“’Tis a trick—a vile trick! I see it all—I understand it now!” cried the wretched Mrs. Mortimer, staggering towards a chair and gasping for breath:—but in a few moments she seemed to be endowed with a sudden energy, and, bursting from the room, she rushed up-stairs to her own chamber—the landlady, who was a stout and therefore less active woman, following as quickly as she could.
Mrs. Mortimer entered her room, and darted towards her trunk. The lid resisted not her attempt to raise it—for the lock had been forced. She plunged her hand amidst the clothes that the box contained, and felt for something underneath:—but the object of her anxious—her desperate search, was not there;—and, with a groan as it were of mortal agony, she sank upon the floor.
The landlady, who entered the room at this moment, and who was not naturally a bad-hearted being, hastened to raise the miserable woman. She placed her on a chair, and tore off, rather than quietly removed, her bonnet and shawl: but Mrs. Mortimer’s jaw fell—her countenance was ghastly pale—she seemed to be dying.
On water being sprinkled on her face, she came to herself; and the landlady said, “What is the matter with you? I can’t understand the meaning of all this.”
“I have been robbed—foully robbed,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, in a hoarse and hollow tone: but she did not reflect that, no matter how her husband had obtained his money, she had played the part of a foul robber or extortioner towards him.
“Robbed!—what do you mean?” cried the landlady. “Wasn’t them real officers as come just now?”
“No—a thousand times no,” ejaculated the old woman, growing infuriate as her energies revived. “It was a base plot—a vile design:—but I will be avenged—terribly avenged! He must have found someone to advise him—some one to assist him in all this! They watched me—they marked when I went out—and, under pretence of being officers, they succeeded in searching my box—and, what is worse,” she added, with a demoniac contortion of the countenance,—“they succeeded in robbing me!”
“Was it the old man who did this?” asked the landlady.
“Yes: that ancient villain, with the pale face,” was the reply. “But tell me—was not his countenance pale and wrinkled?—and did he not seem nervously excited while speaking to you?”
“Just so,” answered the landlady.
“Ah! I thought that I was not mistaken!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone that indicated a concentration of the most ferocious rage and diabolical hate in her savage breast. “But leave me now—I must be alone for a short time—I must ponder upon all this, and determine how to act. I am not altogether without friends—nor yet without resources.”
“Well, ma’am,” said the landlady, “I hope you won’t think no more of what I told you just now—I mean, about leaving the place. Since those fellers wasn’t officers, and you ain’t a suspicious person, I’m sure I don’t want to get rid of you.”
“I shall not leave you quite yet, my good woman,” responded Mrs. Mortimer; “and I am not angry on account of what you said just now. But pray let me be alone for the present.”
The landlady withdrew in obedience to this request; and Mrs. Mortimer sate down upon the bed to ruminate on the misfortune that had produced so sudden and deplorable a change in her position.
Scarcely, however, had she brought her mind to reflect with some degree of calmness on the situation of her affairs, when she heard heavy and hasty footsteps ascending the staircase.
Dreading lest some new calamity were about to overtake her, she started to her feet in trepidation and nervous excitement: nor was she reassured when the door was unceremoniously opened, and a man of most repulsive appearance bounced into the chamber.
The individual who thus intruded himself upon the presence of the affrighted woman, was about forty years of age—of middle height—somewhat stout—and of powerful form. He was not corpulent; but his build denoted immense strength,—his shoulders being broad and massive, and his limbs of large proportions. His neck was short and thick, like that of a bull; and his huge hands, when clenched, appeared as if they could fell an ox or batter down a wall.
His countenance was perfectly hideous. It was of dark complexion; and on the right cheek was a large scar of livid red, as if the flesh had been seared with a hot iron and left to heal without any surgical assistance. The low but broad forehead was overshadowed with coarse, black, matted hair, which the man wore long, and which he evidently much neglected—so that it had a dirty appearance, in spite of its jetty hue. His eyes were small and dark; and the whites—for we know not what other name to give them—were of a yellow hue,—so that an ominous fire seemed to animate those eyes, as if they reflected all the bad passions of a polluted soul. The nose, which was large, thick, and coarse, projected all on one side, and had enormous nostrils. Add to all these elements of ugliness a hare-lip, with an opening so large that it displayed two of the man’s large white teeth up to the very gum, and the reader may form a tolerably accurate idea of the repulsive aspect of this individual.
He was dressed in a greasy velveteen shooting-jacket, a rusty black waistcoat, corduroy trowsers, and heavy high-lows; a blue cotton handkerchief was negligently tied round his neck;—and his shirt, which was none of the cleanest, was open in front, the buttons being deficient—so that a portion of his hirsute chest was visible. On his head he wore an old fur cap of a tawny colour, but sadly stained with grease, as if it were tossed in any dirty nook or corner when not in use.
