The time has come when all true Reformers must band together for the public weal. Let there be union,—union of all sects and parties who are in favour of progress, no matter what their denomination may be,—whether Republicans, Radicals, Chartists, or Democrats. “Union Is strength,” says the proverb; and the truth thereof maybe fully justified and borne out in the present age, and in the grand work of moral agitation for the People’s Rights.15
We now proceed with the thread of our narrative; but it is not necessary to give at any length the particulars of the interview which took place between Lord Ellingham and Richard Markham, now Grand Duke of Castelcicala. Suffice it to say, that his Sovereign Highness, though deeply afflicted by the news of his father-in-law’s demise, welcomed the English nobleman with the utmost cordiality, and immediately consented to receive Charles Hatfield as one of his aides-de-camp. The Earl hastened back to Pall-mall, and, sending for the young man to his private apartment, reasoned with him in an impressive way upon the necessity of retrieving the past by the conduct which he should pursue in future. Charles listened with profound attention to all that the excellent peer said upon this occasion, and promised that his behaviour should henceforth render him worthy of all the signal favours bestowed upon him.
The preparations for his departure were in the meantime made with all possible despatch; and in the course of a few hours Charles Hatfield took leave of his family, and hastened to Markham Place, to join the suite of the new Sovereign of Castelcicala.
Mrs. Mortimer,—as we must now call her whom we have already known as Mrs. Slingsby, Mrs. Torrens, and Mrs. Fitzhardinge,—arrived in London two days after the scene which took place between her daughter and herself in the Rue Monthabor at Paris.
The wily woman was intent upon accomplishing the aim that had brought her back to the English metropolis; but as the reader may well imagine, she had not the least trace of her husband—nor the slightest clue to his whereabout. Indeed, it was only a conjecture with her that he was in London at all;—but she had worked this suspicion up into a certainty in her own mind; and the object she hoped to gain was quite important enough to lead her to resolve upon leaving no stone unturned in order to arrive at a successful issue.
On setting foot in the metropolis, she took up her abode at a small coffee-house in an obscure street in the Borough of Southwark; and having assumed a somewhat mean attire, she repaired, in the dusk of the evening after her arrival, to the vicinity of the dwelling which in former times bore the name of Torrens Cottage.
This house, as the reader will recollect, was situate between Streatham and Norwood; and the old woman, who knew the world well, and read the human heart profoundly, calculated that Torrens, impelled by that inscrutable and mysterious curiosity which prompts persons under such circumstances, was likely, if indeed in London, to visit the neighbourhood where he had once dwelt, and which had proved for him the scene of such dire misfortune.
Mrs. Mortimer knew that Torrens had passed many happy days at that cottage, and had there cherished the grandest hopes of acquiring a great fortune by means of building-speculations: she was also aware that he had at the same place bargained for the sale of his daughter’s virtue—beheld the ravisher lying murdered upon the sofa—and been arrested on suspicion of the heinous crime. The place, then, was replete with the most varied and conflicting reminiscences for the old man; and Mrs. Mortimer said to herself, “The morbid feelings which must exist in such a heart as his, will probably induce him to visit the neighbourhood of the house that once was his home.”
Such was her calculation; and, acting upon this impression, she sped on foot towards the dwelling where she had once dwelt a few brief hours as the wife of the man whom she was searching after.
It was nine o’clock in the evening when she turned into the lane where twenty years before Tom Rain had robbed Frank Curtis of the two thousand pounds.
In a few minutes Mrs. Mortimer came in sight of the cottage, the walls of which were glistening white amidst the summer evening semi-obscurity; and her heart beat quickly as she thought of the long—long time that had elapsed since she last saw that spot where she also had been arrested on a capital charge!
What changes—what vicissitudes had marked her existence since that epoch!
She had been in Newgate, and had there given birth to a daughter, who had accompanied her into exile:—the daughter had grown up—had become as profligate, though not altogether as criminal as her mother—and had at length defied the authority of that parent who thus surpassed her in the extent of her iniquity!
Yes—many and striking had been the events that had characterised the old woman’s career since last she saw those white, glistening walls:—but there was the cottage apparently unchanged in outward appearance,—although it was more completely hemmed in by trees than when she quitted it upwards of nineteen years back.
For the large trees which were there in her time, had grown larger, and the saplings had expanded into trees also;—and a high, thick, verdant hedge surrounded the garden.
“Ah!” thought the old woman to herself, as she sped down the lane, “I could almost wish that the cottage was mine, and that I might retire with a competency to this sweet seclusion, no more to commingle in the strife and turmoil of the great—the busy—the jarring world. But this may not be! My life is destined to be stormy until the end. I feel that it is—and I must yield to the destiny that urges me on!”
Melancholy sentiments had risen up in her soul as she gave way to these thoughts; but their current was suddenly cut short—or rather diverted into another channel, when, emerging from the lane, she found herself in front of the cottage.
A light was visible through the shutters of the parlour—that very parlour where Sir Henry Courtenay was murdered, and whither she herself was borne in a fainting fit, after having been arrested in the hall on a charge of forgery.
A cold shudder crept over the old wretch, hardened and heartless as she was: for she remembered all the acuteness—all the intensity of the anguish she had experienced, when she had awakened to consciousness on that dread occasion, and found herself in the custody of the servitors of justice.
Exercising, however, a powerful control over her feelings, she stepped up to the front-door, and knocked boldly,—not in a sneaking, timid, uncertain manner, but with firmness and decision.
The summons was almost immediately answered by a pretty-looking, neatly-dressed, and very respectable servant-maid of about eighteen or nineteen; and Mrs. Mortimer’s eyes now commanded a view of the hall where the constables had made her their prisoner,—that fatal incident which became as it were an ominous and most conspicuous finger-post in the road of her chequered existence!
“Can I be permitted, without causing inconvenience, to speak a few words to your master or mistress?” inquired Mrs. Mortimer, subduing the feelings aroused by the reminiscences of the past, and addressing herself to the business of the present.
“Surely you must have made some mistake,” said the servant-girl, speaking, however, in a mild and respectful tone. “No gentleman resides here.”
“Then allow me to see your mistress, young woman,” persisted Mrs. Mortimer, slipping two half-crowns into the maid’s hand.
“I will carry your message to my mistress,” said the domestic coldly, and at the same time indignantly repulsing the proffered bribe. “Walk in, if you please.”
