Then it strikes her that she ought to rejoice that no farther progress should be made in the young nobleman’s suit during her father’s absence; and she feels that she has done wrong even to remain standing in that spot under the influence of a contrary expectation and of a tender though dimly significant hope.
With a sigh, the beauteous creature is about to turn away and re-enter the cottage, when,—oh! wonder and amazement!—with renewed suspense and reviving hope, she hears herself called by her name—called, too, in the tenderest, most melting tones of a woman’s voice.
“Agnes—dearest Agnes! Stay—oh! stay—if only for a few moments! Stay—I implore you—beloved girl: you know not who it is that thus addresses you!”
These words were uttered in a voice of warm and passionate affection—so that a deep and absorbing interest was at once created in the bosom of Agnes towards that lady of whose handsome countenance she had now a full view, and the earnest, appealing expression of whose features gave additional import to her enthusiastic exclamations.
“Madam—I will stay—I will not depart immediately,” faltered Agnes, forgetting her father’s injunctions relative to the caution which she was to exercise in regard to strangers: “but how do you know who I am?—and who are you?”
“Oh! that she should ask me who I am!” cried the lady, clasping her hands together in deep anguish. “But how beautiful she is!” exclaimed the stranger, in an altered and rejoicing tone: “how faithful, too, is the portrait! Agnes—dearest Agnes—I have much to say to you—much to impart that you will be delighted to learn: but must we continue to discourse thus, with this barrier between us? Can you not come to me?—or will you permit me to come to you? I long—oh! how I long to embrace you, dear girl that you are; and though we are but a few feet apart—yet does this garden-boundary separate us most cruelly!”
“Madam—I know not how to answer you,” murmured Agnes, strange feelings of mingled pleasure, apprehension, and hope agitating in her heart, as if that heart were a well of deep, inexhaustible, and yet incomprehensible emotions. “Your words seem to move me more than I can explain——”
“Yes—Agnes—dear Agnes,” ejaculated the lady, stretching out her arms in an appealing manner towards the maiden: “’tis the voice of nature that speaks within you! But you hesitate to trust yourself with me? Ah! doubtless you have been warned—doubtless you have been urged to act with caution——Oh! my God—that you should look with an eye of suspicion upon me!”
And with these words, which were uttered in a tone indicative of the most acute anguish, the lady burst into a flood of tears.
Agnes stood blanched, and trembling, and speechless,—having a deep conviction that the lady’s fate was in some way linked with her own—yet not daring to form a conjecture as to the nature of the tie that thus mysteriously bound them together. A secret impulse appeared to urge her towards the weeping stranger; and she felt that were the arms again extended towards her, and were there no barrier in her way, she should precipitate herself upon that stranger’s bosom, that they might mingle their tears together and interchange the sympathies that already drew them to each other.
“Agnes—dearest Agnes,” exclaimed the lady, suddenly breaking silence and wiping away the traces of her grief,—speaking, too, in a voice of heart-touching appeal,—“I implore you to come to me—or to show me how I may enter those precincts without being observed by the inmates of the dwelling! But, say—tell me,” she added, a sudden thought striking her,—“is he—your father—there?”
“My father is in Paris,” replied Agnes: “he——”
“Thank God!” ejaculated the stranger, with an enthusiasm that astonished and even startled the maiden. “But Mrs. Gifford—is she still alive?—is she still in attendance on you?”
“She is in the house at this moment,” returned Agnes, more and more surprised at these questions—not only on account of their nature, which showed that the lady was acquainted with many circumstances regarding her condition; but also in consequence of the vehemence with which they were put.
“Then how can I join you in that garden?” demanded the lady, in a tone of bitter disappointment. “Oh! Agnes, you know not how ardent are the yearnings—how intense the longings that prompt me even to dash through this hedge and fold you to my bosom! Cruel girl—keep me not thus in an agony of suspense; but come—come to my arms—as if I were your mother!”
“My mother!” exclaimed Agnes, in a voice of mingled hope and amazement—while such indescribable emotions started into existence in her bosom, that she felt overpowered by their influence, and staggering back a few paces, would have fallen to the ground had she not leant against a tree for support.
“Agnes—Agnes!” cried the lady, imploringly: “give not way to thoughts that will deprive you of your presence of mind—for you need all your self-possession now! Agnes—dear Agnes—answer me——”
“Who are you? O heaven! such strange ideas—such wild hopes—such bewildering presentiments crowd upon my soul,” exclaimed the beauteous maiden, “that I know not how to act nor what to conjecture!”
And, again approaching the hedge, she passed her hand across her brow, throwing from her face the shower of curls that had fallen in disorder over that charming countenance—the luxuriant locks having been disturbed by the movement given to the neat little straw bonnet when she staggered against the tree.
“You ask me who I am,” said the lady: “oh! pity my suspense—have mercy upon me—come to my arms—and I will tell you all.”