As the man had no whiskers, and his complexion was so dark, it might have been supposed that he had some African blood in his veins. Such was not, however, the case;—he was born in England and of English parents—aye, and had received an English education likewise. But nature had given him a hideous aspect; and circumstances had imbued his soul with the ferocity of a hyena and the subtlety of a serpent.
It is not often that the savage disposition is characterised by a profound and latent cunning—because the violence of furious passions usually absorbs all reflection in its sudden impulses and outbursts. But this man was ferocious by nature, and subtle in consequence of possessing a powerful intellect and having received a good education. Not that intelligence and mental cultivation engender craft and cunning: no—but they teach the necessity of consideration and forethought;—and the result, in respect to the individual whom we are describing, was that he knew the world so well as to be fully aware that intrigue and machination frequently succeeded where brute force could accomplish nothing.
Thus, when there was no need to have recourse to artifice, this man appeared as a very demon let loose upon society: but when cunning could gain an end, he was enabled to control his savage propensities and exercise a complete domination over his ferocious instincts.
Such was the person who burst upon the view of the terrified Mrs. Mortimer in the abrupt manner already described.
She had risen from her seat on the bed, and now stood gazing on him in speechless apprehension and amazement: but he, not heeding the alarm which his presence inspired, closed the door carefully behind him, and then, throwing his greasy cap on a chair, approached the old woman, saying, “So I understand you have been robbed, ma’am? Well—don’t give way to despair: I think I can help you to the recovery of your money.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, considerably relieved by the hope thus abruptly held out, and at the same moment animated by the conviction that the man could not mean her any harm—as she had never seen him before in her life; and, moreover, the house was neither deserted nor lonely, and it was now the broad noon-day,—under which circumstances crimes of violence were seldom perpetrated.
“Yes—I think I can help you,” repeated the man. “But there is plenty of time before us—and we must have a chat over the matter in the first instance.”
Thus speaking, he seated himself in a free and easy fashion; and Mrs. Mortimer likewise took a chair—for she had now become deeply interested in the present visit, despite the revolting ugliness of the visitor.
“Who are you?” she asked: “and in what manner do you think you can aid me?”
“One question at a time, my dear madam,” returned the fellow, with cool familiarity. “First then, as to who I am. My name is Rily—Mr. Rily amongst mere acquaintances—John Rily in a police-sheet—and Jack Rily amongst intimate friends. But those who know me best call me the Doctor, because, you see, I was brought up to the medical profession. That was against my tastes, and only in obedience to the wishes of my parents; and so, as soon as they hopped the twig—which was when I was about two-and-twenty—I gave up mending broken legs, and took to breaking into houses. Instead of feeling pulses, I fingered purses—and found the new profession more profitable. Such a hand as this,” he continued, with a horrible grin, as he extended his broad and horny palm, “was rather intended to wield a crow-bar than a lancet, or grasp a pistol in preference to a scalpel. Now, my dear ma’am, I think you may begin to suspect who and what I am.”
“A burglar and a thief,” said Mrs. Mortimer, who had by this time recovered all her wonted calmness. “Well—you are the more likely to aid me in my present embarrassment—I mean, in the recovery of my money: and, of course, you can dictate your own terms.”
“I am perfectly assured of that,” responded the Doctor, again grinning maliciously with his horrid hare-lip, which seemed as if it were about to split completely up his cheek. “But, at that same time, I admit with all possible candour that I cannot act alone in this business: and therefore you have that guarantee for my good faith.”
“But in what way do you propose to act?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, anxious to arrive at a more satisfactory understanding with her hideous visitor.
“I will tell you,” answered Rily. “I am not known at this coffee-house; and therefore I came in just now to take some refreshment and read the paper. I saw you enter, and thought that yours was a countenance which denoted a soul alive to mischief. That was the impression you made upon me; for I must tell you that I am a bit of a phrenologist in my way. However, I had almost ceased to think of you, when I saw you come rushing out of the bar-parlour and bolt up-stairs like a mad woman. Then I marked your countenance again—and I was seized with admiration towards you on account of the horrible expression of your features. I said to myself that if ever I had beheld a she-fiend, I had seen one then.”
“I am much obliged to you for the compliment,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, drily.
“Let me tell my story in my own way, my dear madam,” exclaimed Jack Rily, with mock politeness. “Well, I saw you bolt up-stairs, and the landlady after you; and I knew that there must be something queer in the wind. So I waited quietly reading the paper until the landlady came down again; and then I went to the bar to pay my money. A question or two that I put elicited the information that you had been robbed by two fellows pretending to be officers having a search-warrant; and the landlady, in her garrulity, gave me a description of those individuals. One of them—the old man—I know nothing of: he is a complete stranger to me;—but the other I do know,—and what is more, I owe him a grudge—it matters not why or for what. I thereupon told the landlady that I thought I could help you in the matter; and before she had time to make any answer, I rushed up to your room to introduce myself to your notice.”