Mrs. Mortimer entered the hall; and as the light of the lamp suspended to the ceiling now fell fully upon her, the servant-maid saw that she was somewhat meanly dressed, and that her countenance was none of the most pleasant to look upon. The impression thus made upon the domestic was not particularly favourable towards the old woman; but the girl was artless and unsuspicious naturally, and therefore strove to smother a feeling which she fancied to be uncharitable towards a complete stranger. She was therefore about to enter the parlour to deliver the message of the visitor, when the door of that room suddenly opened, and a beautiful young creature, of about nineteen, made her appearance.
We must pause for a for minutes to describe the being that burst, like a seraphic vision, upon the amazed and dazzled sight of Mrs. Mortimer.
Picture to yourself, reader, a tall, sylph-like figure of exquisite symmetry, reminding the observer of the Grecian models of classic female beauty,—with the deeply-hollowed back—the swelling chest and bosom, well matured but not voluptuously large—and the high, swan-like neck on which the oval head was gracefully fixed,—then fancy a countenance of the most agreeable expression and rare loveliness, with eyes not very large, but of the deepest black and most melting softness, and with brows finely arched and somewhat thickly pencilled,—a forehead lofty and smooth, and over which the raven hair was parted in two massive, shining bands,—a nose with the slightest trace of the Roman curve, and with the nostrils pink as delicate rose-leaves,—a small mouth, the least thing plump and pouting, and revealing teeth small, even, and white as pearls,—and a complexion of a clear, living white, with the carnation flush of health upon either cheek;—picture to yourself all this assemblage of charms, gentle reader, and you will then have a complete idea of the enchanting creature of nineteen, who suddenly appeared on the threshold of the parlour-door.
We may, however, add, ere we resume the thread of our narrative, that this beauteous being was attired in a white dress, with a high corsage, and that she wore no other ornaments than a pair of ear-rings, and a fancy ring on one of her taper fingers.
Advancing towards Mrs. Mortimer, she said in a musical voice and a kind tone, “I think I overheard you request a few minutes’ interview with the mistress of this house——”
“Such was indeed the favour I solicited,” observed the old woman, hastily. “If my presence would not inconvenience you for a little while,—and if you will accept my sincere apologies for the apparent obtrusiveness of the request, as well as for the lateness of the hour at which it is made——”
“Oh! pray do not deem it necessary to excuse a proceeding which I am sure you will explain to my satisfaction,” interrupted the young lady, with a sincerity which emanated from the artlessness of a disposition entirely unsophisticated. “Walk in, madam,” she added, in a kind and by no means ceremonial tone, as she conducted Mrs. Mortimer into the parlour, the door of which the servant-maid immediately closed behind them.
Mrs. Mortimer now found herself in the very room which was fraught with so many exciting and varied reminiscences for her. The golden lustre of the handsome lamp which stood upon the table, was shed upon the scene of those crushing incidents that had suddenly made her a prisoner for a forgery which she had committed, and her husband a prisoner on a charge of murder of which he was innocent!
The old woman sank into a chair, and gazed around her with no affectation of emotion. The appointments of the room were changed—materially changed, it was true: but her eyes, nevertheless, recognised full well—oh! full well—the very spot where had stood the sofa on which she had awakened to the consciousness of her desperate condition,—the spot, too, where Torrens was standing when the officers arrested him on suspicion of the murder of Sir Henry Courtenay!
For a few minutes the old woman was powerfully affected by the recollections thus vividly conjured up; but, at length calling all her courage to her aid, she regained her self-possession—and then a rapid survey made her acquainted with the elegant and tasteful style in which the parlour was now fitted up. All the furniture seemed to be nearly new. Upon the table in the middle were several drawings, in pencil and in water-colours, lying in an open portfolio—a box of paints and brushes—and several prettily bound volumes of the best modern English poets. Where a sofa had been placed in the time when Mrs. Mortimer last knew the cottage, a handsome upright pianoforte now stood; and in the nearest corner was a magnificent harp. On the cheffoniers in the window-recesses were porcelain vases filled with flowers; and to the walls were suspended several excellent pictures, the subjects of which were chiefly landscapes. Everything, in a word, denoted the chaste elegance and delicate refinement of the taste that had presided in the fitting up of that room.
Mrs. Mortimer, having recovered her self-possession, turned towards the young lady, who had been watching her with mingled interest and surprise.
“You will pardon me,” said the old woman, “if I were for a few moments overcome by reminiscence of an affecting nature——”
“Compose yourself, madam—pray, compose yourself,” interrupted the beauteous girl, in a sweet tone and winning manner; for not only was the most artless amiability natural to her, but she thought she perceived in the language of her visitor something superior to what the condition of her apparel and her personal appearance generally would have otherwise led her to infer.
“Never can I sufficiently thank you for the urbanity—the kindness, with which you treat me, my dear young lady!” exclaimed the old woman. “But am I not intruding upon your leisure—perhaps keeping you away from some companion——”
“Oh! no—I am all alone here,” said the young lady, with an ingenuous frankness that excited a feeling of interest—almost of admiration, even in the breast of such an one as Mrs. Mortimer. “When I say alone,” continued the beauteous creature, “I do not of course allude to the servants—because they cannot be called companions, you know; although the old housekeeper is very kind and good-natured; and Jane—the maid who gave you admission just now—is a sweet-tempered girl.”
“And is it possible that you dwell here in complete seclusion!” demanded the old woman, rendering her voice as mild and her manner as conciliating as possible.
“Oh! I am accustomed to this seclusion, as you style it, madam,” exclaimed the young lady, gaily: “for years I have lived in this manner, with my books—my music—my drawings;—and I am very happy,” she added, in a tone which left not a doubt as to the sincerity of her statement. “At the same time,” she continued, after a few moments’ pause, and in a somewhat more serious voice, “I could wish that my dear papa visited me a little oftener—and that circumstances, of which I am however ignorant did not prevent——”
“What! does not your father live with you, my dear young lady?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, surveying her with the most unfeigned surprise.
“Alas! he does not,” replied the artless girl, her looks and her tone now becoming suddenly mournful: but, in the next moment, her countenance brightened up, and she observed, “At the same time I am wrong to give way to sorrow in that respect, since my dear father assures me that the reasons are most important—most grave——”
She checked herself: for it suddenly struck her that she was bestowing her confidence upon one who was a total stranger to her, and that such frankness might possibly be indiscreet.
“And your mother, my dear lady?” said Mrs. Mortimer, interrogatively.
“I never knew her,” answered the lovely creature, in a low and almost sad tone. “But I have been all this time wearying you with remarks and revelations concerning myself—forgetting that I should have first suffered you to give the promised explanation relative to your visit. You may address me as Miss Vernon—or Agnes Vernon, if you choose: for that is my name. And now, tell me the object of your call.”
