CLXIV. LAURA’S AMOUR…

CLXIV. LAURA’S AMOUR

Seating herself upon the sofa, Laura motioned the Italian to place himself by her side--an invitation which he obeyed with a species of enthusiastic alacrity. But all the time he was unable to take his eyes off her--as if he still doubted whether it were indeed a fact that his good fortune had conducted him into the presence of her whose image had never once been absent from his mind since he first beheld her that afternoon in the Champs Elysées.

“Is it possible?” he again ejaculated, after a few minutes’ silence. “The young woman promised me that if I were discreet, I might expect the happiness of meeting you--yes, you, sweetest lady--again: but I confess that I doubted her--and I came that I might not throw away a chance of felicity, rather than in the sanguine hope of attaining it.”

“And, when you have leisure for reflection” said Laura, casting down her eyes and blushing, “you will despise me for my imprudence--my indelicacy of conduct in thus sending to invite a stranger to visit me.”

“Adorable woman!” exclaimed the impassioned Italian; “I shall think of you with gratitude--with devotion--with love,--and never lightly. Oh! be assured of that!”--and, seizing her hand, he conveyed it to his lips, and covered it with kisses.

“Nevertheless, you must be surprised at my boldness in directing my servant to seek you, and to make this appointment with you,” pursued Laura, her bosom heaving so as almost to burst from its confinement, as she felt the warm mouth of the Castelcicalan glued to the hand which she did not attempt to withdraw.

“I am only surprised at my own happiness,” observed the young officer. “Sweetest Laura--for I now know your name--tell me how I have thus been deemed worthy of a favour of which a prince might envy me the enjoyment!”

“An accident threw us together for a few minutes this afternoon,” said Laura; “and I was struck by your personal appearance--your manners--your conversation----”

“And, oh! how profoundly was I impressed by the magic of your beauty, Laura!” interrupted the ardent Italian; “how earnestly I longed to hear once more the music of that melodious voice--to look again into the depths of those magnificent eyes--to contemplate that glorious countenance--that admirable form;--and now--oh! now the desire is realised--and no human language has words powerful enough to convey to you an idea of the happiness which I experience at this moment!”

As he thus spoke he threw his arms around her waist, and drew her towards him.

“Charming creature!” he exclaimed, after a few moments’ pause, during which he gazed upon her with a rapture which can only be conceived and not explained: “how can I make thee comprehend the extent of my love--my adoration--my worship? I have travelled much--have seen beauties of all climes and of all varieties of loveliness;--but never did mine eyes settle upon one so transcendently charming as thou! When I parted from thee this afternoon in the Champs Elysées, it was as if I were tearing myself away from some one whom I had loved all my life, and whom I was never to see again. I was a second Adam, expelled from another Eden! And now--now, I behold thee once more--I am seated in thy presence--thou smilest upon me----oh! it is heaven--it is heaven!”--and, as if in a transport of fury--so impassioned was his soul--he drew her still closer towards him, and literally seizing her head with both his hands, glued his lips to hers--sucking in her very breath.

Intoxicated with sensual happiness, Laura offered no resistance to the ardour of the handsome young man; but ere she completely yielded herself up to him, she remembered that something was due to prudence as well as to the delights of love.

Accordingly, withdrawing herself from his embrace, though still permitting his arm to encircle her waist, she said, “I can refuse you nothing; but first swear, by all you deem most sacred, that you will never betray me!”

“Never--never!” ejaculated Barthelma; “I take God to witness that my lips shall never breathe a word injurious to your honour! On the contrary,” he cried, in a tone of deep sincerity, “should I ever hear a man speak lightly of you, I will provoke him to a duel that shall terminate only in the death of one--if not both; and should a woman dare to mention your name irreverently, I will even fabricate a tale injurious to her honour, that I may avenge you!”

“Thanks--a thousand thanks, my generous friend!” murmured Laura, one of her white hands playing with the long, dark, curling hair of the Castelcicalan. “But may you not--in an unguarded moment--when carousing, perhaps, with your brother-officers,--may you not inadvertently allude to the adventure which happened to you in Paris, and then be unconsciously drawn out--under the influence of wine--to make revelations which will prove the ruin--the utter ruin--of the weak, but confiding woman who trusts so much to your honour this night?”

“May my tongue blister--may lightnings strike me--may I be cast down a corpse at the feet of those to whom I ever open my lips to speak irreverently or ungratefully of thee!” exclaimed the Italian, with a terrible energy. “No--my adored Laura! you have not the slightest ground for apprehensions of that nature. I am a man of honour--and I would rather shed the last drop of my blood to serve thee, than raise a finger to harm thee. Beautiful creature--adorable woman! who that possesses a spark of human feeling, could do aught to bring a tear into thine eye or chase away the smile from thy lips? I am thy slave, Laura--and I rejoice in wearing the chains which thy magic loveliness has cast around me!”

In this impassioned strain did the Italian pour forth his adoration; and, as Laura gazed upon him with eyes swimming in very wantonness, she thought that he was far more handsome than she had fancied him to be in the afternoon, or even when he had first appeared before her that evening.

He, too, on his part, found the syren a thousand times more witching--more beauteous--more attractive than she had seemed in her carriage; and yet even then he had been ready to fall down and worship her. Now he beheld her in a light evening toilette--with naked neck and naked arms,--no scarf--not even the most transparent gauze veiling her shoulders of alabaster whiteness,--and with her hair dressed in massive curls, instead of hyperion ringlets;--now, too, he could perceive, by the undulations of her attire, that her limbs were turned with a symmetry that was elegant and yet robust--admirable in shape, though full in their proportions.

“I thank you most sincerely for the assurances of secrecy which you have given me,” said Laura, in the sweetest, most melting cadence of her delicious voice; “likewise for the chivalrous professions with which you have coupled them. You declare yourself to be my slave,” she added; “but it will be for this night only!”

And she hid her countenance on his breast, as if ashamed of the invitation which her words implied--an invitation that welcomed him at her abode until the morning!

“In one sense I understand you, my charmer,” he said, kissing her beauteous head as it lay reclining on his bosom; “and that alone ought to be happiness sufficient for me! But I am greedy--I am covetous; and I demand more! Listen, adored Laura--grant me your patience for a few minutes.”

She raised her head, and gazed tenderly up into his animated countenance as he spoke.

“I am not a rich man,” he continued; “but I possess a competency--nay, a handsome competency; and I care not how soon I abandon the service of even so good and excellent a prince as his Sovereign Highness--in order to devote myself wholly and solely to you. I know not who you are--I only know that you are the loveliest creature on the face of God’s earth, and that your name is Laura Mortimer. Neither do I seek to know more. But I am ready and anxious to join my fortunes with yours--to marry you, if you will accept me as your husband,--or to become your slave--your menial! Tell me not, then, that we must part to-morrow: oh! let me remain with you, my charming Laura, until death shall separate us!”

“It cannot be, my handsome Barthelma!” murmured Laura. “But let me call you by your Christian name----”

“Lorenzo,” said the Castelcicalan.

“You are, then, my handsome Lorenzo for this night--and for this night only,” continued Laura, throwing her warm, plump, exquisitely modelled arms about his neck, and pressing her lips to his glowing cheek.

“Cruel--cruel Laura!” he exclaimed, returning the ardent caress.

“Oh! would that circumstances permitted----”

“No circumstances can separate us, if you should decide that we are to remain together,” interrupted the Castelcicalan, in an impassioned tone.

“Alas! you know not----”

“If you are already a wife, I will kill your husband,” cried Lorenzo, again speaking with vehement abruptness: “If you are engaged to wed one whom you dislike, I will dare him to wrest you from my arms;--and if you have relations--father or brothers--whom you imagine yourself bound to consult, you may rest well assured that in preferring my love to that of kith and kin you will be receiving the purest gold in exchange for comparative dross.”

“Dear Lorenzo, I must seal your eloquent lips with kisses,” said Laura, with an arch playfulness that was also full of wantonness: “yes--I must seal those red, moist lips,” she murmured, after having pressed her mouth to his; “or you will persuade me to give an affirmative answer to your endearing solicitations--and that would only be to record a promise to-night which I most break to-morrow.”

“Are you, then, my angel, the mistress of some man on whose wealth you are dependent, or in whose power circumstances have placed you?” demanded the impassioned Italian, with more fervid frankness than considerate delicacy.

“I am not--I never was--and I never shall be a pensioned mistress, Lorenzo!” answered Laura, her manner becoming suddenly haughty.

“Pardon me--Oh! I implore you to pardon me, my angel!” exclaimed the young officer, straining her to his chest. “Not for worlds would I offend you--not even to save my soul from perdition would I wrong you by word or deed! Tell me, Laura--tell me--Laura--tell me--am I forgiven?”

She raised her countenance towards his own, and when their lips met she sealed his pardon with a long, burning kiss.

“And now,” she said, “do not ask me again to do that which is impossible. I cannot marry you, although I am not married--I cannot be your mistress, although I am not the mistress of another--I cannot hold out any hope to you, although I am pledged to none other.”

“You are as enigmatical as you are charming--you are as mysterious as you are beautiful!” exclaimed Lorenzo, contemplating his fair companion with the most enthusiastic rapture.

“And it is not now for you to mar the pleasure which we enjoy in each other’s society, by seeking to render me less enigmatical or less mysterious,” observed the syren. “At the same time I cannot be otherwise than flattered by the proposals you have made to me, and the generous manner in which you have expressed yourself in my behalf. Come--let us drink a glass of champagne to enhance the happiness of the moment, and drown careful reflections.”

“Be it so, my charmer,” said Lorenzo: “and if I no more torment you with my entreaties--if I resolve to content myself with the amount of bliss which you have promised me,--nevertheless, my dearest--ever dearest Laura, I shall take leave of you to-morrow morning with the fervent hope that we shall shortly meet again. You told me this afternoon that you proposed to visit Montoni in the course of the ensuing autumn----”

“Yes--I have no doubt that I shall be enabled to fulfil that promise,” interrupted Laura, by way of changing the topic of discourse. “And now that you have given me to understand that you will not revive the useless but flattering, and, in some sense, agreeable proposals you made me just now, let us think only of the enjoyment of the present.”

“It shall be as you say, my angel,” returned Lorenzo; and he forthwith filled a glass with sparkling champagne, which he handed to his fair companion.

She quaffed it at a draught, and a flood of light seemed to suffuse her entire countenance, and render her eyes brilliant as diamonds: her lips, too, moist with the generous juice, acquired a deeper red--and her bosom panted with amorous longings.

Lorenzo beheld the effects of the rich fluid, and hastened to fill the glass again: then, ere he drained it of its contents, he studiously placed to his lips the side which Laura’s mouth had touched.

“You had two friends with you this afternoon in the Champs Elysées?” said the syren, interrogatively, when they were once more seated, half-embraced in each other’s arms, upon the sofa.

“Yes: one was a fellow-countryman of mine--the other a native of your land, my beloved,” answered Lorenzo. “But I must tell you the singular adventure that occurred to us: and, indeed,” he added, with a smile, “I am deeply indebted to a certain anonymous correspondent--for had it not been through him, I should not have this day visited the scene where I was fortunate enough to encounter you.”

“A singular adventure!” exclaimed Laura, with an admirable affectation of the most ingenuous curiosity.

“Judge for yourself, my angel,” replied Lorenzo then, taking Rosalie’s letter from his pocket, he handed it to Laura, who, consuming with strong desires though she were, could scarcely suppress a laugh as she perused the billet, with the contents of which she was already so well acquainted.

“And did you see the poor man who addressed you and your friends in this wild, romantic style?” she asked, restoring him the note.

“He did not make his appearance,” responded Barthelma. “But even if that letter were the production of some mischievous wag, or of a crazy person, I could not possibly feel otherwise than rejoiced at having been made the dupe of either a humourist or a madman: for, as I just now observed, the anonymous letter led to my meeting with you.”

And, as he spoke, he smoothed down her glossy, luxuriant hair with his open palm.

“But doubtless your two companions found more difficulty in consoling themselves for the disappointment?” said Laura.

“Faith! dear lady,” exclaimed Lorenzo, “they spoke but little on the subject: for, to tell you the truth, your beauty had not failed to produce a very sensible effect on them as well as upon myself.”

“Flatterer!” cried Laura, playfully caressing the handsome Italian.

“Oh! you know that you are lovely--transcendently lovely!” he exclaimed, in an ardent tone; “and you can well believe me when I assure you that my two friends escaped not the magic influence of your charms. But how different were the effects thus produced! Di Ponta--that is the name of my fellow-countryman--was enthusiastic and rapturous in your praise; whereas Charles Hatfield--the Englishman--became gloomy, morose, and sullen----”

“A singular effect for the good looks of a woman to produce!” cried Laura, laughing--while her heart beat with the joy of a proud triumph.

“Such, nevertheless, was the case in this instance, my angel,” said Lorenzo. “I do firmly believe that Hatfield was jealous of me in being the happy mortal who perceived the loss of your parasol, and had the honour of restoring it;--yes--jealous, dear lady, because that happy accident introduced me to your notice, and privileged me to address you.”

“Your English friend must be a very weak-minded young man,” observed Laura; “and I am truly delighted that it was not he whose acquaintance I was destined to make this day.”

“Nevertheless, he is very handsome,” said Lorenzo, gazing upon the syren with a playful affectation of jealousy.

“Not so handsome as you, my Barthelma,” replied Laura, with simulated enthusiasm; and, in order to dispel the partial coldness which a digression from amorous topics had allowed to creep over her, she cast her arms around Lorenzo’s neck and fastened her lips to his.

Then the blood began once more to circulate like lightning in her veins,--and her voluptuous bosom panted against the young Italian’s chest.

Here shall we leave the amorous pair; for, after a little tender dalliance and another glass of the exciting juice of Epernay, they retired to the chamber whose portal we must not pass to follow them.

* * * * *

At eight o’clock in the morning Lorenzo Barthelma took his departure; and shortly afterwards Rosalie entered Laura’s room.

The Frenchwoman, who was as discreet as she was an adept at intrigue, wore the usual calm and respectful expression of countenance; and not even by a sly smile nor an arch look did she appear as if she devoted a thought to the manner in which her mistress had passed the night.

“Did the captain depart unperceived?” inquired Laura, who, although she had given no instructions to that effect, was nevertheless well assured that her intelligent abigail had superintended the egress of the handsome Italian.

“Entirely unobserved, mademoiselle,” was the answer. “I amused the porter and his wife in their lodge for a few minutes while Captain Barthelma slipped out into the street. Three persons alone are acquainted with last night’s adventure,--you, the captain, and myself.”

“Good!” exclaimed Laura: then, drawing aside the curtain of the bed in which she was voluptuously pillowed, she said, “And now, my dear Rosalie, give me an account of your proceedings relative to the Marquis of Delmour.”

“I have learnt but a few facts, mademoiselle,” was the reply: “those, however, are of some importance. He is enormously rich--very generous--bears an excellent character----”

“Is he married?” demanded Laura, hastily.

“Yes: but he has been living apart from his wife for many years;--and respecting the cause of their separation, there is a great mystery which not even his best friends can penetrate, and into which, therefore, a casual inquirer like myself could not obtain the least insight.”

“And this is all you could ascertain concerning him?” said Laura, interrogatively. “Did you not think of asking if he had any family by his wife?”

“I did not forget to make that inquiry, mademoiselle,” answered Rosalie; “and I was assured that his lordship is childless.”

“You are a good and faithful creature,” observed Laura; “and your services will prove invaluable to me. That purse which lies on the toilette-table, contains no insignificant sum in gold. It is yours--a recompense for the work of yesterday. But as you now know more of me than you did before, and as in a few short hours I permitted you to obtain a deeper reading of my secret soul than you could possibly have acquired, had I shut myself up in a studied reserve, it is as well that you should understand me thoroughly. I mean this, Rosalie--that I can be a good friend, or an implacable enemy--”

“I shall never provoke your enmity, mademoiselle,” observed the abigail.

“I do not think you will, Rosalie,” resumed Laura: “but, as I said ere now, it is as well that you should comprehend my character in all its details--in all its phases. You will benefit yourself by serving me faithfully: you would only injure yourself by playing me false. When once I have said upon this subject all that I mean to say, I shall not again refer to it: but the better we understand each other, the more permanent will be our connexion. Reckon, then, on my friendship so long as you deserve it;--deceive me, and I will risk my very life to be avenged.”

“Oh! mademoiselle,” exclaimed Rosalie, absolutely frightened by the vehemence with which her mistress spoke,--“have I done anything to render you suspicious of me?”

“On the contrary,” said Laura, with a smile; “you have done all you could to serve me--and you see that I have not forgotten to reward you. But within the last twelve or eighteen hours I have permitted you to read all the weaknesses of my soul--and now it is requisite that you should understand its strength: I have made you my confident--but I deemed it prudent to convince you that I know how to punish treachery. That is all, Rosalie: I have no more to say upon the subject;--and now, let me see your pretty face cheer up and wear a smile.”

The Frenchwoman was reassured by these last words; and, finding that her mistress had only intended to give her a salutary warning, and not to upbraid her for any actual misconduct, she speedily recovered her wonted gaiety and good spirits.

CLXV. LORD WILLIAM TREVELYAN

The scene changes to the residence of Lord William Trevelyan in Park Square.

It was evening, and the young nobleman was pacing up and down in an elegantly furnished parlour, which was lighted by means of a brilliant gas-jet enclosed in a pale red glass globe--so that the lustre which filled the room was of roseate hue. The curtains, sofas, and cushions of the chairs were of a rich crimson; and the paper on the walls was of a kindred colour and splendid pattern. In each corner of the apartment stood a marble jar, filled with flowers recently gathered, and rendering the atmosphere cool and fragrant.

Lord William was tall and handsome, his complexion was somewhat dark, giving him the appearance of a Spaniard rather than of an Englishman; and yet the ruddy hues of health were upon his cheeks. His hair was black as jet, silky as that of a woman, and parted above a brow high, intellectual, and expressive of a noble mind. His eyes were large and dark, and full of the fire of genius; and there was something peculiarly pleasing--almost winning in his smile.

In disposition Lord William was amiable--in manners unassuming: his character was unimpeachable--and his political opinions were of the most liberal tendency. His charity was extensive, but entirely unostentatious: his dependants revered him as a good master, and his acquaintances loved him as a sincere friend.

He was in his twenty-fourth year; and, until he had set eyes upon Agnes Vernon, he had never experienced the influence of the tender passion. But one day, while on a visit to a friend at Norwood, he was strolling alone in the vicinity, and accident led his footsteps towards the cottage, in the garden belonging to which he beheld the beauteous creature whose image had ever since filled his soul.

Truly had he said to Mrs. Mortimer that he adored the fair recluse of the cottage--that he worshipped the very ground upon which she trod: his love amounted almost to an idolatry;--and yet he had never exchanged a word--scarcely even a look, with the object of his affection!

It could be no world-contaminated heart that entertained such a passion as this--no selfish soul that could cherish such a pure and holy attachment.

But it was a generous--upright--noble-minded young man, who was now anxiously waiting the arrival of the woman with whom he had made an appointment for the evening in question.

* * * * *

Were the English aristocracy to be judged generally by such nobles as the Earl of Ellingham and Lord William Trevelyan, the term of its existence would not now perhaps be within the range of prophecy.

But, as matters now stand,--as the aristocracy is corrupt, selfish, and cruel--self-sufficient and ignorant--proud and intolerant--unprincipled, profligate, and tyrannical,--it is not difficult to predict its speedy downfall.

Therefore is it that we boldly proclaim our conviction that Monarchy and Aristocracy will not exist ten years longer in enlightened England; but that a Republic will displace them!

The hereditary principle, either in Monarchy or Aristocracy, is the most detestable idea that ever entered the brains of knaves, or was adopted by fools.

In respect to Monarchy, we are gravely assured that the principle of hereditary succession guarantees a nation against the civil wars that may arise from the pretensions of numerous claimants to the supreme power. But the history of every monarchical country in the world gives the lie to this assertion. Crowns have been bones of contention from time immemorial, and will continue to be so until they be crushed altogether beneath the heel of Republicanism. Take the history of England, for instance--that England, where the hereditary principle is said to be admirable and efficacious beyond all question: thirty-three Kings or Queens and two minors have reigned in this country since the Conquest by the Norman ruffian--and during that period we have had eight civil wars and nineteen rebellions!

The LAWS OF GOD, moreover, bear testimony against Monarchy. What said the Prophet Samuel when the Jews insisted upon having a King? “I will call unto the Lord, and he shall send thunder and rain, that you may perceive and see that your wickedness is great which you have done in the sight of the Lord, in asking you a King. So Samuel called unto the Lord, and the Lord sent thunder and rain that day; and all the people greatly feared the Lord and Samuel. And all the people said unto Samuel, Pray for thy servants unto the Lord thy God, that we die not; for we have added unto our sins this evil, to ask a King.”

Either the Bible is true or false. If true--as assuredly it is--then is the institution of Monarchy a positive crime, tolerated by an entire nation!

And no wonder that Heaven itself should protest against a system which is nothing more nor less than setting up an idol for the millions to worship,--an idol as useless as an Indian pagod, but often as terrible and slaughterous in its baleful influence as Juggernaut in its fatal progress.

Never did Satan contrive a scheme more certain of promoting idolatry than the raising up of Kings and Queens as rivals to the Majesty of Heaven;--for the root of Monarchy is in hell--the laws of God denounce the institution as a sin--and the history of the whole world proclaims that blood inevitably attends upon it!

All men were originally equal; and in no country therefore, could any privilege of birth give one family a right to monopolise the executive power for ever: neither can one generation bind that which is as yet to come. The existing race of human beings has no property in the one unborn: we of the present day have no right to assume the power of enslaving posterity:--and, on the same principle, our ancestors had no right to enslave us. If those ancestors chose to make one set of laws for themselves, we can institute another code for our own government. But of course such a change as this can only be made by the representatives of the People; and in order that the people may have a fair representation, the following elements of a constitution become absolutely necessary:--

Universal Suffrage; Vote by Ballot; No Property Qualification; Paid Representatives; Annual Parliaments; and Equal Electoral Districts.

Give us these principles--accord us these institutions--and we will vouch for the happiness, prosperity, and tranquillity of the kingdom.

The French now stand at the head of the civilisation of Europe. They are on the same level as the fine people of the United States of America; and England occupies an inferior grade in the scale.

Alas! that we should be compelled to speak thus of our native land: but the truth must be told!