“Stay there, madam—dear madam,” cried Agnes, without another instant’s hesitation—so earnest, so pathetic was that last appeal: “and I will join you at all risks!”
Without pausing to reflect upon the step which she was taking—forgetful of all the injunctions she had received from her father, and all the promises of prudence and caution which she had made to him—obedient only to the irresistible impulse of her feelings—as if nature’s voice rose dominant above a sire’s mandates,—the Recluse of the Cottage disappeared from the view of the lady, who remained in the path outside the garden, a prey to the most torturing fear lest the young maiden should be intercepted by the inmates of the dwelling.
But Agnes was not compelled to pass through the house in order to gain egress from the premises. From the stable-yard a gate opened into the lane; and by this avenue did she proceed—so that there was no necessity to exercise any wariness or precaution. Had the contrary been the case—had she been compelled to pause in order to reflect how she was to escape the notice of the servants, her artlessness of character and purity of soul would have prompted her to wait and reflect whether she were acting in accordance with her father’s counsels. She would then have flown straight to consult Mrs. Gifford; and the result would have been inimical to the hopes and wishes of the lady who was so anxiously expecting her in the lane.
But as nothing impeded the maiden’s progress, nor forced her to stay her steps even for a single instant,—the gate being always left open during the day-time for the convenience of the gardeners, and these men being engaged in front of the house on the present occasion,—the current of her thoughts, impelling her towards the lady, received no hindrance—no check; and in a few moments Agnes was speeding along the lane, with a heart influenced by emotions of hope, curiosity, suspense, and wild aspiration.
For that word “Mother”—that dear, delightful word, which had so seldom fallen on her ears, and which in an instant excited so many pleasurable reflections—so many ineffable feelings in her soul,—that word which, as if with electric inspiration, had suddenly opened to her view an elysium of the affections which she had never known before, and which gave promises of felicity the holiest and the purest,—that word, so fraught with the tenderest sympathies to one who had hitherto lived in a semi-orphan state,—that word it was which exercised a magic influence upon the maiden—absorbed all other considerations—and rendered her impatient to hear more from the same lips whence this word had come.
And yet she could not have accounted, had she paused to search, for the spring of the excitement that now ruled her actions. It was not that she cherished the conviction of finding a mother in the lady who was waiting to embrace her; but she did half suspect that such would be the case,—and she certainly hoped—oh! most fervently hoped that she was not destined to experience disappointment. The very artlessness of her disposition made her sanguine;—and under these influences did she hasten along.
The lady advanced to meet her;—and in a few moments they were clasped in each other’s arms.
“My child—my dearest child!” murmured the fond mother, who had indeed recovered a daughter in Agnes Vernon.
“Oh! Is it possible?” exclaimed the beautiful creature, in an ecstasy of joy: “is it possible that you are my parent?”
“I am, my beloved Agnes—I am: and heaven can attest that, though separated from thee since thine infancy, I have never ceased to think of thee—never ceased to love thee!”
A faintness now came upon Agnes;—and her mother felt that she was clinging the more firmly to her in a convulsive effort to prevent herself from falling.
“Lean on me, my child—here—let me sustain you, my darling Agnes!” cried the lady. “Oh! how happy am I at this moment—with thee in my arms! But——My God! she faints!”
And the maiden, overcome by her emotions, fell into a state of insensibility.
The lady carried her in her arms along the lane: great was the strength which now animated the mother who had just recovered a long-lost daughter;—and in a few minutes a hackney-coach, that was waiting higher up the avenue, received the precious burthen.
When Agnes came to herself, she started as if, on waking from a delicious dream, she feared that it might prove all a delusion: but when, by the rays of the setting sun which streamed through the open windows of the vehicle, she beheld the handsome, pleasing, and yet mournful countenance of her mother bending over her, a glow of joy suffused the charming creature’s face—and, throwing her arms around her parent’s neck, she exclaimed, “Oh! tell me that it is not a dream! assure me once more who you are!”
“I am your mother, Agnes dearest—your own fond and loving mother, who has languished after you for years, and who will never separate from you again, unless by your own consent, or through the stern decree of an iron tyranny! Yes, Agnes—I am your mother;—and, beautiful though you be, I may without vanity declare that the stamp of nature proclaims you to be my child?”
“Yes—and my own heart’s emotions assure me that you are indeed my parent,” said the lovely girl. “But you observed that we should not part without my consent. Oh! can you suppose, dear mother, that I should ever ask to leave you—ever seek to separate myself from you?”
“No, my child—I am sure that you will not!” exclaimed the lady. “At the same time, Agnes,” she added, in a different and mournful tone, “it is my duty to inform you that if you choose to live with me, you must resign all hope of seeing your father again—at least for two years——”
“Oh! say not so!” ejaculated Agnes, bursting into tears. “Surely it must be with my father’s knowledge that you came to see me—that you are taking me away with you. And yet,” she added, a sudden reminiscence flashing to her mind, and causing her to start painfully,—“and yet, I recollect now that I left the garden stealthily—that you urged me to come round to you in the lane, unperceived by the servants—that you knew not my father was in Paris. Oh! mother, mother,” cried the young girl, again interrupting herself, and speaking with a burst of anguish,—“what does all this mean? Whom am I to obey—you or my father?—for it is clear to me that in yielding deference to the counsel of the one, I must prove disobedient to the other!”
