: The church is his refuge--the church is his rest-- In her arms he is safe--in her care he is blest! For when the volcanic eruption is red, Like the froth of the wine-press that Burgundy fed; When the sides of Vesuvius are glowing and bright, When Naples re-echoes with cries of affright-- ’Tis then that the groans of the children resound, And mothers despairingly fall to the ground-- ’Tis then that in vain they expend to the air The half-uttered words which are meant for a prayer; While black lines of mist from the crater ascend, And seem to foretell that the world’s at an end! Those lines have divided--a lustre, that broke From the bowels of the mount, superseded the smoke: Then Naples, adieu to the grots in thy vales-- Adieu to thy ships--the flame spreads to their sails; The lava has fall’n on the sides of the hill, As the locks of a maiden float wildly at will! And farther--oh! farther the lava rolls on-- O’er meadows--o’er streams--to the gulf it has gone: The smoke forms a canopy sombre and dread, Though the waves of the torrent be glowing and red. And the homes of the great and the paladin’s hall Were doomed in that deluge to totter and fall. ’Twas a chaos of ruin! The cinders were strewed O’er a town late so lovely--now shapeless and rude: From dwelling to dwelling proceeded th’ assail-- The houses ware burning in city and vale: The earth was unsteady--the waves of the sea Boiled white on the shore--and the tocsin rang free, Though no human hand were the cause of the sound-- ’Twas raised by the steeples that tottered around!-- ’Twas a chaos immense! But the arm of the Lord, That scattered such ruin and havoc abroad-- The arm of the Deity, powerful to kill, And pour out the wrath of his thunder at will-- That arm, on the brink of the crater, can spare The hermit who kneels to his Maker in prayer!

By the time Laura had completed the perusal of these poems, Rosalie reappeared: and the arch smile which the pretty lady’s-maid wore, seemed to indicate that success had crowned the task that had been entrusted to her.

“What tidings have you for me?” asked Laura.

“I think, mademoiselle, that you may safely reckon upon beholding Mr. Charles Hatfield, together with two or three of his comrades in the Grand Duke’s suite, in the Champs Elysées between four and five o’clock. But do not wait to ask me my reasons for giving you this assurance,” added Rosalie, hastily: “it is nearly three o’clock, mademoiselle--and you must think of your toilette.”

“Excellent Rosalie!” ejaculated Laura: “how deeply I am indebted to you for your proceedings in my behalf!”

Thus speaking, she repaired to her bed-chamber, whither the French abigail followed; and then the toilette commenced.

At about a quarter to four o’clock, Laura emerged from her private apartment, and descended to her carriage which was waiting for her. The equipage then moved rapidly away towards the Champs Elysées.

Glorious was the afternoon--and queen-like in her beauty was Laura Mortimer!

Contrary to her usual custom, she had her hair dressed in ringlets, which in a luxuriant shower framed her splendid countenance. There was a flush of health, heightened by her own heart’s emotions, on either cheek: but, by the admirable control which she was enabled to exercise over her features, her countenance was serene, and her eyes shone not with a lustre unmellowed by feminine softness. She reclined back in her carriage, in a species of half-voluptuous lassitude and abandonment; but every change of posture was characterised with an elegance of motion that might be denominated poetic.

The equipage and its appointments were in the best possible taste; and the liveries of the coachman and attendant footman were plain and neat, not glaring and obtrusive. Altogether, the “turn-out” was that which a well-bred person, who knew the distinction between elegant simplicity and gaudy ostentation, was likely to possess.

The principal drive in the Champs Elysées was crowded to excess: seldom was there seen such a quantity of carriages or such a number of gentlemen on horseback. The foot-ways were likewise thronged with loungers and with ladies enjoying the afternoon’s promenade.

Laura’s carriage speedily fell into the line of vehicles proceeding in the same direction;--and now its progress was slow. This was just what she wished: for not only was the multitude enabled to obtain a better view of her--but she likewise had more leisure to watch for the appearance of him whom she expected to behold amidst the gay throng. Thus both her vanity and her convenience were successfully consulted at the same time.