Mrs. Mortimer gazed in astonishment upon the charming being who was seated opposite to her. Never had the old woman beheld so fascinating a specimen of infantine artlessness and unsophisticated candour. There was nothing artificial—nothing unreal in Agnes Vernon: the innocence of her soul—the purity of her mind—the chastity of her thoughts, were apparent in every word she uttered and in every feature of her bewitching face!
Yes—the old woman gazed long and ardently upon the sweet countenance of that young creature,—gazed as if in an adoration forced upon a savage mind by the apparition of some radiant being from a heavenly sphere!
“Madam, I am waiting for you to reply to me,” said Agnes, looking down and blushing deeply, beneath the steadfast gaze thus fixed upon her.
“A thousand pardons, Miss Vernon,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, recovering her self-possession. “I was lost in thought: many—many reflections, of a varied and conflicting nature, pressed upon my mind,—for I must inform you that I was once the occupant of this beautiful little house——”
“Indeed!” ejaculated the young lady, who now began to suspect—or, at least, thought that she had obtained a glimpse of—the motive which had brought her visitor thither. “You have come, then, to cast your eyes upon a spot which is familiar to you?”
“Precisely so, Miss Vernon,” said the old woman. “And now let me announce myself to you as Mrs. Mortimer. I am the widow of a General in the army, and have only just returned from India.”
“Oh! then I can well understand, my dear madam,” cried Agnes, firmly believing every word that was said to her,—“I can well understand your anxiety and longing to visit the place where you doubtless once dwelt with the husband you have lost.”
“You have read my purpose accurately, Miss,” said the old woman, wiping her eyes as if she were moved to tears by reminiscences of the past.
“But this is most singular, indeed!” suddenly exclaimed the young lady.
Mrs. Mortimer gazed upon her with astonishment; for the observation that had just escaped Miss Vernon’s lips was as extraordinary as the impulse which had prompted it was mysterious.
“Yes,” continued the beautiful creature: “this is indeed most singular!”
“Are you surprised at my boldness in thus obtruding myself upon your presence?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, fixing her eyes in a searching manner upon the charming countenance of the young lady: “or do you doubt the existence of the sentiment which brought me hither?”
“Oh! no—no, madam!” exclaimed Agnes, in a tone of the deepest sincerity, while her features suddenly betrayed the grief which she experienced at being suspected of what she would have regarded as a cruel scepticism. “I am sure you could have no other motive for coming hither than the one you alleged: but I said it was singular—because, another person—a few days ago——”
“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, a sudden idea striking her: in a word, she already felt confident that her visit would not prove abortive, and that she had acted with sagacity in seeking the first trace of Torrens at the very house which he had inhabited years ago.
“You now appear to be surprised in your turn,” observed Agnes, struck by the ejaculation which had burst from the old woman’s lips.
“Yes, dear young lady,” said Mrs. Mortimer; “I was indeed surprised—inasmuch as I gathered from your words that another person, actuated by the same sentiment as that which brought me to this spot——”
“And do you know that other person, then?” inquired Agnes.
“That is precisely what I have now to ascertain,” answered the old woman. “The moment I understood the sense of your observation respecting the visit of another individual to the cottage, I began to wonder whether it were any friend of my earlier years—perhaps even a relative——”
“He was an old man, with grey hair and a care-worn countenance,” said Agnes, perceiving that Mrs. Mortimer paused and seemed to be deeply affected; “and he told me that he also had once dwelt in this house. He sate down in this very parlour, and appeared to be overcome with grief for a long time. I offered to leave the room, that he might be alone with his mournful reflections: but he conjured me to stay. And then he informed me that he had known griefs so profound—vicissitudes so terrible—privations so great, that they had almost driven him mad; and, when I proposed in as delicate a manner as possible to afford him such relief as my means would permit, he assured me that he was poor no longer, and that he had gold at his command. Then, in another moment, he exclaimed, with an emphasis which almost frightened me—‘But, oh! that I were indeed the penniless, half-starving wretch I was some days ago!’”
“Ah! he said that—did he?” muttered the old woman to herself. “Remorse has already overtaken him—and he will the more easily yield to my menaces and become my victim!”
“I did not catch your observation, madam,” said Agnes.
“I was only musing, my dear child,” hastily responded Mrs. Mortimer, “upon the misfortunes of this strange world of ours. Doubtless some dreadful affliction had touched the brain of that poor old man of whom you have been speaking.”
“Such was indeed my fear,” exclaimed Agnes; “and, much as I pitied him, I confess that I was greatly relieved when he took his departure.”
“Was his visit a long one, my dear young lady?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.
“He remained here for upwards of an hour,” was the reply.
“And was it in the evening that he called?” inquired the old woman.
“Yes—between eight and nine o’clock; and he rose from his seat as the time-piece struck ten,” responded Agnes. “I know not precisely wherefore—but it is nevertheless true that his presence began to alarm me, although I had done him no injury, and indeed had never in my life seen him before. But there was such a wild expression in his eyes——”
“Ah! doubtless the poor old man was overcome by many painful recollections,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “I suppose he did not mention his name to you, Miss Vernon?”
“No—and I did not like to ask him,” was the frank and ingenuous reply. “His mind was evidently much unsettled,—for it alternated between a profound grief and a restless excitement—so that while he was here, I was at one moment moved to sympathise with him, and at another forced to regard him with vague apprehension. When he spoke of the fact that he himself had once been the occupant of this dwelling, he glanced hastily around the parlour, and murmured three or four times in a tone scarcely audible, ‘This is the very room—the very room!’ I could not divine what he meant, and of course dared not ask him,” added Agnes, with that charming ingenuousness of manner which denoted the pure child of nature, untainted by the artificial formalities of a vitiated state of society.
“How long have you resided here, Miss?” inquired the old woman, after a brief pause, during which she reflected on all that the beauteous girl had just told her,—at the same time chuckling inwardly at the certainty of having ascertained two grand facts: namely, that Torrens was possessed of plenty of gold, and that he was in London.
“I have lived in this pretty house for nearly three years, madam,” answered Agnes. “Before that period I——But now,” she added, checking herself, “I am again troubling you with my own affairs, whereas you have sufficient upon your mind to engross all your attention. Oh! yes—you must have,” exclaimed the artless girl,—“having only just returned to England after so long an absence in India! But you did not tell me whether you recognised in the old gentleman of whom I have been speaking, any relative or friend—any person, in fine, in whom you are interested.”