“Tranquillise yourself, dearest Agnes—tranquillise yourself, I implore you!” exclaimed the lady, straining the trembling—almost affrighted maiden to her breast.
“Ah! dearest mother, when I hear your voice and receive your kisses, I have no thought save for you,” murmured the young girl. “Oh! and now your tears fall upon my cheek. Mother—dear mother—forgive me for what I said ere now—I will obey you—and you only. But do not—do not weep, my beloved parent!”
“May God Almighty bless you, Agnes!” fervently exclaimed the lady, her tears streaming in blinding torrents from her eyes.
“Oh! do not weep—I implore you!” cried Agnes, in a tone of the most tender affection. “Are you unhappy, dear mother? If so, tell me the cause of your sorrow!”
“I am both happy and unhappy, Agnes,” was the response, almost choked with sobs. “I experience ineffable pleasure and acute pain, all at the same moment! But your words soothe me—your voice descends into my soul like sweet music—your caresses are as a balm to my bruised and weltering spirit!”
“Dear mother, let me embrace you closer still!” murmured Agnes, clinging to her parent in that narrow chaise as if there were an imminent danger of their immediate separation. “But wherefore are you happy and unhappy at the same time?”
“I am happy because I have this evening recovered you, and thus seen accomplished the hope of long, long years,” returned the lady; “and I am unhappy because I fear that some untoward circumstance will part us again.”
“Oh! what circumstance can part us, dear mother?” asked Agnes, her bosom filled with vague alarms. “May I not dwell with you, if I choose—and if you choose to have me with you?”
“Yes—oh! yes, Agnes,” replied her mother, earnestly and in an impassioned tone. “But will you not pine—when the excitement of these new feelings shall have passed away,—will you not pine, I say, for your secluded cottage—your beautiful garden—and—and your father?” she added, her voice suddenly becoming low and tremulously plaintive.
“What is that lovely cottage—what are the choicest flowers of that garden, in comparison with thy love, my dearest—dearest mother?” exclaimed Agnes: “and, oh! if I must decide between you, on the one hand, and my father on the other——And yet he has been so kind—so very kind to me—that it goes to my very heart——”
“Agnes—Agnes—you love your father better than me!” exclaimed the mother, in a voice of the most piercing, rending anguish. “But it is natural—oh! it is natural—for you never knew me until now—at least not since your infancy! Yes, it is natural, I say! Oh! fool that I was to hope that you could love me well enough to consent to dwell beneath my roof in future! No—no—it is impossible: I see it all, Agnes—you would be wretched—miserable, were you to part from your father! I will take you back to your cottage, then, my child—I will leave you then—and we must separate upon its threshold, never—never to meet again, perhaps, in this life!”
“No, dearest mother—speak not thus despairingly—or you will kill me—you will break my heart!” cried Agnes, her voice choking with sobs. “You are unhappy—and it is my duty to remain with you——Oh! and God forgive me for saying it, if it be a crime—but—but—it is also my wish!”
And with these words, the maiden again threw herself upon her mother’s bosom and wept plenteously, while her arms clasped that parent’s neck with almost convulsive violence—as if she feared to lose her.
“Now, Agnes, I am happy—oh! supremely happy!” exclaimed the fond woman. “You will remain with me—and I shall not again submit your feelings to a painful test by proposing the alternatives which have already rent your bosom. Listen, however, to me for a short space. I am a lonely and desolate woman, and have experienced a recent affliction of an almost overpowering nature. Indeed, I should have succumbed beneath its weight, had not accident—an accident of a most extraordinary character—last night revealed to me the place where you dwelt in such seclusion. Then I suddenly felt that I had something worth living for—and I came to you this evening, with the hope of seeing you—yes—and also with the hope of inducing you to accompany me, that we might dwell together in future. For, oh! Agnes, you cannot divine how tender—how lasting—how invincible is the love of a mother for her child. Years and years have passed since I saw you; and I have pictured to myself my darling daughter growing up in beauty and in virtue—endowed with elegant accomplishments, and trained in all that she ought to learn or that would become her—save a knowledge of her mother! Now, my dearest Agnes, you repay me for that immense—that boundless love which I have ever cherished for you: now you reward me for the anxious years—the age of sorrow, as I may term the period which has elapsed, for me, between your infancy and the present time. Your father is rich—is possessed of many resources for recreation and pleasure in the world, which a woman cannot enjoy. He has many, many friends;—and, deeply though he loves you, he will not miss you so much as I have missed you, and should miss you still, were you now to be separated from me. It is, then, a mother who implores her daughter to give her a daughter’s love—to yield her a daughter’s affection—and perform towards her a daughter’s duty. All this, my Agnes, I see that you are prepared to accomplish—even at the sacrifice of your feelings in respect to your sire. Moreover, that sire has been blessed with your smiles ever since your birth—or at least has had you under his guardianship and control: and now—oh! now, am I asking too much when I beseech you to devote a few years of love to me,—to me who am your mother—who am unhappy—and who, without you, should now feel so lonely and desolate that the sooner the cold grave were to close over me, the better!”