Her patience was not put to a very lengthy nor severe test: for, scarcely had her carriage reached the mid-way point in the splendid avenue, when her keen glance signalled out the object of her thoughts from amidst the loungers on foot. Yes--there indeed was Charles Hatfield--proceeding at a short distance in advance of the carriage, and in the same direction. The critical moment was now almost at hand--and, though Laura’s countenance still maintained its serenity, her heart palpitated with violence. While, too, she seemed to be reclining back in her carriage with a graceful ease which we might almost denominate an elegant languor,--and while she now more completely shaded herself with her parasol,--her eyes were fixed steadily and even intently in one direction.

“Yes--he has two friends with him,” she said to herself: “they are all three in plain clothes--or rather, in mourning--doubtless for the father-in-law of their illustrious master.”

Scarcely had these thoughts flashed through Laura’s brain, when Charles and his two companions stopped--turned round--and gazed up and down the avenue for a few moments: then they interchanged some observations, and pursued their way.

Charles had not noticed Laura;--but she had caught more than a partial glimpse of his face. During the quarter of a minute that her eyes were fixed upon him, she had as it were devoured him with that earnest gaze. It was not love,--no---and it was not hate; but it was a species of ravenous longing to decypher his thoughts through the medium of his countenance. And she saw that he was pale and pensive--but also strikingly handsome: indeed, at that moment Laura fancied his manly beauty had never before seemed so perfect in her eyes--and it was with difficulty that she repressed the sigh which rose almost to her lips.

A few minutes elapsed--and still the procession of carriages moved on in the broad straight road; and the tide of loungers on foot rolled along the pathway. The distance between Laura and the object of her thoughts was gradually diminishing; and almost immediately her carriage would overtake him and his companions. Again they turned--these three gentlemen--and looked up and down; and this time Laura rapidly scanned Hatfield’s two friends. They were also young men of fine figure and attractive looks: natives of Castelcicala, they had the dark Italian complexion and the fine Italian eyes;--and as they wore moustaches, their appearance was more military than that of Charles. But they were not so handsome as he;--at least Laura thought so--and she was doubtless right.

The critical moment was now at hand: the carriage overtook Hatfield and his Italian companions--and it was just passing them, when Laura perceived that she was suddenly recognised by her husband. He started--stopped short--and kept his eyes fixed upon her, as if doubting their evidence; while his two friends, excited by his strange manner, looked also in the same direction and at the same object; and their gaze was likewise rivetted immediately upon the beauteous woman whose transcendent charms they naturally supposed to have produced such an effect on their companion. With a glance keen and rapid as lightning, Laura perceived that she was the idol of attention on the part of her husband and his two Italian friends, though the latter dreamt not that she was even known by name to Charles Hatfield: and while the eyes of all three were thus intently fixed upon her, her parasol suddenly escaped from her hand and fell within a few paces of the young men,--unobserved by the footman standing behind the carriage.

Of the two Castelcicalan officers, one was taller and more classically handsome than the other: and it was he that now darted forward to snatch up the parasol and restore it to its charming owner. So admirably had Laura managed the dropping of the parasol, that it had all the appearance of an accident to every one who observed the circumstance--save Charles Hatfield: and, quickly as the powder explodes after the match has been applied to it, did the conviction flash to his brain that the occurrence was intentional on the part of Laura. Al the same instant it struck him that never--never before had she appeared so marvellously beautiful--never so transcendently lovely as she now was,--with the flush of a gentle excitement upon her cheeks--her hair dressed in a style that he most admired--her pearly teeth partly revealed between the roses of her lips--her toilette so elegant and chaste, and setting off her splendid form to its greatest advantage--and her attitude so classically graceful, as she leant forward to receive the parasol that the handsome Castelcicalan now restored to her, after having carefully brushed off the dust with his white cambric handkerchief.

A thousand--thousand conflicting thoughts passed through the brain of Charles Hatfield during the few seconds that had elapsed from the escape of the parasol from her hand until its restoration by the Italian:--he saw his wife more beautiful than ever he had conceived her to be even when he was accustomed to worship her image--he remembered the witchery of her ways and the melting music of her voice--the joys he had experienced in her arms on the marriage night rushed to his mind--and as his eyes dwelt perforce upon the rich contours of her bust, he recollected that his head had been pillowed and his hand had wandered voluptuously there!

