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:—
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.
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.
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.