As yet almost every country in Europe has demanded and obtained something of its rulers, in consequence of the French Revolution;--whereas England has as yet obtained nothing in the shape of Reform!

Oh! shame--shame! what has become of our national spirit?--are we all willing slaves, and shall we not agitate--morally, but energetically agitate--for our rights and liberties?

The aristocracy and the men in power treat the people’s assemblies with ridicule, and denominate the working-classes, when so assembled, as “a mob.” They will not discriminate between honest politicians and the respectable working-classes on the one hand, and the ragamuffinry of society on the other. They confound us all together in the sweeping appellation of “the mob!”

The insensates! Do they not reflect that if ten or fifteen thousand persons meet for the purpose of discussing some grand political question, some five or six hundred pickpockets and mischievous boys are certain to intrude themselves into the assemblage? Why--black sheep even find their way into the Houses of Parliament--aye, and into the very suite of Royalty itself.

* * * * *

But after recording all the above observations, we must once more declare that we do not recommend violence: we insist upon the necessity of a grand moral agitation--an agitation which shall pervade the entire country, as an ocean is roused by the storm into a mass of mighty waves. The people must assume an imposing attitude; and let the memorable words of Lafayette be repeated by every tongue:--“For a nation to love liberty, it is sufficient that she knows it; and for a nation to be free, it is sufficient that she wills it!”

And, oh! my fellow-countrymen, let not this glorious thesis be used in vain! By the misery and starvation which millions of ye endure--by the hopeless entombment to which the Poor Law Bastilles condemn ye, when work fails--by the denial of an honest recognition of the rights of labour, which is insolently persisted in--by the spectacle of your famished wives and little ones--by the naked walls of the wretched hovels in which the labouring population dwells--by the blinding toil of the poor seamstress--by the insults heaped on ye by a rapacious aristocracy and an intolerant clergy--by the right which a despicable oligarchy usurps to hold the reins of power--by the limited suffrage which leaves the millions unrepresented--by the oppressive weight of taxation laid upon the productive classes--by the sorrows which the hard-working operative endures throughout his virility, and the misery that attends upon his decrepitude--by the badge of pauperism that the sons and daughters of toil are compelled to wear in the accursed Union-houses,--by all your wrongs, we adjure ye not to remain at rest--not to endure the yoke which ye can cast off in a moment--not to stand still and gaze listlessly, while all the rest of the civilised world is in motion!

* * * * *

Returning from this digression to the thread of our narrative, we will suppose that Mrs. Mortimer has at length arrived at the house in Park Square, and that she is already seated with the young nobleman, who little suspected the infamous character of the woman whom he had admitted to his confidence.

“I have been looking forward with much impatience and anxiety to your coming,” said Lord William: “but even now that you are here, I know not in which manner you can assist me.”

“Faint heart never won fair lady, my lord,” returned the old woman; “and you must take courage. The maxim which I quoted is a good one.”

“I do not despair, madam,” said the young nobleman: “and yet I seem as if I were involved in a deep mist, through which I cannot even grope my way. Alone and unassisted, I cannot hope to obtain access to that charming creature; and, if assisted, I will do nothing that shall violate the respect due to one so pure of heart as I believe her to be.”

“I should have proposed to become the bearer of a letter from your lordship to Miss Vernon,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer, coldly: “but, perceiving beforehand that your scruples are over nice and your notions somewhat of the most fastidious, I really do not see how I can serve you.”

“I am afraid to write to her--she would perhaps be offended to an extent that might be irremediable,” exclaimed Lord William, a prey to the most cruel bewilderment.

“And yet your lordship once endeavoured to bribe the servant-girl to become the bearer of your amatory epistle,” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone of sarcasm--almost of disgust.

“Now you are offended with me,” cried the young nobleman. “It is true that I did pen a letter to Agnes--telling her how much I loved her and how honourable were my intentions--imploring her likewise to grant me a few moments’ interview, and to pardon the means that I thus adopted of accosting her, having no other mode of procuring an introduction. Such a letter I did indeed write,” continued Trevelyan: “but it was in a fit of despair--of madness--of insensate recklessness.--I know not how to explain myself! The servant refused to deliver that note--and my eyes were immediately opened to the impropriety of the proceeding which I had adopted.”

“And you therefore decline to entrust me, who am well acquainted with Agnes, to deliver a similar letter into her hand? Your lordship is wrong in thus refusing to be guided by me,” continued the crafty old woman. “Think you that with one so innocent, so artless as Agnes, I cannot prepare the way to render your letter acceptable--at least to prevent it from producing a sudden shock to her notions of maidenly propriety?”

“Much as I should be rejoiced could you accomplish that aim,” said Trevelyan, “I should be ten thousand times happier were you able to procure me an interview with her.”

“This is madness!” exclaimed the old woman. “Can I not more easily induce her to read a letter from a stranger, than to receive that stranger in person? Is not the letter the first and most natural step to the visit? Trust to me, my lord: I know the disposition of Agnes--I understand affairs of this nature--and I am also well aware that love blinds you to the ways of prudence.”

“Be it, then, as you propose,” said Lord William, after a long pause, during which be reflected profoundly. “I will write the letter this evening: will you call for it early to-morrow morning?”

“I will,” answered the old woman: “and in less than twenty-four hours I will undertake to bring you tidings calculated to encourage hope--or I am very much mistaken,” she added emphatically.

“You do not believe--you have no reason to suppose that the father of Agnes already destines her to become the bride of some person of his own choice?” asked Trevelyan, now for the first time shaping in words an idea that had haunted him for some days past. “Because,” he continued, speaking with the rapidity of excitement, “I cannot possibly comprehend wherefore he compels her to dwell in that strict seclusion.”

“I do not believe that you have any such cause for apprehension,” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone of confidence--as if she were well able to give the species of assurance which she so emphatically conveyed. “There is a mystery--a deep mystery attached to the fair recluse,--and what that mystery is, I am myself completely ignorant. But that the father of Agnes has no such intention as the one you imagined, and that Agnes herself has as yet never known the passion of love,--these are facts to which I do not hesitate to pledge myself most solemnly.”

“Oh! then there is indeed room for hope!” exclaimed Lord William, his countenance brightening up and joy flashing in his eyes.

“A nobleman in your position--blessed with wealth and a handsome person--endowed with agreeable manners and a cultivated mind,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “need not despair of winning the love and securing the hand of a maiden dwelling in utter obscurity and totally unacquainted with the world.”

“I would rather that she should learn to love me for my own sake, madam,” observed Lord William, in a serious tone, “than for any adventitious advantages of rank or social position that I may possess.”

“Well, my lord--we shall see,” said Mrs. Mortimer, rising to depart. “To-morrow morning I will call for the letter; and I shall proceed straight over to the cottage: In the afternoon, or evening, I will do myself the honour of waiting upon your lordship again.”

“I shall expect you with impatience, madam,” returned Trevelyan, as he politely hastened to open the door for her.

Mrs. Mortimer took her leave; and the young nobleman sate down to pen a letter to Agnes Vernon.

But this was not so easy a matter as he had anticipated. Sheet after sheet of paper did he spoil,--a hundred times did he commence--and as often did he throw aside his pen in despair. Now he fancied that his style was too bold--then he conceived it to be too tame and vague: now he imagined himself to be too complimentary in his language towards one possessing a mind so chaste and pure--then he felt assured that he was acting indiscreetly to write at all. In the course of an hour he was swayed by such an infinite variety of conflicting sentiments and impressions that he was almost inclined to throw up the task in despair.

At length, however, he made a beginning which pleased him; and his pen then ran fluently enough over the paper, until the letter was composed in the following manner:--

“Pardon a stranger who dares to address you, beautiful Miss Vernon, in a strain that might give you offence, were he not sincere in his language and honourable in his intentions:--pardon me, I implore you--and refuse not to read these few lines to the end! He who thus writes is the individual that you have observed occasionally in the vicinity of your dwelling; and you will perceive by the signature to this letter that he is not a man without ostensible guarantees for his social position. That his character is unimpeachable he can proudly declare; and that he will not address to you, Miss Vernon, a single word which he will fear to repeat in your father’s presence, he solemnly declares.

“Let me, however, speak of myself in the first person again: let me assure you that your beauty has captivated my heart--and that, if anything were wanting to render me your slave, the description which the bearer of this letter has given me of your amiable qualities, would be more than sufficient. I am rich--and therefore I have no selfish motive in addressing you, even if you be rich also: but I would rather that it were otherwise with you, so that my present proceeding may appear to you the more disinterested. Had I any means of obtaining an introduction to you, beautiful Miss Vernon, I should not have adopted a measure that gives me pain because I tremble lest it should wound or offend you. But mine is an honest--a sincere--and a devoted attachment; and I shall be happy indeed if you will permit me to open a correspondence with your father on the subject. Were he to honour me with a visit, I should be proud to receive him. But if, in the meantime, you seek to know more of me--if I might venture to solicit you to accord me an interview of only a few minutes, you cannot divine how fervently I should thank you--how delighted I should feel! Let this interview take place in the presence of Mrs. Mortimer, if you will: I have nothing to communicate to you that I should hesitate to say before your father or your friends. Oh! how can I convince you of my sincerity?--how can I testify my devotion?--how can I prove the extent of my love?

“I beseech you to reflect, Miss Vernon, that my happiness depends upon your reply. Am I guilty of an indiscretion in loving you? Love is a passion beyond mortal control! He who knows no other deity, deserves not blame for worshipping the sun, because it is glorious and bright; and my heart, which knows no other idol, adores you, because you are beautiful and good. Treat not my conduct, then, with anger: let not your pride be offended by the proceeding which I have adopted in order to make my sentiments known to you;--and scorn not the honest--the pure--the ardent affection which an honourable man dares to proffer you. I do not merit punishment because I love you;--and your silence would prove a punishment severe and undeserved indeed! Again, I conjure you to remember that the happiness of a fellow-creature depends upon you: your decision will either inspire me with the most joyous hope, or plunge me into the deepest despair. At the same time, beauteous Agnes,--(the words--those delightful words, ’beauteous Agnes,’ are written now, and I cannot--will not erase them)--at the same time, I say, if your affections be already engaged--if a mortal more blest than myself have received the promise of your hand,--accept the assurance, sweet maiden, that never more shall you be molested by me--never again will I intrude myself upon your attention. For with my love is united the most profound respect; and not for worlds would I do aught to excite an angry feeling in your soul.

“Your ardent admirer and devoted friend, “WILLIAM TREVELYAN.”

With this letter the young nobleman was satisfied. He considered it to be sufficiently energetic, and at the same time respectful: he saw nothing in it against which the purest mind could take exceptions; and, in the sanguine confidence natural to his age, and to the honourable candour of his disposition, he already looked upon his aims as half accomplished--his aspirations as half gained.

Having sealed and addressed the letter, he placed it upon the mantel-piece ready for Mrs. Mortimer when she should call in the morning: then, fetching a portfolio from an inner room, he opened it, and from amongst several drawings in water-colours, selected one on which his gaze was immediately rivetted with deep and absorbing interest.

For that painting--executed by his own hand--was a portrait of Agnes Vernon; and even the most fastidious critic, if acquainted with the original, must have pronounced it to be a living likeness.

Yes: on that paper was delineated, with the most perfect accuracy, the fair countenance of the Recluse of the Cottage,--every feature--every lineament drawn with a fidelity to which only a first-rate artist, or an amateur whose pencil was guided by the finger of Love, could have possibly attained. There were the eyes of deep blackness and melting softness,--there was the high, intelligent forehead,--there was the raven hair, silken and glossy, and seeming to flow luxuriantly even in the very picture,--and there was the rich red mouth, wearing a smile such as mortals behold upon the lips of angels in their dreams. How charming was the entire countenance!--how amiable--how heavenly the expression that it wore!

And no wonder that the likeness was so striking--so accurate--so faithful;--for the young nobleman had touched and retouched it until he had delineated on the paper the precise counterpart of the image that dwelt in his mind. Hours and hours had he devoted to that labour of love:--on each occasion when he returned home after contemplating, from behind the green barrier of the garden, the idol of his adoration, he addressed himself to the improvement of that portrait. At one time he had beheld the maiden to greater advantage than at another; and then he studied to convey to the card-board the last and most pleasing impression thus made upon his mind; until he produced a likeness so faithful that not another touch was required--no further improvement could be effected.

And, like Pygmalion with his Galatea, how Lord William Trevelyan worshipped that portrait! No--the simile is incorrect; because the sculptor learnt to adore the statue that was cold and passionless--whereas the young nobleman was blest with the conviction that there was a living original for the image he had so faithfully traced upon his paper,--and it was that living original whom he made the goddess of his thoughts.

The clock had struck ten, and Lord William was still bending over the portrait that lay upon the table, when a footman entered the room to announce that a lady who declined to give her name solicited an interview with the young nobleman.

Lord William, hastily closing the portfolio, desired that she might be immediately shown into his presence.

The domestic bowed and retired.

In a few minutes he returned, ushering in the unknown visitor, who wore a veil over her countenance: but the moment the footman had withdrawn, she raised the veil, and disclosed a face that was strikingly handsome, though pale and careworn. She was apparently about thirty-six or thirty-seven years of age--with dark hair, fine hazel eyes, and good teeth. Tall and well-formed, her figure, which was rather inclined to embonpoint, was set off to advantage by the tasteful--indeed elegant style of her dress; and in her deportment there was an air of distinction denoting the polished and well-bred lady.

Lord William received her with becoming courtesy, requested her to be seated, and then awaited an explanation of her business.

“Your lordship is doubtless surprised at receiving a visit at so unseasonable an hour, and on the part of a complete stranger,” began the lady, in a pleasing though mournful tone of voice: “but I know not to whom else to address myself for the information I now seek--and if you cannot afford it to me, I shall be unhappy indeed.”

“Madam,” said Lord William, somewhat astonished at this mysterious opening of the conversation, “if it be in my power to serve you, I shall render that service cheerfully.”

“You are well acquainted, I believe, my lord, with Sir Gilbert Heathcote?” observed the lady, somewhat abruptly, as she bowed her thanks for the assurance the young nobleman had given her.

“Sir Gilbert Heathcote, though much older than I, is an intimate friend of mine,” observed Trevelyan.

“Do you know where he is--what has become of him?” demanded the lady, in a still more anxious tone than before.

“I really do not, madam,” was the reply.

“Merciful heavens!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in a paroxysm of sorrow.

“I have not seen him for this week past,” continued Trevelyan. “But--are you ill, madam? Can I offer you anything?--shall I summon assistance?”

And, as he spoke, the nobleman rose from his seat and approached the bell-pull.

“No--no, my lord!” cried the lady. “Do not ring--do not call your servants! I shall be better presently. But pardon me if I could not control my feelings,” she added, wiping the tears from her eyes.

The young nobleman, in spite of the adjuration to the contrary, hastened into the adjoining room and speedily returned with a decanter of spring water and a tumbler. He then filled the glass and presented it to his afflicted visitor, who thanked him for his delicate attention with a look expressive of gratitude--the words that she would have uttered being stifled in her throat.

Refreshed with the cooling beverage, she said, after a short pause, “My lord, have you the slightest conception where your friend Sir Gilbert Heathcote is? Did he intimate to you his intention to leave London? did he hint at the probability of his departure from England? Oh! I conjure you to tell me all you know: for--for--you cannot divine how much--how deeply I love him!”

Trevelyan was struck with astonishment at these last words,--words that were uttered in a tone of such convincing, such profound sincerity, that he could not for an instant question their import. And yet--though since the days of childhood Trevelyan had known Sir Gilbert Heathcote--he had never heard that the baronet was married: on the contrary, he had invariably understood him to be a single man. If this latter belief were the true one, then, was the lady now in his presence the mistress of his friend?--for assuredly she had not spoken with the confidence of a sister, but with the hesitation of one who reveals a fact that is in some way associated with shame.

The lady perceived what was passing in the mind of Trevelyan; and in a low but fully audible tone, she said, “My lord, circumstances compel me to reveal myself to you as your friend’s mistress. Yes: though I love him more than ever wife could love--yet am I only his mistress,--for, alas! I am the wife of another! And now, my lord,” she added, with deep feeling, “you may spurn me from you--you may command your lacquey to thrust me from your dwelling: but I implore you to give me tidings of Sir Gilbert!”

“Madam,” exclaimed Trevelyan, the moment he could recover from the bewilderment into which this impassioned address plunged him, “not for worlds could I do or say aught to augment year affliction--much less to insult you. I declare to you most solemnly that I have neither heard nor seen anything of Sir Gilbert Heathcote for a week. I called at his chambers in the Albany the day before yesterday, and was simply informed that he was not at home. I left my card without thinking to make further inquiries--not suspecting that his absence had been for days, instead of hours.”

“Oh! yes--upwards of a week has elapsed since I saw him,” exclaimed the lady, with difficulty subduing a fresh outburst of grief. “Each day have I been to the Albany--and still the answer is the same--‘He has not returned!’ No--he has not returned,” she added, clasping her hands together; “and he has not written to me! O God! I fear that some fatal accident has befallen him!”

“Do not give way to such a distressing belief,” cried Trevelyan, feeling deeply for the unfortunate woman, whose grief was so profound and so sincere. “Shall I make inquiries--immediate inquiries--concerning him? Perhaps I may learn more than a lady possibly can.”

“Generous-hearted nobleman!” exclaimed the visitor; “how can I ever repay you for this kindness towards an utter stranger?”

“Remember also, madam,” said Trevelyan, “that, apart from my readiness to serve you or any lady whom affliction has overtaken, I begin to experience some degree of anxiety on behalf of a gentleman who has ever shown a sincere friendship towards me. Not another minute will I delay the inquiries which, alike for your sake and his, I now deem it necessary to institute.”

Thus speaking, the young nobleman rose from his chair.

“My lord,” said the lady, rising also, and speaking in a tone indicative of deep emotion, “may I hope to receive a communication from you as early as possible? My suspense will be great--it is even now intolerable----”

And she burst into tears.

“Madam,” interrupted the young nobleman, profoundly touched by her affliction, which was evidently most unfeigned, “you can either accompany me, or remain here until my return. Perhaps the latter will be the more desirable--at least if you can restrain your impatience, so natural under the circumstances, for a couple of hours. But perhaps,” he added, an idea striking him,--“perhaps you live at some distance----”

“I am the occupant of a house in Kentish Town,” said the lady; “and therefore my dwelling is not very far from your lordship’s. If you see no impropriety in it--if there be no one here whom my presence would offend,” she continued, speaking in a subdued and almost timid tone, “I would rather--oh! much rather wait until you return.”

“By all means, madam,” exclaimed the generous-hearted young noble. “Should you require anything during my absence, the servants will obey your summons; and they will receive my orders, ere I depart, to pay you every attention.”

“I shall not trouble them, my lord,” was the reply: “but I return you my deepest--sincerest thanks for the kind consideration with which you treat me.”

Trevelyan bowed, and then quitted the room.

CXLVI. A SKETCH OF TWO BROTHERS.--A MYSTERY

The nobleman’s cab was got ready in a very few minutes; and while he is driving rapidly along towards Piccadilly, we will place on record some particulars respecting Sir Gilbert Heathcote.

The baronet was a man of about forty years of age, and of very handsome countenance, as well as of tall, commanding figure. He had never married; and report stated that a disappointment in love, experienced when he was very young, had induced him to make a vow to the effect that, as he had lost the idol of his heart’s devotion, he would never accompany another to the altar. Such was the rumour which had obtained currency at the time amongst his friends, and was even repeated at the period whereof we are writing, whenever astonishment was expressed that a man enjoying all the advantages of personal appearance and social position should not have sought to form a brilliant matrimonial alliance. For the baronet was not only very handsome, as remarked above, but he also possessed the superior attraction of four thousand a year. His habits were nevertheless inexpensive: he lived in chambers at the Albany, and had no country seat. Indeed, he seldom quitted London, and was altogether of quiet--even retired habits. He was fond of reading, and was also an admirer of the fine arts: he used often to observe that the only extravagance of which he was ever guilty, consisted in the purchase of a fine picture or of articles of virtû;--but these he seldom retained--giving them as presents to his friends or to museums. Not that he was whimsical or capricious, and grew tired to-day of what he had bought yesterday: but he was pleased at the thought of rescuing good paintings and real curiosities from the auction-room or from Wardour-street; and he was wont to observe that he experienced more delight in seeing them in the possession of friends who could appreciate their value, or in museums where their safety was ensured, than in having them left to the mercy of servants in his “bachelor apartments.” The fact was, that his disposition was naturally generous; but this generosity was displayed in a particular fashion--and as he himself admired objects of virtû, he fancied that they must likewise prove the most welcome gifts he could bestow upon his friends.

Sir Gilbert had a brother, who was very unlike himself. James Heathcote was an attorney--grasping, greedy, avaricious, unprincipled--and therefore rich. He was only two years younger than Sir Gilbert; but close application to business, evil passions, and parsimonious habits had exercised such an influence upon his personal appearance, that he seemed ten years older. His hair was grey--that of Sir Gilbert was quite dark: his form was slightly bowed--that of the baronet was erect as a dart. James also was unmarried--but not through any disappointment in early life. Indeed, he possessed a heart that might be susceptible of desire, but could not possibly experience the pure feeling of love. He lived in a handsome house in Bedford-row, Holborn; and his apartments were elegantly furnished;--for he was wont to observe that persons who are anxious to get on in this world, must make a good appearance, and that a mean office frequently turns away a person who might prove an excellent client. But his aim was to amass money--his object was to increase his wealth, no matter how: still he had always contrived matters so cunningly, that no one could positively and unequivocally prove him to be a rogue.

With such a dissimilitude of character between the two brothers, it cannot be supposed that any extraordinary degree of intimacy existed on their part. Indeed, they seldom saw each other--although the more generous nature of Gilbert would have cheerfully maintained a more consistent and becoming feeling: but the cold, reserved, matter-of-fact disposition of James proved absolutely repulsive and forbidding in this respect. So great, in fine, was the discrepancy between these men, that people were surprised when they learnt for the first time that the money-making, hard-hearted attorney was the brother of the urbane, amiable, and polished baronet.

These hasty outlines will afford the reader some idea of Sir Gilbert Heathcote on the one hand, and Mr. James Heathcote on the other. We shall see more of them both hereafter; and their characters will then become more fully developed. In the meantime we must return to Lord William Trevelyan, whom we left hastening in his cab, at half-past ten at night, towards the Albany.