At the moment that Laura dropped her parasol, the carriage stopped, and she affected to perceive Charles Hatfield for the first time; and for a single instant she appeared struck by surprise and uncertain how to act:--then, immediately afterwards, she averted her eyes from him, and bent them on the handsome Castelcicalan who had sprung forward to recover the parasol. She purposely composed her countenance and modelled her behaviour, so that her husband should be left in a state of utter uncertainty and bewilderment as to what was passing in her mind, at least in regard to himself:--but when the Italian approached the carriage, took off his hat, and with a low bow, presented the parasol which he had so gallantly dusted with his cambric handkerchief, Laura bestowed so sweet a smile and so tender a look on the handsome foreigner, that the direst rage which jealousy can know was excited in a moment in the breast of Charles Hatfield.

A rapid glance--unseen even by her husband himself--made Laura aware of the effect produced upon him by her deportment towards the Castelcicalan; and the joy of a proud triumph filled her heart.

“I thank you, sir,” she said in French to the Italian gentleman;--for she had already learnt more than enough of the language to be enabled to give utterance to that common phrase;--and, as she spoke, she again smiled sweetly, though not in a manner which might be construed into indelicate encouragement.

Her husband caught the words that were addressed to the handsome foreigner, and also marked the smile that accompanied them; and, as the music of that voice flowed upon his ear, and the witchery of that smile met his gaze, his countenance became absolutely livid with the emotions that rent his soul.

“Beautiful lady,” said the Castelcicalan, enchanted by the condescending manner of the lovely woman, who was agreeably surprised and much delighted to hear him address her with the utmost facility in the English language,--“you have deigned to thank me for a thing so trivial that I am ashamed to merit your notice upon so slight a ground. Would that an opportunity could arise for so humble an individual as myself to perform some deed that might deserve your approval--and win your gratitude,” added the Italian, sinking his voice to a low tone.

“I know not, signor,” replied Laura, satisfying herself with another rapid glance that Charles Hatfield was still gazing with jealous fury upon this scene,--“I know not, signor,” she said, with all the witchery of tone and manner that she could summon to her aid, “how I can sufficiently thank you for the courteous behaviour which you demonstrate towards me. At the same time, I need scarcely be astonished at such chivalrous gallantry on your part--for, if I mistake not, you belong to that fine Italian clime which I shortly intend to visit.”

The young Castelcicalan gazed with the enthusiasm of adoration up into the enchanting countenance that was bending over him; and he felt as if he could have cheerfully consented to yield up the ten last years of his life to purchase the enjoyment of pressing his lips to the small plump mouth which looked redder than the rose moistened with the dew of morning.

“Oh! is it possible,” he exclaimed, in a joyous tone, “that you purpose to honour my native land with your presence! Be assured, lady,” he continued, “that if you visit Montoni, the Castelcicalan capital, you will become the object of a perfect idolatry.”

“Then should I do well to remain in France, signor--rather than lead your nation into such a crime,” said Laura, laughing gaily: and the rapid glance which she darted towards her husband convinced her that he was enduring the torments of the damned--torments which were increasing in proportion as she seemed to grow on more friendly terms with the young Italian officer.

“I should be wretched indeed, beauteous lady,” said he, in reply to her last observation, “did I think that any inconsiderate remark from my lips could deter you from carrying into effect a purpose already settled in your mind. Neither,” he added, with a sigh, “am I vain enough to suppose myself to be of sufficient importance to sway you in one way or another.”

“Nor am I vain enough to take in any sense save as a compliment the flattering observation you made just now relative to the reception I might expect at Montoni;”--and as Laura uttered these words, she cast down her eyes and blushed slightly.

The dialogue between the Castelcicalan and herself had been carried on in a low tone, and was therefore totally inaudible to the other Italian and Charles Hatfield, who were gazing, but with very different feelings, on the lovely woman. Neither had the conversation occupied one tenth part of the time which we have consumed in detailing it;--and in the interval, the carriages originally behind that of Laura, had passed hers by, so that the stoppage of her equipage caused no obstruction. The tide of pedestrian loungers was likewise still flowing on--there being nothing singular nor unusual in the fact of a gentleman on foot paying his respects to a lady who rode in her carriage.