“Now I begin to understand you, Mr. Rily,” said the old woman. “You are acquainted with one of the robbers—you probably know his haunts—and you have a spite to vent upon him. Is this it?”
“Just so,” answered the burglar. “You must also learn that the reading which I had of your countenance convinced me that I might with safety tell you who and what I am: because I never have any child’s play in the business I am engaged in. If you want to get back your money, you must put confidence in me and act as I tell you; and the only way to make you trust me, is to let you know my real character. You see in me, then, a cracksman and a prig: but I am stanch to the back-bone amongst pals.”
“And on what terms do you propose to aid me?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.
“How much have these fellows robbed you of?” asked Rily.
The old woman hesitated for a few moments: she knew not whether it were prudent to tell the truth to her new friend, who so deliberately announced himself as a gentleman exercising a profession which could not possibly be characterised by any particular scruples or punctilios.
“Well—just as you like, ma’am,” said Jack, rising from his seat. “By declaring on to the swag,16 I may get my reglars17 from the two prigs, whom I can easily trace out; and therefore, if you are afraid to trust me, I shall be off at once. In this case, mind, you will never see a penny of the money you have lost.”
“Stay, Mr. Rily—stay!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, who perfectly comprehended the man’s meaning, which was to the effect that he might obtain some of the booty for himself without her co-operation; whereas she could not recover a shilling unless assisted by him.
The burglar coolly reseated himself.
“You asked me of how much I was robbed?” she said, interrogatively.
“Yes,” was the laconic response.
“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” observed Mrs. Mortimer.
“My stars! is it possible?” exclaimed Rily, his horrible countenance expanding with delight.
“It is the truth, I can assure you,” rejoined the old woman.
“Five thousand four hundred pounds,” repeated the burglar, in a slow and measured tone, as if to prolong the enjoyment of the sweet music which the mention of such a sum made for his auricular sense.
“It is a serious loss—is it not?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, anxiously watching his countenance, its expression denoting hope—nay, even indicating a certainty of success in the endeavour to recover the amount: but that same tablet of the mind gave no assurance that the man would act honourably towards her in the end, and content himself only with a share.
“Five thousand four hundred pounds!” he again repeated, in a musing tone. “Yes—’tis a serious loss! The recovery, however, would be two thousand seven hundred a-piece: would that suit you?” he demanded, turning abruptly towards her.
“What?” she said, affecting not to comprehend the question.
“Will you agree to give me one half of the sum, if I recover the whole?” asked Rily. “That is plain English, I believe—and now it depends on you whether our conversation shall be prolonged or not.”
“Yes—I will cheerfully give you one half,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, making up her mind to keep to the bargain only in the case of her inability to depart from it with safety to herself.
“Well and good,” resumed Rily. “I must now inform you that the tall fellow who was with the old man is one of the most noted cracksmen in London—a desperate ruffian, who would think no more of shooting a person through the head than of eating his dinner. What his real name is, I don’t know—I never heard—although he and I have been acquainted for years past: but he is called Vitriol Bob, from a little peculiarity which he has introduced into his professional mode of doing business.”
“I do not catch your meaning,” said Mrs. Mortimer—though not without a shudder; for she did entertain a vague suspicion of the frightful origin of that singular pseudonym.
“I’ll explain myself more fully, ma’am,” returned the Doctor, “since we have all the day before us, and may chatter a bit to while away the time. You see that the individual of whom we are speaking, has an awkward knack of lurking about in bye-streets and secluded neighbourhoods, to way-lay gentlemen who happen to have gold chains hanging over their waistcoats or out of their fobs: for those little articles are pretty faithful evidences that the purses of such folks are not entirely empty. Well, in case of a struggle, our friend is apt to break a phial of vitriol over the face of his opponent, so that he may get away, and also that the said opponent may be blinded, and unable to identify him on any future occasion. Hence his name of Vitriol Bob; and such is the terror he has inspired throughout the districts of Kennington, Camberwell, Peckham, and thereabouts, that the moment any gentleman returning home from a party or from the tavern hears the ominous sound of ‘Your money or your eyes,’ he exclaims, ‘Don’t throw the vitriol, and I’ll give up everything.’”
“Is this possible?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, with a shudder that was colder and more perceptible than the former one.
“Oh! quite possible, ma’am, I can assure you,” said the Doctor, calmly. “You shall see Vitriol Bob to-night—and then judge for yourself whether he looks like a fellow who could do such a thing, or not. A more hang-dog countenance you never saw in your life. I know that I am not particularly handsome,” he added with a horrible grin and leer: “but I don’t look quite such a bravo as he does.”
Mrs. Mortimer thought that if Vitriol Bob were more hideous in outward appearance than Jack Rily, he must be frightful indeed.