On arriving at that celebrated establishment, the young nobleman instituted various inquiries concerning Sir Gilbert; but not the least particle of information of a satisfactory nature could he obtain. It appeared that the baronet had been absent for eight days, and that no communication had been received from him--neither had he given any previous intimation of his intended departure. His brother had been informed of this unaccountable absence; but it seemed that the attorney had taken no step to solve the mystery. This was the only fact which Lord William succeeded in gleaning in addition to the meagre knowledge he already possessed relative to the matter; and he returned homeward with a heavy heart, and experiencing strange misgivings in respect to his friend.

It was near midnight when he re-entered the room where he had left the lady. The moment he appeared on the threshold of the door, she rose from her seat and hastened forward to meet him, her looks revealing the intensity of the anxiety and the acuteness of the suspense which she experienced. But when she saw by his countenance, even before a word fell from his lips, that he had no good news to impart, a ghastly pallor overspread her face, and she would have fallen had he not supported her and led her back to her chair.

“I grieve to say, madam,” he at length observed, “that I have learnt nothing more than what you already know--unless indeed it be the fact that a communication respecting Sir Gilbert’s disappearance has been made to Mr. James Heathcote, and that he has treated the matter with unpardonable levity--if not with heartless indifference.”

“I do not know that brother--I never saw him,” said the lady, speaking in a broken voice: “but I have heard enough of his character to make me dread him.”

“At the same time, madam,” remarked Lord Trevelyan, in a tone of firm though gentle remonstrance, “there is not the slightest ground for suspicion against Mr. James Heathcote; and such an observation as that which a moment ago fell from your lips, might act most seriously to the prejudice of an innocent man. I likewise am unacquainted with Mr. Heathcote, otherwise than by name----”

“And your lordship is well aware that his reputation is not the most enviable in the world!” exclaimed the lady in an impassioned tone.”

“I have never heard any definite charges against him, madam,” said Trevelyan.

“No--not positive charges which may fix him with the perpetration of a special and particular deed of guilt,” she cried, as if determined to level her suspicions against the attorney: “but your lordship has doubtless heard a thousand vague accusations--usury--extortion--grinding down the poor to the very dust--hurrying on law proceedings with merciless haste--unrelentingly sweeping away the property of his victims----”

“All these charges I have certainly heard, madam,” said Trevelyan; “but I will not admit that they warrant the darkest, blackest suspicion which one human being can possibly entertain towards another. Understand me, madam--I have no motive in defending James Heathcote, beyond the true English principle of never judging a person through the medium of prejudices. For your satisfaction I will call upon Mr. Heathcote to-morrow--I will speak to him relative to the mysterious disappearance of his brother--I will hear his replies--I will even watch his countenance and observe his manner as he speaks. And believe me, madam,” proceeded the young nobleman, emphatically,--“believe me when I assure you that if there should transpire the least cause of suspicion--if there should appear aught to warrant the belief that James Heathcote could have possibly practised or instigated foul play in respect to his brother,--believe me, madam, I repeat, that I will pursue the investigation--I will leave no stone unturned--I will prosecute my inquiries until I shall have brought home that deep guilt to his door. But not for an instant--no, not for a single moment can I believe----”

“Act as you have said, my lord--and, depend upon it, you will find in the sequel that my opinions are not so unjust--so uncalled for--so reprehensible, as you now conceive them to be. But, oh!” exclaimed the lady, clasping her hands wildly together,--“it is terrible--terrible even for a moment to entertain the idea that he whom I love so devotedly may be no more!”

“Compose yourself, madam--tranquillise your feelings, I implore you!” cried Lord William Trevelyan. “We must not give way to despair--we must not harbour the dreadful thought that Sir Gilbert Heathcote has met with foul play, and that he ceases to exist. No--no: let us hope----”

“Oh! my lord, how can we hope in the face of such strange--such mysterious--such suspicious circumstances?” demanded the lady, with mingled grief and bitterness. “Even if he did not choose to acquaint his friends with his intended absence and its motives, he would not be equally reserved towards me. No--he would have seen me ere his departure--or he would at least have written. For you must now learn, my lord, that we have loved each other for upwards of twenty years,” she continued, in a low and plaintive tone. “For twenty years and more have our hearts beat in unison;--and never--never was love so devoted as ours! Alas! mine has been a strange and romantic life; and the influence that has swayed all its incidents was that passion which the worldly-minded treat so lightly. For my father was a worldly-minded man; and, though he knew how fondly I loved and how ardently I was beloved,--though I knelt before him and conjured him by all he held most sacred, and by the spirit of my mother who died in my childhood, not to sacrifice me to the object of his choice, and tear me away from the object of mine,--nevertheless, he ridiculed my prayers--he made naught of my beseechings--and I was immolated upon the altar of a parent’s sordid interest. Your lordship has perhaps already understood that the one whom I adored was Gilbert Heathcote. Never--never was love’s tale told with more enchanting sweetness than by his lips: never--never did woman cherish more devotedly than I that avowal of a sincere passion! At that time his personal beauty was sufficient to ensnare the heart of any maiden, though far less susceptible than mine;--and I loved him--loved him madly. But a wealthy noble had seen me; and my father beheld with joy the impression that I had been so unfortunate as to make upon that patrician’s fancy. Moreover, at that period, my sire was suffering cruel pecuniary embarrassments; and the brilliant marriage which he hoped to accomplish for his daughter, appeared the only means of extricating himself from his difficulties. Thus the suit of the nobleman was encouraged by my father--and I was induced by the menaces, the prayers, and the specious reasoning which he employed by turns to move me,--I was induced, I say, to tolerate the visits of the peer, although heaven knows I never could encourage them. Not that his personal appearance was disagreeable--nor that I paused to reflect that his age was more than double my own: no--for he was handsome--very handsome; and, though his years were twice mine, yet he was but in the prime of life. Wherefore, then, did I receive his addresses with loathing?--wherefore did I implore my father to save me from an alliance which was so desirable and so brilliant in every worldly point of view? Oh! it was because my heart was irrevocably given to another--because Gilbert Heathcote possessed all my love!”

The lady paused, and wiped away the tears which so many varied reminiscences had wrung from her eyes,--while profound sobs convulsed her bosom.

Lord William Trevelyan felt the embarrassment and awkwardness of his position; for it was now past midnight--and he began to reflect that his servants might look suspiciously upon the fact of this protracted visit on the part of a lady who was still young enough, and certainly handsome enough to afford food for scandalous tongues. Not that Lord William was either a rigid saint or a stern anchorite in respect to the female sex: but, although unmarried, he behaved with the utmost circumspection, and would never have outraged decency so far as to make his own abode the place of an intrigue or gallant rendezvous. Moreover, the love which he entertained for Agnes Vernon had exercised such a purifying--such a chastening influence upon his soul, that he shrank from the idea of compromising himself by any real impropriety, or of becoming compromised by means of any indiscretion which scandal might think fit to attribute to him.

The lady was however too much absorbed in her own thoughts and emotions to mark how rapidly time was slipping away, or to reflect upon the imprudence of prolonging her visit. Her feelings were painfully excited, not only by the fears which she entertained on account of the absence of Sir Gilbert Heathcote--but likewise by the reminiscences which had been stirred up in her soul, and the outpouring of which to sympathetic ears seemed a necessary vent for a bosom so full of sorrow.

“Yes, my lord,” she resumed, after a short pause, her voice still being characterised by a tone of the most touching melancholy; “my father forced me into that hated marriage--and though I gained rank and a proud position, yet hope and happiness appeared to have forsaken me for ever. But I cannot tell you all,” she exclaimed, hastily, as if a sudden thought had struck her, warning her that she was about to be led by her feelings into revelations of a nature which she would repent, or which would at least be unbecoming and injudicious.

“Madam,” said Lord William, emphatically,--“I do not seek your confidence--I do not even desire it: but you have to do with a man of honour, by whom everything you may impart, whether with premeditation or unguardedly, will be held as sacred.”

“I thank your lordship for this kind assurance,” observed the lady. “Do not imagine that I wish to force you into becoming the depositary of my secrets, in order to establish a species of claim upon your friendship. No--my lord: I am not selfish--neither am I an intriguer,--only a most unhappy--a most unfortunate woman! But it is because you have manifested some little interest in me--because you have so generously promised to aid me in clearing up the mystery which surrounds the sudden disappearance of one so dear to me,--it is for these reasons, my lord, that I am anxious to explain so much of the circumstances of my connexion with him, as will convince you that nothing but the sincerest affection on my part could have placed me in a position which the world generally would regard with scorn. I have told your lordship how, loving Gilbert Heathcote, I was forced into a most inauspicious marriage with another: but the name of that other I need not mention. My father saw, when it was too late, that he had indeed sacrificed my happiness on the altar of his own selfishness; and he died of remorse--of a broken heart! My husband--my noble husband--was kind and generous towards me: but I could not love him--and he knew it. Then he grew jealous--and other circumstances,” she added, casting down her eyes and blushing deeply, “embittered our lives. At length--or, I should rather say, at the expiration of a few short years, I fled from him--fled from the husband who had been forced upon me--and sought refuge with the object of my heart’s sole and undivided affection. From that moment I have dwelt under the protection of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,--dwelt in the strictest privacy--happy in the possession of his love--a love which, as well as my own, has known no diminution with the lapse of years. To one of your generous soul--of your enlightened mind, my position may not appear so degrading--so humiliating, as it would to one incapable of distinguishing between the heart’s irresistible affection and a mere sensual depravity. Pardon me, my lord, for having thus obtruded this slight, and, I fear, rambling sketch, upon your notice: but I could not endure the conviction that I must appear in your eyes to be nothing more nor less than the pensioned mistress of your friend. The length of time that his love for me has endured, may be alone sufficient to persuade you that I am not to be confounded amidst the common mass of female degradation and immorality.”

“Madam, I thank you for this explanation--and I comprehend all the delicacy and peculiarity of your position,” said Lord William Trevelyan, rising from his seat, the lady herself having set the example--for it now struck her that she had remained until a very late hour.

“You will pardon me, my lord,” she said, “for having thus occupied so much of your time. But I know you to be one of Sir Gilbert’s best friends--indeed, the one of whom he was principally accustomed to speak, and whom he loved and relied upon the most. May I hope that you will favour me with a communication, so soon as you shall have seen Mr. James Heathcote? Although, in virtue of my marriage, I bear a proud and a great name, yet for years and years have I been known only as Mrs. Sefton--and by that appellation must I be known to you.”

The lady then mentioned her address in Kentish Town; and, extending her hand to the young nobleman, renewed her thanks for the kindness which he had shown her.

He offered to escort her to her home: but this she declined with a firmness, at the same time in such delicate terms, as to convince him that she would neither compromise herself, nor allow him to be compromised by a courtesy which he could not well have refrained from proposing, although he might not have been well pleased to carry it into effect.

He promised to call upon her as soon as he had anything important to communicate; and Mrs. Sefton then took her departure, Trevelyan ringing the bell in order that the servant might attend her to the door, so that there should be nothing clandestine nor stealthy in the appearance of the visit.

When Trevelyan was once more alone, he threw himself in an arm-chair, and gave way to his reflections--for the evening’s adventure had, in all its details, furnished ample food for thought. In the first place, there was the strange--the unaccountable disappearance of Sir Gilbert Heathcote--a man to whom the young patrician was much attached, and whose friendship he valued highly. Then, in spite of the remonstrances which he had addressed to Mrs. Sefton, he found suspicions existing in his mind relative to James Heathcote--suspicions of a nature which he dared not attempt to define even in the secresy of his own soul; but which nevertheless every moment grew stronger, vague though they were. Next, he pondered upon the particulars of the slight autobiographical sketch the lady had given him; and he dwelt with a yet unsubdued surprise on the fact that his friend Sir Gilbert had maintained, for so long a time and entirely unsuspected, a connexion that fully accounted for his bachelor-life. Lastly, Trevelyan meditated upon the course which he must adopt to discover the baronet’s fate, unless he should speedily re-appear and relieve from their cruel suspense and uncertainty those who were interested in him.

The young nobleman felt not the slightest inclination to retire to rest, although it was now one o’clock in the morning. The adventures of the evening had excited and unsettled him;--but having pondered on the various topics above enumerated, his thoughts insensibly reverted to his beloved Agnes.

Suddenly his eyes caught the portfolio that he had left upon the table; and, opening it, he took forth the portrait of the Recluse of the Cottage. But, ah! why did he start?--what did he see?

Rising from his chair, he held the picture in such a manner that the light gave him a perfect view of it: and, sure enough--beyond all possibility of mistake--there was a mark upon the dress,--a spot, as if a drop of water--perhaps a tear--had fallen upon it.

What could this mean?--how could such an accident have happened?

Again and again he looked,--looked steadfastly--earnestly; and the longer he gazed, the more convinced did he become that his eyes did not deceive him--that he saw aright--and that the stain or the spot was there!

Yet he had not noticed it when, after Mrs. Mortimer’s departure, and previous to Mrs. Sefton’s arrival, he had so long and so ardently contemplated that portrait. No: the mark was not there then; or else he--the lover, devouring the entire portrait,--he, the artist, scrutinising with satisfaction every minute detail of his own drawing,--oh! yes--he could not have failed to observe the slightest speck--the least, least spot that marred the general effect of that pleasing delineation!

Was it possible, then, that Mrs. Sefton had inspected the portfolio? Yes--such a supposition was natural enough. She was left alone in that room for nearly two hours; and, in spite of her sorrow, the time must have seemed so irksome to her as to induce her to have recourse to any means to while it away, if not to divert her thoughts into a less melancholy channel.

Yes--yes: he had divined the truth now, no doubt! At least such was his idea;--and then the tear--oh! It was easily accounted for. She was overwhelmed with grief at the mysterious and alarming absence of the man whom she loved; and she was weeping while she turned over the contents of the portfolio.

“Well--it is no matter,” thought Trevelyan, as he arrived at these conclusions: “It would have been far worse had the tear fallen on the face of the portrait,--for I might labour for hours--nay, for days, without being enabled to catch and delineate so faithfully again that sweet expression of countenance which Agnes wears, and which I have succeeded in conveying to my paper. But the mark is upon the dress--and a single touch with the brush will repair the injury. Alas! poor woman,” he added, in his musings, and alluding to Mrs. Sefton, “you have indeed enough to weep for, if you have lost all you love on earth--and, even had you spoilt the portrait altogether, I would have forgiven you!”

Trevelyan now returned the drawing to the portfolio, which he conveyed to the little room adjoining; and then, retracing his way into the parlour, he approached the mantel-piece to take the letter which he had written to Agnes.

But he was astounded--stupified by the conviction which burst upon him that the letter was gone!

Gone!--it might have dropped upon the floor--on the rug--in the fender? No:--vainly did he search--uselessly did he pry into every nook and corner he could think of;--the letter had disappeared!

He rang the bell furiously.

“Did any one enter this room during my absence just now, and while that lady was here?” he demanded of the domestic, who responded to the summons.

“No, my lord,” was the answer.

“You are certain?” said Trevelyan, with interrogative emphasis.

“I am positive, my lord,” replied the man; then, after a pause, he observed, “I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred, my lord?”

“Yes--no--you may retire,” said the nobleman, abstractedly; and, when the domestic had left the room, he threw himself into a chair, overcome with amazement and grief at the mysterious circumstance that had occurred.

Could Mrs. Sefton have taken the letter? No: the idea was ridiculous. She was too much absorbed in her own sorrows to have leisure for the gratification of an idle and impertinent curiosity. Besides, was she a common thief?--for, let a lady be possessed with ever so prying a disposition, she would not carry her mania to such a point as to steal a letter--a sealed letter--unless she were absolutely dishonest and unprincipled. Surely this could not be the character of the woman whom he had seen in such deep affliction that evening,--a woman who was assuredly what she had represented herself to be, and whose appearance, manners, and language all forbade the idea that she was an abandoned wretch.

“No--I wrong her by entertaining such an injurious suspicion even for an instant!” thought Lord William, when those reflections had passed through his brain. “It is impossible that this afflicted lady can have taken my letter. Besides, had she done so, would she have waited until my return? And again, of what use--of what benefit could the letter be to her?”

He glanced around, and beheld several articles of value lying about in their accustomed places. He had gone out in such a hurry that he had left a purse containing gold upon the mantel--and, remembering the precise amount, he reckoned it and found it to be correct. Lying upon the table was a splendid gold seal, which he had used in closing the letter that was now missed:--in fine, there were numerous objects, either costly or curious, which an ill-disposed person might have self-appropriated, but all of which had been left untouched.

How, then, was it possible to suppose that Mrs. Sefton had purloined the letter?

Nevertheless, it had disappeared; and therefore some one must have taken it?--or else some accident must have happened whereby it was lost?

Trevelyan racked his brain to discover whether it was possible that he himself had removed it from the mantel after he had placed it there: but he felt assured that during the interval which elapsed between the writing of that letter and the arrival of Mrs. Sefton, he had not quitted the apartment.

The affair was most mysterious: nay--it was also alarming;--for how could he possibly account for the disappearance of a sealed letter? If it had indeed been taken by an ill-disposed person, the contents might be made known--perhaps to the prejudice of his suit with Agnes. But he was assured that no one had entered the room during his absence;--and he was so reluctant to fix the deed on Mrs. Sefton, and had so many reasons against such a supposition, that he became equally confident she was in no way connected with the strange occurrence.

At length he reasoned himself into the belief that he must have deposited the letter in some place which he could not recollect; and, as he had in the first instance made a rough draught, he resolved to write a fair copy all over again. This was soon accomplished; and, having sealed and addressed it, he took the new letter with him to his own bed-chamber, so that he might retain it in security until Mrs. Mortimer should call for it in the morning.

It was past two o’clock when Lord William retired to rest; but, though much fatigued, he could not immediately close his eyes in slumber. The affair of the letter haunted him--filled him with vague and undefined misgivings--and assumed an aspect the more mysterious, the longer he contemplated it. He endeavoured to persuade himself that the belief to which he had ere now temporarily lulled his mind was the real solution of the theory: but then would come the evidence of memory, proclaiming that he had placed the letter on the mantel in the parlour, and that he had not touched it afterwards.

In fine, he was bewildered amidst a variety of conflicting thoughts--and his brain grew wearied with the agitation which their jarring contention produced,--so that at length sleep stole upon him insensibly: but though it sealed his eyes in slumber, it did not protect him against the troubled dreams that visited his pillow.

At about nine o’clock in the morning he was awakened by the entrance of his valet, who came to inform him that Mrs. Mortimer had called for a letter which was to be in readiness for her.

Trevelyan started up and glanced anxiously towards the night-table, almost dreading lest that second billet should have disappeared as well as the first:--but it was there in safety--and he now desired his dependant to deliver it to Mrs. Mortimer.

CLXVII. THE LAWYER

Mr. James Heathcote, the attorney, was seated at a writing-table covered with papers, in his private office. He was wrapped in a loose dressing-gown, and his feet were thrust into large buff slippers. His grey hair was uncombed and his beard unshaven that morning; and his shirt was none of the cleanest. Indeed, his appearance denoted that, on awakening, he had risen hastily, thrown on a few clothes, and repaired straight to his office, where he immediately became absorbed in the study of certain documents in which he was deeply interested.

The countenance of this individual was by no means pleasing. A malignant light shone in his small, restless, dark eyes; and he had a habit, when vexed or irritated, of frowning--or rather contracting his brow to such a degree, that he brought them as it were to cover his very eye-lids: but, if pleased--especially when he had solved a difficult question or was struck by an idea that seemed particularly lucid or valuable--he would then elevate his brows to such a height that the movement displayed the whites all round his eyes, while the upper part of his forehead gathered into innumerable small wrinkles.

A superficial observer would have pronounced the expression of his pale features to be intellectual: but a more experienced phrenologist would be enabled to draw the proper distinction between an air of noble intelligence and one of profound cunning, shrewdness, and selfish watchfulness. These latter qualities were the real characteristics of James Heathcote: but with his clerks, and amongst the generality of his clients, he passed as a man of very fine intellect and great talents.

The room in which he was seated had what is usually called “a business-like air” about it. The grey drugget that covered the door would have sustained no harm from a vigorous application of a carpet-broom; and the window, which looked into a little yard at the back of the house, might have lost much of its dinginess if only cleaned once a week. But the panes appeared as if they had been purposely tinged a dirty yellow, so incrusted were they with the dust that had gathered upon them.

On one side of the room were rows of shelves containing a number of law-books, the relative ages of which were marked by the colour of the leather binding--there being a perfect ascending scale, from the bright buff, indicating the most recent purchase, to the deepest, dirtiest brown that characterised the long-standing and well-thumbed volume of remote date. Along the edges of these shelves were nailed long slips of dark-green serge--a meagre kind of drapery meant to protect the upper part of the volumes from the dust, and impart to the whole arrangement somewhat of the air of a regular book-case.

On another side of the room were rows of shelves much deeper and also much wider apart; and on these were huge japanned tin boxes, with names painted on them in yellow letters. To every box there was a little padlock; and the whole seemed to tell of title-deeds to vast estates--and mortgages--and bonds--and charges--and rent-rolls, contained in those sombre-looking repositories. But, alas! how few of the persons whose names were still recorded on the outside of those boxes, had any longer an interest in the deeds preserved within: how many had lodged their parchments in those usurious chests, never to recover them!

Over the mantel-piece was a portrait of Lord Eldon--a lawyer whom thousands and thousands were doomed to curse, but whom the “profession” still continues to cry up as the greatest of modern judges. Yes--for if clients complain of the law’s delays, the lawyers themselves rejoice; and he who is an execrable judge in respect to the former, is an admirable one in the eyes of the latter.

Stuck into the frame of that portrait was an infinite number of visitors’ cards, all covered with dust, as if that assemblage of bits of pasteboard were something sacred which the profane hand of a housemaid or charwoman dared not touch. On the mantel itself was an old time-piece, the mechanism of which was exposed; and how the wheels could move at all, clogged with dust as they were, must have appeared marvellous to any one who, entering that room, gave himself the trouble to devote a thought to the matter.

We have already stated that the table was covered with papers. Along that side opposite to the one at which the lawyer sate, were piles of those documents, all tied up in the usual fashion with tape that once was red, but which was now so faded that in many instances it was of a dirty white. They seemed to have been undisturbed for a long, long time; and perhaps were kept for show. Those papers that referred to matters actually pending, were placed more conveniently within the attorney’s reach, and were fresher in appearance, the tape also being of a livelier red. Three or four files, two feet long, and covered with letters densely packed one above another, lay upon the drugget; and near the lawyer’s feet was a waste-basket overflowing with letters crumpled up, and looking uncommonly like appeals for mercy and delay on the part of unfortunate debtors, but which had been tossed with cool contempt into that receptacle for all such useless applications!