But while the multitude, generally, saw naught peculiar in the scene which we are describing, it was nevertheless one of deep interest. By the carriage door stood the young Castelcicalan officer, his heart throbbing with the ineffable emotions which the wondrous beauty of Laura had excited, as it were by the wave of an enchanter’s wand;--in the vehicle itself sate the syren--bending forward towards that handsome foreigner as if she were already interested in him, though in reality she experienced not the slightest sensual feeling in his favour--other considerations occupying her thoughts:--at a little distance stood the other Italian officer, gazing upon her with an admiration which he could not conceal, and envying his comrade the privilege which a lucky accident had given him to address the houri;--and there also was Charles Hatfield--ghastly pale, his limbs trembling convulsively, and his lips white and quivering with rage.

Yes: terrible--terrible were the feelings which Laura’s husband experienced for the six or eight minutes that this scene lasted. There was a woman whose beauty excited universal admiration,--a woman in all the splendour of female loveliness;--and this woman was his wife--his own wedded wife,--a wife whom he could rush forward and claim in a moment, if he chose! And that woman was now coquetting before his eyes--coquetting with a studied purpose to annoy him. Oh! he could understand it all,--the means which had been adopted to induce him and his two companions to proceed to the Champs Elysées at that hour--the pretended accident of the parasol--and the smiles and tender looks which Laura now bestowed upon one who was entirely a stranger to her:--yes--all, all was now clear to Charles Hatfield,--and he was on the point of springing forward--not to catch Laura to his breast and claim her as his spouse--but to upbraid and expose her,--when he suddenly recollected that a portion of the agreement entered into between his father and her, was to the effect that she likewise was to be secure against molestation or recognition on his part, as well as he on hers. This reminiscence compelled the unhappy young man to restrain his feelings; and as he was forced to subdue his ire, his jealousy only became the more painful, because it required a vent of some kind or another. He writhed--he positively writhed before her eyes;--and now he was humiliated as well as tortured to such an intolerable degree!

Laura had cast down her looks and had called up a blush to her smooth cheeks, when she made to the handsome Castelcicalan the remark that we have last recorded: but almost immediately afterwards she raised her countenance again, and smiling with an archness so enchantingly sweet that it would have moved the rigid features of an octogenarian anchorite to admiration, she said: “At all events, signor, should I visit Montoni in the course of this summer, my stay would be very short--for I purpose to become a great traveller, and to travel very rapidly also. To-morrow I set out for Vienna.”

“Vienna!” repeated the Castelcicalan, in astonishment. “Surely Paris possesses greater attractions than the cold, dull, formal Austrian capital?”

“Oh! of that I must judge for myself,” exclaimed Laura, laughing--at the same time showing by her manner that she thought their conversation had lasted long enough.

The young Italian was too well-bred to attempt to detain her: but it was nevertheless with evident reluctance that he stepped back from the carriage-door and raised his hat in farewell salutation. Laura inclined her head gracefully in acknowledgment of his courtesy, and the vehicle drove on rapidly, the way before it being now comparatively clear.

Oh! what triumph was in her heart, as she threw herself back in the carriage and reflected upon all the incidents of the scene that had just occurred,--a scene which had not occupied ten minutes, and which had nevertheless stirred up so many and such varied feelings! Her vanity had been gratified by the homage paid to her beauty; and her malignity had for the time been assuaged by the contemplation of the almost mortal agonies endured by her husband. She had asserted the empire of her charms over even the very heart that ought to cherish hatred against her: she had inspired with the maddest jealousy the soul that was bound to think of her with loathing and abhorrence. She felt all the pride of a woman wielding a sceptre more despotic than that of a queen,--a sceptre which was as a magic wand in her hand, casting spells upon even those who detested, as well as those who admired her!

CLXIII. LAURA AND ROSALIE

Yes--it was a great triumph for Laura Mortimer,--a triumph all the greater, inasmuch as she knew that the agitation and rage of her husband could not speedily pass away; and that, when his friends had leisure to observe his emotions and seek an explanation, he would not dare to afford them any!

She had, moreover, made statements to the young Castelcicalan which he would doubtless repeat to Charles Hatfield, whom they were well calculated to mystify relative to her future proceedings; for the reader scarcely requires to be told that she had not the slightest intention to repair to Vienna nor to visit Italy.

