As Leonard uttered these last words in a firm tone and with marked emphasis, a thrill of horror passed through the crowded court; and the dead silence which had been observed while he was speaking, was succeeded by a subdued murmuring as of many voices commenting on what he had said. Erect, and with an evident determination to meet his doom courageously, the unhappy young man stood in the dock—his eye quailing not, his limbs trembling not; and, heinous as his offences were, he was not altogether without commiseration on the part of many present. The judge put on the black cap; and the sentence of death—that barbarian sentence—was pronounced in due form, the culprit receiving an intimation that he need entertain no hope of mercy. The hint was unnecessary: he had made up his mind to suffer;—and as firmly as he walked out of the dock back into the prison, so resolutely did he step from that same prison ten days afterwards on to the scaffold erected at the debtors’ door. A tremendous crowd was assembled to witness the execution; and the unhappy criminal maintained his courage to the last.
From that time have the three houses in Stamford Street been shut up: from that period have they been suffered to fall into decay. In the first, old Mr. Mitchell expired suddenly: in the second, Mr. Pomfret hung himself;—and in the third, Ellen was brutally murdered. The hand of Fate had marked those three tenements to be the scenes of horror and of crime: and a superstitious feeling on the part of certain credulous and weak-minded neighbours soon engendered the report that they were haunted. It was said that the ghost of the young lady had been seen walking in her shroud, in the yard behind the house where she was murdered; and rumour added that on the anniversary night of the dread crime which had hurried her to a premature grave, she was wont to wander about the premises, uttering hollow and sepulchral moans. Such reports as those lose nothing by repetition during the lapse of years, especially while the buildings which were the scenes of the crimes engendering the superstition, continue to exist; and therefore is it that even at the present day the evil reputation of the HAUNTED HOUSES remains unimpaired in Stamford Street and its neighbourhood.
The preceding episode has run to a considerable length; but we hope and believe that our readers will experience no difficulty in resuming the thread of the general narrative.
It must be remembered that the leading incidents of the story just placed on record were related to Mrs. Mortimer by Jack Rily, by way of passing the few hours during which they had agreed to remain with Vitriol Bob, who, bound hand and foot, was seated helplessly in a chair.
“Yes,” observed Jack Rily, when he had brought his history to a conclusion, “they do say that the young woman walks at times——”
“Don’t speak in such a solemn tone,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, casting a shuddering glance around: “you almost make me think that you yourself believe in the possibility of the spectral visitation.”
“Well—I don’t know how it is.” returned the Doctor, feeling a certain superstitious influence growing upon him, and which he vainly endeavoured to shake off,—“but I certainly never before had such sensations as I experience now. Upon my soul;” he cried, striking the table violently with his clenched fist, “I am a prey to vague and undefined alarms to night:—but I will subdue them!”
“And are you sure that this is the house where the young lady was murdered?” asked Mrs. Mortimer, after a brief pause.
“There is no doubt about that!” responded Jack Rily. “Vitriol Bob there can tell you that the floor of the chamber where the deed took place is blackened with accumulated dust, yet in the middle there is a deeper stain; and on the ceiling of the room beneath, it is easy to descry the same sinister traces, even amidst dirt and cobwebs.”
“Then, as you said just now,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer, drawing her shawl over her shoulders—for she experienced the chill of superstitious terror gaining upon her,—“as you said just now, this is the second murder that has been committed within these walls!”
Scarcely had Mrs. Mortimer ceased speaking when the bell of the neighbouring church proclaimed the hour of one.
“Now is the time for the ghost,” said Vitriol Bob, with a low but ferocious chuckle; for he experienced a malignant pleasure in observing that superstitious fears were gaining on the formidable Rily and the hideous old woman. “You don’t like the near neighbourhood of the stiff ’un, I’m a-thinking! Well—I’ll lay you a wager, Jack, that I’ll go and shake the old feller by the hand quite in a friendly way—if you will but take off these cussed cords. There’s no ill feelin’ betwixt us now.”
“I would much rather leave you where you are, and send Polly Calvert to release you,” replied the Doctor.