“I will not leave you—I will die sooner!” murmured Agnes, her eyes streaming and her bosom heaving with convulsive sobs. “But you will not leave my father—nor that kind and good Mrs. Gifford—in ignorance of what has become of me?”
“I could not be guilty of such cruelty, my darling child,” responded the mother. “And now,” she continued, after a rapid glance from the window of the vehicle, which was at this moment passing by Kennington Common,—“and now listen again to what I have to say to you. My own house is in the northern suburb of London; and it is possible that Mrs. Gifford may be acquainted with the place of my abode. I know not whether she be; and I should conceive that she is not—nevertheless, there is the possibility, as I observed—and, in that case, she would adopt measures to tear you from my arms. For this night, then, you must consent to remain at the house of some ladies of my acquaintance. They will take care of you—they will be rejoiced to have you with them, though only for a few hours; and by to-morrow evening I shall have a dwelling fitted up for our reception. It is my intention to give up my villa which I now possess—and I know of a sweet cottage, with a beautiful garden, in the neighbourhood of Bayswater, which I shall hire at once. All these arrangements can be effected in the course of to-morrow—for by means of money incredible things are accomplished in London.”
“Be it as you say, my dear mother,” observed Agnes. “But you will remain with me this night?—you will not leave me with strangers?” she exclaimed anxiously.
“Certainly, my child, if you wish it, I will stay with you,” returned her mother. “Listen, however, to me once again. The friends in whose care I propose to place you, are two elderly ladles, who will receive you as the daughter of one whom they sincerely love—for they are as devoted to me as if I were a near and dear relative, and are acquainted with much that concerns me. You will be as safe in their charge as if I myself were with you: for, remember,—by to-morrow night I must have a home—a good home—prepared for my Agnes,—and it will occupy me until a late hour this night to make the arrangements for the removal of all my furniture and other property in the morning. In addition to all this, Agnes, I should be compelled in any case to return to my house this evening,—as there may be a communication of importance for me there,—a communication from a generous friend—noble by nature as well as by name—and who is interesting himself for me and for another——”
“Say no more, my dearest parent,” interrupted Agnes. “I am ready to obey you in all things and to follow your counsel: but promise to return and take me away with you as early as you can to-morrow,” she added imploringly.
“Fear not, my darling Agnes,” replied the mother: “I shall be as anxious to embrace you to-morrow as you possibly can be to see me.”
While this conversation was in progress between the two ladles in the hackney-coach, the sun had set—twilight had become absorbed in the shades of night—but the vehicle was now proceeding along the Blackfriars-road, which was brilliant with the gas-lamps stretching away in two approximating lines, and ultimately becoming confounded together on the arching bridge in the distance.
At length the hackney-coach passed out of the Blackfriars-road into Stamford-street; and Agnes, looking from the left-hand window, saw that the three first houses on that side of the way, towards which her eyes were turned, were in a condition so ruinous and dismantled as to strike a chill to her susceptible heart. But the unpleasant sensation almost instantly vanished, when the coach drew up at the door of a house in excellent repair, and presenting, in outward appearance, a remarkable contrast to those dilapidated buildings.
Here Agnes and her mother alighted; and the young maiden no longer thought of the sinister-looking ruins adjoining, when she found herself in a comfortable parlour, where both herself and parent received a cordial welcome from two elderly ladies whose benevolent countenances, agreeable manners, and kind speech were calculated to inspire confidence at once.
The name of these maiden sisters was Theobald; and they were indeed possessed of excellent dispositions and endowed with the most amiable qualities. The moment that Agnes’ mother entered the room, they rose to embrace her with the warmth of an unfeigned friendship; and even before the young maiden was introduced to them, they exclaimed, as if suddenly struck by the same sentiment, “Ah! this is the dear girl whom you have so long pined to recover? We need not wait to be told that she is your daughter: the likeness between you proclaims the fact!”
And then they embraced Agnes in her turn.
The young lady’s mother drew the elder Miss Theobald aside, and said, “I propose to leave my beloved child with you for this night. Circumstances compel me to return home without delay. I have decided upon taking your beautiful little villa at Bayswater, and shall remove all my furniture thither the first thing in the morning. It is fortunate that the sweet dwelling should have been thus in want of a tenant at this moment.”
“I am delighted for your sake, my dear friend,” responded Miss Theobald, “that the villa is unoccupied. We will send one of our servants at day-break to make all the necessary preparations for your reception. Oh! how sincerely—how deeply do I congratulate you upon having recovered your long-lost daughter!” added the kind-hearted woman, in a tone of profound feeling.