In every respect she had ample reason to be well satisfied with the results of the scheme she had devised in the morning and so effectually carried out in the afternoon,--a scheme so wild and having so many thousand chances against its success, that none save the intrepid, resolute, far-seeing Laura could have possibly hoped to conduct it to a triumphant issue.

Having proceeded to the end of the avenue, she ordered the coachman to retrace his way and return home;--but she was not destined to reach the Rue Monthabor without experiencing another adventure, which may for the moment seem trivial, but which was nevertheless destined to exercise no mean amount of influence upon her future career.

As the carriage was emerging from the Champs Elysées, two gentlemen on horseback, just entering the fashionable lounge, were about to pass by, when one of them, recognising Laura, suddenly pulled up and made her a low bow. She immediately ordered the carriage to stop; for it was her courteous and obliging friend the professor of music, who had thus saluted her--and she was anxious to express to him the delight she had experienced from a perusal of the translations he had sent to her the preceding evening. After the exchange of the usual complimentary remarks, the professor, turning towards his companion, said, “My lord, permit me to introduce you to one of my fair pupils--my fairest pupil, I should rather observe,” he added, in a good-tempered manner: “Miss Laura Mortimer--the Marquis of Delmour.”

Laura was startled for an instant at finding her music-master in such aristocratic society; and as she inclined gracefully in acknowledgment of the nobleman’s courteous salutation, she observed that his lordship was an elderly, if not actually an old man, but that his countenance was far from disagreeable.

A brief conversation ensued; and although the marquis had no opportunity of speaking more than a dozen words, and even those on common topic Laura nevertheless saw enough of him to be convinced that his manners were of polished elegance, and that his disposition was frank and unassuming.

It was not therefore without emotions of secret pleasure that she heard herself thus addressed by the professor of music:--

“Miss Mortimer, his lordship, and myself, are old acquaintances, and he permits me to call him my friend. His lordship will honour my humble abode with his presence, to-morrow, evening: there will be a musical soirée of the same unpretending kind as that which you yourself graced with your company the evening before last. My wife will doubtless send you the formal card; but may I in a less ceremonial fashion, solicit you to favour us with your presence?”

Laura signified the pleasure she should experience in accepting the invitation; and all the time she was listening to the professor and replying to him, she had the agreeable consciousness that the marquis was gazing upon her with an admiration which he could not repress. She however affected not to be in the slightest degree aware that she was undergoing such an impassioned survey; and when she turned towards his lordship to make the parting bow, it was with the formal reserve and yet graceful dignity of a lady to whom a stranger has only just been introduced.

The carriage rolled on in one direction--the horsemen pursued their way in another;--and while the Marquis of Delmour was putting innumerable questions to his friend relative to the houri whom they had thus met, Laura was on her side resolving that Rosalie should without delay institute all possible inquiries respecting the position, fortune, and character of that nobleman.

We should here remind the reader that the professor of music was a man eminent in his special sphere, of high respectability, and great moral worth; and, moreover, he was a native of a country where talent is prized and looked up to, instead of being merely tolerated and looked down upon. It is not, therefore, extraordinary if we find him moving in the best society, and having his entertainments attended by the elite of the residents or visitors in the gay city of Paris.

On her return home to her splendid apartments in the Rue Monthabor, Laura was immediately waited upon by her lady’s-maid; and while the mistress was changing her attire in preparation for dinner, the dependant explained the means by which she had induced Charles Hatfield and the two Italian officers in the suite of the Grand Duke to repair to the Champs Elysées in company, and at the hour specified by Laura.

“When you first mentioned your desire to me this morning, mademoiselle,” began Rosalie, “I must confess that I was somewhat embarrassed how to accomplish the scheme; although I did not despair. But when I saw the paragraph in the paper, and ascertained the hotel at which the Grand Duke and his suite had taken up their temporary abode, I suddenly remembered that a day or two ago I met a young woman who had formerly been my fellow-servant, and that she was now filling a situation in that very hotel. This circumstance inspired me with a hope of success; and we Frenchwomen look upon an intrigue as being as good as carried successfully out, when it affords a hope to encourage us. Therefore did I promise you so confidently; and I lost no time in proceeding to the hotel. I soon found my friend, who is a chamber-maid there; and I told her just sufficient--without, however, mentioning your name or even alluding to you, mademoiselle--to induce her to afford me her assistance. Some of the officers of the Grand Duke’s suite were lounging in the court-yard of the hotel at the time; and my friend pointed them out to me one by one, naming each as she proceeded. I resolved to choose the two youngest and handsomest to be Mr. Charles Hatfield’s companions, mademoiselle; because,” continued Rosalie, with an arch smile, “I tolerably well understood the entire nature of the project which you had in contemplation.”