“Yes—yes,” hastily exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, “let him be where he is. But surely we may go now, Mr. Rily? It is getting on for two——”
“It has only just this minit struck one!” cried Vitriol Bob, with a malignant leer from his dark, reptile-like eyes, which seemed to shine with a glare of their own, independent of and brighter than the dim light of the miserable candle. “Besides,” he added, now purposely rendering his voice as solemn and ominous in its tone as possible, “’tis just the time for the ghost of the young gal—or rayther, the young o’oman to walk; and I should be wexed indeed if you didn’t stay to have a look at her. I’ve seen her more than once——”
“That’s an infernal falsehood, Bob!” exclaimed Jack Rily, starting from his seat on the barrel, and vainly endeavouring to subdue the nervous excitement that had gained so rapidly upon him.
“It’s true—true as you’re there!” cried the murderer, who felt a ferocious joy at thus inspiring terror in the mind of the strong and hardened ruffian who had conquered him. “And I’ll tell you somethink more too,” continued Vitriol Bob: “you said just now—and you said truly also—that on the anniwersary of the murder the young lady wanders about the place, uttering holler moans. Well—this is the night, then, that she was murdered just twenty years ago;—and the clock has struck one!”
The effect which these words produced upon Jack Rily and Mrs. Mortimer was as rapid as it was extraordinary. Although they were both of a nature peculiarly inaccessible to superstitious terrors on common occasions, and under any other circumstances would have laughed at the idea of spectral visitations and ghostly wanderings,—yet now they vainly struggled against the powerful influence of increasing terror; and, although in their hearts, they more than half suspected that Vitriol Bob had spoken only to aggravate their alarms, yet they could not shake off the awe and consternation that seized upon their souls. In respect to Jack Rily, it was one of those periods of evanescent weakness which the most brutal and remorseless ruffians are known periodically to experience;—but, with regard to Mrs. Mortimer, it was the singularity of her present position—the consciousness that she was in a lonely place with two men of desperate character—the terrible remembrance that the murdered corse of her husband lay in the adjoining room—the impression made upon her mind by the appalling history of crime which had been to elaborately detailed to her—the thought that the very floors and the ceilings of the uppermost chambers in that house, bore testimony to the tale of blood—and the idea that the ghost of the assassinated lady was wont to wander in the depth of the night and on the scene of the crime,—it was all this that struck Mrs. Mortimer with awe and consternation, rendering her incapable of serious reflection, and levelling her strong mind as it were beneath the influence of superstitious terrors.
“Well—what the devil is the matter with you both?” demanded Vitriol Bob, after a pause.
“How do you mean?” asked Jack Rily, reseating himself, and grasping the brandy-bottle with a trembling hand.
“Why—you and the old lady looked at each other as if you already heard the light step and the rustling shroud of the apparition,” said the murderer.
“Hark! what was that?” ejaculated the Doctor, once more starting to his feet.
“It certainly was a noise somewhere,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, trembling from head to foot.
“Perhaps the old man in the back-kitchen has got up and is groping his way about,” said Vitriol Bob, speaking with an affectation of terror which was so natural that it cruelly enhanced the superstitious alarms experienced by his companions.
“This is intolerable!” exclaimed Rily, looking in a ghastly manner towards the door, as if he more than half expected to behold it suddenly thrown open, and some hideous form appear on the threshold. “I can’t make out what it is that has come over me to-night! ’Tis like a warning—and yet I never believed in ghosts until now.”
“Nor I—nor I!” murmured Mrs. Mortimer. “But to-night—I feel also as if——”
“Hark!” suddenly cried Vitriol Bob: “there is a noise again!”
“It must be the old man!” ejaculated the Doctor. “Are you sure that you did for him thoroughly?”
“If anythink like him meets your eyes, Jack, it must be his ghost, I can assure you,” was the solemn answer—although Vitriol Bob himself partook not in the slightest degree of the superstitious terrors that had grown upon his companions, but was on the contrary inwardly chuckling with malignant joy at their awe-struck state of mind.
“There! did you hear it?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, in a hasty and excited tone. “I am sure it was a noise this time: there could be no mistake about it!”