“It is indeed a source of indescribable solace to my wounded spirit, as you, my dear friend, may well conceive—for you are acquainted with the principal events of my chequered existence. But I must now depart: it is growing late—and ere I seek my couch this night, I shall have arranged everything for my removal to Bayswater to-morrow.”
With these words the lady turned towards Agnes, saying, “My dearest child, I leave you in the care of these excellent friends, whom it is only necessary to know in order to love.”
“I feel that I do already love them, my dear mother,” responded the young maiden, as she threw herself into her parent’s arms.
“Farewell—till to-morrow, my sweet Agnes: soon after mid-day you may expect me—and the Miss Theobalds can tell you that the new home to which you are then to accompany me, will leave you nothing to regret in reference to your own little secluded cottage and beautiful garden in Surrey.”
“Wherever I may dwell with you, dear mother—there shall I enjoy contentment,” answered Agnes, tenderly embracing her whom in two short hours she had thus learnt to love with an affection that seemed to have existed for years.
“Adieu, my darling child,” murmured the fond mother; and she then took her departure.
Agnes listened until the sounds of the retreating wheels were no longer audible—or rather, until they were absorbed in the din of the numerous vehicles passing in the immediate neighbourhood of the house: and then a sudden chill seized upon her heart—a damp fell upon her spirits—her feelings, powerfully excited by the incidents of the day, experienced a rapid revulsion—and, unable to control her emotions, she burst into tears.
The two ladies hastened to console—or, speaking with greater accuracy, endeavoured to console the weeping girl. But, although she knew how friendly disposed they were towards her—although she felt the full extent of their kindness, and even reproached herself with her inability to yield to its soothing influence,—yet it seemed as if the departure of her mother had left her more alone in the world than ever she was before.
“Dry those tears, my sweet Agnes,” said the elder Miss Theobald, pressing the maiden’s delicate white hand with cordiality and tenderness.
“Oh! do not give way to a sorrow for which you have no real cause,” urged the younger of the two ladies. “A few hours will soon pass, my dear child, and your fond parent will return.”
But Agnes, though acknowledging by her gestures the kindness of the sisters, could not subdue her grief; and her sobbing became more convulsive.
For a tide of conflicting and painful reflections rushed in upon her soul. She remembered all her father’s goodness towards her—the strong injunctions he had given her not to hold intercourse with any one who was not the bearer of a letter from him—and the grief that he would experience when he heard of her departure. She thought, likewise, of the terror and dismay which must even already reign at the cottage on account of her mysterious absence: she beheld, in imagination, the excellent-hearted Mrs. Gifford and the good-natured Jane inconsolable at her loss;—and, apart from all these ideas, she now felt certain misgivings arise in her bosom relative to the step she had taken. Vainly did she endeavour to persuade herself that, acting by the counsel and in obedience to the prayers of her mother, she could not have done wrong: a secret voice appeared to reproach her—an unknown tongue seemed to whisper ominous things in her ears. Terror gained upon her; and, under its influence, her grief became less violent. But her thoughts grew confused—there was a hurry in her brain: she felt as if she had just awakened from a wild and painful dream, and was still unable to collect her scattered ideas;—and still amidst that confusion, flashed, with vivid brightness to her memory, the warning which her sire had so emphatically given to her respecting the snares that were set by the wicked to entrap the artless and the innocent. At length, overcome by the terror which thus rapidly acquired a complete empire over her soul, and forgetting all that was re-assuring and consolatory in her present petition, Agnes Vernon fell upon her knees before the two amazed ladies, exclaiming, as she extended her clasped hands wildly towards them, “Take me home again to my cottage—take me home again, I implore you!”
“My dearest child,” said the elder Miss Theobald, accompanying her soothing words with the tenderest caresses; “what do you fear?—wherefore do you wish to leave us? Are we not your mother’s friends?—and can you not persuade yourself to look upon us in the same light?”
“Oh! yes, madam—I know—I feel that you are my friend—that you wish me well!” cried Agnes, her apprehensions dissipating, but only to allow scope for her anguish to burst forth again.
“Why, then, do you thus give way to your grief?” asked Miss Theobald, raising the young maiden gently, and as gently leading her to a seat.
“I cannot explain my sensations,” sobbed the poor girl: “and yet I feel very—very unhappy.”
“You have doubtless been much excited this evening, my love,” was the reply: “but a good night’s rest will tranquillise you. And remember—you are beneath a friendly roof, and where harm cannot reach you.”
“But I tremble lest I have done wrong, madam,” exclaimed Agnes. “How is it that my father ordains one thing, and my mother counsels another? Oh! I am bewildered with misgivings—I know not what to think, nor how to act?”
“Are you not pleased at having at length embraced a mother?” said the younger Miss Theobald, in a tone of gentle reproach.