“You are marvellously sharp-witted and keen-sighted, Rosalie,” said Laura, laughing good-humouredly. “But pray proceed. What step did you adopt next, after having thus passed the Grand Duke’s suite in a review of which they were however unconscious?”

“I must confess, mademoiselle,” resumed Rosalie, “that I was somewhat puzzled how to act. But suddenly an idea struck me; and, however ridiculous the plan may now appear to you, your own lips can proclaim whether it succeeded or not. In fact, I calculated upon the romantic disposition which the Italians are known to possess; and I also reflected that as Mr. Charles Hatfield, whom I likewise saw at the hotel (though he saw not me) appeared pensive and thoughtful, he would embark in any adventure that promised to wean his thoughts from their melancholy mood, and that offered some excitement of a novel character. I accordingly penned a note, addressed to Mr. Charles Hatfield, Captain Barthelma, and Lieutenant Di Ponta----”

“What is the name of the taller and handsomer of the two officers who accompanied Charles?” asked Laura, with a slight kindling of sensual feeling as she recalled to mind the pleasing features of the Italian who had picked up her parasol, and with whom she had exchanged the few complimentary observations already recorded.

“That one is Captain Barthelma,” answered Rosalie.

“Proceed,” said Laura. “You were telling me that you penned a note----”

“To the three gentlemen collectively,” added the lady’s-maid;--“and, as nearly as I can remember, the contents ran thus:--‘To Mr. Charles Hatfield, Captain Barthelma, and Lieutenant Di Ponta, an unhappy Spanish refugee ventures to address himself, having certain excellent reasons for being well aware that they will not refuse to listen to his sad tale, and interest themselves in his behalf. But as he is an object of suspicion to the French government, he dares not make his appearance at the hotel where a prince, who is known to be the redresser of wrongs, has taken up his abode. He will therefore walk this afternoon, from four to five, on the right hand of the central avenue of the Champs Elysées; and if the three gentlemen to whom he now addresses his humble but earnest application, will be at the place and time appointed, the unhappy writer of this petition will make himself known to them--will explain his business frankly--and will indicate the means by which he can be restored to wealth and happiness. Those means consist in one word which it will be for His Sovereign Highness the Grand Duke to speak, and which can only be spoken at the instigation of the three gentlemen to whom this letter is addressed.’”

“Upon my word, I give you credit for your stratagem!” exclaimed Laura, laughing heartily. “I have no doubt that Charles sees through it now: but he will not dare to give any explanations to his friends,” she added, in a musing tone. “They will imagine that they have been duped by some humorous person--and he will affect to fall into the same way of thinking.”

“Or else the two Italian gentlemen will suppose that the poor refugee was prevented, by some misadventure, from keeping the appointment,” observed Rosalie, now giving way to her mirth to such a degree that the tears came into her eyes.

“Well--make an end of your story,” said Laura, who had nearly completed her toilette; for, although she expected no one that evening, she nevertheless made it a rule to dress herself with the utmost care in case of a visit on the part of any of those persons whose acquaintance she had recently formed.

“I have little more to tell you, mademoiselle, responded Rosalie. “My friend, the chambermaid, left the note, which was duly sealed and properly addressed to the three gentlemen, upon the table of Captain Barthelma’s private apartment; and soon afterwards that officer went to his room. I waited at the hotel in the hope of ascertaining the effect that the billet would produce; and in a short time the captain returned in haste to his companions, who were still lounging in the court-yard--some of them giving directions to their grooms, and others smoking cigars. From the window of my friend’s chamber, I beheld Captain Barthelma draw Mr. Charles Hatfield and Lieutenant Di Ponta aside, and show them the letter. They evidently perused it with great attention; and I felt assured by their manner that they treated the affair seriously. I now requested my friend to hurry down stairs, and traverse the yard as if in pursuance of her avocations--but to pass as near the little group as possible, and endeavour to catch any remarks that they might be exchanging at the moment. This she did; and she heard quite enough to convince her that the appointment would be kept. I then retraced my way homeward, and was happy in being able to give you the assurance, mademoiselle, that your wishes would be fully gratified so far as the result depended upon me.”