“This is the chap we shall have to deal with to-night,” continued the burglar; “and therefore, as you perceive, we must go well prepared to play the game properly. Who his companion is in the robbery, I can’t make out——”
“But I know,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, hastily: “he is a poor—weak—emaciated—nervous old man, whom I will undertake to subdue and even bind with cords in a few moments. Oh! he shall find me a very tiger-cat let loose upon him!” she added, her countenance suddenly expressing a hyena-like ferocity.
“Now you do seem handsome—royally handsome—although in reality you are so infernally ugly!” exclaimed Jack Rily. “That is the way in which I like to see a woman look. Why—perdition seize me! but I could almost love you. What a splendid couple we should make!”
And the idea tickled the wretch’s fancy to such an extent, that he laughed until the tears streamed from his yellow eyes, and ran down his dark countenance, while his hare-lip opened so wide that all his upper teeth—large, perfect, white, and even—were displayed to the gums.
“Cease this disgusting mirth, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, unable to restrain her feelings: for—ugly, criminal, and morally degraded as she knew herself to be—the observations of the monster and his consequent hilarity outraged her cruelly.
“Come—come; we must not be bad friends,” said Jack Rily, extending his huge palm towards the old woman, who proffered her hand in return through fear of offending the wretch that had become too useful for her to lose him until the contemplated business should have been accomplished. “There—that’s right,” he added, as he shook her hand with a violence that made her wince: “now there is no ill-feeling between us. But really you must pardon me for what I said, and also forbear from taking offence so easily should I fall into such remarks again. For, look you, madam,—I do not care about female beauty—neither is old age disgusting to me. What I admire in a woman is her disposition—her mind: and when I see you flaring up like a hell-rat—when I behold you waxing infuriate as a beldame—I love you better than if you was the most lovely virgin on the face of the earth. However—enough of that——”
“Enough indeed!” cried Mrs. Mortimer, who experienced the most ineffable repugnance—the most profound loathing for the monster that thus dinned his hideous idiosyncrasies in her ears: but, veiling her abhorrence as much as she could, she said, “And now, perhaps, you will have the goodness to inform me how you intend to proceed in order to recover this large sum of money.”
“The explanation is simple enough,” responded the Doctor. “Vitriol Bob has a particular haunt—a certain lurking-hole, not a hundred miles from here; and I happen to know where the place is. In fact, Bob and I have been pals for a long, long time——”
“I thought you told me just now that you had a spite against him?” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, fixing her eyes keenly upon the Doctor, as if to read the secrets of his inmost soul and learn whether he were deceiving her.
“Ah! you may look, ma’am—and look as searchingly as you like,” exclaimed Jack Rily, who understood what was passing in her mind: “but you won’t find me out in any contradiction—nor yet to telling you any lies. I said that Vitriol Bob and I had been friends for a long time—and I said truly. But that doesn’t prevent me from having a hankering to be avenged for a trick he played me, and which he does not think I even suspect. The fact is, we robbed a house together; and Bob in ransacking a chest of drawers, got hold of a bag full of sovereigns. He stuck to them, and never uttered a word about them when we afterwards divided the swag. I found it out through an advertisement that appeared in the papers offering a reward for the apprehension of the burglars, and specifying the things stolen. He never saw that advertisement, I know; and I did not tell him of it. I however swore to have my turn against him sooner or later;—and I bided my time. That time is now come—and I shall let him know it before many hours are over his head.”
“But are you certain that you can find him? and, even supposing that you do succeed in tracing him to his lurking-hole, how do you know that the old man will be there also?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer.
“There is no tracing out Vitriol Bob in the matter,” exclaimed Jack Rily. “The moment he has committed a robbery, he always goes straight to his usual haunt, and remains there for a few days till the storm has blown over. As a mere precaution, he will compel his pal—this old man—to go with him; because if the latter was taken up by the Detectives, he might be induced to peach against Bob—and all that. So I am sure we shall find them together: unless, indeed,” added the Doctor, in a tone of diminishing confidence,—“unless, I say, the old man knows that you dare not raise a hue and cry touching this robbery.”
“On the contrary,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, “that old man, whose name is Torrens, has every reason to believe that I would persecute him with the most implacable vengeance which a human being is capable of experiencing or inflicting.”
“So much the better!” cried Jack Rily, grinning joyously: “in this case we are sure of our prey.”
“And is the game to be played by violence, or by cunning?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.
“By violence, my good lady—by violence, to be sure!” responded the burglar, his eyes glowing savagely, with their ominous yellow lustre—as if the orbs of a tiger were glaring upon the woman: and, though the gorgeous sun-light was flooding the small chamber with its golden haze, still shone that yellow lustre apart—distinct—and sinister.
“By violence?” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, awful thoughts relative to Vitriol Bob’s peculiar mode of proceeding rushing in upon her soul.