And she endeavoured to rise from her chair;—but terror kept her motionless—paralysing every limb, though not placing a seal upon her lips.
“Something dreadful is to happen to-night—I know it—I feel it!” said Jack Rily, in a tone which indicated remorse for a long career of crime and turpitude. “By God! ’tis the back-door of the house that is opening——”
“Then this is serious indeed!” interrupted Vitriol Bob, now alarmed in his turn—but rather on account of constables than spectres. “Unloose me—let us fight—resist——”
“Silence!” muttered Jack Rily, in a low but imperious tone.
There was a pause of nearly a minute, during which the three inmates of the kitchen held their breath to listen, in painful suspense.
Suddenly the rattling of the crazy bannisters outside fell upon their ears; and Jack Rily, worked up to a pitch of desperation, seized the candle, saying in a hoarse and dogged tone, “By hell! I will face it, whatever it may be!”
With these words he tore open the kitchen-door;—and, behold! before him stood a female form—clothed in white—with a countenance pale as death—her hair flowing wildly and dishevelled over her shoulders—and with eyes fixed in unnatural brilliancy upon him.
The ruffian was for a few moments paralyzed—stupified with horror: then, unable any longer to endure the spectacle which his fears converted into a corpse wrapped in a winding-sheet, he exclaimed, “The ghost! the ghost!”—and dropped the candle upon the floor.
Total darkness immediately ensued.
At the same instant a piercing scream echoed through the house; and Mrs. Mortimer, now recovering all her presence of mind, started to her feet, crying, “That is no apparition—save of flesh and blood! Haste, Jack Rily—procure a light! Where are you, man? Let us see who it is!”
“Here I am,” returned the Doctor, likewise regaining his self-possession. “Bob, where are the lucifers?”
“In my right-hand pocket,” growled the murderer, who, in the excitement of the past scene, and in the tremendous but ineffectual exertions which he had made to release himself from his bonds the moment the light was extinguished, had fallen from his seat and rolled upon the floor.
Nearly half a minute now elapsed ere the candle was found and lighted again; and then Jack Rily, closely followed by Mrs. Mortimer, hastened into the passage, where they beheld the form of a young female stretched senseless at the foot of the stairs.
The old woman stooped down to raise her: but scarcely had she caught a glimpse of the pale countenance, on which the finger of death seemed to have been placed, when, starting with surprise and joy, she exclaimed, “’Tis Agnes Vernon, as I am a living being!”
“Agnes Vernon—who is she? do you know her?” demanded the Doctor, holding forward the light. “By Jove! she is a sweet creature, whoever she is! That’s right—raise her gently. But is she dead, poor thing?”
“No—no: her heart beats—and her lips already begin to move,” responded Mrs. Mortimer hastily, as she held the still senseless maiden in her arms. “Well—this is a lucky chance that has thrown her in our way—and there’s money to be made out of it.”
“So much the better? Shall I get a little water?” asked the Doctor.
“Yes—and use despatch,” returned Mrs. Mortimer.
Jack Rily entered the kitchen, and filled a glass with water.
“Who is it?” demanded Vitriol Bob, whom the Doctor had previously restored to his position in the chair.
“A young lady that Mrs. Mortimer happens to know,” was the reply. “There is no danger from other visitors, according to all appearances: so keep quiet, and don’t alarm yourself.”
The Doctor hastened back into the passage, where Mrs. Mortimer was seated on the last step of the staircase, supporting Agnes in her arms.
“Now, will you follow my advice, Mr. Rily?” she demanded in a rapid tone, as she sprinkled the water upon the pallid countenance of the young lady.
“Yes—if it seems feasible,” was the immediate answer. “What is it?”
“That we do not keep this timid thing a moment longer in the house than is absolutely necessary,” continued Mrs. Mortimer. “For our own sakes we must guard against her beholding the interior of that place;” and, as she uttered these words in a low tone, she nodded significantly towards the door of the back kitchen where the corpse of Torrens had been deposited.