“Yes, my dear young lady,” responded Mrs. Mortimer; “methinks that he cannot be altogether unknown to me;—and yet, my thoughts are so bewildered at this moment—the reminiscences which have been awakened in my mind by this visit to a spot where I myself once dwelt, and where I have passed so many happy hours with my dear deceased husband, General Mortimer——”
“Oh! do not weep, madam—compose yourself, I beseech you!” exclaimed Agnes, whose unsuspicious soul was touched by the grief which her artful visitor simulated so aptly.
“Dear young lady,” murmured Mrs. Mortimer, pressing Miss Vernon’s hand to her lips, “you will perhaps allow me to visit you again?”
“Oh! certainly,” was the reply, given with cheerful and unaffected cordiality. “You are the widow of an officer of high rank—and therefore I cannot be doing wrong by receiving you at my house. At the same time,” added Agnes, after a moment’s reflection, “I do not imagine that my father——”
But the young lady’s remark was cut short in the middle by a loud knocking at the front-door. Mrs. Mortimer started up, as she felt that she was an intruder, and that her business there was of an equivocal character not likely to stand the test of any inquiry that might be put by a person less artless and unsophisticated than Miss Vernon herself: but that young lady, having a pure conscience, and not dreaming that she had even acted with imprudence in permitting a stranger to foist herself upon her, said in a cheerful manner, “Oh! it is my father’s knock—I know it well! You need not be uneasy.”
At this moment the parlour-door opened, and the pretty maid-servant appeared on the threshold to usher in a gentleman of whose personal appearance we must give a brief description.
The individual alluded to was a man of middle height, of rather spare form, and slightly bowed—so that although his years in reality had scarcely numbered sixty, a casual beholder might have pronounced him to be above seventy. A closer observation would, however, have dispelled this first impression; for his features were handsome and well-preserved, his teeth remarkably fine, and his hands entirely free from those wrinkles which usually appear upon the fingers of persons in the winter of their existence. His hair was of that iron grey which showed that it still retained a faint shade of its former blackness; and baldness had not even begun to rob him of any part of that natural covering. He wore no whiskers; and his countenance was smooth, but pale. In a word, his frame still preserved much of its pristine vigour; though its spareness and the slightly curved back were calculated, as above mentioned, to impress a casual observer with the idea that the individual whom we are describing was older than in reality he was.
We have said that his features were handsome; and we should now state that their general expression was pleasing, conciliating, and agreeable. Amiability of disposition, generosity of heart, and an acquaintance with affliction, were easily read upon that calm, pensive countenance; but, commingled therewith, was an air of serene dignity which bespoke a consciousness of some kind of superiority—whether of rank, wealth, or intellect, could not, however, be immediately decided by the observer. At all events, the person whom we have now introduced to our readers was not one to be passed by with indifference, nor confounded with the ordinary mass of mankind. We must, however, explain that he was rather characterised by a distinguished air of good breeding and consummate politeness than by aristocratic hauteur; at the same time there was so much dignity and loftiness about him as to debar even the most obtrusive and unceremonious from taking advantage of that blandness of disposition which was expressed by the countenance. We have only to add that he was dressed with taste, if not elegance; and the reader has before him as perfect a picture as we can draw of the personal appearance of the individual who now entered the parlour of the cottage.
The moment he had crossed the threshold of the room, Agnes sprang towards him, saying, “My dearest father, I am delighted to see you! But let me hope that nothing unpleasant has caused this late visit.”
And, as she spoke, she embraced with almost infantine tenderness the parent who affectionately returned her caresses.
“Nothing unpleasant, my dear child,” was the reply; and then the young maiden’s father cast an enquiring glance towards Mrs. Mortimer.
“This lady,” said Agnes, “is the widow of a General who recently died in India; and, having herself occupied the cottage many years ago, she felt anxious, on her return to England, to visit the place which had so many pleasing and some melancholy associations for her.”
“The lady is most welcome,” observed the gentleman; “and her name——”
“Is Mrs. Mortimer,” added Agnes: then, with ingenuous affability, she said, turning to the old woman, “Madam, permit me to introduce my beloved father, Mr. Vernon.”
But Mr. Vernon bowed coldly, and even eyed the visitor suspiciously, as he observed, “I was not aware that any General-officer bearing the name of Mortimer had recently died in India.”
“My deceased husband,” said the old woman, with admirable presence of mind, “was not in the English service. He was in that of the Honourable East India Company.”
“I was not aware,” repeated Mr. Vernon, still in the same chilling tone, “that there were General-officers in the service of the East India Company. Madam,” he continued, now fixing his gaze sternly upon her, “wherefore have you come hither?—on what pretence have you intruded yourself upon the sacred privacy of my daughter?”
“The motive was the one which Miss Vernon has explained to you, sir,” replied Mrs. Mortimer, whose self-possession had been for a few moments considerably disturbed by the confident manner in which the young lady’s father had exposed her second falsehood.
“Then, if that motive were really the true one, madam,” he said, his sternness again changing to freezing politeness, “your object is probably gained by this time; and, as it is now ten o’clock, you will perhaps have the kindness to leave me with my daughter.”
“Oh! assuredly, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, glad of an opportunity to escape from the house; and Mr. Vernon, with constrained courtesy, hastened to open the door to afford her egress.
The old woman breathed more freely when she was once more outside the walls of the cottage; for the sudden advent of the young maiden’s father had not a little embarrassed, even if it had not altogether discomfited her.
But no sooner was she in the open air, when she began to ask herself a thousand questions as she retraced her way up the lane.
What meant the mystery which evidently hung around the present occupant of the cottage?—wherefore did that charming creature dwell there alone?—why was her father only a visitor, instead of being a resident at his daughter’s abode?—and for what aim, or through what motive, was so fair a flower buried in such seclusion?
That Agnes was indeed the pure, innocent, artless creature which she appeared to be, the old crone was sure. Too well acquainted with the world was Mrs. Mortimer not to perceive that the ingenuous naïveté of the young girl was real and natural, and not artificial and assumed. For an instant the impure imagination of the wretch had suggested that Miss Vernon might only be the pensioned mistress of some wealthy individual; but in another moment that hypothesis was altogether discarded. No: Agnes was not tainted with even the slightest—faintest shade of immorality: her mind was innocence itself—and her chastity as unblemished as the driven snow. Even the old woman, whose life had been so tremendously dissolute, was compelled to embrace this conviction; but the very experience which she herself had gained in the sphere of licentiousness, dissimulation, and guile, helped Mrs. Mortimer to arrive at that unquestionable conclusion.
Who and what, then, was Agnes Vernon;—who and what was her father?