“How can it be done otherwise?” demanded Jack Rily. “When I first came up to you just now, I was going to propose to enlist in the service a pal of mine—and of Vitriol Bob’s also—who would aid and assist: but then he would require his thirds as a matter of course. Since, however, you have informed me that Bob’s companion in the robbery is an old, emaciated, feeble man, and that you can master him by yourself, you and I will keep the business in our own hands. I will undertake to tackle Vitriol Bob, if you will make sure of the other.”
“And supposing that your opponent should overpower you?” said Mrs. Mortimer.
“I will take care that he does not,” returned Rily. “Trust me to subdue him——”
“And without bloodshed?” observed the old woman, shuddering—for, depraved and wicked as she was, she grew cold and her heart sank within her at the idea of murder.
“Come, if you’re squeamish, you had better abandon the project and leave it all to me,” said the Doctor. “If Vitriol Bob should place my life in danger, at that moment he is a dead man. Self-preservation, ma’am, is the first law of nature. At the same time, I shall not kill him, unless it is to save myself: of this you may be assured.”
The old woman remained silent for some moments. Should she embark in an enterprise so replete with danger?—should she incur the risk of becoming an accomplice in a murder? She trembled at the thought: and yet her money—the money that she had come over to England to obtain—would be totally lost to her were she to shrink from the endeavour to recover it. It was true that, even if it were regained, one half would pass into the hands of a stranger: but was it not better to return to Paris with two thousand seven hundred pounds in her pocket, than with an empty purse? The stake was worth venturing;—and her indecision vanished.
“I am not squeamish in the matter,” she said at length. “Our bargain and our arrangements hold good in all respects. That villain Torrens shall not have the laugh against me: on the contrary, I must be avenged upon him!”
“There!—now you are my fine old hyena—my adorable tiger-cat, once again!” cried the Doctor. “I long to see you pounce upon old Torrens, as you call him; and I would give the best five years of my life, could I endow you with a complete set of claws, instead of those comparatively harmless finger-nails! Wouldn’t you tear his eyes out of his head? wouldn’t you strike them deep into his flesh? Do you know that Satan will obtain a glorious acquisition when the time comes for him to make a fiend of you?”
And again the monster’s horrible hilarity rang through the little chamber, as he threw himself back in the chair and laughed with the most savage heartiness.
“For mercy’s sake! cease this unnatural gaiety,” exclaimed the old woman, scarcely able to subdue her rage.
“Oh! I must laugh,” cried the wretch, sputtering through his frightful hare-lip,—“if it is only to make you look as ferocious as you do now.”
Mrs. Mortimer turned towards the window with disgust; and the wretch’s mirth died away in guttural sounds.
“Come, now—I told you that you must not be angry with me, madam,” he said, at length. “It is my nature to laugh heartily at times—and surely you won’t check such an innocent propensity. But I will take my leave of you now; and at half-past ten to-night we must meet at some place as near Stamford Street as you choose.”
“Where shall it be?” asked the old woman. “Name the spot—and I shall be punctual to the moment.”
“There is a narrow lane running along the side of Christ Church burial-ground,” responded the burglar, after a few moments’ reflection: “it leads from the Blackfriars Road into Collingwood Street——I suppose you know London well——”
“Oh! perfectly. Go on,” said Mrs. Mortimer.
“Well—we will meet in that crooked lane at half-past ten exactly,” continued Jack Rily. “By the by,” he added, rising from his chair, “you had better tell the landlady down stairs that you found out I could do nothing for you, and that you have resigned yourself to put up with your loss. It will prevent her from suspecting anything queer on account of your going out so late and remaining away an hour or so.”
“Leave that to me,” replied Mrs. Mortimer: “I shall know how to make all the excuses that are necessary. Indeed, if we are successful, I shall not return again to this place,” she observed, sinking her voice to a low whisper.
“Well—that is your business. And now good-bye for the present: at half-past ten we meet in the place appointed.”
Mrs. Mortimer spoke a few words of assent; and the Doctor took his departure, bestowing upon the woman a familiar nod, accompanied by a grin and a leer, before he crossed the threshold and closed the chamber-door behind him.
When Mrs. Mortimer was left alone, she began to ponder deeply upon the particulars of this interview which had just terminated.
The man knew the hiding-place where it was presumed that Vitriol Bob and Torrens had taken refuge; and it was doubtless some cellar or dangerous place, where a crime might be committed with impunity, as well as where the perpetrators of crime might conceal themselves. Then, what guarantee had she that Rily would not make her his victim, after availing himself of her services in subduing the plunderers and recovering the stolen treasure?
She shuddered as she thought of the peril into which she was about to precipitate herself: she trembled from head to foot as she pondered upon the desperate character of the man who was to be her companion in the night’s enterprise.