“Yes—oh! yes!” ejaculated Agnes, fervently: then, in a mournful voice, she observed, “But I have fled—surreptitiously fled from the home provided for me by a fond and trusting father!”
The two ladies fully comprehended the nature of the conflicting thoughts that were agitating in the breast of Agnes Vernon; and they exchanged rapid glances of mingled sorrow and apprehension. They saw that on one side was a suddenly awakened and ardent love for a mother; and that on the other was a sense of the deference and obedience, as well as of the gratitude, due to an affectionate father. They were, therefore, filled with regret that family circumstances should have placed that pure, artless, and innocent girl in a position which compelled her to balance between the two; and, although they would have moved heaven and earth to induce her to decide in favour of the maternal parent, they recognised the difficulty of the task, and entertained the deepest alarm for its results.
“To-morrow evening, long before this hour, my dear Agnes,” said the elder of the ladies, “you will be comfortably settled in your new home. The villa which your mother intends to inhabit at Bayswater, belongs to my sister and myself. It is a neat little dwelling—neither too much secluded, nor too near to the neighbouring houses; and a large, well-cultivated, and delightful garden is attached to it. Then, my dear child, reflect—remember, that you will possess a constant, a devoted, and a loving companion in your mother: you will no longer pass many, many hours—indeed, the greater portion of your time—in solitude and loneliness, nor be thrown upon the incompatible society of servants, who, however good in heart and well-intentioned, are not such associates as you would select of your own free will.”
“Ah! madam—your words console me,” said Agnes, endeavouring to stifle her sobs. “But how happens it that you should be acquainted with my late mode of life?”
“I did but guess what that mode of life must have been,” returned Miss Theobald; “and I see that I was not far wrong. I knew that your father did not—could not dwell with you entirely—that he could only be a visitor at your place of abode, wherever it might be—and, therefore, I naturally conjectured that you were thrown almost completely upon your own resources.”
“And can you tell me, madam,” asked Miss Vernon, ingenuously, as the thought suddenly struck her,—“can you tell me how it is that my father should wish me to dwell under his guardianship only, and my mother wishes me to rely solely upon her? Or, indeed,” she added, after a few moments’ pause, “I should rather inquire the reason which prevents my parents from living together beneath the same roof, and having me with them? for, according to all the books I have ever read——”
“Ah! my dear Agnes,” interrupted the elder sister, “you would not seek to penetrate into those mysteries which so unhappily belong to the destinies of your parents?”
“Oh! no—no—if it be improper for a child to ask an explanation of such secrets!” exclaimed Miss Vernon, the natural purity of her soul instantly absorbing the sentiment of curiosity that had prompted her queries. “And now let me implore your pardon for having testified so much excitement——”
“It was to be expected, dear child,” said Miss Theobald; “and you have no pardon to solicit. We are delighted to perceive that you have at length recovered some degree of calmness. Rest assured that you will be happy in the society of your mother, whom we have known for years—yes—many, many years, and whom we love as much as if she were a near relative. You will be surprised to learn, Agnes, that when you were a babe, we often fondled you in our arms. Yes: you may regard me with surprise—but it is nevertheless the fact, that my sister and myself have frequently—very frequently nursed and dandled you for hours together.”
“Oh! I was wrong to exhibit so much mistrust and want of confidence in you just now!” exclaimed Agnes, her affectionate soul being deeply touched by assurances so well calculated to move her, and which were indeed strictly consonant with truth.
“Think not of what has gone by, my dear child,” said the younger sister. “We make all possible allowances for the excited state of your mind; and we sincerely hope, as we believe, that happiness awaits you. But it is growing late; and you doubtless stand in need of refreshment ere you retire to rest.”
Then, without waiting for an answer, she rang the bell; and the servant was ordered to bring in the supper-tray. Agnes was in no humour to partake of the meal: indeed, she was in that state of mind when the individual rather loathes the idea of eating, through a total suspension of the appetite. But so delicate were the attentions of the kind-hearted sisters, and so persevering were they in their endeavours to render their guest as much “at home” as possible, that Agnes sate down with them to table; and, if she scarcely ate anything, yet her spirits revived somewhat from the sociable nature of the evening repast.
It was a little after eleven when the Misses Theobald conducted the young lady to the bedchamber which had been prepared for her reception; and, having embraced her affectionately, the good sisters left her, as they hoped, to the enjoyment of that repose of which they knew she must stand much in need.
The moment she found herself alone, the maiden felt unpleasant thoughts returning to her mind; and, in order to escape from them, if possible, she began to lay aside her apparel with unwonted haste. Everything necessary for her toilette had been provided; and the chamber, which was at the back of the house and on the second floor, was elegantly furnished—having an air of comfort that would have been duly appreciated by one in a more settled state of mind than was the amiable girl at the time. In a few minutes she retired to rest; and, contrary to her expectation, sleep soon fell upon her eye-lids—for she was worn out and exhausted by the exciting incidents of the day.