“Yes—yes: I understand,” said Jack Rily: “it might be thought that we were accomplices in the murder. In the same way it would do no good to let her see Vitriol Bob bound neck and crop in the front kitchen.”
“That is just what I was about to suggest,” observed Mrs. Mortimer. “We must get her out of the house as soon as possible, and into a cab——”
“Then don’t use any more means to recover her,” interrupted Jack Rily, snatching the glass of water from the old woman’s hand. “Let her remain for a short time longer in that trance: it will not kill her, depend upon it—and you have the advantage of possessing an Æsculapius in me.”
“What do you propose, then?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, casting an anxious glance upon the countenance of the still senseless girl.
“Don’t be frightened, I tell you,” repeated Jack Rily: “I will guarantee that she shall recover. But let us be off at once. I will take her in my arms and carry her into Bennett Street; the neighbourhood is all quiet and deserted at this hour;—and you shall order round a cab from the stand in the road There are always two or three in attendance throughout the night.”
“Good!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer. “We will be off at once.”
“This instant,” said Jack Rily, as he gently raised the motionless, senseless form in his powerful arms, while Mrs. Mortimer took off her shawl and wrapped it hastily over the head and shoulders of Agnes.
The Doctor gave a hurried intimation to Vitriol Bob that Molly Calvert should be sent to him as speedily as possible; and he then stole out of the house, Mrs. Mortimer having previously ascertained that the coast was perfectly clear.
Everything was effected as Jack Rily had proposed. He gained Bennett Street, with his lovely burthen in his arms; and there he waited in the deep darkness afforded by a large gateway, until Mrs. Mortimer came round with the cab. The maiden was placed in the vehicle, which the old woman entered in order to take charge of her; and Jack Rily, after having made an appointment with his accomplice for the next evening, bade her a temporary farewell.
The cab drove away towards Park Square; and the Doctor, on his side, hurried off to the lodgings of Pig-faced Moll.
But the thread of our narrative now lies with Mrs. Mortimer and the beauteous Agnes Vernon.
Scarcely had the cab moved away from the vicinity of the haunted houses, when Agnes began rapidly to recover; and, on opening her eyes, she became aware that she was reclining in the arms of a female, and that they were being borne speedily along in a vehicle. For an instant it struck her that she must be with her mother: but in the next moment the horrors of the night crowded rapidly into her memory,—and, starting up, she demanded in a hurried, anxious manner, “Where am I? and who are you?”
Scarcely were the questions put when the young maiden was enabled, by the silver moon-light, to catch a glimpse of the countenance of her companion; and she instantly recognised Mrs. Mortimer.
Her first emotions were of joy and gratitude;—for she was delighted to find herself in the care of a female—especially one of whom she knew something: and, taking the old woman’s hand, she said, “Madam, I know not how to thank you—and am scarcely aware of what I have to thank you for. But—if my impressions be correct—you must have rescued me from something very terrible! Yes—I recollect now—that door opening—a light appearing—and then that hideous, horrible face——”
And, with a visible shudder, the maiden threw herself back in the vehicle, pressing her hands to her throbbing brows in order to collect her still disjointed and somewhat confused reminiscences.
“You are labouring under dreadful recollections my dear child,” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a soothing tone. “Know you not—can you not suspect that you were in the power of a ruffian when I fortunately encountered you?”
“But where—where?” demanded Agnes, impatiently, as her settling ideas seemed to coincide with that belief.
“I should rather ask you, my sweet maiden,” said Mrs. Mortimer, “how you came to be in Stamford Street this night.”
“My mother took me thither—yes—I recollect it all now!” exclaimed Agnes. “She left me at the house of some dear friends—and I was ungrateful enough to entertain the most injurious suspicions respecting them,—yes—and relative to my own dear mother also.”
“Your mother?” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, in astonishment. “I thought you had never known her—or that she had died when you were in your infancy.”
“Oh! no—thank God! my mother is alive—and I know her now!” ejaculated Agnes, with all the enthusiasm of a strongly reviving affection—a powerfully resuscitating devotion for the parent whom she had so lately discovered.
“But where is your mother now?” enquired Mrs. Mortimer.