And yet—in spite of his revolting ugliness and his avowal of a dark career of turpitude—there was something like fairness in his speech respecting a partner in any enterprise in which he might be engaged: moreover, had he not shown, by the mere fact of the spite which he cherished against Vitriol Bob, that his ideas of the honour that ought to prevail even amongst thieves, were of a fixed and positive nature? Lastly, had he not stipulated upon the precise amount that he was to retain for his services? And would he be thus minute and nice in details, if he cherished the intention of self-appropriating the whole?
These arguments, which Mrs. Mortimer seriously revolved in her mind, may not perhaps appear very convincing nor very satisfactory to the reader; for, after all, they were only so many suppositions placed in juxta-position with the atrocious character of an avowed desperado. But let it be remembered that we often reason ourselves into what we wish to believe, rather than into what we ought to believe; and we tutor our minds to put faith in those opinions that best suit our interests rather than our safety. This is like “hoping against hope:” still it is a general characteristic of human nature; and Mrs. Mortimer’s case proved no exception to the general rule.
In fine, she came to the conclusion that Jack Rily was a monstrous rogue in respect to the world, but an honest man towards his pals—that he would strip society, were society a single individual, of its last shirt, but would not lay his finger on the costliest robe if on the back of an accomplice—and that he meant to act, with regard to herself, in the fairest way possible.
Whether her expectations were fulfilled, will shortly appear.
We cannot, however, close this chapter without recording a few comments upon that extraordinary disposition in human nature to reason one-self into the belief which one wishes to adopt, to the repudiation of that which one ought to adopt. For instance, the man who is floundering about in a perfect morass of pecuniary troubles, from which he cannot possibly see any chance of emerging, incessantly dins in his own mental ears the most absurd sophisms to convince himself that his position is not so desperate as it appears. “Well, something must turn up,” he says: “things are sure to take a turn soon. I can get Jones to renew the bill which he holds of mine, when it becomes due—Tomkins will hold his bill over for a few weeks—and Brown will lend me the money to satisfy Smith.” In this manner does the poor devil go on with his castle-building, until he can no longer blow from his imagination’s pipe another soap-bubble wherewith to amuse himself. Jones positively refuses to renew—Tomkins proves inexorable in his demand for instantaneous payment—Brown, having heard of his difficulties, will not lend him a farthing—and Smith, anything but satisfied, puts a clencher on the whole through the medium of the sheriffs’-officer. Then, when the self-deluded wretch awakes from his dream, on finding himself in gaol or on his way to the Bankruptcy Court, he says to himself in the bitterness of his spirit, “I always knew it would come to this!”—although for years he had been straining every effort of the imagination to lull his mind into a contrary belief!
In the same way does the bashful lover, who has not as yet proposed to the object of his affections, but who nevertheless longs to do so, yet fears, because he has seen her smile more sweetly upon a handsomer youth than ever she did on him,—in the same way does he strive to persuade himself that she does really love him—that he has observed stealthy glances cast from her brilliant eyes towards him—that her hand has trembled in his own—that her voice has faltered when she has responded to his common-place remarks upon the weather, the opera, and the new novel—that it is a mere flirtation between herself and the other handsome youth,—in fine, that she is dying to receive the proposal which he has not the courage to make. And in this manner does he tutor himself to lead a life of “pleasing pain,” though all the while aware that the sorest misgivings lie at the bottom of his heart, beneath the superstructure of delusive hopes and fond imaginings which perforce he has conjured up there. Then, when at last he hears from some kind friend that the beautiful Miss So-and-so was married yesterday morning to the handsome young gentleman whom she had loved all along, the self-deluded wretch exclaims, “Ah! I never thought that she cared a fig for me!”
But worse—oh! far worse is it with the criminal! Let us take, for instance, the confidential clerk, who, for the sake of a mistress or through love of fine clothes and ostentatious display amongst his acquaintances, pilfers from his master’s till. At first his peculations were small and insignificant; but, being undiscovered, he grows bolder and more deeply guilty,—while he endeavours to reason himself out of the agonising fears that haunt him day and night—pursue him like the spectres of murdered victims—and turn his wine into gall, and the sweets of Beauty’s lip into bitterness. “It is impossible that I can be detected,” he mentally exclaims a thousand times in an hour: “my precautions are so well devised. In a large business such as this, a few shillings are not missed. Besides, I so arrange the entries in the books that the expenditure and the receipts are proportionate. My employer, too, is kinder towards me than ever: I possess his confidence—not for an instant would he suspect me! And even if I were found out,—not that I can be,—but, I say, even if I were, he would not suffer me to be disgraced—he would hush it up: he would never let me be dragged into the felon’s dock.” Thus will the infatuated being reason on, although he sees that his master is growing cold in his manner, and that there is a suspicion of foul play somewhere,—until at length the explosion takes place—the self-deluded mortal is hurried to a felon’s gaol—his employer proves inveterate and inexorable—he is doomed to transportation—and in the convict-ship he exclaims in terrible anguish of mind, while writhing as if in mortal agony upon his hard pallet, “Fool that I was not to have stopped short while it was yet time: for I always foresaw that this must inevitably be the end of it all!”