Her dreams were not, however, of a tranquillising description.
In the first place, she fancied that she was roving in her garden, and that she beheld Lord William Trevelyan approaching down the lane. In a few moments he stood by her side; though how he passed the verdant boundary was not quite clear to her. She did not retreat,—yet she felt that she ought to retire: but her feet were rivetted to the ground;—and when he took her hand, the same unknown and invisible influence which nailed her to the spot, forbade her to withdraw that hand which trembled in his own. Then she imagined that the young nobleman began to address her in a style similar to the contents of his letter: she cast down her eyes—she felt herself blushing—and, though she knew that she ought to retreat, she nevertheless listened with emotions of pleasure never experienced before. He pressed her to be allowed to visit her again; and she was raising her eyes bashfully towards his countenance, to read his sincerity in his looks, ere she murmured the affirmative reply that already trembled upon her tongue, when she was suddenly shocked to perceive a marvellous and signal change taking place in him. His face grew wrinkled—the handsome features became distorted and frightful—his clothes took another appearance—and, as she gazed upon him in speechless wonder and alarm, she saw standing in his place a hideous old woman, whom she at length recognised as Mrs. Mortimer. Agnes strove to cry out—but could not: a spell was upon her lips;—and the harridan’s eyes glared upon her with savage malignity. The maiden felt herself sinking in terror to the ground—when the whole scene experienced a sudden variation; and she was now in the parlour of the cottage, with her father seated by her side.
Neither was this second dream of a tranquillising description.
Agnes fancied that her sire was angry with her—that he uttered reproaches for a disobedience of which she had been guilty. At first she could not comprehend the nature of the offence that had entailed upon her this vituperation, and rendered her father’s manner so unusually severe towards her—but at last it flashed to her mind that she had been incautious in receiving at the cottage evil-intentioned visitors;—and then she suddenly found her father engaged in a violent dispute with Mrs. Mortimer, whose countenance seemed more than ever hideous and revolting. How this dispute originated, or how Mrs. Mortimer had got into the room, Agnes knew not: there she however was—and the quarrel waxed warmer and warmer. At length the old woman took her departure: but ere the door closed behind her, she turned on Agnes a look of such fiend-like malignity, that a shriek would have expressed the young maiden’s affright, had not her lips been mysteriously sealed. When the harridan had disappeared, Mr. Vernon renewed his reproaches; and Agnes fancied that, on falling on her knees in the presence of her sire to demand pardon, he spurned her from him—upbraided her with her disobedience and ingratitude—and warned her, in a tone of solemnly prophetic meaning, that her readiness to repose confidence in strangers would bring down some terrible calamity on her head. She was about to promise never more to prove guilty of the disobedience which had elicited all these reproaches and produced all that unwonted harshness on her father’s part, when a third person appeared on the scene;—and this third person was her mother!
But this new dream which now visited the sleeping maiden, was not of a tranquillising description.
She fancied that an earnest appeal was now made to her on either side, placing her in the difficult and most distressing condition of a child who had to decide as to which of her parents she would cling to, and which abandon. Here was her father, reminding her of all he had done for her: there was her mother, proclaiming herself to be unhappy and to need the society and solace of her daughter. On her right hand stood the sire whom she had always known: on her left was the maternal parent whom she had never known before. The countenance of the former expressed misgivings amounting almost to despair: that of the latter was bathed in tears, and indicative of all the agonies of a cruel suspense. Agnes felt that her heart was rent by this scene; and yet it appeared to her that she was bound to decide, and that promptly, in one way or the other. She looked towards her father; and he held out his arms to receive her—his countenance assuming an expression so profoundly wretched that it seemed to say, “If I lose you, I lose all I love or care for on earth.” She turned towards her mother, in order to breathe a last farewell, for that she must accompany her father,—when she beheld her maternal parent on her knees, and extending her clasped hands imploringly, while the pale but beauteous face indicated that life or death was in the decision which was about to be pronounced. Agnes could not resist this earnest—silently eloquent appeal on the part of a mother who had proclaimed herself to be unhappy; and the maiden fancied that she threw herself into that mother’s arms. A cry of misery burst from her father’s lips; and Agnes awoke with a wild start,—awoke, to feel her entire frame quaking convulsively, and her heart palpitating with alarming violence.
For a few moments—nay, for nearly a minute, she lay stretched upon her back, endeavouring to compel her thoughts to settle themselves in their proper places, so that she might attain the assurance whether she had just beheld realities, or had only been the victim of distressing dreams;—and when she was enabled to arrive at the latter conclusion, she started up in her bed, exclaiming, “Nevertheless, this is more than I can endure!”
Then came the consciousness of where she was, and why she was there,—how she had fled from the home that her father had provided for her, and in spite of all his solemn injunctions and prudential warnings,—how her mother had left her in a strange place, and with persons who were strangers to her,—and how Mrs. Gifford would be certain to send to Paris without delay and communicate the afflicting tidings to Mr. Vernon.