It was now ten o’clock in the morning; and Mr. James Heathcote was, as we have represented, completely absorbed in the study of the documents that lay spread before him upon the table. A thin, yellow hand supported his head; and every now and then he ran his long fingers through his iron-grey hair, as if that action aided him in the solution of a difficult subject.

Presently a low and timid knock at the door fell on the lawyer’s ears; and he said “Come in” without raising his head or desisting from his occupation.

Thereupon a middle-aged man, dressed in a suit of rusty black--his office garb--made his appearance, holding in his hand a long thin book which was the diary of the business-proceedings of the establishment. This individual had a pale, sinister countenance, with brown hair combed sleekly down over his low forehead. He was, however, an important personage in many respects--being Mr. Heathcote’s head clerk, and exercising despotic sway over half-a-dozen subordinates in the front office. With them and towards poor clients or unfortunate debtors he was cold--stern--harsh--and inexorable; but in the presence of his employer he was cringing--mean--sycophantic--and spaniel-like.

Advancing slowly and with noiseless steps--or rather creeping up towards the table, he stood in a respectful attitude--no, with a servile demeanour and in deep silence until it should please his master to take notice of him.

“Well, Green--what have you to say to me this morning?” at length demanded Mr. Heathcote, raising his head and throwing himself back in his capacious arm-chair.

“Gregson the upholsterer, sir, cannot meet the third instalment due this day on his warrant-of-attorney for eight hundred pounds,” said Mr. Green, referring to the diary; “but he called just now and told me that if you would give him till next Monday----”

“Not an hour, Green,” interrupted Mr. Heathcote, imperiously. “Let execution issue. He has enough property to satisfy the greater portion--and, as his brother-in-law is his security, we shall slap at him without delay for the residue. He is a toiling, striving man, and will beat up amongst his friends to raise the necessary amount by the time we have run him up some twenty pounds’ costs. What is the next?”

“Sir Thomas Skeffington’s bill for five hundred pounds comes due to-day, sir,” continued the head clerk; “and he proposes to renew it.”

“Let me see?” mused Mr. Heathcote. “It was originally two hundred pounds that I lent this young spendthrift baronet; and he has already renewed six times. Well--let him give another bill--for five hundred and fifty, mind--don’t forget to tack on the fifty, Green. His uncle will pay the debt eventually--it is all safe. Go on.”

“Thompson, sir, the defendant in Jones’s case, has let judgment go by default,” continued Mr. Green: “he says that he would do anything rather than run up expenses; and he has been here this morning to beg and implore that time may be granted. His wife has just been confined, and his eldest child is at the point of death. The debt is a hundred and eleven pounds with costs--and he proposes to pay it at five pounds a week.”

“No such thing!” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote, almost savagely. “Let him go to prison! He will be writing imploring letters, and his father-in-law will call to make terms. Those letters and visits, Green, will be another six or seven pounds in my pocket: and then we will let him out on his warrant-of-attorney to pay the five pounds a-week. It is always better to send a man in his case to prison first, although you mean all the time to accede to his proposal in the long run. He is an industrious, enterprising fellow--and his father-in-law is a highly respectable man. So he will not knock up for this little affair. Go on.”

“Beale’s wife called last evening, sir,” resumed Mr. Green, “and says that her husband is lying in a sad state in the infirmary at Whitecross-street prison. She and her children are starving--and she begs you for the love of God to let her husband out. It is their only chance; and he will pay you when he can.”

“When he can!” exclaimed Mr. Heathcote, in bitter contempt. “And that will be never. I am surprised, Mr. Green, that you should have bothered me with such a trifle, instead of telling the woman at once that her husband may rot in gaol until he pays me every farthing.”

“I should not have thought of troubling you, sir, in the matter,” observed the clerk, in a tone of servile contrition; “only the woman did seem so very, very miserable--and she cried so bitterly--and she had a young child that looked half-famished in her arms----”

“And you pitied her, I suppose?” interrupted Mr. Heathcote, in a tone of cool irony. “You have been in my service for twelve years to some purpose.”

“Pray forgive me, sir: but--but--I happen to know that Beale’s wife and family are really starving,” said the clerk, whose heart was a trifle less hardened than that of his master.

“Let them starve!” rejoined the latter, with an air of brutal indifference. “Now, what have you next upon your list?”

“William Fox, the ironmonger, sir, has called a meeting of his creditors,” resumed Mr. Green, now regretting that he should have allowed himself to be carried away by a scintillation of humane feeling so far as to merit a rebuke at Mr. Heathcote’s hands.

“Well--I know that,” observed the lawyer. “But I never attend meetings of creditors--I never accept compositions, Mr. Green. But has the fellow been here? and what does he say?”

“It appears, sir, that he laid a full and complete account of his affairs before his creditors,” continued the clerk; “and that they were well satisfied with the statement. He showed them that his embarrassments arose from no fault of his own, but simply from the failure of a large house in Birmingham.”

“And what did he offer?” demanded Mr. Heathcote.

“He asked for two years to pay off all his liabilities,” was the answer. “He did not propose a composition, but will settle everything in full. His brother has offered to become security for him.”

“Well, he must pay me at once--within twenty-four hours--or I shall sign judgment, Green,” exclaimed the lawyer. “Or stop--it will be better to sign judgment at once, and issue execution. I shall then, get my money directly--and his other creditors may wait the two years. If he calls again to-day, tell him that I am out--and mind and have a seizure in his house by the evening.”

“It shall be done, sir,” said the head clerk: then, again referring to the diary, he proceeded thus:--“You remember that affair of Williamson, sir? He called and left seventy-two pounds the other evening to take up his bill, which had been sent back; and as you were out at the time, he could not have the bill delivered over to him. I offered him a receipt for the money: but he left it without taking any acknowledgment--saying, ‘Oh! I can trust to your honour,’--or words to that effect. Well, sir, he has called two or three times since for the bill----”

“Do the other clerks know that he paid the money?” demanded Mr. Heathcote, fixing his keen eyes significantly upon Green.

“No, sir,” was the answer, accompanied by a look of intelligence showing that the man comprehended his master’s meaning. “They were all gone--and I was just on the point of leaving likewise when Williamson called.”

“Then issue a writ this very day for the recovery of the amount,” said the lawyer. “Of course, Green, you will know nothing at all about having received the money from him?”

“Of course not, sir,” replied the clerk.

“And should he go to trial, you will swear that he never paid you?” continued the lawyer, speaking with the imperious authority of a man who knew that the other was in his power.

“It would not be the first time, sir, that I have perjured----”

“Well--well!” cried Mr. Heathcote, hastily; for though he did not mind suborning his clerk to commit a crime, yet he did not like to have the deed designated in plain terms and exhibited to his eyes in all its dreadful nakedness and reality. “Let this be done, Green: and take a guinea for yourself--charging it in the office-expenses of the week. You are a faithful servant--and I am pleased with you,” he added, in a patronising manner.

“I am truly grateful, sir, for your kindness and for your good opinion,” said the clerk, with a low bow: but at the same time he was compelled to stifle the sigh that rose to his very lips at the idea of being so dependent upon his master, and so enthralled by circumstances as to be compelled to submit to be made the tool--the base instrument--the despicable agent of that master’s hidden villany.

“Have you anything more in the diary?” demanded Mr. Heathcote.

“Nothing, sir,” responded the clerk: “unless it be that the two doctors are to call to-day for the second halves of the reward promised them for signing the certificate.”

“Good! pay them each immediately, the affair having been attended with complete success,” said the lawyer: “and indeed, you may give them each five guineas beyond the sum originally promised.”

“It shall be done, sir,” returned Mr. Green. “Have you any farther commands?”

“I am at a loss how to proceed with respect to that woman,” said Mr. Heathcote, his brows lowering in token of vexation, while at the same time he ran his skinny fingers through his wiry hair.

“You mean Mrs. Sefton, sir?” said the clerk.

“Mrs. Sefton--as she calls herself,” observed Mr. Heathcote, with a grim smile. “Ah! little thought Gilbert,” he continued in a musing, but also triumphant tone, “that for years past I have known all and everything connected with him! Little did he imagine that his liaison--his amour with that lady was no secret to me, secure and safe as he deemed it to be from all the world! But what am I do with regard to her, Green?” he demanded, as he abruptly turned towards the clerk, who stood like a menial in his presence.

“Your wisdom, sir, can doubtless suggest some plan,” was the sycophantic reply. “Do you imagine that she is likely to be dangerous?”

“She loves my brother, Green,” answered the lawyer: “she entertains for him that passion which never has warmed my breast--and never shall,” he continued, in a contemptuous tone. “Oh! how I hate the very name of love! It is a sickly sentimentalism--a maudlin feeling, which is derogatory to the character of a man of the world, but which makes a woman dangerous indeed, when the object of her passion is outraged or wronged. Yes, Green--I do fear this Mrs. Sefton, as we will call her--since thus she chooses to denominate herself: I do consider her to be dangerous--and I know that she is of an intrepid, resolute character. She will leave no stone unturned to have what she will call justice done towards my brother; and by some means must I take from her the power of doing me an injury.”

“And those means, sir?” asked the clerk, timidly.

“I have thought of many plans, Green,” replied Mr. Heathcote: “but not one appears to be sufficiently decisive to meet the exigencies of the case. Could I only get her out of the country, or else have her locked up in some place of security, for a few weeks, I should in that interval have all my schemes so effectually carried out, as to be able to defy not only that woman, but likewise all the world.”

“And is it so very difficult, sir, to encompass one or the other of the two aims you have mentioned?” inquired Green.

“On what pretence can I imprison her?” demanded Mr. Heathcote, impatiently. “But I might be able to induce her to quit the country,” he added, in a more measured tone, and with a steadfast look at his clerk--a look which seemed to say, “Can I trust you?”

“Is there any way, sir, wherein my humble services will avail?” asked the man, thoroughly understanding the intent of that look.

“Yes--on you must I rely in this matter,” said the lawyer, after a few minutes’ deep cogitation. “Mr. Green,” continued Heathcote, again fixing on him his small, malignant, soul-reading eyes, “you will excuse me for a moment if I recall the past to your recollection----”

“But why, sir--why!” exclaimed the clerk, his pale face suddenly becoming paler still and his limbs trembling convulsively.

“Because I choose,” returned his master, brutally: “because it suits my present purpose to remind you how much you are in my power.”

The wretched clerk moaned audibly, but uttered not another word.

“Twelve years ago, Mr. Green,” resumed Heathcote, with deep emphasis and in a measured tone, as if he were determined that not a syllable which he intended to say should be lost on the unhappy man who was thus undergoing a painful--agonising infliction,--“twelve years ago, Mr. Green, you were an attorney in practice for yourself. An accident, the particulars of which it is not necessary for me to recite, made me acquainted with a fact which placed you entirely at my mercy. You and a gentleman named Clarence Villiers had been left the joint guardians of a boy then a little more than eight years old; and a thousand pounds were invested in the funds in the name of yourself and the said Clarence Villiers. It had been agreed that you should be the acting trustee. You wanted money--you forged the name of Clarence Villiers to the necessary deed--and you sold out the thousand pounds.”

The miserable clerk groaned again, more audibly than before: but his master heeded not the intense agony his words inflicted.

“Yes--you sold out the money, and appropriated it to your purposes,” continued the remorseless attorney. “The fact came to my knowledge,--and I offered to save you, on condition that you should serve me--that you should devote yourself to me, body and soul--that you should see only with my eyes, hear only with my ears, and use your hands and your intellectual powers as I directed. I required a person of this description: I was looking out for such an one at the moment when accident thus placed you in my power. We soon came to terms. You gave up a business that was not worth retaining--and you became my head clerk. I have paid you two guineas a week with the most scrupulous regularity--and I have often made you little presents, as even this very morning have I done. But what more have I been generous enough to do for you? Why--I have regularly paid the interest of the thousand pounds for you, as if it were still in the Bank of England; and your ward suspects not that his capital is gone. Neither does your co-trustee Clarence Villiers suspect it, Mr. Green,” added Heathcote, emphatically. “But in six weeks’ time, the youth will have completed his twenty-first year; and he will apply to Mr. Villiers and yourself for his thousand pounds. Mr. Villiers will ask to accompany you to the Bank to make over the money in due form--for Mr. Villiers is an honourable man. But the money will not be there--unless I replace it for you, and thus save you from transportation for life!”

“And you have promised that you will replace it, kind sir--you have undertaken to save me from exposure, degradation, and punishment!” exclaimed the clerk, his voice and manner becoming almost wild in the earnestness of their appeal.

“Yes--and I will keep my word, Green,” responded Heathcote. “If I have now recapitulated circumstances which are necessarily so indelibly stamped upon your memory, it was merely to convince you that I have it in my power to save you from a terrible fate--or to crush you as I would a viper beneath my heel. We shall not be the worse friends because we understand our relative positions; and mark me--never, never would I place myself in the power of a man unless he were ten thousand times more entangled in my meshes than I could possibly be in his.”

“Surely--surely, sir, you do not suspect my fidelity?” said the clerk, the workings of whose pale countenance were dreadful to behold; “surely you do not think that I should be ungrateful or mad enough to breathe a word to your prejudice? If you have done much for me, sir, I have served you faithfully; and this I can assert without fear of contradiction. I am ever at your disposal--ever in readiness to obey your commands, without questioning their propriety.”

“All this I know, my friend,” said Heathcote, his brows now elevating themselves with triumph; for he saw that the trembling wretch before him was docile, pliant, and obedient as a deaf and dumb slave following the signals made by an oriental despot: “all this I know,” repeated the lawyer;--“but there is no harm in occasionally setting forth the grounds on which our connexion is based. This being accomplished in the present instance, we may at once revert to the business that we have now in hand.”

“Relative to Mrs. Sefton, sir?” remarked Green, anxious to convince his master that he was mindful of the grave and important interests now involved in connexion with that lady’s name.

“Yes--relative to Mrs. Sefton,” said Heathcote. “I have already observed that there are only two ways of dealing with her: either to lock her up in a place of security for a time, or to get her out of the country. The latter alternative must be adopted; and it is for you to play a part which, if ingeniously enacted, cannot fail of success.”

Mr. Green placed himself in an attitude of deep attention--for all this while, as the reader will observe, he had remained standing, his master never desiring him to be seated, however long their conference might last.

“The impatience of this Mrs. Sefton is doubtless growing intolerable,” continued the lawyer: “a week has now passed since Sir Gilbert disappeared--and she will speedily initiate active measures to discover what has become of him. There is not therefore another moment to lose;--and her own affection shall be made the means of which we will avail ourselves in order to baffle and defeat her. Do you repair at once to Kentish Town and seek an interview with her. She does not know you--she never saw you: she will suspect nothing--but believe everything. You will tell her that you have just arrived from Liverpool--that you are an intimate friend of Sir Gilbert--and that he has embarked for America, in consequence of serious pecuniary embarrassments. You must assure her that those embarrassments came on him so suddenly, menacing his person with arrest--and that he was so bewildered and excited by the danger and disgrace which thus threatened him, that he fled without having time to communicate even with her. You will then go on to say that he sent you up to London to break these news to her--to supply her with money--and to implore her to hasten after Sir Gilbert, whom she will join at New York. All this must you tell her;--and if you play your part properly, it is, as I have already observed, certain to experience success.”

“You may rely upon me, sir,” said the clerk.

“All your presence of mind--all your readiness of invention--all your impudence, will be requisite in the matter,” continued Heathcote: “for Mrs. Sefton is an intelligent woman--and the least hesitation in giving a reply to any of her questions, will assuredly awaken her suspicions, and spoil all. But if you be wary and cautious, you must come off triumphant. Believing that her connexion with Sir Gilbert is a profound secret, she will at once receive you as a friend of her lover’s, from the mere fact of your knowledge of their liaison: because she will suppose that you could not have become aware of it, unless he had in reality made you his confident. Then, again, the circumstance of your being the bearer of fifty guineas--which I will presently give you--as the means to defray the expenses of her voyage to New York, will confirm all you have stated and give a complete colouring to all your representations. Do you thoroughly understand me, Green?--and do you consider yourself competent to undertake this mission?--for I can assure you that it is of the highest importance for me to remove that dangerous woman from England for a few weeks.”

“I do not hesitate to charge myself with the enterprise, sir,” said Green, meekly,--“delicate though its management may be;--and, should it fail, it will be through no fault on my part.”

“Then it will not fail, sir!” cried Mr. Heathcote, emphatically. “And now I will give you the money necessary for your purpose--and you must accompany the lady to Liverpool, remember. If a packet be not about to start immediately, then lodge her at an hotel, alleging that you are an unmarried man as an apology for not inviting her to stay at your own house until her departure. You can put up at another hotel. But all these minor details I leave to your judgment and discretion.”

Mr. Heathcote now placed a quantity of notes and some gold in the hands of his clerk, who forthwith took leave of his wily master: ere he departed, however, he stopped in the outer office to issue instructions relative to the various matters entered in the diary. At length he was ready to issue forth on the mission entrusted to him; but at that moment a cab stopped at the door, and a tall, handsome, well-dressed gentleman alighted.

Entering the clerk’s office, the visitor inquired if Mr. Heathcote was at home.

“What name shall I say, sir?” asked Green.

“That is of no consequence,” was the hasty reply: “my business is of great importance.”

“Walk in, then, if you please, sir,” said Green: and, having shown the visitor into the lawyer’s private apartment, the head clerk was at length enabled to hurry away to his own lodgings, in order to make some change in his toilette ere he proceeded to Kentish Town.

CLXVIII. THE NOBLEMAN AND THE LAWYER

On entering into the presence of Mr. Heathcote, the handsome visitor tendered his card; and the moment the lawyer cast his eyes upon it, a cloud passed hastily over his countenance--for he knew that Lord William Trevelyan, whose name appeared on that card, was an intimate friend of Sir Gilbert. He however composed himself in an instant, and, pointing to a chair, said, “Be seated, my lord.”

The young nobleman accepted the invitation, and then observed, “I have to apologise for intruding myself upon you----”

“Not if you come on matters of business, my lord,” interrupted the lawyer, in a tone which was intended to imply that his time was nevertheless very precious.

“I fear that you will scarcely consider my visit to be connected with business in the sense you would have me infer,” said Trevelyan, courteously: “at the same time, you will give me credit for the best intentions----”

“Pray, my lord, come to the point,” exclaimed Heathcote, impatiently. “I have a vast amount of work upon my hands--several appointments to keep--and my toilette not yet performed.”

“In one word, sir,” said Trevelyan, “may I inquire if you have received any tidings concerning your brother, who is a dear and valued friend of mine?”

“I have heard that my brother is absent, my lord,” answered Heathcote, coldly: “but I have no control over his movements--and he is not in the habit of consulting me respecting his actions.”

“At the same time, sir----”

“Pardon me, my lord: I have answered you--and I have not a moment to spare.”

“But as your brother’s friend, sir--his intimate friend----”

“I do not know you, my lord: neither do I trouble myself with my brother’s friendships.”

These last words were uttered so rudely--almost brutally, that the young nobleman’s countenance became the colour of scarlet, and he felt that were the lawyer a man less advanced in years, he would have knocked him down for his insolence.

“I am aware, sir,” he said, subduing his indignation as well as he was able, “that I have no claim upon your courtesy, beyond that which social conventions establish: but I regret to find that you should think it necessary to treat with such extreme incivility a person who has never offended you.”

“Then wherefore does your lordship force yourself into my presence, and persist in remaining here, when I tell you that I am occupied with serious matters?” demanded the lawyer, rising from his seat, while his brows were bent in such a way as to render his countenance particularly displeasing and sinister at that moment.

“Serious matters, indeed!” ejaculated Lord William, also rising; “is it not a serious matter that your brother--your own brother--has suddenly disappeared----”

“I have already told your lordship that I have no control over the actions of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,” said the lawyer; “and I am not to be forced into a discussion on any subject with one who is a complete stranger to me.”

“I repeat, sir, that I am your brother’s intimate friend,” cried the young patrician, indignantly.

“But I repeat, on my side, that you are no friend of mine--nor likely to be,” responded Heathcote. “Will your lordship, therefore, leave me to those pursuits which have better claims upon my time and attention?”

“Better claims! And yet you must surely have some of the ordinary feelings of human nature,” urged the nobleman, in a tone of mingled remonstrance and earnest appeal. “One word more, if you please, sir,” he continued, seeing that Heathcote was again about to interrupt him: “this matter is becoming serious! For eight days has your brother been missed from his place of abode and from the circle of his friends: an investigation into so mysterious an occurrence must necessarily take place--and without delay, too. What will the world think of you, sir--you, the nearest living relative of one who may perhaps be no more--if you refuse your co-operation in this endeavour to ascertain what has become of him? I will even go farther, sir, and declare that a certain degree of odium will attach itself to you----”

“Young man, by what right do you thus insult me?” demanded the lawyer, completely unabashed, and measuring Lord William Trevelyan from head to foot with his keen, searching eyes. “Do you for a single instant dare to assert that if my brother should have met with foul play--as your words just now implied such a suspicion,--do you dare to assert, I ask, that the world would couple the slightest imputation with my good name? Though not of an aristocratic rank, my social position is an honourable one; and such as it is, my own talents--my own energies--my own hard toils, have made it. But because I can see nothing extraordinary in the absence of a man who has no domestic ties to bind him to one place, and who, acting upon a sudden caprice or fancy, may choose to depart from the metropolis, perhaps,--because I behold nothing remarkable in all this, am I to be reproached, vituperated, and even insulted by you, who adopt another view of the matter? Why, my lord, you are far more intimate with Sir Gilbert Heathcote than I, even though he is my brother;--and what would you say, were I to repair to your house--force myself into your presence--refuse to leave when solicited--and actually level the most injurious language, amounting almost to positive imputations, at your head? I appeal to your good sense, if you possess any, to consider the impropriety of your conduct here this morning, and to take your departure at once, before you irritate me more deeply than you have already done.”