Mrs. Mortimer was a person having an eye to her own individual advantage in every circumstance which, coming under her cognisance, seemed to present a chance of affording scope for her selfish, interested, sinister interference. Wherever a mystery appeared, there she beheld an opportunity for her officious meddling: this officious meddling led to the discovery of secrets and to the eliciting of revelations:—and the information thus gleaned became a sort of marketable commodity with Mrs. Mortimer. In a word, she would seek to gain the confidence of those who had matters of importance to communicate, so that she might subsequently render herself so useful as to deserve payment, or at all events acquire the position of one who could exact a good price for her secresy respecting the things so imprudently entrusted to her.
Calculations in accordance with this disposition on her part, and having reference to the cottage which she had just left, were passing in her mind as she sped along the lane,—when, midway in that narrow thoroughfare, she was overtaken by some one who had hurried after her, but whose footsteps she had not heard, in the pre-occupation of her thoughts, until they were close behind her.
She stepped—turned round—and beheld, by the bright starlight, a tall young gentleman, apparently handsome so far as she could distinguish his features, and dressed in an elegant style.
“Pardon me, my good woman,” said he, “for addressing you; but observing that you came from the cottage yonder——”
“Yes, sir—I did,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, who, in her eagerness to learn the motive of the young gentleman’s accosting her, gave him encouragement to proceed.
“Tell me,” said he, speaking with an equal impatience,—“tell me—do you know the beautiful creature who dwells in that seclusion? But of course you must know her—you have been there—perhaps in her company——”
“I have only just left her presence,” observed Mrs. Mortimer.
“And you are well acquainted with her, then?” cried the young gentleman, eagerly.
“Perfectly well,” was the answer. “But wherefore these questions?”
“Oh! if I could trust you!” ejaculated the stranger, in a tone that alike proffered and invited confidence.
“You can—you may,” said the old woman, impressively.
“If I were assured of that, I would reward you well,” was his next remark.
“How can I prove that I am trustworthy?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.
“By telling me all you know concerning the beauteous creature who resides in that strange seclusion,” responded the young gentleman.
“Then you yourself know nothing of her or of her affairs?” said the old woman, interrogatively.
“Nothing—absolutely nothing—save and except that she is the most lovely being that mortal eyes ever beheld!”
“You are not even aware that she has resided there for these three years past?” observed Mrs. Mortimer, assuming a mysterious tone as if about to become more communicative.
“Yes—that fact I have learnt,” replied the young gentleman; “and also that her name is Agnes Vernon. I have moreover ascertained that an elderly gentleman visits her occasionally;—and I have sometimes harboured the worst fears——But, no—no,” he exclaimed, suddenly interrupting himself and speaking in an impassioned tone: “such suspicions are no doubt foully injurious to that charming creature! I have contemplated her, myself being unseen, for hours together when she has been walking in her garden,—and purity, innocence, artlessness are written upon her spotless brow—traced in every lineament of her bewitching countenance. Oh! If I could only obtain the assurance that the old man who thus visits her were a relation—a guardian—or a valued friend,—that he is nothing more to her than——”
“I can relieve you of this suspense, sir,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “and thereby give you a proof of my readiness to assist you. The elderly gentleman whom you have seen visiting at that cottage, and who indeed is there at this moment——”
“Yes—yes—I saw him enter,” exclaimed the young man, impatiently. “But who is he?”
“Her father!” answered Mrs. Mortimer.
“Her father!” repeated the stranger. “Oh! that is scarcely probable! You are deceiving me:—you are pretending to give me explanations relative to mysteries which are likewise enigmas to you,—or you are purposely deluding me! Her father!—impossible! What—would a parent leave his daughter—and that daughter so transcendently lovely—to dwell in such utter seclusion——”
“Such is indeed the case, sir,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have little cause to thank you for thus boldly and even insolently accusing me of wilfully deceiving you.”
And, as she thus spoke, the old woman moved rapidly away, well knowing that the young gentleman would not part with her in this manner.
“Stop one minute—stay—I beseech you—and pardon me!” he exclaimed, hastening after her. “I was wrong to address you in such a style: I insulted you grossly—and I crave your forgiveness. But I was bewildered with the intelligence you gave me: mingled joy and surprise deprived me, as it were, of my reason. I imagined the information to be too welcome and too extraordinary to be true!”
“And yet you ere now sought to persuade yourself that Agnes Vernon was chaste and pure, though you were then ignorant of the connexion subsisting between herself and the elderly gentleman who visits her—a connexion which, previously to the explanation I have given you, must at least have appeared suspicious, and calculated to raise the most serious misgivings in your breast.”
“I admit that my conduct is most inconsistent,” exclaimed the young gentleman, in answer to these reproachful words: “but I love Agnes Vernon—I adore her—I worship the very ground upon which she treads——”
“And you have never yet spoken to her?” asked the old woman.
“I have never dared to intrude myself so far upon her notice,” was the reply: “and yet she has seen me frequently in the neighbourhood——”
“But she never gave you the least encouragement, sir,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, as if making an assertion, instead of throwing out a remark for the sake of gleaning information.
“Never—never!” exclaimed the young man; “and therefore did I think so well of her character, in spite of the suspicious circumstances attending her seclusion.”
“You have, then, the vanity to suppose that if the beautiful Agnes could have smiled upon any man, you were destined to be that happy one;”—and, as Mrs. Mortimer made this remark, her voice assumed a somewhat caustic tone.
“Oh! you have misunderstood my words,” cried the stranger. “I intended to have you infer that I had never seen any thing in the demeanour and deportment of Agnes Vernon save what is becoming to a young lady of good birth, genteel breeding, and taintless soul. At the same time,” he added, proudly, “I flatter myself that there is nothing particularly disagreeable in my personal appearance, as there is assuredly everything favourable in my social position. But of this Agnes is ignorant; and I am desirous to obtain an interview with her—or to write to her in a respectful manner——”
“And what has hitherto prevented you from doing either?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.
“I have already told you that I dared not accost her. Often and often have I longed to burst through the green hedge which has concealed me from her view, and throw myself at her feet: but an invisible hand has restrained me—and I have experienced a species of awe for which I could not account, and which has made me feel as if I were in the vicinity of a goddess. Then, as to writing to her,” continued the impassioned young man, “I was once bold enough to commit a few words to paper—and I endeavoured to persuade the young servant-girl to give the note to her mistress.”
“And she treated you with contempt,” said Mrs. Mortimer, anticipating the fate of the billet from the fact that Jane, the pretty domestic, had so indignantly rejected her own proffer of five shillings.