“You are a good girl, Rosalie,” said Laura; “and I shall not be unmindful of the service you have thus rendered me. But I now require your aid in another matter----”

“Speak, my dear lady: I am entirely at your disposal,” observed the dependant, who, in proportion as she obtained a farther insight into the character of her mistress, felt the more certain of reaping a fine harvest of rewards, bribes, and hush-money.

“There is in Paris at this moment an English nobleman concerning whom I am desirous that you should obtain as much information as you can possibly glean, without creating any suspicion or in any way compromising me. I allude to the Marquis of Delmour,” continued Laura: “but I know not where he is residing; nor can I offer the least suggestion to guide you in instituting your inquiries.”

“Leave all that to me, mademoiselle,” said Rosalie.

“There is no time to be lost,” observed Laura, “this evening, or in the course of to-morrow, must I have the information which I seek.”

“I am not in the habit of letting the grass grow beneath my feet,” replied the French dependant, with an arch smile. “The moment you have sat down to dinner, mademoiselle, I will sally forth; and should I not return until a somewhat late hour----”

“No matter,” interrupted Laura: “I shall know that you are employed in my interests. Unless, indeed,” she added, laughing, “you possess a lover whose company may prove more agreeable to you than the task with which I have entrusted you.”

“I have no lover in Paris--at present, mademoiselle,” observed Rosalie.

“Then you admit that you have had a lover in your life-time?” said Laura.

“Oh! certainly, mademoiselle,” exclaimed the pretty Frenchwoman: “and--to speak candidly--I could not without some trouble reckon the number of those who have proclaimed themselves my admirers.”

“The name of your lovers is Legion, then?” cried Laura, again laughing: but it was the natural sensuality of her disposition which impelled her thus to interrogate her servant;--for a licentious woman experiences a voluptuous enjoyment in learning that another is as amorously inclined or as downright abandoned as herself. And now that Laura’s spite against Charles Hatfield was for the time appeased, and she had leisure to ponder upon the handsome countenance and elegant figure of Captain Barthelma, her imagination was becoming inflamed, and wanton ideas and aspirations rose up in her brain.

“Oh! mademoiselle,” exclaimed Rosalie, with an archness of expression that made her countenance particularly interesting at the moment; “you must think me very vain and very silly for having made the remark which fell so inconsiderately from my lips!”

“Not at all,” observed Laura: “you are pretty enough to have captivated many hearts. And now tell me, my dear girl--have you passed through such an ordeal without leaving your virtue behind? Be frank and candid: I wish to know you thoroughly, that I may determine how far I can trust you.”

“I dare say, mademoiselle, that you can form a tolerably accurate guess in that respect,” said Rosalie, in a low tone and with a blushing countenance. “Were I to tell you that I am pure and chaste, you would not believe me, mademoiselle--and--and, you would be right.”

“Suppose, then, that you had suddenly conceived a great fancy for a very handsome young man, Rosalie?” said Laura, her bosom heaving voluptuously as she gradually approached the aim and object of the present conversation.

“I should take care to let him perceive that if he chose to solicit, it would not be in vain,” answered Rosalie, who already comprehended that her mistress was not giving the discourse this turn without some definite end in view.

“And you would be deeply grateful,” continued Laura, in a low but significant tone, “to any friend who might assist you in the management of the intrigue?”

“Decidedly, mademoiselle” replied the Frenchwoman: “the more so that I myself should delight in rendering my aid when and where the services of so humble a being as I am could prove available.”

“Those services may be made available this very evening,” said Laura, a voluptuous glow spreading over her fine countenance, while her eyes became soft and melting in expression. “You must aid me, Rosalie, in gratifying an ardent longing which has sprung up within my bosom during the last few minutes, and which I may vainly struggle to subdue. But the intrigue requires so much delicate management----”

“I can anticipate all you would say, mademoiselle,” interrupted Rosalie: then, in a significant tone, she added, “Captain Barthelma is decidedly one of the handsomest men I ever saw in my life.”