“I have listened, sir, with respectful attention to all you have said,” returned Lord William Trevelyan; “and I declare emphatically that I am not satisfied with your reasoning. I impute nothing to you--because I know not what suspicions to entertain in the case. I frankly confess that I am bewildered, not only by the fact of my friend’s unaccountable disappearance, but also by the manner in which you treat that circumstance. You declare that you cannot bring yourself to look seriously on this disappearance: surely it ought to alarm you, when I, who am so well acquainted with your brother, solemnly aver that I have particular reasons for knowing that he would not leave the metropolis in obedience to any sudden fancy or whim, without previously making a communication in a certain quarter.”

“To you, I presume?” said Heathcote, fixing his eyes searchingly upon the patrician.

“No--not to myself,” was the reply: “but to another.”

“And that other?” observed the lawyer interrogatively: for he now began to fear that Trevelyan alluded to Mrs. Sefton, in which case he might repair straight to her abode after quitting that office--he might there meet the clerk whom he had seen on his arrival just now--and he might mar the entire scheme that had been concocted for the purpose of inducing the lady to leave England.

“Unless you yourself are acquainted with that other person to whom I alluded--or at least have some knowledge to whom I could so allude--I am not at liberty to make any revelations,” observed Lord William.

“Oh! this is admirable!” ejaculated the lawyer, reseating himself and appearing no longer in a hurry to break off the conference: for he now perceived the necessity of detaining the nobleman as long as possible, so as to afford Green ample time to carry the deeply-concocted scheme into effect.

“You are pleased to be jocular at something, sir,” said Trevelyan, biting his lip with vexation at an insolence which he could not chastise: and leaning against the mantel-piece, he surveyed the attorney with mingled anger and aversion.

“Yes--I am jocular,” exclaimed the latter; “and I again declare that your conduct is admirable! You come to me to aid you in investigating what you are pleased to denominate a most mysterious occurrence; and, by way of inducing me thus to co-operate, you yourself start fresh mysteries, and make enigmatic allusions to unintelligible matters, concerning which you refuse to enter into any explanations.”

“There may be certain circumstances, sir, which a man of honour dares not reveal,” said Lord William, sternly; “and such is the case in the present instance.”

“You have therefore a positive proof that Sir Gilbert’s friends were more in his confidence than his own brother,” replied the lawyer, in a sarcastic tone; “and this is tantamount to what I told you just now.”

“Yes, sir--but the circumstances to which I allude have no reference to the mysterious disappearance of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,” rejoined Trevelyan; “nor do they in any way relieve you from your responsibility as a brother.”

“But, since you yourself are acquainted with some mysterious and unmentionable circumstances connected with my brother,” said the lawyer, still in a tone of bitter sarcasm, “I have much more reason to accuse you of possessing a clue to the causes of his disappearance, than you have to level the same charge at me. Now, from your words--for I am a man of the world, my lord--I naturally infer that the other person to whom you so emphatically alluded, must be a lady----”

“I did not say so, sir--I gave you no reason for entertaining such an opinion,” exclaimed Trevelyan fearful of now compromising a matter of great delicacy.

“But I choose to think so,” said the lawyer, elevating his brows to an extraordinary degree, while a malignant light gleamed in his restless eyes: “and is it strange--is it unusual in the world, for a man to absent himself suddenly and even mysteriously, in order to break off a connexion of which he is wearied, and which no longer has any charms for him?”

“One word, sir,” interjected Trevelyan, annoyed with himself for having made any allusion to his friend’s connexion with Mrs. Sefton: “your brother has undertaken no sudden journey--of that I am well assured. Would he quit his residence without leaving even a message behind him? Would he depart without even so much as a change of raiment--without the necessaries of the toilette?”

“Pooh! pooh!” ejaculated the lawyer, now throwing an expression of sovereign contempt into his tone. “A man with money can purchase a carpetbag or a portmanteau at the first town he stops at, and can stock it well, too, with linen and hairbrushes for a few shillings. Really, my lord, you compel me to treat you as an inexperienced child, who, having got some wild or romantic notion into his head, is determined to maintain it by any argument, no matter how preposterous or far-fetched.”

Trevelyan bit his lip again: for he saw that the lawyer had really the advantage of him now; and he more than ever blamed his own indiscretion in having alluded to the affair of Mrs. Sefton.

“Come, my lord, be reasonable,” proceeded Heathcote, in a conciliatory tone; “and I will pardon you the rudeness--or I will rather call it the brusquerie, of your first proceedings with regard to me. You cannot deny that there is a lady in the case: I am far-sighted enough to have made that discovery. Well, my brother is tired of her, or has quarrelled with her--or something of that sort; and he has therefore taken a sudden trip, heaven only knows where. Do you really imagine that if I had any serious fears, I would refuse to co-operate with you in instituting the necessary inquiries? Depend upon it, Sir Gilbert will re-appear again shortly amongst his friends; and he would not be over-well pleased if he found on his return, or if the newspapers wafted to him the fact, that a terrible hubbub had taken place in consequence of his sudden departure. I am a much older man than you, my lord,--and I look at these matters more calmly--more deliberately.”

Trevelyan knew not how to reply to these observations. Though they did not dissipate the alarm which he experienced at the absence of Sir Gilbert, yet he began to think that the lawyer was really sincere in giving utterance to them. He, on one side, was disposed to view the affair seriously: Heathcote, on the other, put his own interpretation on it;--and, in the same way that Trevelyan could not resist the impressions made upon himself, he felt bound to allow the merit of equal conscientiousness on the part of the attorney.

At all events, there was no utility in protracting the discourse; and the young nobleman accordingly resolved to take his leave, suspending for the present any opinion relative to the conduct of Mr. James Heathcote.

“I am sorry, sir,” said he, “that I should have intruded so long upon your valuable time: I am likewise sorry if, at the commencement of our interview, I should have been hurried by the excitement of my feelings into anything uncourteous or rude.”

“Now that you speak in the manner that best becomes a nobleman and a gentleman,” observed Heathcote, adopting the part of one who has something to forgive and overlook, “I am most anxious to welcome you as my brother’s friend. Will you step up into the drawing-room, and honour my humble abode so far as to partake of such refreshment as at the moment I can offer you?”

This proposal was only made with a view to gain as much time as possible: for the lawyer in his heart had cordially hated the young nobleman from the instant that he had read his name upon the card.

“I return you my best thanks, sir,” said Trevelyan; “but I am compelled to decline your hospitality on the present occasion.”

Thus speaking, the young nobleman bowed and retired; and the moment the door closed behind him, the lawyer’s countenance assumed an expression of such malignant triumph, that it seemed as if he were suddenly animated with the spirit of a fiend.

“Green has got her off by this time--there can be no doubt of that,” he muttered to himself, as he rubbed his mummy-like hands gleefully together. “The woman loves my brother--and she will start away directly. Even her vanity will not induce her to tarry to pack up all her things, unless they are ready to hand; for the love of a woman who is sincere in her passion, rises superior to every other consideration. Oh! I know the human heart well; I know all its intricacies--its ins and its outs--the ravellings and unravellings of its smallest, most delicate fibres! It has been my business to study my fellow-creatures, in order that I might make them my instruments--my tools--my slaves. And I have succeeded!” he continued, with a chuckling laugh, while his brows were elevated with joy. “Otherwise I should not be the rich man that I am now. But if my wealth be already great--it must be greater. I must possess countless treasures--riches beyond computation; and until I have gained them I shall not be satisfied--neither shall I cease from toiling. That young aristocratic fool who was with me ere now--he affected to bully me, did he? I got the better of him. He affected to reason with me: I beat him with pure sophism,--and he has gone away entertaining a better opinion of me than when he first entered my presence. But I must examine these abstracts thoroughly,” he added, still in a muttering tone, as he bent his eyes upon the documents which he had been studying; “I must note every point in these copies of the titles by virtue of which my brother holds his estates--for the management of these estates is already as good as in my own hands: and who knows--who knows how soon they may be mine altogether--yes--lands, messuages, tenements--aye, baronetcy and all?”

And as these last thoughts passed through his brain,--for he had not dared to give audible utterance to them,--there came such a diabolical expression--an expression of dark menace strangely mingled with the confidence of approaching triumph--over his countenance, that had any one been by at the time, the beholder must have dreaded lest that terrible man were about to throw off the mask of humanity and reveal himself in all the horrors of a demoniac nature.

We must however take leave of him for the present, and return to one whose generous and noble character forms such a striking contrast with this bad, designing man.

CLXIX. A SCENE

Lord William entered his cab, and drove rapidly away towards Kentish Town.

It was mid-day when he reached the abode of Mrs. Sefton--for his interview with the attorney had been a very long one: but at length his equipage stopped at the gate of a beautiful little villa standing in the midst of a garden well laid out, and having iron railings along the side adjoining the main-road.

Leaping from the vehicle, Lord William opened the gate and hastened up to the front door, which was immediately opened to his summons, by a little page in a plain but neat livery.

To his inquiry whether Mrs. Sefton were at home, an answer in the affirmative was given--the boy however adding that his mistress was engaged at the moment.

Scarcely was the response thus conveyed, when the lady herself, having caught the sound of the young patrician’s voice, came forth from a parlour opening from the hall; and, tendering him her hand, she said, “Oh! I am so glad you are come, my lord--for I am cruelly bewildered how to act!”

“Has anything new transpired, madam?” asked Trevelyan, unable to gather anything decisive from the expression of her countenance, which seemed to denote mingled hope and uncertainty--a gleam of satisfaction shining from amidst dark clouds of suspense.

“Come with me, my lord,” she said; “and you will advise me how to act.”

Thus speaking, she led the way into the parlour, followed by Trevelyan.

A man rose from a chair on his entrance; and the sinister countenance of that individual appeared to be not altogether unfamiliar to the young patrician, who could not however conjecture at the moment where he had seen or met that person before.

The individual himself seemed to recognise the nobleman--or at least to be troubled by his presence: but, almost immediately recovering his self-possession, he bowed low and resumed his seat.

“This gentleman, my lord,” said Mrs. Sefton, “is a Mr. Green of Liverpool,--and he has brought me strange--nay, the strangest tidings relative to Sir Gilbert.”

“And what may those tidings be, madam?” asked Trevelyan, addressing his words to the lady, but keeping his eyes fixed suspiciously on Mr. Green all the time.

“Remember, madam, that all I have said has been in the strictest confidence!” exclaimed the latter hastily, and with a manner which only tended to increase the young nobleman’s suspicions.

“But Lord William Trevelyan is an intimate--a very intimate friend of Sir Gilbert,” said Mrs. Sefton.

“It matters not, madam,” observed Mr. Green: “my instructions were positive----”

“It matters greatly, however, sir,” interrupted the lady. “Your tale appeared to me strange and inconsistent from the very first--though Heaven knows what motive you can have in deceiving me so cruelly, if deceit it be: but now my suspicions are painfully increased----”

“Madam, you know not what you are saying,” exclaimed Green: “you are insulting me, after all the trouble I have taken in this matter. But have your own way--my presence is no longer necessary here.”

And, rising from his seat, he was moving towards the door, when a light suddenly broke in upon Trevelyan’s mind--and it flashed to his recollection that he had encountered this individual that very forenoon in the office of Mr. James Heathcote, the attorney.

“Stop, sir!” he cried, seizing the clerk by the collar of his coat, and forcibly detaining him: “we have met before--I know you now! Scarcely two hours have elapsed since you conducted me into the presence of Mr. Heathcote, who is doubtless your master.”

“Mr. Heathcote!” ejaculated Mrs. Sefton, a deadly pallor covering her countenance. “Ah! then my suspicions are to be confirmed--and he is persecuting me now!”

“Be seated, sir,” said Trevelyan, pushing the discomfited clerk back into the chair which he had so recently left. “And now, madam,” he continued, turning towards the lady, “will you have the kindness to explain to me all that this man has told you--the object of his visit, in fine?”

“Oh! my lord, what hideous treachery is at work!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, sinking upon a sofa, almost overcome by the varied emotions that agitated in her bosom. “This man introduced himself to me as Mr. Green of Liverpool, and as having brought me tidings of Sir Gilbert. He represented that Sir Gilbert, seized with a sudden terror through pecuniary difficulties, had fled to America----”

“’Tis false! false as ever diabolical deceit could be!” cried Trevelyan, emphatically. “I will stake my existence that so far from being in any financial embarrassment, Sir Gilbert Heathcote owes not a farthing in the world, and does not live even up to his income.”

“Your lordship takes too much upon yourself in making such random statements,” said Green: “since I am well assured of the exact truth of the story I have told the lady.”

“This is a singular way for a man to express himself, if he be an actual emissary from Sir Gilbert,” observed Trevelyan. “You are well assured of the exact truth of your story--are you? Then you would have us infer that you had received it second-hand. But pray continue, madam:--what else did this fellow tell you? We shall unmask him altogether presently--and perhaps his next move will be from hence to the presence of a magistrate.”

Mr. Green endeavoured to assume as much composure as he could possibly call to his aid: but he did not at all admire the aspect that things were taking--nor did he feel comfortable under the threat so plainly held out.

“Oh! my lord, what a snare has been spread for me!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, clasping her hands together in profound thankfulness that she had escaped the danger. “This bad man who now trembles in your presence, would have induced me to accompany him with the least possible delay to Liverpool,--thence to embark by myself in order to rejoin Sir Gilbert in New York. He has even about his person the funds to bear the expenses of my voyage:--and he would at once have hurried me away to Liverpool,--only, in the first place, a vague suspicion was excited in my mind,--and, secondly, I had particular--oh! very particular reasons for remaining in London at least a few hours longer----”

Mrs. Sefton suddenly checked herself: she was being hurried away by her excited feelings into allusions or positive revelations, on the verge of which she thus stopped short. Trevelyan did not, however, comprehend the motive of the abrupt pause which she made, but attributed it to the influence of her over-wrought emotions.

“Mr. Green--or whatever your real name may be,” exclaimed the nobleman, turning round upon the clerk, “what explanation can you give, sir, in respect to all this?”

“I know not by what right you demand any explanation, my lord,” said the man, determined to put as good a face upon the matter as possible.

“I will tell you by what right,” returned the patrician: “by the right which every man has to protect and defend a lady against the machinations of her enemies--by the right that every honest member of society has to unmask a villain----”

“Do you allude to me, my lord?” demanded Green, rising from his seat.

“I do, sir,” replied Trevelyan. “You are a villain, because you have lent yourself to an infamous trick. You cannot have been imposed upon--inasmuch as you have told many deliberate and wilful falsehoods. You pretend to have arrived straight from Liverpool, whereas you are undoubtedly a clerk in the office of Mr. James Heathcote--for you enacted the part of a clerk when I called there ere now. You would have induced this lady to quit London and repair to a foreign country, where nothing but disappointment--perhaps beggary--would have awaited her; and this act is so vile--so atrocious--so horribly base, that I can scarcely control my feelings--I can scarcely restrain my patience, while I thus upbraid you with your infamy. Were you a younger man, sir----”

But the nobleman stopped short, ashamed of wasting a menace upon one so unworthy of the honest ire of a generous soul.

“Now that your lordship has lavished all your abuse upon me, perhaps I may be permitted to depart,” said Green, with much apparent coolness, though in reality he was terribly alarmed.

“Not until you have explained the meaning of this atrocious proceeding in which you have borne so prominent a part,” replied Lord William. “Make up your mind to answer my questions in a way that shall carry truth upon the face of your words--or prepare to give an account of your conduct to the proper authority.”

“What--what would you have me do, my lord?” asked the miserable wretch, now unable to conceal his terror--unable also to subdue the trembling of his limbs.

“Has foul play been adopted with regard to Sir Gilbert Heathcote?” demanded Lord William, speaking in a measured tone, and fixing his eyes keenly upon the clerk.

“Good God! Does your lordship suspect that he is murdered?” exclaimed Green, horrified at the bare idea. “No--no: thank Heaven--it is not so bad as that!”

“Thank Heaven also!” murmured Mrs. Sefton, her heart experiencing a relief so great and sudden--for the man was evidently speaking the truth--that she felt as if she were about to faint through excessive joy.

“I scarcely apprehended such a frightful alternative as my words may have seemed to imply,” said Trevelyan. “But delay not, man--speak--tell me--tell this afflicted lady also--where is Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”

“My lord, I dare not----”

“Hesitate not another moment, sir,” cried the nobleman, grasping the clerk violently by the collar of his coat: “hesitate not, I say--or I will drag you into the presence of the magistrate. Tell me--where is my friend?--where is Sir Gilbert?”

“My lord--my lord”--stammered the affrighted wretch, his countenance rendered hideous by its workings.

“Speak--sir--I command you!” exclaimed Trevelyan, in a tone of terrible excitement. “Trifle not with me--or I shall do you a mischief. Where--where, I ask for the last time, is Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”

“In----But you will kill me, my lord----”

“Speak, villain! Where is he?” demanded the infuriate noble.

“In a mad-house!” was the reply, absolutely wrung by terror from the clerk.

A piercing scream burst from the lips of Mrs. Sefton--and in another moment she fell heavily upon the carpet, with a dead sound as if it were a corpse that had rolled from the sofa.

Trevelyan--stupified by the astounding words that had fallen upon his ear--let go his hold on the wretched clerk, on whom he stood gazing for a few moments as if he had become petrified--turned into a statue--paralysed--motionless. But suddenly he seemed to be struck with the conviction that Mrs. Sefton needed his assistance; and, forgetting in the agitation and excitement of his feelings to keep a watch upon the clerk, he hastened to raise the prostrate lady from the floor.

He placed her upon the sofa, and sprinkled water (of which there happened to be a decanter full on the table) upon her countenance. In a few minutes she opened her eyes, and gazed wildly around her.

Trevelyan drew back a few paces so that the air might circulate freely about her--when, suddenly remembering the clerk, he looked hurriedly round.

But the villain had stolen away!

At this moment a bitter groan burst from the lips of Mrs. Sefton; for a remembrance of all that had just occurred came rapidly to her mind--and the horrible word “mad-house” seemed to echo in her ears and touch a chord that vibrated with a feeling of anguish to her very brain.

She covered her face with her hands, while her bosom heaved convulsively.

“Compose yourself, madam, I implore you,” said Trevelyan. “Even this certainty which we have acquired, is preferable to the suspense previously endured.”

“But is there hope, my lord--is there any hope left for me?” she inquired, removing her hands from her countenance--now so pale--and gazing up at the young patrician in a beseechful manner.

“Assuredly there is hope, my dear madam,” returned Trevelyan, emphatically. “I am confident that Sir Gilbert is in the possession of his intellects as completely as ever, and that he is a victim--but not a maniac. Indeed, I see through it all!”

“Oh! now you inspire me with hope!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, taking his hand and pressing it with fervent gratitude: and as her face was upturned towards his own, it suddenly struck him,--struck him like a flash of lightning,--that there was in that countenance an expression reminding him of Agnes Vernon,--although he had never beheld the features of the Recluse of the Cottage otherwise than tranquil, calm, and serene. Nevertheless, that idea seized upon him: but in the next moment he said to himself, “It is mere fancy!”--and as Mrs. Sefton at that instant settled herself in such a manner upon the sofa that her back became turned to the window and the variation of light produced a change in the expression of her countenance, that idea was immediately absorbed in other and more important considerations in the mind of the young patrician.

“Oh! now you inspire me with hope!” Mrs. Sefton had said; and her face brightened up--so that it was at the moment when this sudden lustre of joy was suffused upon her features, that the above mentioned idea had struck the nobleman.

“Yes, madam--there is every reason to hope,” he responded. “The entire plot, in all its terrible iniquity, is now before me as clear as the noon-day sun. I can read it as plainly as if it were in a book. The brother is at the bottom of it all.”

“Did I not tell your lordship that he was a villain?” asked Mrs. Sefton.

“Yes, my dear madam,” replied Trevelyan: “but I am slow to form injurious opinions of any man. Now, however, I have the conviction of his turpitude--and I hesitate no longer to proclaim him to be all that you represented him.”

“But--merciful heavens! while we are wasting time in words,” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, seized with a sudden access of wild excitement, “Gilbert is in a horrible predicament--and we should be acting--not talking.”

“Haste and precipitation will effect no good in this matter, my dear madam,” said Trevelyan.

“But we must find out the place where he is confined--we must apply to the officers of justice--we must release him!” cried the lady, her excitement increasing.

“Pray, my dear madam, listen to me with some degree of composure,” said the young nobleman; “and I will explain to you how we must proceed, and why nothing can be done with that speed which would naturally be most consonant with your feelings.”

“I am composed--I am tranquil now, my dear friend--for in such a light you will permit me to consider you,” observed Mrs. Sefton, exercising as strong a control over her emotions as she possibly could command.

“In the first place I must tell you that I saw Mr. James Heathcote this morning,” resumed Trevelyan “and when I think of his cool villainy--his unblushing effrontery--his matchless impudence, I could tear my hair with rage at the idea of how I was duped. For though I entered his office with a strong suspicion--in spite of the remonstrance which I last night made to you--I quitted his presence with a very different impression.”

“And that man who was ere now with us, is his clerk?” said Mrs. Sefton. “But what could be the motive of their base attempt to induce me to quit the country with such extraordinary precipitation?”

“The reason is apparent enough, my dear madam,” answered Trevelyan; “and I will now explain to you the whole matter, as I understand it. James Heathcote has suborned two unprincipled villains, calling themselves medical practitioners, to grant a certificate of the insanity of his brother. The law of England permits such a proceeding----”

“Then the law of England is worthy only of barbarians!” exclaimed the lady, emphatically.

“You are not the only person in the country who entertains the same conviction,” observed Trevelyan, with a smile: then, instantly resuming a serious expression of countenance, he said, “By virtue of that certificate, Sir Gilbert is suddenly seized upon and carried off to a madhouse.”

“Oh! it is horrible!” cried the lady, in a tone of extreme bitterness mingled with anguish, while a convulsive shudder passed over her from head to foot.

“The iniquity is tremendous--and yet it is legal,” said Lord William. “Yes--I blush for my country when I declare such to be the fact,--I blush also for my fellow-countrymen that they should tolerate a system which savages themselves would regard with abhorrence! Well, madam, the deed is done--the atrocity is consummated--and Sir Gilbert Heathcote, though in the complete enjoyment of his intellects, is borne off to a lunatic-asylum. James--his vile brother--will obtain the control over his property; and that is the aim and object of his wickedness. But knowing that you are interested--deeply interested in Sir Gilbert’s welfare----”

“Oh! heaven can witness how deeply!” exclaimed the lady, clasping her hands with fervour.