The maiden’s brain reeled, as these thoughts flashed through it;—and at this moment, when her senses appeared to be leaving her, the clock of Christ Church, in the Blackfriars-road, proclaimed the hour of one!
The sound came booming—rolling—vibrating through the air, like a solemn warning: at least, so it seemed to the disordered fancy of Agnes Vernon;—and, with feelings worked up to an intolerable pitch, she leapt from her couch.
To obtain a light was an easy matter—for the necessary materials were at hand; and when the flame burst from the tip of the lucifer match, Agnes cast a hurried and affrighted glance around, as if she dreaded to meet some hideous countenance or horrible form in the chamber. Not that she was naturally timid: no—far from it;—her very innocence and purity rendered her courageous on ordinary occasions. But she was now under the influence of emotions powerfully wrung—of feelings strained to an unusual tension;—and she had no control over her imagination, which was disordered and excited.
One idea dominated all the rest. This was to escape from the house—to escape, at any hazard and at all risks. Not for worlds, she thought, could she return to that bed where such distressing visions had rent her soul;—and she could not pass the rest of the night alone, and in a strange place. No: she must return to the cottage—retrace her way to the home which her father had provided for her—and endeavour to reach that friendly threshold in time to prevent Mrs. Gifford from transmitting to her sire the news of her disobedience.
But her mother! Oh! she should see that parent again—she would explain everything—and perhaps arrangements might be made to suit the views and accomplish the happiness of all! In the mean time, however, she must escape—she must return home,—she could not endure the idea of remaining another hour—no—nor even a minute longer than was necessary—in that stranger-dwelling!
With lightning speed did all these thoughts,—or rather glimpses of thoughts—for they were too brief, too fleetingly vivid, to deserve the name of reflections—pass through the maiden’s mind, as she threw on her apparel with a congenial haste; and in three minutes she was dressed. Her bonnet was in the parlour below: but that she could take on her way out of the house—or she cared not if she did not find it at all. She would escape in any case, and at all events; and if she could not find a vehicle to convey her home—she would walk, although she might have to ask her way at every step. For Agnes had worked herself up to a pitch of desperation: a fearful panic was upon her;—she knew not, neither did she pause to ask in her own soul, why she longed so ardently to fly from that house:—an irresistible and almost incomprehensible influence urged her on—and the hurry of her actions was in accordance with the hurry of her brain.
Her hair was flowing over her shoulders: she just waited a moment—a single moment, to fasten it up in a large knot behind; and then, taking the light in her hand, she stole noiselessly down the stairs.
A profound silence—a silence which her footsteps disturbed not—reigned throughout the house.
All, save the affrighted—half-maddened girl, slept.
She gained the hall—she endeavoured to enter the parlour to procure her bonnet: but the door was closed—and she now remembered that the elder Miss Theobald had taken the key with her when they had all quitted that room for the night.
But we have already said that Agnes cared not for the bonnet;—and without bestowing a second thought on the matter, she approached the front-door. Alas! there was a more serious disappointment still—the key of that door had likewise been taken up stairs.
An expression of bitter vexation passed over the pale countenance of the maiden—an expression more bitter than that beauteous countenance had ever before worn: but, in another instant, it was succeeded by something like a gleam of hope and joy,—for Agnes bethought her that there was a yard at the back of the house—she had seen it, in the moonlight, from her bed-room window—and there might be a means of egress in that direction.
Cautiously descending the stairs leading into the kitchens, which were below the level of the street, she hastened to the back-door, which, to her joy, proved only to be bolted.
Oh! now she would escape—she would escape, even if she were forced to climb a wall and enter the enclosure belonging to a neighbouring house: for, with the excitement occasioned by her present proceedings, the panic influence which urged her on acquired fresh power every moment.
Extinguishing the light, she left the candlestick in the house, and then emerged into the yard.
The fresh air, as it fanned her face, seemed to breathe whispering promises of freedom, and gave her renewed courage.
The moon was shining gloriously; and as she cast a glance of rapid survey around, she beheld the backs of the dilapidated houses the fronts of which had struck her with such sinister effect when she first entered Stamford Street, in the hackney-coach, in the evening.
There was no mode of egress from the yard save by scaling the boundary walls, which were low on either side.
Not an instant did Agnes hesitate: the fittings of a water-butt served as a ladder for her delicate feet;—and, behold! the sylph-like form of the maiden passes nimbly and lightly over the wall, into the yard belonging to the ruined house next door: for it strikes her that egress by means of an uninhabited building must be certain beyond all risk or doubt.
The moon-light streams, with silvery rays, upon the sombre walls—the dark window-frames, with the blackened fragments of glass remaining in them—the back-door hanging crazily and loosely on its hinges—and the rust-eaten bars of the back-kitchen window. The yard is overgrown with rank grass, reaching above the ankles; and the ground is ragged and uneven—the chances of tripping being moreover multiplied by the brick-bats and the broken bottles scattered about.