“You have guessed rightly—and now I am more than ever convinced that you are well acquainted with the honest, upright, disinterested character of the dwellers in that cottage,” said the young gentleman.
Mrs. Mortimer remained silent for a few minutes. She was absorbed in thought. Should she enter into this new affair which seemed almost to force itself upon her? or had she not enough already upon her hands? She had promised to rejoin her daughter Laura by a particular day in Paris; and there was not much time to lose. Nevertheless, she had a good week, or even more, at her disposal—providing that she was speedily successful in tracing out Torrens; and, all things duly considered, she fancied that she might as well undertake a business which promised remuneration, and which would probably place her in a condition to learn secrets and dive into mysteries, a knowledge of which might prove serviceable in the hands of such an intriguing, mercenary disposition as her own. Moreover, the larger were her own special resources, the greater was her independence in respect to her rebellious daughter; and therefore, after a short interval passed in deep reflection, she said, “Sir, I am both ready and able to serve you. But my time is precious now, and will be so for a short time to come. Five days hence I will attend to any appointment that you may name.”
“I will give you my card,” said the young gentleman: “and I shall expect you to call upon me in the evening of the fifth day from this date.”
“Agreed!” ejaculated the old woman, as she received the card. “My name is Mortimer; and, although you do not address me as becomes my position, I can assure you that I am a lady by birth, education, and——”
She was about to say “conduct;” but the young gentleman, interrupted her timeously enough, though unwittingly on his part, to prevent her giving utterance to the atrocious lie;—for he observed, as he thrust his purse into her hand, “Pardon me, madam, if I have not behaved courteously towards you: but I presume that your circumstances are not as flourishing as they ought to be, and gold is no object to me. Five days hence we meet: till then, farewell.”
And, without waiting for any reply, he hurried away.
Mrs. Mortimer followed along the lane not with any purpose of watching him, but simply because her own route lay in the same direction. The echoes of his retreating steps, however, soon died in the distance; and the old woman sped along until she reached that public-house where, as the reader may remember, Tom Rain and Clarence Villiers met on the night of the elopement nearly twenty years before.
Approaching the window, whence a bright glare streamed forth, Mrs. Mortimer examined the card that had been placed in her hands, and, to her astonishment, found that the hero of her most recent adventure was Lord William Trevelyan, and that his residence was in Park Square. She knew enough of the English peerage to be well aware that the nobleman whom chance had thus thrown in her way was the second son of the Marquis of Curzon, a peer of immense wealth, and who permitted his three male children—all fine young men—to enjoy each a separate establishment for himself, for which purpose he allowed them handsome incomes.
Mrs. Mortimer was therefore well pleased at the encounter which she had that evening made; and in more ways than one was she rejoiced at having visited the cottage in the neighbourhood of Streatham,—especially as the purse which Lord William had given her contained thirty guineas.
An omnibus passing at this moment, the old woman entered the vehicle, and alighted in the Borough. She was speeding homeward—that is to say, to the coffee-house where she had fixed her temporary abode—when, as she was threading a narrow street that offered her a short cut to the place of destination, she was suddenly struck by the certainty that a man who was walking slowly in advance, and whom she had nearly overtaken, was neither more nor less than the object of her search!
For, as he had turned to cast a rapid, stealthy glance around, the light of a lamp had beamed fully upon his countenance;—and that countenance, altered though it were, was too well known to the old woman not to be immediately recognised.
Yes: there indeed was Torrens,—there—in her power—within a few paces of her;—and thus had accident once more materially served his malignant, evil-intentioned pursuer.
Mrs. Mortimer was so excited by this sudden discovery, that she was compelled to pause for a moment and lean against a wall for support. But, almost immediately afterwards recovering her energy and presence of mind, she hastened on, and came near enough up with Torrens to behold him enter a house of mean and miserable appearance.
“Now you are in my power!” muttered the old woman to herself, but in reality apostrophising the individual who was still her husband: and, without another moment’s hesitation, she knocked at the door of the dwelling.
Some minutes elapsed before it was opened; and at length a dirty, slipshod drab of a girl made her appearance.
“I wish to speak to the man who has just entered here,” said Mrs. Mortimer, unceremoniously pushing her way into the narrow, dark, and unpleasantly smelling passage.
“Oh! you means old Mr. Smith what lives down stairs, I des say,” observed the girl.
“I have no doubt of it,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, officiously closing the street-door. “Come, my dear, show me the way—and I will give you sixpence for yourself.”
This promise acted like magic upon the girl, who forthwith fetched a lighted candle from a room opening from the passage, and conducted the old woman to a precipitate flight of steps, down which she pointed, saying, “There—right at the bottom: the door faces you.”
Mrs. Mortimer placed the promised gratuity in her hand, and the girl held the candle high up to light her as she descended.
“That will do, my dear,” said the old woman when she had reached the last step of the dangerous flight; and the girl disappeared, leaving the place in utter darkness.
Before the candle had been thus removed, however, Mrs. Mortimer had hastily reconnoitred the locality; and, applying her hand to a latch, she opened a door, and in another moment found herself in the presence of her husband!
The place where the husband and wife met thus, after a separation of upwards of nineteen years, was what the poor term “a kitchen,” but which rather merited the designation of “a cellar.” The roof was low and arched—the rough brick-work of the walls, once smeared with white-wash, was now dingy all over—and in the day-time a gleam of light was admitted by means of a miserably small window protected and also darkened by a grating set in the foot-way of the street. The den contained a fire-place, where the inmate might cook his victuals if he were able to bear the intolerable heat of a fire in the midst of summer; and at the extremity facing the window was a small bed. A table, two chairs, a few articles of crockery, and a washing-stand, completed the appointments of this wretched place, which was dimly lighted by a solitary candle.
The reader is already aware that Torrens was much altered in personal appearance: nevertheless, his wife had recognised him in the street without any difficulty. But it was not precisely the same on his part: had he met her in an accidental manner, he would not have known her, so remarkable was the change that had taken place in her. Yet he did know her now—for he had seen her in the little parlour at Percival’s house; and the moment she stood before him on the threshold of his present hiding-place, a cry of horror and alarm escaped his lips.
Mrs. Mortimer closed the door, and, taking a chair, motioned her husband likewise to be seated—a kind of command which he mechanically obeyed; for something told him that he was in the power of the woman whom he hated and abhorred.
“We meet after a long, long separation,” she said, in a low tone, which left him still in utter doubt as to whether the object of her visit was peace or war.
“Yes—yes,” he observed, nervously: “but wherefore should we meet at all?”