“Knowing, I repeat, how profoundly you are interested in all that concerns my valued friend,” continued Trevelyan, “James Heathcote sought to expatriate you at least for a season--so that he might prevent you from adopting any measures to restore the victim to the enjoyment of freedom.”

“But of what avail would a few weeks’ delay be, even supposing that the plot devised against myself had succeeded?” asked Mrs. Sefton. “If I had gone to America, I should have found that Sir Gilbert was not in New York--and I should have forthwith returned to London. Unless, indeed,” she added, with a shudder, “my heart had broken with the immensity of its sorrow!”

“Ah! madam--and it was perhaps upon this catastrophe that the vile man reckoned!” said Lord William, his blood growing cold at the extent of the turpitude which he was contemplating. “And yet a more terrible suspicion still has come into my mind--a suspicion so dreadful----”

“Name it! Keep me not in suspense!” cried the lady, observing that her young friend was himself becoming painfully excited now.

“During your absence, madam,” returned he, his countenance darkening,--“during your absence, I say--supposing that you had been induced to depart--sufficient time would be gained to drive Sir Gilbert mad in reality; and then, on your reappearance in London, the lawyer would have defied all that you could possibly attempt or devise!”

“Merciful heaven!” ejaculated the horror-stricken woman; “can so much black iniquity exist in the human breast?”

“Alas! such schemes as these are of frequent occurrence in this land which vaunts a consummate civilisation!” said Trevelyan. “Could we but penetrate into the mysteries of the mad-house, we should behold scenes that would make our hair stand on end--our blood run cold in our veins--our very souls sick! Yes, madam--too often, indeed, is the lunatic asylum rendered the engine of the most hideous cruelty: too often does it become a prison for the sane!”

“You will drive me mad, my lord!” cried Mrs. Sefton, dreadfully excited: “I shall myself become an inmate--and deservedly so--of one of those awful places!”

“Pardon me, dear madam--pardon me,” said Trevelyan, deeply afflicted at having suffered his excited feelings to hurry him into those passionate exclamations which had so terrified her. “I was wrong thus to dwell on the subject.”

“No--no: it is better that I should learn the worst,” she cried, with a strong spasmodic shuddering, while horror--ineffable horror--convulsed her countenance. “But how shall we rescue him from that living tomb?”

“Abandon not yourself to despair,” replied Trevelyan. “In the first instance I must discover the place where our friend is confined: and then, trust to me to effect his deliverance!”

“Excellent man!--generous-hearted noble!” cried Mrs. Sefton, in a tone indicative of the most fervent gratitude. “But will not the law aid us in all this?”

“I have already explained to you, my dear madam, that every thing has doubtless been done by James Heathcote under colour of the most monstrous law that disgraces our statute-book,” responded Lord William. “Were I to apply to a magistrate, I could obtain no redress: he would be unable to assist me. The Commissioners in Lunacy would view the matter in the ordinary light, and tell me that when the time for the usual periodical visit to the various asylums arrived, due inquiries should be instituted. No--the lawyer must be assailed by other weapons: cunning must be met by cunning;--and much as I abhor duplicity, I will not fail to use it, if necessary, in this case. Believe me when I assure you that no time shall be lost, and that I will without delay adopt measures to discover the place where our friend is imprisoned.”

“God send you success!” murmured Mrs. Sefton, faintly: then, in a higher tone and with renewed excitement, she said, “But how can I calm my feelings--how can I tranquillize myself even for a moment, while this state of suspense shall last? And when I think of what his feelings must be----Oh! it is enough to drive him mad in reality where he is, and me likewise mad here!”

“But you must endeavour to exercise some degree of command over your emotions,” said Trevelyan. “Consider--reflect--I may require your aid in this work of deliverance; and----”

“Oh! now indeed you hold out an inducement calculated to calm me--to give me courage!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “Yes--I will be tranquil: I will exercise a greater control over my feelings. I will throw aside the weakness of a woman, and become strong in the hope of Sir Gilbert’s rescue, and in the endeavour to accomplish it.”

“This frame of mind becomes you, my dear madam,” said Trevelyan. “And now permit me to take my departure--for there is no time to be lost.”

“Farewell for the present,” responded Mrs. Sefton, offering him her hand; “and accept my most unfeigned gratitude for your noble conduct towards me and your generous intentions in behalf of Sir Gilbert Heathcote.”

“You shall thank me when I have succeeded in my endeavour to restore him to you,” said Trevelyan pressing the lady’s hand with the cordiality of that friendship which, short as their acquaintance had been, circumstances had established and even cemented between them.

He then hastened away from her dwelling, and drove to his own house in Park Square.

CLXX. AGNES AND MRS. MORTIMER

In the meantime Mrs. Mortimer had not been idle.

Possessed of the letter which had been entrusted to her, she repaired in a hired vehicle to the immediate vicinity of the cottage, and alighted in the lane which was bounded on one side by the thick and verdant hedge that enclosed the garden.

The old woman had not precisely made up her mind how to proceed in the business which she had taken in hand: she knew that the task was a difficult one,--and she trusted rather to the chapter of accidents than to any settled or preconceived project.

For she naturally reasoned within herself that Mr. Vernon had doubtless warned his daughter not to hold any further communication with strangers: she had seen enough, on the evening of her visit to the cottage, to enable her to judge that her presence there was regarded suspiciously by that gentleman, and that her tale was not believed by him;--and she therefore calculated that Agnes had been duly and impressively counselled not to receive her again. Indeed, it was likewise probable that the young lady might have been taught to look upon her as a person having some evil object in view, and that the servants had been charged to maintain a strict watch upon her movements should she make her appearance in that neighbourhood again.

All these reflections were duly weighed by Mrs. Mortimer; and, under the circumstances which they suggested, she found it to be totally impossible to devise beforehand any particular method of carrying out her aims.

She, however, more than hoped that, as the morning was remarkably fine, with a warm summer sun rendering the face of Nature bright and joyous, Agnes would be certain to walk in her garden, if not farther abroad. Nor was she mistaken in the former portion of her expectation: for scarcely had she reached the verdant boundary of the enclosure, when she beheld, through the high hedge, the light drapery of the young lady, who, clad in a morning-dress, was advancing slowly along a gravel-walk, with a book in her hand.

How beautiful did she appear, even to the gaze of the old harridan who now surveyed her from behind the hedge! There was an æsthetic grace in her movements--an enchanting sweetness expressed in her countenance--a gentle refinement in her bearing--and a halo of innocence around her, which rendered her a being with whom it was impossible to associate ideas of sensuality, but whom the heart might worship with the purest, holiest poetic sentiment, as if hers were an ethereal nature.

Her eyes were bent upon the volume which she held in her delicate, white hands; and her little feet moved slowly along the gravel-walk--for she was absorbed in the perusal of the book. She had not fastened the white ribbons of the straw-bonnet that she had evidently put on with a hasty negligence; and those ribbons were thrown back over her shoulders, thus allowing a shower of raven curls to descend on each side of the fair face down to the bosom of her dress.

Around that charming creature streamed the flood of sun-light, making her tresses, dark though they were, glitter like hyperions, and imparting a dazzling whiteness to her drapery, which appeared in strong relief amidst the luxuriant green of the trees and shrubs.

Mrs. Mortimer was rejoiced when she beheld the young lady in the garden--still more rejoiced when she observed that Agnes was approaching that part of the hedge behind which the harridan was concealed.

Several minutes however elapsed before the beauteous creature was sufficiently nigh for Mrs. Mortimer to address her; because she not only advanced slowly, but stopped two or three times when she met with a passage of more than ordinary interest in the work she was reading. It was the novel of “Ivanhoe” that thus rivetted her attention; and she was in the midst of the exalting scene of the combat between Brian de Bois-Gilbert and Wilfred of Ivanhoe.

Suddenly she was startled by hearing her name mentioned;--and she glanced around almost in affright--but no one met her view.

“Miss Vernon--dear Miss Vernon,” repeated the voice: “approach nearer to the hedge--’tis a friend who thus addresses you.”

The maiden instantly recognised the peculiar tones of the old woman who had called upon her nearly a week previously; and, without giving any response, she stood undecided how to act.

“Pray do not refuse to hear me--pray do not go away, Miss Vernon,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer, whose form the young lady could now distinguish through the hedge. “I have something of importance to communicate--and not for worlds would I injure a hair of your head.”

“But I promised my father not to hold discourse with any one who came not with a letter from him,” said Agnes, at length breaking silence: “and moreover,” she added, with some degree of hesitation, “I am afraid that you do not mean any good towards me.”

“Alas! Miss Vernon, can you entertain such cruel suspicions regarding me?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, as if deeply afflicted at the mistrust implied in the maiden’s words. “Of what benefit would it be for me to injure you? or, indeed, how could I possibly injure you?”

“I know not--and yet----”

“Ah! you hesitate, my dear young lady--and you will accord me a hearing,” exclaimed the old woman, eagerly. “In fact, I appeal to your sense of justice not to refuse me this opportunity of vindicating myself against the suspicions which, I am well aware, your father entertains concerning me. But, tell me--what book is that which you hold in your hand?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, half-suspecting that it might be a novel, and in that case hoping to find a pretext for giving the conversation a turn towards the topic of love.

“It is ‘Ivanhoe,’ madam,” said Agnes. “But really I must not remain here any longer: I should be sorry to suspect you--and yet my father----”

“Dearest lady, not even your parent’s prejudices should render you capable of an act of injustice,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, with an emphasis that made Agnes pause as she was on the point of retreating. “You are engaged in the perusal of one of the finest tales in the English language,” she continued, abruptly diverting the conversation into another channel: “and doubtless you have sighed over the hopeless affection which the beautiful Jewess cherished for him whose heart was given to the Lady Rowena?”

“I have wept for the interesting and charming Rebecca,” said Agnes, in the natural ingenuousness of her character: “although I am well aware that she is only the heroine of a romance, and I cannot precisely understand wherefore she should have been so much attached to Wilfrid.”

“The description is so life-like--is it not?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.

“I know not--and yet it appears to me as if it were all true--as if I could easily persuade myself that such incidents really occurred, and such sentiments could positively exist,” responded Agnes. “But I must leave you----”

“One word, Miss,” interrupted the old woman. “You say that you could easily persuade yourself that such sentiments as those experienced by Rebecca for Wilfrid, and by Wilfrid and Rowena mutually, could actually exist. Believe me, then, when I assure you that although the incidents of that tale are a fiction, the sentiments are the very reverse--and that what the author denominates love is a passion felt and acknowledged throughout the universe.”

“Yes--the love of a father towards his children, and of children towards their parents,” said Agnes. “Oh! I am well aware that such a blessed feeling animates the mortal breast.”

“And there is another phase of that sentiment,” resumed the old woman, immediately: “or rather, the love which you described, is a feeling--whereas the love which Rebecca experienced for Ivanhoe, is a passion.”

“I cannot comprehend you, madam,” observed Agnes, who gradually grew more and more interested in this conversation, because Scott’s novel had made a deep impression on her mind, and had raised up a sentiment of curiosity which, through the very ingenuousness of her disposition, sought for an elucidation of those descriptions that were entirely unintelligible or only dimly significant to her.

“Suppose that Rebecca had addressed a letter to Ivanhoe, explaining the sentiments which she entertained towards him,” said the wily old woman: “would not Wilfrid have been unkind--ungenerous--even harsh and brutal, not to have perused that narrative of her feelings?”

“But his character was generous,” exclaimed Agnes, emphatically; “and he would not have refused to read such a letter.”

“Precisely so,” continued Mrs. Mortimer. “And now, my sweet young lady, let us suppose that it was Wilfrid who experienced an attachment for Rebecca, and that Rebecca suspected it not;--and suppose, likewise, that Wilfrid penned a letter, in respectful and proper language to the Jewess, describing the sentiments that animated him--what course should the beautiful Israelite have pursued?”

“She would have proved as generous on her side as we have already agreed that Wilfrid of Ivanhoe would have been generous on his part,” answered Agnes, without an instant’s hesitation.

“Such is your opinion, sweet maiden?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, interrogatively.

“I have no reason to think otherwise,” was the immediate response.

“Then, Miss Vernon,” said the old woman, in a tone of mingled triumph and solemnity, “I implore you to peruse the letter of which I am the bearer, and which is intended for you--and for you alone!”

Thus speaking, Mrs. Mortimer thrust Trevelyan’s missive through the hedge; and Agnes received it mechanically, though startled and bewildered by so sudden and unexpected a proceeding.

“Read it, Miss Vernon--read it,” cried the old woman: “there is nothing in its contents to offend you--but perhaps much to please and delight.”

Thus adjured, the young maiden--innocent, artless, and unsophisticated as she was--hesitated no longer, but, opening the letter, commenced its perusal.

The first paragraph, as the reader will remember, ran thus:--

“Pardon a stranger who dares to address you, beautiful Miss Vernon, in a strain that might give you offence, were he not sincere in his language and honourable in his intentions:--pardon me, I implore you--and refuse not to read those few lines to the end! He who thus writes is the individual that you have observed occasionally in the vicinity of your dwelling; and you will perceive by the signature to this letter that he is not a man without ostensible guarantees for his social position. That his character is unimpeachable he can proudly declare; and that he will not address to you, Miss Vernon, a single word which he will fear to repeat in your father’s presence, he solemnly declares.”

At first the maiden’s countenance wore an expression of profound astonishment when she found herself addressed by a person who avowed himself to be “a stranger,” and who proceeded to speak of sincerity of language and honourable intentions. What intentions, then, had he? This was the thought that flashed to her mind. In the next moment she discovered that the letter came from the gentleman whom she had observed, on more occasions than one, in the neighbourhood of the cottage; and now it struck her, as if with a ray of light darting into her soul, that he must have had some object, beyond that of a mere lounge, in so frequently loitering about the precincts of the garden. Something--a something that was nevertheless incomprehensible--told her that she ought to read no more; but at that instant the concluding words of the paragraph above quoted met her eyes--and she murmured to herself, “There can be no harm in perusing the words that he would speak to me in my father’s presence.”

She accordingly read on, until she came to the termination of the next paragraph:--

“Let me, however, speak of myself in the first person again: let me assure you that your beauty has captivated my heart--and that, if any thing were wanting to render me your slave, the description which the bearer of this letter has given me of your amiable qualities, would be more than sufficient. I am rich--and therefore I have no selfish motive in addressing you, even if you be rich also: but I would rather that it were otherwise with you, so that my present proceeding may appear to you the more disinterested. Had I any means of obtaining an introduction to you, beautiful Miss Vernon, I should not have adopted a measure that gives me pain because I tremble lest it should wound or offend you. But mine is an honest--a sincere--and a devoted attachment; and I shall be happy indeed if you will permit me to open a correspondence with your father on the subject. Were he to honour me with a visit, I should be proud to receive him. But if, in the meantime, you seek to know more of me--if I might venture to solicit you to accord me an interview of only a few minutes, you cannot divine how fervently I should thank you--how delighted I should feel! Let this interview take place in the presence of Mrs. Mortimer, if you will: I have nothing to communicate to you that I should hesitate to say before your father or your friends. Oh! how can I convince you of my sincerity?--how can I testify my devotion?--how can I prove the extent of my love?”

While she perused this portion of the letter, the following thoughts and ideas ran rapidly through her mind:--

“My beauty has captivated his heart----Oh! then he believes me to be beautiful! Mrs. Mortimer has spoken well of me to him: in this case, she cannot be a bad woman, and she cannot mean me any harm. Assuredly my dear papa was wrong to suspect her. He has no selfish motive in addressing me--even if I be rich: then, whatever his intentions be, they must be honourable, as he says--because all wickedness is undertaken for the sake of gold. He is afraid of offending me. Oh! how can I be offended with one who addresses me in such a respectful manner, and who seems to fear that the simple fact of thus writing to me will excite my anger? ‘A sincere and a devoted attachment!’ Ah! such was the attachment that Rebecca entertained for Wilfrid, and that Wilfrid experienced for Rowena;--and now I perceive something different between their attachment and that which the Templar harboured towards the beautiful Jewess. He wishes to see my father--he wishes to obtain an interview with me!”--And the maiden’s heart began to palpitate, she knew not why: but at this moment it struck her that the writer of the letter was of agreeable person, and that he must be what the author of “Ivanhoe” would have denominated handsome. With a gradually increasing fluttering in her bosom, the artless maiden read on--until she suddenly found the paragraph close with the mystic name of love!

Then a gentle flush appeared upon her damask cheek; and a veil rapidly fell from her eyes. She now comprehended how it was possible for Rebecca to be attached to Wilfrid of Ivanhoe:--Agnes had already learnt by heart the alphabet of love! At the same time, her soul retained all its chaste purity, though it lost a trifle of its girlish artlessness:--love began to be comprehensible to her as a refined and poetic sentiment--and not as a less divine passion or earthly sensuousness. A dreamy and unknown joy was stealing into her bosom--as if she had just been blessed with a glimpse of the realms of ethereal bliss;--and, under the influence of these feelings, she read the letter on to its close:--

“I beseech you to reflect, Miss Vernon, that my happiness depends upon your reply. Am I guilty of an indiscretion in loving you? Love is a passion beyond mortal control! He who knows no other deity, deserves not blame for worshipping the sun, because it is glorious and bright; and my heart, which knows no other idol, adores you, because you are beautiful and good. Treat not my conduct, then, with anger: let not your pride be offended by the proceeding which I have adopted in order to make my sentiments known to you;--and scorn not the honest--the pure--the ardent affection which an honourable man dares to proffer you. I do not merit punishment because I love you;--and your silence would prove a punishment severe and undeserved indeed! Again, I conjure you to remember that the happiness of a fellow-creature depends upon you: your decision will either inspire me with the most joyous hope, or plunge me into the deepest despair. At the same time, beauteous Agnes,--(the words--those delightful words, ‘beauteous Agnes,’ are written now, and I cannot--will not erase them)--at the same time, I say, if your affections be already engaged--if a mortal more blest than myself have received the promise of your hand, accept the assurance, sweet maiden, that never more shall you be molested by me--never again will I intrude myself upon your attention. For with my love is united the most profound respect; and not for worlds would I do aught to excite an angry feeling in your soul.

“Your ardent admirer and devoted friend, “WILLIAM TREVELYAN.”

While she perused this last paragraph in the letter, Agnes more than once felt an involuntary sigh stealing from her bosom--as if it were called up by a strain of music familiar to her childhood, and reviving many pleasing reflections.

The last portion of the letter became clearly intelligible to her, in consequence of the suggestive incidents which she had been reading in Scott’s novel. For would not Rebecca have received Wilfrid’s hand, had his love not been already plighted to Rowena? It was evident, then, that William Trevelyan sought her--yes, her--Agnes Vernon--as his wife; and that he feared lest she should be engaged to wed another! Oh! now she comprehended the full intent--the full meaning of that letter which he had addressed to her: she perceived that he loved her--that he had loitered about the cottage in order to behold her--that he wrote to her, because he feared to offend by accosting her--and that he dreaded no refusal on the part of her father, provided that she was not already pledged to become the wife of another suitor!

“You have read the letter, my child?” asked the old woman, who, even through the verdant foliage of the hedge, had watched every change in the expression of the maiden’s countenance, and had thereby obtained a complete insight into what was passing in her mind.

“Yes, madam,” murmured Agnes, in a tone that was scarcely audible--for she now felt embarrassed, bashful, and timid, she knew not wherefore.

“And you are not offended with Lord William Trevelyan----”

“Lord William Trevelyan!” exclaimed the beauteous girl, now seized with surprise: “is he indeed a nobleman? Oh! I am sorry for that!” she added, giving vent in her artlessness to an expression which confirmed the old woman’s already existing suspicion that her employer was by no means indifferent to the Recluse of the Cottage.

“You are sorry that he is a nobleman, my sweet child?” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Are you afraid that he is too proud to make a humble maiden his wife?”

Agnes blushed deeply, and remained silent.

“Fear nothing on that head,” continued the old woman. “He is no deceiver: his intentions are honourable. And now tell me frankly and candidly--has his letter displeased you?”

“I should be deceiving you were I to answer in the affirmative,” responded Agnes; “and yet I feel--at least, it seems as if I feel that I ought to be displeased, although I cannot in truth declare that I am. But I will send this letter to my dear father, who is in Paris----”

“Ah! Mr. Vernon is in France,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, delighted to find the way thus cleared for the furtherance of the projects which she had in hand; for she was resolved to make herself particularly useful to Lord William in his suit with the beautiful Agnes, so that her claims upon him might be all the more considerable. “However, my dear child,” she continued, “you would do well not to trouble your father at present, since he is doubtless engaged in particular business on the Continent----”

“Oh! my father will be delighted to find that I communicate to him everything that occurs,” interrupted Agnes; “and since Lord William Trevelyan so especially alludes to my dear parent in his letter----”

“Miss Vernon--Miss Vernon,” exclaimed the old woman, impatiently, “this is a matter of so much delicacy, that I must implore you to be guided by me----”

“Would you counsel me not to forward this letter to my father?” asked the maiden, in a tone so low and tremulous that it afforded no aid to the reading of the thoughts that dictated the question.

“Such is the advice that I should assuredly give you, my dear child--at least for the present,” was the response.

“And do you think,” continued Agnes, in a tone still lower and still more tremulous than before,--“do you think that Lord William Trevelyan would proffer me the same counsel?”

“I have no doubt of it, sweet maiden,” hastily replied Mrs. Mortimer. “For his sake--for your sake it were best that none save myself should become acquainted with the secret of your love----”

“Oh! madam,” exclaimed Agnes, in a voice of touching remonstrance and pathetic reproach, “if this love of which you speak be a feeling that must alienate me from the sympathies of my father, and compel me to cherish a secret that I dare not impart to him, I can have no hope that happiness will be the result! Farewell, madam; restore the letter to him who honoured me by addressing me in those terms that for an instant dazzled and bewildered me--and tell him that it were better for him to think no more of Agnes Vernon!”

Having thus spoken, the maiden tossed the letter hastily, but not insultingly, over the hedge, and hurried away towards the cottage.

Mrs. Mortimer was for a few minutes stupified by this decisive and most unexpected proceeding. She had imagined that Agnes had become a complete dupe to the specious arguments she had used to ensnare her; and she was astounded to find that fair creature, so innocent and artless asserting an energy of volition which was inspired by the purest sentiments of rectitude, and which dominated over the nascent feelings of affection evidently engendered in her bosom by the suit of Lord William Trevelyan.