“You have conjectured rightly,” said Laura; “you have penetrated my thoughts! Can you--will you serve me in the gratification of this caprice of mine? But, remember--I must not be compromised in respect to a living soul save Barthelma and yourself.”

“You know, mademoiselle, that you can trust to my fidelity, my sagacity, and my prudence,” said Rosalie. “At what hour shall the handsome Italian visit you?”

“At nine--this evening,” answered Laura: then referring to her watch, she added, “It is already six--and you have plenty of work upon your hands!”

“I will neglect nothing,” observed the lady’s-maid, in a tone of confidence. “Would it not be prudent to send the cook out of the way for the evening? For as the men-servants are on board-wages and sleep elsewhere, and the cook is therefore the only dependant who could possibly observe your proceedings, mademoiselle----”

“I leave all this to you, Rosalie,” interrupted Laura;--“and now we have nothing more to say to each other for the present. Order the dinner to be served up at once--and then must you hasten to fulfil the commissions with which you are charged.”

Having thus given her parting instructions, Laura repaired to the dining-room, where an elegant repast was speedily spread upon the table; and a glass of sparkling champagne soon enhanced the brilliancy of the voluptuous woman’s eyes, and heightened the rich glow that suffused her countenance.

When the meal was over, a choice dessert was served up; and Laura was now left alone.

She was almost sorry that she had gone so far in respect to the intrigue which was to bring the handsome Castelcicalan to her arms: she had admitted Rosalie too deeply into her confidence--placed herself too completely in the power of her dependant. Even while she was conversing with the wily Frenchwoman, she perceived and felt all this;--but her sensuality triumphed over her prudence--her lascivious temperament carried her on with a force which she could not resist, much less subdue.

“And, after all,” she now reasoned to herself, “wherefore should I not follow my inclinations in this respect? I am free to act according to the impulse of my passions and the prompting of my desires. The night that I passed with Charles--that one night of love and bliss--has revived those ardent longings, those burning thoughts that demand gratification. Besides, Rosalie will be trustworthy so long as she is well paid; and I shall take care to keep her purse well filled. Sooner or later she must have obtained a complete insight into my character: why not, then, at once as well as hereafter? And the more firmly I bind her to my interests, the less shall I need the services of my crafty, selfish old mother. Would that I could manage my affairs and execute my plans without my parent’s aid altogether! And who knows but that even this consummation may be reached? Something tells me that the Marquis of Delmour and I shall yet be more intimately acquainted. He is old--but that is of little consequence. Wealth and a proud position are my aims--and I care not by what means they are acquired. Oh! the happiness of possessing such beauty as that wherewith I am endowed,--a beauty which can never fail to crown me with triumph in all my schemes!--in all my projects!”

She now regarded her watch, and discovered that it was eight o’clock.

“In another hour he will be here,” she thought within herself; and her bosom heaved voluptuously. “Yes--in another hour that handsome Italian will be in my presence--at least, if Rosalie fulfil her task with her wonted sagacity and prudence. What will he think of me? Oh! let him entertain any opinion that he may: I will bind him to secrecy by the most solemn oaths--and I read enough in his countenance to convince me that he is a man of honour!”

In this strain did the lovely but wanton creature pursue her reflections, until it was nearly nine o’clock.

She then rose from her seat, and repaired to the kitchen, which was on the same floor as her suite of apartments. The cook was not there; and Laura was consequently satisfied that Rosalie had not forgotten the precaution herself had suggested.

The syren now proceeded to the drawing-room, where with her own fair hands she arranged wine, fruits, and cakes upon the table. She then drew the curtains over the window, lighted the wax candles upon the mantel, and scattered drops of delicious perfume upon the carpet and the drapery.

Scarcely were these preparations completed, when the bell of the outer door of the suite rang as if pulled by a somewhat impatient hand; and Laura hastened to answer the summons.

She opened the door--and Captain Barthelma, the handsome Castelcicalan, appeared upon the threshold.

“Is it possible that this can be true!” he exclaimed, his joy amounting to a delirious excitement as his eyes fell upon the heroine of the afternoon’s adventure in the Champs Elysées.

Laura smiled archly as she placed her finger upon her lip to impose silence, at least until he should have entered her abode; and, having closed the door carefully, she conducted him into the drawing-room.