Gentle reader—never against your own settled convictions endeavour to set up a fabric of delusion: you may at length succeed in throwing the former into the background, and persuading yourself to believe that the latter is a substantial truth;—but you will in the long run discover to your cost that you have stepped out of the broad and straight highroad to flounder amidst the perils of an interminable bog.
The day, the incidents of which we are describing, and which are so numerous and diversified, was destined to be a memorable one in the life of Agnes Vernon.
The young maiden, on abruptly quitting Mrs. Mortimer, returned to the cottage; and, seating herself at the table in the elegant parlour, she arranged her drawing materials with the intention of continuing a landscape which she had commenced a few days previously.
But she was unsettled and restless: new sensations stole upon her—new feelings were excited in her bosom.
The solitude of the cottage suddenly appeared to be irksome; and she felt discontented with her condition—she knew not why.
Laying down her pencil, she rose from her seat, approached the window, and gazed forth upon the open country.
A carriage passed by: in it were two young ladies and two young gentlemen—and they were all in high spirits, conversing cheerfully and laughing gaily. Agnes sighed—for the thought struck her that she too might be happy, and she too might laugh gaily, if she only had friends and companions!
Presently a lady and gentleman, each on horseback, passed along the road in front of the cottage. They were proceeding at a very gentle pace, and were engaged in conversation. The veil was raised from the fair Amazon’s countenance, and was thrown back over her riding-hat; her cheeks were blooming with a carnation tinge, and her eyes were bent with melting tenderness on her companion, whose face was turned towards her, and whose language was doubtless pleasing to her ears. The countenance of that lady indicated such real pleasure—denoted such pure and genuine happiness, that again did a sigh escape from the bosom of Agnes Vernon, as she marvelled why she herself was retained in the prisonage of solitude, while other maidens of her own age had their acquaintances and their associates, and were allowed to divert themselves in walking or riding about the rural lanes and the roads that stretched amidst the green fields.
Never before had anything in the form of repining—never until this time had a sentiment partaking of discontent, arisen in the breast of Agnes Vernon. She endeavoured to conquer the feeling: she turned away from the window and played with a beautiful canary bird that fluttered from its perch towards the front of its handsome cage the moment she approached it;—but its chirping sounded no longer as sweet music in her ears—and, in the natural goodness of her gentle soul, she reproached herself for her indifference to the joyous testimonials offered by the little feathered chorister to its mistress.
She resumed her seat, and once more directed her attention to her drawing: but she felt in no humour for an employment that until now was amongst her most favourite recreations. Closing her portfolio, she took up “Ivanhoe,” in order to read the concluding pages of the tale: she however found her thoughts speedily wandering to other subjects,—the letter of Lord William Trevelyan—the discourse of Mrs. Mortimer—and the abrupt termination of her interview with that female. Throwing aside the book, she seated herself at the piano, and ran her taper fingers over the keys: but the music had no cheering influence upon her—produced no soothing effect on her restless soul.
Vexed and annoyed with herself for what she could not help, and almost alarmed at the change which had come over her, despite of her exertions to the contrary, the bewildered maiden returned to the garden and gathered fresh flowers wherewith to fill the vases in the parlour: but the tulip seemed less beautiful, the rose less fragrant, and the pink less sweet than she had ever before known them;—and her task was accomplished hurriedly and even neglectfully.
At length she sought an arbour in the most shady and retired part of the garden; and there—alone with her own thoughts—she fell into a profound reverie upon her secluded life, the mystery that enveloped her condition, the letter of Lord William Trevelyan, and the explanations that Mrs. Mortimer had given her respecting the passion of love.
For, oh! the gentle Agnes loved now:—hence this restlessness—hence this change which had come upon her!
She did not blame herself for the part she had enacted in respect to Trevelyan’s letter: her conscience told her that she had behaved with prudence and propriety;—but she was grieved to think that any words which had fallen from the lips of Mrs. Mortimer should have cast suspicion upon the sincerity of the individual who had penned the contents of that missive.
Then she thought within herself that perhaps the old woman had deceived her—that Trevelyan could not possibly empower his messenger to contradict with her lips the assurances he had committed to paper!
“Did he not say in his letter that he sought no secresy nor concealment in respect to my father?” she asked herself, in the course of her musings: “how, then, could he prompt his agent to enjoin the necessity of such secresy and such concealment? Ah! she has deceived me—and I have wronged him!”