The old woman knew not how to act. She perceived that it was useless to endeavour to obtain another interview with Agnes--at least on the present occasion; and she was unwilling to return to her employer with the acknowledgment that her policy had rather marred than forwarded his interests. She therefore now began to reflect whether it were not better to abandon the business altogether, and return to Paris, where her daughter’s affairs might afford scope for her intriguing qualifications and likewise augment her pecuniary resources. She was already possessed of between five and six thousand pounds--the amount wrung from the hands of her miserable husband; and she came to the conclusion that it was scarcely worth her while to waste any more time in a matter which, even were she successful, would only bring her a recompense of a few hundreds.

Having made these hasty reflections, Mrs. Mortimer thrust Trevelyan’s letter into her reticule,--for she never destroyed documents that related to private affairs; and, returning to the hackney-coach, desired to be driven to the Borough.

She alighted in Blackman Street, and, having dismissed the vehicle, repaired to the coffee-house where she had taken up her abode.

As she was passing by the bar-parlour, in order to reach the staircase leading to her own chamber, the mistress of the establishment came forth and beckoned her into the room: then, closing the door, the woman said, in a tone savouring somewhat of cool insolence, “I tell you what it is, Mrs. Mortimer--the sooner you accommodate yourself with other lodgings, the better: ’cos, though I ain’t over partickler and makes no imperent inquiries about them as paytronises my house--yet, for all that, I can’t abide such wisitors as come on your account just now. Leastways, I’d rayther be vithout ’em.”

“My good woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, surveying the landlady with an astonishment the most real and unfeigned, “you must be labouring under some mistake. I hope that I’m a respectable person; and I am sure that I shall bring no discredit on your house. As for any visitors who have called on my account, I expect none--and therefore there is an error in the matter.”

“No such a thing!” cried the landlady, her choler rising. “There was two men which come just now: and, what’s more, they was officers with a search-warrant--and I couldn’t perwent them from doing their dooty.”

“Officers!--a search-warrant!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, now becoming frightened--although she could not conceive what feature of her recent conduct could have excited any suspicion on the part of the myrmidons of justice:--but suddenly a fear of an appalling nature seized upon her--for her money was all concealed in her chamber up-stairs. “Oh! it’s wery well on your part, ma’am, to put a good face on the bisness,” said the landlady: “but it’s nevertheless true for all that. A great tall hulking feller and a seedy-looking old man----”

“An old man!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, now becoming sick at heart.

“Yes--an old man,” proceeded the coffee-house-keeper’s wife; “and he said he was a officer with a search-warrant, and that t’other was his assistant----”

“’Tis a trick--a vile trick! I see it all--I understand it now!” cried the wretched Mrs. Mortimer, staggering towards a chair and gasping for breath:--but in a few moments she seemed to be endowed with a sudden energy, and, bursting from the room, she rushed up-stairs to her own chamber--the landlady, who was a stout and therefore less active woman, following as quickly as she could.

Mrs. Mortimer entered her room, and darted towards her trunk. The lid resisted not her attempt to raise it--for the lock had been forced. She plunged her hand amidst the clothes that the box contained, and felt for something underneath:--but the object of her anxious--her desperate search, was not there;--and, with a groan as it were of mortal agony, she sank upon the floor.

The landlady, who entered the room at this moment, and who was not naturally a bad-hearted being, hastened to raise the miserable woman. She placed her on a chair, and tore off, rather than quietly removed, her bonnet and shawl: but Mrs. Mortimer’s jaw fell--her countenance was ghastly pale--she seemed to be dying.

On water being sprinkled on her face, she came to herself; and the landlady said, “What is the matter with you? I can’t understand the meaning of all this.”

“I have been robbed--foully robbed,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, in a hoarse and hollow tone: but she did not reflect that, no matter how her husband had obtained his money, she had played the part of a foul robber or extortioner towards him.

“Robbed!--what do you mean?” cried the landlady. “Wasn’t them real officers as come just now?”

“No--a thousand times no,” ejaculated the old woman, growing infuriate as her energies revived. “It was a base plot--a vile design:--but I will be avenged--terribly avenged! He must have found someone to advise him--some one to assist him in all this! They watched me--they marked when I went out--and, under pretence of being officers, they succeeded in searching my box--and, what is worse,” she added, with a demoniac contortion of the countenance,--“they succeeded in robbing me!”

“Was it the old man who did this?” asked the landlady.

“Yes: that ancient villain, with the pale face,” was the reply. “But tell me--was not his countenance pale and wrinkled?--and did he not seem nervously excited while speaking to you?”

“Just so,” answered the landlady.

“Ah! I thought that I was not mistaken!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone that indicated a concentration of the most ferocious rage and diabolical hate in her savage breast. “But leave me now--I must be alone for a short time--I must ponder upon all this, and determine how to act. I am not altogether without friends--nor yet without resources.”

“Well, ma’am,” said the landlady, “I hope you won’t think no more of what I told you just now--I mean, about leaving the place. Since those fellers wasn’t officers, and you ain’t a suspicious person, I’m sure I don’t want to get rid of you.”

“I shall not leave you quite yet, my good woman,” responded Mrs. Mortimer; “and I am not angry on account of what you said just now. But pray let me be alone for the present.”

The landlady withdrew in obedience to this request; and Mrs. Mortimer sate down upon the bed to ruminate on the misfortune that had produced so sudden and deplorable a change in her position.

Scarcely, however, had she brought her mind to reflect with some degree of calmness on the situation of her affairs, when she heard heavy and hasty footsteps ascending the staircase.

Dreading lest some new calamity were about to overtake her, she started to her feet in trepidation and nervous excitement: nor was she reassured when the door was unceremoniously opened, and a man of most repulsive appearance bounced into the chamber.

CLXXI. JACK RILY, THE DOCTOR

The individual who thus intruded himself upon the presence of the affrighted woman, was about forty years of age--of middle height--somewhat stout--and of powerful form. He was not corpulent; but his build denoted immense strength,--his shoulders being broad and massive, and his limbs of large proportions. His neck was short and thick, like that of a bull; and his huge hands, when clenched, appeared as if they could fell an ox or batter down a wall.

His countenance was perfectly hideous. It was of dark complexion; and on the right cheek was a large scar of livid red, as if the flesh had been seared with a hot iron and left to heal without any surgical assistance. The low but broad forehead was overshadowed with coarse, black, matted hair, which the man wore long, and which he evidently much neglected--so that it had a dirty appearance, in spite of its jetty hue. His eyes were small and dark; and the whites--for we know not what other name to give them--were of a yellow hue,--so that an ominous fire seemed to animate those eyes, as if they reflected all the bad passions of a polluted soul. The nose, which was large, thick, and coarse, projected all on one side, and had enormous nostrils. Add to all these elements of ugliness a hare-lip, with an opening so large that it displayed two of the man’s large white teeth up to the very gum, and the reader may form a tolerably accurate idea of the repulsive aspect of this individual.

He was dressed in a greasy velveteen shooting-jacket, a rusty black waistcoat, corduroy trowsers, and heavy high-lows; a blue cotton handkerchief was negligently tied round his neck;--and his shirt, which was none of the cleanest, was open in front, the buttons being deficient--so that a portion of his hirsute chest was visible. On his head he wore an old fur cap of a tawny colour, but sadly stained with grease, as if it were tossed in any dirty nook or corner when not in use.

As the man had no whiskers, and his complexion was so dark, it might have been supposed that he had some African blood in his veins. Such was not, however, the case;--he was born in England and of English parents--aye, and had received an English education likewise. But nature had given him a hideous aspect; and circumstances had imbued his soul with the ferocity of a hyena and the subtlety of a serpent.

It is not often that the savage disposition is characterised by a profound and latent cunning--because the violence of furious passions usually absorbs all reflection in its sudden impulses and outbursts. But this man was ferocious by nature, and subtle in consequence of possessing a powerful intellect and having received a good education. Not that intelligence and mental cultivation engender craft and cunning: no--but they teach the necessity of consideration and forethought;--and the result, in respect to the individual whom we are describing, was that he knew the world so well as to be fully aware that intrigue and machination frequently succeeded where brute force could accomplish nothing.

Thus, when there was no need to have recourse to artifice, this man appeared as a very demon let loose upon society: but when cunning could gain an end, he was enabled to control his savage propensities and exercise a complete domination over his ferocious instincts.

Such was the person who burst upon the view of the terrified Mrs. Mortimer in the abrupt manner already described.

She had risen from her seat on the bed, and now stood gazing on him in speechless apprehension and amazement: but he, not heeding the alarm which his presence inspired, closed the door carefully behind him, and then, throwing his greasy cap on a chair, approached the old woman, saying, “So I understand you have been robbed, ma’am? Well--don’t give way to despair: I think I can help you to the recovery of your money.”

“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, considerably relieved by the hope thus abruptly held out, and at the same moment animated by the conviction that the man could not mean her any harm--as she had never seen him before in her life; and, moreover, the house was neither deserted nor lonely, and it was now the broad noon-day,--under which circumstances crimes of violence were seldom perpetrated.

“Yes--I think I can help you,” repeated the man. “But there is plenty of time before us--and we must have a chat over the matter in the first instance.”

Thus speaking, he seated himself in a free and easy fashion; and Mrs. Mortimer likewise took a chair--for she had now become deeply interested in the present visit, despite the revolting ugliness of the visitor.

“Who are you?” she asked: “and in what manner do you think you can aid me?”

“One question at a time, my dear madam,” returned the fellow, with cool familiarity. “First then, as to who I am. My name is Rily--Mr. Rily amongst mere acquaintances--John Rily in a police-sheet--and Jack Rily amongst intimate friends. But those who know me best call me the Doctor, because, you see, I was brought up to the medical profession. That was against my tastes, and only in obedience to the wishes of my parents; and so, as soon as they hopped the twig--which was when I was about two-and-twenty--I gave up mending broken legs, and took to breaking into houses. Instead of feeling pulses, I fingered purses--and found the new profession more profitable. Such a hand as this,” he continued, with a horrible grin, as he extended his broad and horny palm, “was rather intended to wield a crow-bar than a lancet, or grasp a pistol in preference to a scalpel. Now, my dear ma’am, I think you may begin to suspect who and what I am.”

“A burglar and a thief,” said Mrs. Mortimer, who had by this time recovered all her wonted calmness. “Well--you are the more likely to aid me in my present embarrassment--I mean, in the recovery of my money: and, of course, you can dictate your own terms.”

“I am perfectly assured of that,” responded the Doctor, again grinning maliciously with his horrid hare-lip, which seemed as if it were about to split completely up his cheek. “But, at that same time, I admit with all possible candour that I cannot act alone in this business: and therefore you have that guarantee for my good faith.”

“But in what way do you propose to act?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, anxious to arrive at a more satisfactory understanding with her hideous visitor.

“I will tell you,” answered Rily. “I am not known at this coffee-house; and therefore I came in just now to take some refreshment and read the paper. I saw you enter, and thought that yours was a countenance which denoted a soul alive to mischief. That was the impression you made upon me; for I must tell you that I am a bit of a phrenologist in my way. However, I had almost ceased to think of you, when I saw you come rushing out of the bar-parlour and bolt up-stairs like a mad woman. Then I marked your countenance again--and I was seized with admiration towards you on account of the horrible expression of your features. I said to myself that if ever I had beheld a she-fiend, I had seen one then.”

“I am much obliged to you for the compliment,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, drily.

“Let me tell my story in my own way, my dear madam,” exclaimed Jack Rily, with mock politeness. “Well, I saw you bolt up-stairs, and the landlady after you; and I knew that there must be something queer in the wind. So I waited quietly reading the paper until the landlady came down again; and then I went to the bar to pay my money. A question or two that I put elicited the information that you had been robbed by two fellows pretending to be officers having a search-warrant; and the landlady, in her garrulity, gave me a description of those individuals. One of them--the old man--I know nothing of: he is a complete stranger to me;--but the other I do know,--and what is more, I owe him a grudge--it matters not why or for what. I thereupon told the landlady that I thought I could help you in the matter; and before she had time to make any answer, I rushed up to your room to introduce myself to your notice.”

“Now I begin to understand you, Mr. Rily,” said the old woman. “You are acquainted with one of the robbers--you probably know his haunts--and you have a spite to vent upon him. Is this it?”

“Just so,” answered the burglar. “You must also learn that the reading which I had of your countenance convinced me that I might with safety tell you who and what I am: because I never have any child’s play in the business I am engaged in. If you want to get back your money, you must put confidence in me and act as I tell you; and the only way to make you trust me, is to let you know my real character. You see in me, then, a cracksman and a prig: but I am stanch to the back-bone amongst pals.”

“And on what terms do you propose to aid me?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.

“How much have these fellows robbed you of?” asked Rily.

The old woman hesitated for a few moments: she knew not whether it were prudent to tell the truth to her new friend, who so deliberately announced himself as a gentleman exercising a profession which could not possibly be characterised by any particular scruples or punctilios.

“Well--just as you like, ma’am,” said Jack, rising from his seat. “By declaring on to the swag,[16] I may get my reglars[17] from the two prigs, whom I can easily trace out; and therefore, if you are afraid to trust me, I shall be off at once. In this case, mind, you will never see a penny of the money you have lost.”

“Stay, Mr. Rily--stay!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, who perfectly comprehended the man’s meaning, which was to the effect that he might obtain some of the booty for himself without her co-operation; whereas she could not recover a shilling unless assisted by him.

The burglar coolly reseated himself.

“You asked me of how much I was robbed?” she said, interrogatively.

“Yes,” was the laconic response.

“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” observed Mrs. Mortimer.

“My stars! is it possible?” exclaimed Rily, his horrible countenance expanding with delight.

“It is the truth, I can assure you,” rejoined the old woman.

“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” repeated the burglar, in a slow and measured tone, as if to prolong the enjoyment of the sweet music which the mention of such a sum made for his auricular sense.

“It is a serious loss--is it not?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, anxiously watching his countenance, its expression denoting hope--nay, even indicating a certainty of success in the endeavour to recover the amount: but that same tablet of the mind gave no assurance that the man would act honourably towards her in the end, and content himself only with a share.

“Five thousand four hundred pounds!” he again repeated, in a musing tone. “Yes--’tis a serious loss! The recovery, however, would be two thousand seven hundred a-piece: would that suit you?” he demanded, turning abruptly towards her.

“What?” she said, affecting not to comprehend the question.

“Will you agree to give me one half of the sum, if I recover the whole?” asked Rily. “That is plain English, I believe--and now it depends on you whether our conversation shall be prolonged or not.”

“Yes--I will cheerfully give you one half,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, making up her mind to keep to the bargain only in the case of her inability to depart from it with safety to herself.

“Well and good,” resumed Rily. “I must now inform you that the tall fellow who was with the old man is one of the most noted cracksmen in London--a desperate ruffian, who would think no more of shooting a person through the head than of eating his dinner. What his real name is, I don’t know--I never heard--although he and I have been acquainted for years past: but he is called Vitriol Bob, from a little peculiarity which he has introduced into his professional mode of doing business.”

“I do not catch your meaning,” said Mrs. Mortimer--though not without a shudder; for she did entertain a vague suspicion of the frightful origin of that singular pseudonym.

“I’ll explain myself more fully, ma’am,” returned the Doctor, “since we have all the day before us, and may chatter a bit to while away the time. You see that the individual of whom we are speaking, has an awkward knack of lurking about in bye-streets and secluded neighbourhoods, to way-lay gentlemen who happen to have gold chains hanging over their waistcoats or out of their fobs: for those little articles are pretty faithful evidences that the purses of such folks are not entirely empty. Well, in case of a struggle, our friend is apt to break a phial of vitriol over the face of his opponent, so that he may get away, and also that the said opponent may be blinded, and unable to identify him on any future occasion. Hence his name of Vitriol Bob; and such is the terror he has inspired throughout the districts of Kennington, Camberwell, Peckham, and thereabouts, that the moment any gentleman returning home from a party or from the tavern hears the ominous sound of ‘Your money or your eyes,’ he exclaims, ‘Don’t throw the vitriol, and I’ll give up everything.’”

“Is this possible?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, with a shudder that was colder and more perceptible than the former one.

“Oh! quite possible, ma’am, I can assure you,” said the Doctor, calmly. “You shall see Vitriol Bob to-night--and then judge for yourself whether he looks like a fellow who could do such a thing, or not. A more hang-dog countenance you never saw in your life. I know that I am not particularly handsome,” he added with a horrible grin and leer: “but I don’t look quite such a bravo as he does.”

Mrs. Mortimer thought that if Vitriol Bob were more hideous in outward appearance than Jack Rily, he must be frightful indeed.

“This is the chap we shall have to deal with to-night,” continued the burglar; “and therefore, as you perceive, we must go well prepared to play the game properly. Who his companion is in the robbery, I can’t make out----”

“But I know,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, hastily: “he is a poor--weak--emaciated--nervous old man, whom I will undertake to subdue and even bind with cords in a few moments. Oh! he shall find me a very tiger-cat let loose upon him!” she added, her countenance suddenly expressing a hyena-like ferocity.

“Now you do seem handsome--royally handsome--although in reality you are so infernally ugly!” exclaimed Jack Rily. “That is the way in which I like to see a woman look. Why--perdition seize me! but I could almost love you. What a splendid couple we should make!”

And the idea tickled the wretch’s fancy to such an extent, that he laughed until the tears streamed from his yellow eyes, and ran down his dark countenance, while his hare-lip opened so wide that all his upper teeth--large, perfect, white, and even--were displayed to the gums.

“Cease this disgusting mirth, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, unable to restrain her feelings: for--ugly, criminal, and morally degraded as she knew herself to be--the observations of the monster and his consequent hilarity outraged her cruelly.

“Come--come; we must not be bad friends,” said Jack Rily, extending his huge palm towards the old woman, who proffered her hand in return through fear of offending the wretch that had become too useful for her to lose him until the contemplated business should have been accomplished. “There--that’s right,” he added, as he shook her hand with a violence that made her wince: “now there is no ill-feeling between us. But really you must pardon me for what I said, and also forbear from taking offence so easily should I fall into such remarks again. For, look you, madam,--I do not care about female beauty--neither is old age disgusting to me. What I admire in a woman is her disposition--her mind: and when I see you flaring up like a hell-rat--when I behold you waxing infuriate as a beldame--I love you better than if you was the most lovely virgin on the face of the earth. However--enough of that----”

“Enough indeed!” cried Mrs. Mortimer, who experienced the most ineffable repugnance--the most profound loathing for the monster that thus dinned his hideous idiosyncrasies in her ears: but, veiling her abhorrence as much as she could, she said, “And now, perhaps, you will have the goodness to inform me how you intend to proceed in order to recover this large sum of money.”

“The explanation is simple enough,” responded the Doctor. “Vitriol Bob has a particular haunt--a certain lurking-hole, not a hundred miles from here; and I happen to know where the place is. In fact, Bob and I have been pals for a long, long time----”

“I thought you told me just now that you had a spite against him?” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, fixing her eyes keenly upon the Doctor, as if to read the secrets of his inmost soul and learn whether he were deceiving her.

“Ah! you may look, ma’am--and look as searchingly as you like,” exclaimed Jack Rily, who understood what was passing in her mind: “but you won’t find me out in any contradiction--nor yet to telling you any lies. I said that Vitriol Bob and I had been friends for a long time--and I said truly. But that doesn’t prevent me from having a hankering to be avenged for a trick he played me, and which he does not think I even suspect. The fact is, we robbed a house together; and Bob in ransacking a chest of drawers, got hold of a bag full of sovereigns. He stuck to them, and never uttered a word about them when we afterwards divided the swag. I found it out through an advertisement that appeared in the papers offering a reward for the apprehension of the burglars, and specifying the things stolen. He never saw that advertisement, I know; and I did not tell him of it. I however swore to have my turn against him sooner or later;--and I bided my time. That time is now come--and I shall let him know it before many hours are over his head.”

“But are you certain that you can find him? and, even supposing that you do succeed in tracing him to his lurking-hole, how do you know that the old man will be there also?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.

“There is no tracing out Vitriol Bob in the matter,” exclaimed Jack Rily. “The moment he has committed a robbery, he always goes straight to his usual haunt, and remains there for a few days till the storm has blown over. As a mere precaution, he will compel his pal--this old man--to go with him; because if the latter was taken up by the Detectives, he might be induced to peach against Bob--and all that. So I am sure we shall find them together: unless, indeed,” added the Doctor, in a tone of diminishing confidence,--“unless, I say, the old man knows that you dare not raise a hue and cry touching this robbery.”

“On the contrary,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, “that old man, whose name is Torrens, has every reason to believe that I would persecute him with the most implacable vengeance which a human being is capable of experiencing or inflicting.”

“So much the better!” cried Jack Rily, grinning joyously: “in this case we are sure of our prey.”

“And is the game to be played by violence, or by cunning?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.

“By violence, my good lady--by violence, to be sure!” responded the burglar, his eyes glowing savagely, with their ominous yellow lustre--as if the orbs of a tiger were glaring upon the woman: and, though the gorgeous sun-light was flooding the small chamber with its golden haze, still shone that yellow lustre apart--distinct--and sinister.

“By violence?” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, awful thoughts relative to Vitriol Bob’s peculiar mode of proceeding rushing in upon her soul.

“How can it be done otherwise?” demanded Jack Rily. “When I first came up to you just now, I was going to propose to enlist in the service a pal of mine--and of Vitriol Bob’s also--who would aid and assist: but then he would require his thirds as a matter of course. Since, however, you have informed me that Bob’s companion in the robbery is an old, emaciated, feeble man, and that you can master him by yourself, you and I will keep the business in our own hands. I will undertake to tackle Vitriol Bob, if you will make sure of the other.”

“And supposing that your opponent should overpower you?” said Mrs. Mortimer.

“I will take care that he does not,” returned Rily. “Trust me to subdue him----”

“And without bloodshed?” observed the old woman, shuddering--for, depraved and wicked as she was, she grew cold and her heart sank within her at the idea of murder.

“Come, if you’re squeamish, you had better abandon the project and leave it all to me,” said the Doctor. “If Vitriol Bob should place my life in danger, at that moment he is a dead man. Self-preservation, ma’am, is the first law of nature. At the same time, I shall not kill him, unless it is to save myself: of this you may be assured.”