“Not to exchange caresses and endearing words—not to unite our fortunes or our misfortunes, as husband and wife,” responded the old woman. “Of that you may be well assured!”
“Then, again I ask—wherefore should we meet?” demanded Torrens.
“Because this interview suits my purposes,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, with a malignant grin; “and I may as well commence by assuring you that you are completely in my power.”
“In your power!” repeated the old man, casting a ghastly look of mingled apprehension and appeal on her who thus proclaimed her authority, and who seemed resolved to exercise it.
“Yes—in my power,” she exclaimed, in an impressive manner. “Do you know that I was arrested on suspicion of being the murderess, or at all events concerned in the murder—”
“Murder! oh—my God!” moaned Torrens, clasping his hands together in convulsive anguish, as he glared wildly around.
“Do not affect ignorance of the fact,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “because you are doubtless well aware that I was arrested for your crime.”
“No—no: you cannot prove that I did it—you can prove nothing!” cried Torrens, with a species of hysterical violence.
“I can prove that you were the murderer of Percival,” responded the old woman, fixing her eyes sternly upon her husband.
“Liar—wretch—I defy you!” exclaimed Torrens, his energy suddenly reviving as he saw the absolute necessity of meeting with boldness a charge which he felt convinced his wife could not prove against him: for how could she possibly entertain anything more serious than a bare suspicion?
“Harsh words and abuse will not intimidate me,” said she, in a quiet voice; “and all these variations in your manner—nervousness at one moment, terror the next, and then excitement—only tend to confirm me in my ideas. Listen, old man—and see whether I have just ground for those ideas, and whether you could explain away my tale, if told to the nearest police-magistrate.”
Torrens groaned audibly, and fell back in his chair—but not insensible—only in the exhaustion of his physical and the prostration of his moral energies; and his eyes glared in consternation on the countenance of the accusing fiend whose very presence would have been intolerable, even if he had committed no crime for her to be able to accuse him of.
“Listen, I say,” resumed the implacable old woman. “You were at Percival’s house a few moments before myself and daughter called upon him. You seemed to be very miserable—so miserable that you wished to obtain assistance from him. These were the very words he used to me; and he observed likewise that he never gave—consequently you extorted nothing from him. But you watched through the window-shutters, from the outside, the interview which took place between him and myself and daughter: you beheld the gold and the notes displayed upon the table; and when the old miser was once more alone, you entered the house—and—and you murdered him with a bludgeon!”
Torrens started convulsively, and endeavoured to give utterance to an ejaculation of denial; but his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth, and his throat was as parched as if he had been swallowing ashes.
“Yes—you murdered him,” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, apparently dwelling with fiendish delight upon the horrible accusation: “you beat the wretched man to death—your blows were dealt with a cruel, a merciless effect. Then you plundered the iron safe—you took all the treasure contained in the tin-case—gold and bank-notes to the amount of several thousands of pounds!”
“It is not true—it is not true!” said Torrens, partially recovering the power of speech.
“But it is true—all true—precisely as I now repeat the details,” cried Mrs. Mortimer, emphatically.
“You are mad to think me the possessor of such a treasure, when you find me in this miserable place, with thread-bare garments, and surrounded by every proof of a poverty amounting almost to utter destitution,” said Torrens, his courage to meet the charge somewhat reviving as he flattered himself that the argument just used was decisive and unanswerable.
“Do you imagine me to be so thoroughly ignorant of the world as to become your dupe on such easy terms?” demanded the old woman, in a tone of withering scorn. “Look at all I have passed through, and then ask yourself whether it be possible to deceive and mislead me! No, no—I understand it all. You believe that suspicion will never fall upon the wretched inmate of such a wretched place,” she continued, glancing slowly around the cellar—“and your calculation is a correct one. Here might you have concealed yourself—here might you have passed some weeks in apparent poverty, until the storm should have blown over. But it was destined that one person should obtain a clue to your guilt and a trace to your lurking-hole—and that person is myself! Nay, to convince you how well all your late proceedings are known to me, I have only to mention the fact that a few days ago you visited the cottage which once bore your name——”
“Ah!” ejaculated Torrens, startled by this new proof of how well-informed his hated wife in reality was concerning his movements.
“Yes—and to the fair inmate of that dwelling,” she added, with a look full of malignant meaning, “you admitted that you were poor no longer, but that you wished you indeed were the penniless and half-starving wretch you had so recently been! Thus the very outpourings of your remorse, old man, have furnished me with arguments—damning arguments—against you, and confirmed all my previous suspicions, if such confirmation were for an instant needed.”
“Why do you now come to me?” asked Torrens, in a faint and faltering tone, while his entire frame trembled nervously, and his countenance became so ghastly, that it was absolutely hideous to behold.
“My purpose is stern and immoveable,” replied the old woman.
“And that purpose—is——” faltered Torrens, trembling like an aspen.
“The surrender of every shilling—yes, every shilling—of the treasure which you plundered from the murdered Percival,” was the answer.
“Malediction!” ejaculated the wretched man, starting wildly from his seat as if he had received a sudden wound: then, sinking back again through sheer exhaustion, he pressed his hand to his throbbing brows, murmuring and lamenting in broken sentences such as these:—“My gold—my notes—the treasure I lost my soul to gain—the riches I had hoped to enjoy—the wealth to acquire which I imbrued my hands in blood—the blood of a fellow-creature—no—no—you shall not have my treasure.”
And he started up, flinging his arms wildly about him, while his eyes rolled horribly in their sockets, as if he were attacked by delirium.
Mrs. Mortimer sate calm and motionless, resolved to allow the paroxysm to pass ere she reiterated her stern demand. She knew—she saw that he was in her power,—now more so than ever, since he had admitted the dread crime by his unguarded exclamations.
“Woman, you will drive me mad!” suddenly cried her husband, falling back again into his seat, and looking at her with a hyena-like rage expressed upon his countenance.
“I do not seek such a catastrophe,” she observed, coolly.
“But you an urging me to it,” he replied, with savage fierceness. “No—no—I will not surrender my gold: you cannot compel me!”
“It is for you to decide whether you will adopt that alternative, or pass hence in a few minutes to the nearest station-house,” responded Mrs. Mortimer, her voice being still characterised by a calmness and deliberation indicative of the most implacable sternness of purpose.
“The station-house!” moaned Torrens, with a cold shudder: then, again becoming dreadfully excited, he exclaimed, “I will die first—and you shall perish also! Yes—I will murder you, and afterwards——”
“This is child’s play!” said Mrs. Mortimer, laughing at the threat, as she took up a knife which lay upon the table. “Advance towards me another pace—and I will plunge this sharp blade into your heart. The treasure, which is no doubt concealed somewhere in the room, will then fall into my hands all the same.”