A feeling of bitterness smote the tender heart of Agnes as she came to this conclusion: but, in the course of a few moments, the idea struck her that if Lord William Trevelyan received a faithful report of the particulars of her interview with Mrs. Mortimer that morning, he would recognise the propriety of her conduct in returning the letter.
But, ah! had she not bade Mrs. Mortimer desire the young nobleman to think no more of Agnes Vernon?—and might he not obey the injunction?
Poor, innocent Agnes! thine own love is as yet only in its infancy—and therefore thou comprehendest not the extent of that devotion which Trevelyan’s bosom harbours with regard to thee! Although within the space of a few hours thou hast learnt thy first lesson in the school of love, and though thy mental vision has obtained some insight into the mysteries of that passion which has at length shed its influence on thee,—although a portion of the veil has fallen from thine eyes, and thou canst now read more of the human heart than ever thou could’st before,—nevertheless, it is but a nascent flame—a germinating affection that animates thee,—a feeling as yet vague and undefinable: for thou art still so much the child of natural simplicity and artless ingenuousness, that thou canst not entertain a conception of the lasting and persevering nature of love;—thou knowest not enough of its essence and its power to initiate in thine imagination the thought that Trevelyan would no more heed thine injunction, even if it reached his ears, than the tempest will obey the human voice which dares to order its fury to subside!
For some hours did the beauteous Agnes remain in the arbour, plunged in love’s first reverie; and when the pretty housemaid appeared to inform her that dinner was served up, Miss Vernon started from the seat, exclaiming, “Is it possible that it can be four o’clock? I did not suppose that it was more than an hour past mid-day?”
Jane cast a look of surprise upon her mistress—but said nothing; and almost immediately afterwards the servant ceased to remember that there had been anything peculiar in the young lady’s manner—for Agnes composed her countenance, recalled her scattered thoughts, and hurried back to the cottage,—so that this very haste on her part was mistaken by the domestic for her usual gleesomeness of disposition.
The afternoon repast was soon disposed of; and Agnes returned to the garden, where she roamed about until the hour of sunset approached. The evening was warm and beautiful—the air was fragrant with the perfume of the flowers—and the hum of insect life was heard around. The scene had a soothing effect upon the young maiden’s soul; and, though she was wearied, she was unwilling as yet to return to the cottage. She felt less lonely in the spacious garden than she should be, as she well knew, in that parlour where she had vainly endeavoured in the morning to divert herself with her drawings, her music, and her books.
We know not how it was—but more than once during this evening ramble in her garden, did Agnes Vernon pass by that very spot where she had stood in the morning when held in conversation with Mrs. Mortimer. Those who love, or who have loved, will probably assert that it was the influence of some vague and undefined hope which thus occasionally directed the maiden’s footsteps thither,—a hope which nature prompted, although thus dimly, and in spite of the virgin purity and immaculate candour of her soul,—a hope, in fine, which whispered, softly as zephyr’s breath, in her ear, that Trevelyan’s messenger might return with an assurance from him that no instructions which he had given to that emissary in any way militated against the honourable, frank, and straightforward declarations contained in his letter.
And now, then, behold the beauteous Agnes standing on the very spot where in the morning she had read the letter that first awoke a scintillation of love’s fire in her bosom: behold her, motionless as a statue, amidst the foliage of that secluded part of the garden—her white dress delineating the soft and graceful outlines of her symmetrical form—and the rays of the sun, now low in the western horizon, playing upon her angelic countenance, as they penetrated through the trees that skirted the lane overlooked by the hedge.
Suddenly the maiden starts and listens—like the timid roe disturbed in the forest by a far-off sound resembling the bay of the hound.
The noise of wheels and of horses’ hoofs falls upon her ear: nearer and nearer that noise approaches—the vehicle is evidently coming down the lane!
Yet why does her heart palpitate?—why seems it like the fluttering bird in its cage? Is it an unusual thing for a carriage or a cart to pass that way? No: but there is in the maiden’s soul a presentiment that the occurrence now is not altogether unconnected with her destinies.
The sounds cease: the vehicle, whatever it may be, has stopped—and silence once more reigns around.
The sun is sinking lower and lower in the western horizon: yet it is still quite light;—but the ruddy lustre of the setting orb imparts a deep autumnal hue to the foliage—brings out into bolder relief the ripening apples, the yellow pears, and the crimson cherries that gem the boughs with their fruitage—and imparts a delicate glow to the beauteous countenance of the young lady, as, with lips apart and in attitude of suspense, she listens to catch the slightest sound that may indicate the approach of a human being.
And now there is a rustling as of silk and a tread as of light footsteps; and Agnes, who, in consequence of the surface of the garden being much higher than the lane on the other side of the hedge, can look over that verdant boundary,—Agnes beholds a lady advancing rapidly down the narrow thoroughfare.
A feeling of disappointment seizes upon her: she sees that it is not Mrs. Mortimer—and something tells her that Trevelyan would not employ another female emissary.