The old woman remained silent for some moments. Should she embark in an enterprise so replete with danger?--should she incur the risk of becoming an accomplice in a murder? She trembled at the thought: and yet her money--the money that she had come over to England to obtain--would be totally lost to her were she to shrink from the endeavour to recover it. It was true that, even if it were regained, one half would pass into the hands of a stranger: but was it not better to return to Paris with two thousand seven hundred pounds in her pocket, than with an empty purse? The stake was worth venturing;--and her indecision vanished.

“I am not squeamish in the matter,” she said at length. “Our bargain and our arrangements hold good in all respects. That villain Torrens shall not have the laugh against me: on the contrary, I must be avenged upon him!”

“There!--now you are my fine old hyena--my adorable tiger-cat, once again!” cried the Doctor. “I long to see you pounce upon old Torrens, as you call him; and I would give the best five years of my life, could I endow you with a complete set of claws, instead of those comparatively harmless finger-nails! Wouldn’t you tear his eyes out of his head? wouldn’t you strike them deep into his flesh? Do you know that Satan will obtain a glorious acquisition when the time comes for him to make a fiend of you?”

And again the monster’s horrible hilarity rang through the little chamber, as he threw himself back in the chair and laughed with the most savage heartiness.

“For mercy’s sake! cease this unnatural gaiety,” exclaimed the old woman, scarcely able to subdue her rage.

“Oh! I must laugh,” cried the wretch, sputtering through his frightful hare-lip,--“if it is only to make you look as ferocious as you do now.”

Mrs. Mortimer turned towards the window with disgust; and the wretch’s mirth died away in guttural sounds.

“Come, now--I told you that you must not be angry with me, madam,” he said, at length. “It is my nature to laugh heartily at times--and surely you won’t check such an innocent propensity. But I will take my leave of you now; and at half-past ten to-night we must meet at some place as near Stamford Street as you choose.”

“Where shall it be?” asked the old woman. “Name the spot--and I shall be punctual to the moment.”

“There is a narrow lane running along the side of Christ Church burial-ground,” responded the burglar, after a few moments’ reflection: “it leads from the Blackfriars Road into Collingwood Street----I suppose you know London well----”

“Oh! perfectly. Go on,” said Mrs. Mortimer.

“Well--we will meet in that crooked lane at half-past ten exactly,” continued Jack Rily. “By the by,” he added, rising from his chair, “you had better tell the landlady down stairs that you found out I could do nothing for you, and that you have resigned yourself to put up with your loss. It will prevent her from suspecting anything queer on account of your going out so late and remaining away an hour or so.”

“Leave that to me,” replied Mrs. Mortimer: “I shall know how to make all the excuses that are necessary. Indeed, if we are successful, I shall not return again to this place,” she observed, sinking her voice to a low whisper.

“Well--that is your business. And now good-bye for the present: at half-past ten we meet in the place appointed.”

Mrs. Mortimer spoke a few words of assent; and the Doctor took his departure, bestowing upon the woman a familiar nod, accompanied by a grin and a leer, before he crossed the threshold and closed the chamber-door behind him.

When Mrs. Mortimer was left alone, she began to ponder deeply upon the particulars of this interview which had just terminated.

The man knew the hiding-place where it was presumed that Vitriol Bob and Torrens had taken refuge; and it was doubtless some cellar or dangerous place, where a crime might be committed with impunity, as well as where the perpetrators of crime might conceal themselves. Then, what guarantee had she that Rily would not make her his victim, after availing himself of her services in subduing the plunderers and recovering the stolen treasure?

She shuddered as she thought of the peril into which she was about to precipitate herself: she trembled from head to foot as she pondered upon the desperate character of the man who was to be her companion in the night’s enterprise.

And yet--in spite of his revolting ugliness and his avowal of a dark career of turpitude--there was something like fairness in his speech respecting a partner in any enterprise in which he might be engaged: moreover, had he not shown, by the mere fact of the spite which he cherished against Vitriol Bob, that his ideas of the honour that ought to prevail even amongst thieves, were of a fixed and positive nature? Lastly, had he not stipulated upon the precise amount that he was to retain for his services? And would he be thus minute and nice in details, if he cherished the intention of self-appropriating the whole?

These arguments, which Mrs. Mortimer seriously revolved in her mind, may not perhaps appear very convincing nor very satisfactory to the reader; for, after all, they were only so many suppositions placed in juxta-position with the atrocious character of an avowed desperado. But let it be remembered that we often reason ourselves into what we wish to believe, rather than into what we ought to believe; and we tutor our minds to put faith in those opinions that best suit our interests rather than our safety. This is like “hoping against hope:” still it is a general characteristic of human nature; and Mrs. Mortimer’s case proved no exception to the general rule.

In fine, she came to the conclusion that Jack Rily was a monstrous rogue in respect to the world, but an honest man towards his pals--that he would strip society, were society a single individual, of its last shirt, but would not lay his finger on the costliest robe if on the back of an accomplice--and that he meant to act, with regard to herself, in the fairest way possible.

Whether her expectations were fulfilled, will shortly appear.

We cannot, however, close this chapter without recording a few comments upon that extraordinary disposition in human nature to reason one-self into the belief which one wishes to adopt, to the repudiation of that which one ought to adopt. For instance, the man who is floundering about in a perfect morass of pecuniary troubles, from which he cannot possibly see any chance of emerging, incessantly dins in his own mental ears the most absurd sophisms to convince himself that his position is not so desperate as it appears. “Well, something must turn up,” he says: “things are sure to take a turn soon. I can get Jones to renew the bill which he holds of mine, when it becomes due--Tomkins will hold his bill over for a few weeks--and Brown will lend me the money to satisfy Smith.” In this manner does the poor devil go on with his castle-building, until he can no longer blow from his imagination’s pipe another soap-bubble wherewith to amuse himself. Jones positively refuses to renew--Tomkins proves inexorable in his demand for instantaneous payment--Brown, having heard of his difficulties, will not lend him a farthing--and Smith, anything but satisfied, puts a clencher on the whole through the medium of the sheriffs’-officer. Then, when the self-deluded wretch awakes from his dream, on finding himself in gaol or on his way to the Bankruptcy Court, he says to himself in the bitterness of his spirit, “I always knew it would come to this!”--although for years he had been straining every effort of the imagination to lull his mind into a contrary belief!

In the same way does the bashful lover, who has not as yet proposed to the object of his affections, but who nevertheless longs to do so, yet fears, because he has seen her smile more sweetly upon a handsomer youth than ever she did on him,--in the same way does he strive to persuade himself that she does really love him--that he has observed stealthy glances cast from her brilliant eyes towards him--that her hand has trembled in his own--that her voice has faltered when she has responded to his common-place remarks upon the weather, the opera, and the new novel--that it is a mere flirtation between herself and the other handsome youth,--in fine, that she is dying to receive the proposal which he has not the courage to make. And in this manner does he tutor himself to lead a life of “pleasing pain,” though all the while aware that the sorest misgivings lie at the bottom of his heart, beneath the superstructure of delusive hopes and fond imaginings which perforce he has conjured up there. Then, when at last he hears from some kind friend that the beautiful Miss So-and-so was married yesterday morning to the handsome young gentleman whom she had loved all along, the self-deluded wretch exclaims, “Ah! I never thought that she cared a fig for me!”

But worse--oh! far worse is it with the criminal! Let us take, for instance, the confidential clerk, who, for the sake of a mistress or through love of fine clothes and ostentatious display amongst his acquaintances, pilfers from his master’s till. At first his peculations were small and insignificant; but, being undiscovered, he grows bolder and more deeply guilty,--while he endeavours to reason himself out of the agonising fears that haunt him day and night--pursue him like the spectres of murdered victims--and turn his wine into gall, and the sweets of Beauty’s lip into bitterness. “It is impossible that I can be detected,” he mentally exclaims a thousand times in an hour: “my precautions are so well devised. In a large business such as this, a few shillings are not missed. Besides, I so arrange the entries in the books that the expenditure and the receipts are proportionate. My employer, too, is kinder towards me than ever: I possess his confidence--not for an instant would he suspect me! And even if I were found out,--not that I can be,--but, I say, even if I were, he would not suffer me to be disgraced--he would hush it up: he would never let me be dragged into the felon’s dock.” Thus will the infatuated being reason on, although he sees that his master is growing cold in his manner, and that there is a suspicion of foul play somewhere,--until at length the explosion takes place--the self-deluded mortal is hurried to a felon’s gaol--his employer proves inveterate and inexorable--he is doomed to transportation--and in the convict-ship he exclaims in terrible anguish of mind, while writhing as if in mortal agony upon his hard pallet, “Fool that I was not to have stopped short while it was yet time: for I always foresaw that this must inevitably be the end of it all!”

Gentle reader--never against your own settled convictions endeavour to set up a fabric of delusion: you may at length succeed in throwing the former into the background, and persuading yourself to believe that the latter is a substantial truth;--but you will in the long run discover to your cost that you have stepped out of the broad and straight highroad to flounder amidst the perils of an interminable bog.

CLXXII. A MAIDEN’S FIRST LOVE

The day, the incidents of which we are describing, and which are so numerous and diversified, was destined to be a memorable one in the life of Agnes Vernon.

The young maiden, on abruptly quitting Mrs. Mortimer, returned to the cottage; and, seating herself at the table in the elegant parlour, she arranged her drawing materials with the intention of continuing a landscape which she had commenced a few days previously.

But she was unsettled and restless: new sensations stole upon her--new feelings were excited in her bosom.

The solitude of the cottage suddenly appeared to be irksome; and she felt discontented with her condition--she knew not why.

Laying down her pencil, she rose from her seat, approached the window, and gazed forth upon the open country.

A carriage passed by: in it were two young ladies and two young gentlemen--and they were all in high spirits, conversing cheerfully and laughing gaily. Agnes sighed--for the thought struck her that she too might be happy, and she too might laugh gaily, if she only had friends and companions!

Presently a lady and gentleman, each on horseback, passed along the road in front of the cottage. They were proceeding at a very gentle pace, and were engaged in conversation. The veil was raised from the fair Amazon’s countenance, and was thrown back over her riding-hat; her cheeks were blooming with a carnation tinge, and her eyes were bent with melting tenderness on her companion, whose face was turned towards her, and whose language was doubtless pleasing to her ears. The countenance of that lady indicated such real pleasure--denoted such pure and genuine happiness, that again did a sigh escape from the bosom of Agnes Vernon, as she marvelled why she herself was retained in the prisonage of solitude, while other maidens of her own age had their acquaintances and their associates, and were allowed to divert themselves in walking or riding about the rural lanes and the roads that stretched amidst the green fields.

Never before had anything in the form of repining--never until this time had a sentiment partaking of discontent, arisen in the breast of Agnes Vernon. She endeavoured to conquer the feeling: she turned away from the window and played with a beautiful canary bird that fluttered from its perch towards the front of its handsome cage the moment she approached it;--but its chirping sounded no longer as sweet music in her ears--and, in the natural goodness of her gentle soul, she reproached herself for her indifference to the joyous testimonials offered by the little feathered chorister to its mistress.

She resumed her seat, and once more directed her attention to her drawing: but she felt in no humour for an employment that until now was amongst her most favourite recreations. Closing her portfolio, she took up “Ivanhoe,” in order to read the concluding pages of the tale: she however found her thoughts speedily wandering to other subjects,--the letter of Lord William Trevelyan--the discourse of Mrs. Mortimer--and the abrupt termination of her interview with that female. Throwing aside the book, she seated herself at the piano, and ran her taper fingers over the keys: but the music had no cheering influence upon her--produced no soothing effect on her restless soul.

Vexed and annoyed with herself for what she could not help, and almost alarmed at the change which had come over her, despite of her exertions to the contrary, the bewildered maiden returned to the garden and gathered fresh flowers wherewith to fill the vases in the parlour: but the tulip seemed less beautiful, the rose less fragrant, and the pink less sweet than she had ever before known them;--and her task was accomplished hurriedly and even neglectfully.

At length she sought an arbour in the most shady and retired part of the garden; and there--alone with her own thoughts--she fell into a profound reverie upon her secluded life, the mystery that enveloped her condition, the letter of Lord William Trevelyan, and the explanations that Mrs. Mortimer had given her respecting the passion of love.

For, oh! the gentle Agnes loved now:--hence this restlessness--hence this change which had come upon her!

She did not blame herself for the part she had enacted in respect to Trevelyan’s letter: her conscience told her that she had behaved with prudence and propriety;--but she was grieved to think that any words which had fallen from the lips of Mrs. Mortimer should have cast suspicion upon the sincerity of the individual who had penned the contents of that missive.

Then she thought within herself that perhaps the old woman had deceived her--that Trevelyan could not possibly empower his messenger to contradict with her lips the assurances he had committed to paper!

“Did he not say in his letter that he sought no secresy nor concealment in respect to my father?” she asked herself, in the course of her musings: “how, then, could he prompt his agent to enjoin the necessity of such secresy and such concealment? Ah! she has deceived me--and I have wronged him!”

A feeling of bitterness smote the tender heart of Agnes as she came to this conclusion: but, in the course of a few moments, the idea struck her that if Lord William Trevelyan received a faithful report of the particulars of her interview with Mrs. Mortimer that morning, he would recognise the propriety of her conduct in returning the letter.

But, ah! had she not bade Mrs. Mortimer desire the young nobleman to think no more of Agnes Vernon?--and might he not obey the injunction?

Poor, innocent Agnes! thine own love is as yet only in its infancy--and therefore thou comprehendest not the extent of that devotion which Trevelyan’s bosom harbours with regard to thee! Although within the space of a few hours thou hast learnt thy first lesson in the school of love, and though thy mental vision has obtained some insight into the mysteries of that passion which has at length shed its influence on thee,--although a portion of the veil has fallen from thine eyes, and thou canst now read more of the human heart than ever thou could’st before,--nevertheless, it is but a nascent flame--a germinating affection that animates thee,--a feeling as yet vague and undefinable: for thou art still so much the child of natural simplicity and artless ingenuousness, that thou canst not entertain a conception of the lasting and persevering nature of love;--thou knowest not enough of its essence and its power to initiate in thine imagination the thought that Trevelyan would no more heed thine injunction, even if it reached his ears, than the tempest will obey the human voice which dares to order its fury to subside!

For some hours did the beauteous Agnes remain in the arbour, plunged in love’s first reverie; and when the pretty housemaid appeared to inform her that dinner was served up, Miss Vernon started from the seat, exclaiming, “Is it possible that it can be four o’clock? I did not suppose that it was more than an hour past mid-day?”

Jane cast a look of surprise upon her mistress--but said nothing; and almost immediately afterwards the servant ceased to remember that there had been anything peculiar in the young lady’s manner--for Agnes composed her countenance, recalled her scattered thoughts, and hurried back to the cottage,--so that this very haste on her part was mistaken by the domestic for her usual gleesomeness of disposition.

The afternoon repast was soon disposed of; and Agnes returned to the garden, where she roamed about until the hour of sunset approached. The evening was warm and beautiful--the air was fragrant with the perfume of the flowers--and the hum of insect life was heard around. The scene had a soothing effect upon the young maiden’s soul; and, though she was wearied, she was unwilling as yet to return to the cottage. She felt less lonely in the spacious garden than she should be, as she well knew, in that parlour where she had vainly endeavoured in the morning to divert herself with her drawings, her music, and her books.

We know not how it was--but more than once during this evening ramble in her garden, did Agnes Vernon pass by that very spot where she had stood in the morning when held in conversation with Mrs. Mortimer. Those who love, or who have loved, will probably assert that it was the influence of some vague and undefined hope which thus occasionally directed the maiden’s footsteps thither,--a hope which nature prompted, although thus dimly, and in spite of the virgin purity and immaculate candour of her soul,--a hope, in fine, which whispered, softly as zephyr’s breath, in her ear, that Trevelyan’s messenger might return with an assurance from him that no instructions which he had given to that emissary in any way militated against the honourable, frank, and straightforward declarations contained in his letter.

And now, then, behold the beauteous Agnes standing on the very spot where in the morning she had read the letter that first awoke a scintillation of love’s fire in her bosom: behold her, motionless as a statue, amidst the foliage of that secluded part of the garden--her white dress delineating the soft and graceful outlines of her symmetrical form--and the rays of the sun, now low in the western horizon, playing upon her angelic countenance, as they penetrated through the trees that skirted the lane overlooked by the hedge.

Suddenly the maiden starts and listens--like the timid roe disturbed in the forest by a far-off sound resembling the bay of the hound.

The noise of wheels and of horses’ hoofs falls upon her ear: nearer and nearer that noise approaches--the vehicle is evidently coming down the lane!

Yet why does her heart palpitate?--why seems it like the fluttering bird in its cage? Is it an unusual thing for a carriage or a cart to pass that way? No: but there is in the maiden’s soul a presentiment that the occurrence now is not altogether unconnected with her destinies.

The sounds cease: the vehicle, whatever it may be, has stopped--and silence once more reigns around.

The sun is sinking lower and lower in the western horizon: yet it is still quite light;--but the ruddy lustre of the setting orb imparts a deep autumnal hue to the foliage--brings out into bolder relief the ripening apples, the yellow pears, and the crimson cherries that gem the boughs with their fruitage--and imparts a delicate glow to the beauteous countenance of the young lady, as, with lips apart and in attitude of suspense, she listens to catch the slightest sound that may indicate the approach of a human being.

And now there is a rustling as of silk and a tread as of light footsteps; and Agnes, who, in consequence of the surface of the garden being much higher than the lane on the other side of the hedge, can look over that verdant boundary,--Agnes beholds a lady advancing rapidly down the narrow thoroughfare.

A feeling of disappointment seizes upon her: she sees that it is not Mrs. Mortimer--and something tells her that Trevelyan would not employ another female emissary.

Then it strikes her that she ought to rejoice that no farther progress should be made in the young nobleman’s suit during her father’s absence; and she feels that she has done wrong even to remain standing in that spot under the influence of a contrary expectation and of a tender though dimly significant hope.

With a sigh, the beauteous creature is about to turn away and re-enter the cottage, when,--oh! wonder and amazement!--with renewed suspense and reviving hope, she hears herself called by her name--called, too, in the tenderest, most melting tones of a woman’s voice.

“Agnes--dearest Agnes! Stay--oh! stay--if only for a few moments! Stay--I implore you--beloved girl: you know not who it is that thus addresses you!”

These words were uttered in a voice of warm and passionate affection--so that a deep and absorbing interest was at once created in the bosom of Agnes towards that lady of whose handsome countenance she had now a full view, and the earnest, appealing expression of whose features gave additional import to her enthusiastic exclamations.

“Madam--I will stay--I will not depart immediately,” faltered Agnes, forgetting her father’s injunctions relative to the caution which she was to exercise in regard to strangers: “but how do you know who I am?--and who are you?”

“Oh! that she should ask me who I am!” cried the lady, clasping her hands together in deep anguish. “But how beautiful she is!” exclaimed the stranger, in an altered and rejoicing tone: “how faithful, too, is the portrait! Agnes--dearest Agnes--I have much to say to you--much to impart that you will be delighted to learn: but must we continue to discourse thus, with this barrier between us? Can you not come to me?--or will you permit me to come to you? I long--oh! how I long to embrace you, dear girl that you are; and though we are but a few feet apart--yet does this garden-boundary separate us most cruelly!”

“Madam--I know not how to answer you,” murmured Agnes, strange feelings of mingled pleasure, apprehension, and hope agitating in her heart, as if that heart were a well of deep, inexhaustible, and yet incomprehensible emotions. “Your words seem to move me more than I can explain----”

“Yes--Agnes--dear Agnes,” ejaculated the lady, stretching out her arms in an appealing manner towards the maiden: “’tis the voice of nature that speaks within you! But you hesitate to trust yourself with me? Ah! doubtless you have been warned--doubtless you have been urged to act with caution----Oh! my God--that you should look with an eye of suspicion upon me!”

And with these words, which were uttered in a tone indicative of the most acute anguish, the lady burst into a flood of tears.

Agnes stood blanched, and trembling, and speechless,--having a deep conviction that the lady’s fate was in some way linked with her own--yet not daring to form a conjecture as to the nature of the tie that thus mysteriously bound them together. A secret impulse appeared to urge her towards the weeping stranger; and she felt that were the arms again extended towards her, and were there no barrier in her way, she should precipitate herself upon that stranger’s bosom, that they might mingle their tears together and interchange the sympathies that already drew them to each other.

“Agnes--dearest Agnes,” exclaimed the lady, suddenly breaking silence and wiping away the traces of her grief,--speaking, too, in a voice of heart-touching appeal,--“I implore you to come to me--or to show me how I may enter those precincts without being observed by the inmates of the dwelling! But, say--tell me,” she added, a sudden thought striking her,--“is he--your father--there?”

“My father is in Paris,” replied Agnes: “he----”

“Thank God!” ejaculated the stranger, with an enthusiasm that astonished and even startled the maiden. “But Mrs. Gifford--is she still alive?--is she still in attendance on you?”

“She is in the house at this moment,” returned Agnes, more and more surprised at these questions--not only on account of their nature, which showed that the lady was acquainted with many circumstances regarding her condition; but also in consequence of the vehemence with which they were put.

“Then how can I join you in that garden?” demanded the lady, in a tone of bitter disappointment. “Oh! Agnes, you know not how ardent are the yearnings--how intense the longings that prompt me even to dash through this hedge and fold you to my bosom! Cruel girl--keep me not thus in an agony of suspense; but come--come to my arms--as if I were your mother!”

“My mother!” exclaimed Agnes, in a voice of mingled hope and amazement--while such indescribable emotions started into existence in her bosom, that she felt overpowered by their influence, and staggering back a few paces, would have fallen to the ground had she not leant against a tree for support.

“Agnes--Agnes!” cried the lady, imploringly: “give not way to thoughts that will deprive you of your presence of mind--for you need all your self-possession now! Agnes--dear Agnes--answer me----”

“Who are you? O heaven! such strange ideas--such wild hopes--such bewildering presentiments crowd upon my soul,” exclaimed the beauteous maiden, “that I know not how to act nor what to conjecture!”

And, again approaching the hedge, she passed her hand across her brow, throwing from her face the shower of curls that had fallen in disorder over that charming countenance--the luxuriant locks having been disturbed by the movement given to the neat little straw bonnet when she staggered against the tree.

“You ask me who I am,” said the lady: “oh! pity my suspense--have mercy upon me--come to my arms--and I will tell you all.”

“Stay there, madam--dear madam,” cried Agnes, without another instant’s hesitation--so earnest, so pathetic was that last appeal: “and I will join you at all risks!”