“You are determined to rifle me of all I possess—to plunder me—to make me penniless!” cried Torrens, falling back in his seat, and giving way to his despair. “Can nothing move you? But, listen—listen: I will give you half—yes—one-half of the whole amount——”
“I came not to receive terms, but to dictate them,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer. “And now reflect well upon your position, old man;—and remember also that your wild ravings may draw listeners to the door, and your guilt will be no longer a secret existing between you and me. Then, naught—naught can save your neck from the halter!”
“My God! she speaks truly,” murmured Torrens, bewildered by the dreadful thoughts that rushed to his brain as the woman spoke so calmly and deliberately of the ignominious death which might overtake him: “yes—she speaks truly!” he repeated; “and yet, if I give up all—surrender everything—on what am I to live? how am I to sustain my miserable existence?”
“You had no kind thought—no compassion for me, when you had friends to help you, and I was banished across the wide ocean,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “you cared not what became of me at that time, Torrens—and I have now no pity, no sympathy for you! I am aware that you loathe and detest me;—but your aversion surpasses not that which I entertain for you. There we are well matched: it is however in our relative positions that I have gained the ascendancy and can wield the authority of a despot. My crime is of old date, and has been expiated by many long, long years of horrible exile and servitude in a penal colony: your crime is new—the blood is scarcely dry upon your hands—your victim is scarcely cold in his grave—and your guilt can only be expiated on the scaffold.”
“Spare me—spare me,” groaned the wretched man, clasping his hands together in an anguish which, assassin as he was, would have moved any other than the soul-hardened, implacable Mrs. Mortimer.
“Spare you, indeed!” she repeated, in a contemptuous tone: “in what way can I spare you? If you ask me not to betray you into the hands of the officers of justice, I at once reassure you on that head—but with the one condition that you surrender up to me, and without further parley, every sixpence of the amount you have secreted somewhere in this place. I do not seek your life: I wish you to live, that you may be miserable—that you may know what starvation is—that you may wander the streets, houseless and penniless—dependent upon eleemosynary charity—begging your bread——”
“Merciful heaven! it is a fiend who is addressing these frightful words to me now!” ejaculated Torrens, surveying his wife with horror and astonishment.
“No—it is a woman,—a woman whom you deserted in her bitter trouble, and who now wreaks her vengeance upon you,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Carry back your reminiscences some nineteen years or upwards, and contrast our positions then. You found friends and relations to console you while still in gaol, and to assist you after your release. But did you come near me? did you even send a word or a line to sympathise or to proffer aid! Miserable wretch that you are, I could wish that you were ten thousand times more miserable still!”
“Oh! that is impossible—impossible!” exclaimed Torrens, his cadaverous countenance denoting, by its hideous, painful workings, the sincerity—the profound sincerity that prompted the averment he had just made. “Were you to search the earth over, you could not find a being more miserable than I! And now—and now,” he continued, in a faltering tone, while tears trickled down his furrowed cheeks,—“now, will you have compassion upon me?”
“No—ten thousand times no!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer. “And I warn you to hasten and surrender your wealth—or I shall lose all power of restraining my impatience.”
Torrens rose from his seat, cast one look of malignant—diabolical hate upon the merciless woman, dashed the traces of grief away from his cheeks, and then turned towards the bed.
Mrs. Mortimer followed him with her eyes—those eyes now so greedy, suspicions, and anxious lest by any possibility her prey should escape her!
The wretched old man, whose heart experienced all the pains of hell, slowly and with trembling hands raised the miserable mattresses; and from beneath he drew forth a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a thick string. This he handed to Mrs. Mortimer, who, heedless of the terrible glance which accompanied it, hastened to open the packet and examine its contents.
And now her triumph was complete;—for the parcel enclosed gold and notes to an amount which she proceeded in a leisurely manner to compute.
“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” she said aloud, casting a malignant look upon Torrens, who had resumed his seat and appeared to be the victim of a despair that must terminate in the total wreck of his reason. “And here,” she continued, now musing to herself rather than speaking for his behoof,—“here is a document that may prove of some importance to me,—the promissory note of the young man who called himself Viscount Marston.”
Thus speaking, she carefully packed up the parcel once more, and secured it about her person.
“And you will not leave me a guinea—a single guinea?” asked Torrent, in a low, hollow voice—his entire aspect indicating that he was almost stupified by the merciless cupidity of his wife.
“Not a single guinea,” she replied. “The only consolation I can afford you is the assurance that your secret is safe with me. If you are ever sent to the scaffold—it will not be through my instrumentality.”
With these words, she retreated towards the door, walking backwards, so as to keep her eyes fixed upon Torrens the whole time, and thus be prepared for a sudden attack should he meditate mischief, or, in an ungovernable paroxysm of rage and despair, attempt it.
But the old man moved not from his seat, although he appeared to reel and sway unsteadily backward and forward in his chair; and at the moment when Mrs. Mortimer placed her hand on the latch, he fell heavily upon the floor.
She was about to depart when it struck her that, if he were dead, unpleasant suspicions might attach themselves to her, should she hurry away without raising any alarm; and she accordingly hastened towards him. He was senseless—but the spark of life was not extinct; and now through fear did the woman perform those duties to which she never could have been otherwise urged in respect to him. She raised him in her arms—she placed him on the bed—removed his neckcloth—and sprinkled water upon his face. In a few minutes he began to revive, and his eyes opened slowly.
“Where am I?—is it a dream?” he murmured in a faint tone: then, as his recollection returned with speed and vividness, and he knew the countenance that was bending over him, and remembered why the woman herself was there, he exclaimed, “Fiend! give me back my gold!”
“Never!” was the emphatic word that fell upon his ear in reply—and in another moment he was alone.
No—not alone: for Despair was now his companion.
And Despair is an appalling guest:—for, murderer as the man was, he had some kind of worldly consolation left in his treasure until the implacable woman wrested it from him. But now that only solace was gone—and he was left to the horror of his thoughts, and to the ghost of his victim. Beggary was before him—beggary, with all its hideous train of evils, and those evils rendered the more terrible because beyond loomed the black and ominous gibbet!
Oh! how was it that madness did not seize upon the old man’s brain, and rob him of the power of making these agonizing reflections?
Was it that his punishment was to begin upon earth? If so, assuredly the retribution was appalling, even on this side of the tomb;—and he had not even left to him the consolation that the gold for which he had bartered his soul was still in his possession—still at his command, and available for his use!