“Ah! that I know not!” replied Agnes. “And this reminds me,” she exclaimed after a few moments’ pause, “that you must take me back to the good kind ladies in Stamford Street, that I may remain there until my mother shall come to fetch me away to the new home which she has promised to prepare for me.”
“Who are those good ladies?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.
“Their name is Theobald, and they live in Stamford Street,” responded the artless girl. “You may know the house—or at least the driver of the vehicle can find it out, when I describe it as being situated fourth from the corner of the Blackfriars’ Road, and next to three deserted—dilapidated—sinister-looking houses——”
“Ah! then you must have found your way from the dwelling of your friends into one of those ruined places,” thought Mrs. Mortimer. “But I am really at a loss, my dear young lady, to comprehend all you tell me,” she said aloud.
“Before I give you the necessary explanations to enable you to understand it all,” said Agnes, “will you inform me which road the vehicle is pursuing?”
“I am taking you to a place of safety, my dear girl,” responded Mrs. Mortimer.
“A place of safety!” repeated Agnes, her countenance assuming an expression of deep anxiety: “am I, then, in any danger? and in what does the peril consist?”
“I know not, my love,” answered the old woman, speaking in the kindest tone of voice. “I only judge by the condition in which I found you—the circumstances which threw us this night together—and the observations which have fallen from your lips, that you were indeed in a state of extreme danger.”
“Just heaven!” ejaculated Agnes. “But what observations did I make——”
“That you had entertained suspicions relative to the friends to whose care your mother had consigned you,” said Mrs. Mortimer.
“Yes—and I told you truly,” resumed the ingenuous maiden. “I know not how it was—I cannot account for it now—but when I found myself alone in a strange house, terrible though undefined fears took possession of my soul—and I resolved to escape. I succeeded in getting as far as the next house, which I entered: but scarcely had I crossed the threshold of the back door, when a light suddenly appeared and a countenance was revealed to my affrighted gaze—a countenance so dreadful to look upon that I tremble now as I think of it. Then, so far as I can recollect, I heard a voice thundering something loud but unintelligible in my ears: I screamed—and fainted. When I came to my senses, I was in your arms and in this vehicle.”
“I can throw some light upon the matter,” said Mrs. Mortimer, whose object was to keep the attention of Agnes as much and as unremittingly engaged as possible, so as to prevent her from growing uneasy relative to the ultimate destination of the cab: for should she become alarmed, she might appeal to the driver for protection, and a disturbance in the streets would prove inevitable. “You must know,” continued Mrs. Mortimer, “that I was returning home from a friend’s house in Stamford-street, when I met a great, stout, horribly ugly man carrying a female form in his arms. The moon-light showed me his dreadful countenance—and I instantly suspected that some foul play was intended. I accordingly insisted that he should stop—which he did with much reluctance, declaring that you were his daughter, and that he was taking you home, as you had fallen down in a fit.”
“Oh! then some mischief was really meditated towards me!” exclaimed Agnes, clasping her hands together in shuddering horror of the perils through which she supposed herself to have passed.
“Yes—my dear child,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, “you doubtless owe your life to me——”
“Ah! madam,” interrupted Agnes, “how can I ever sufficiently thank you for your goodness?”—then, as a reminiscence struck to her artless mind with the pang of a remorse, she exclaimed, as she pressed the old woman’s wrinkled hands to her lips, “It seems fated that I should suspect those who are my best friends!”
“Do not think of that, my love,” said the wily old creature, who easily conjectured what was passing in that amiable maiden’s ingenuous soul. “When you know me better, you will appreciate my conduct towards you as it deserves. Doubtless your father set you against me—and then that little misunderstanding relative to the affair of Lord William Trevelyan——But enough of that for the present! Let me conclude my little narrative relative to yourself. Well, I was describing to you how I compelled the man to stop; and I was about to tell you that I was by no means satisfied with the explanations he gave me. Indeed, I threatened to summon the assistance of the police; and you may be well assured that this menace suddenly became a settled resolution, when, as the moonlight fell upon the countenance of the fair creature whom the man carried in his arms, I recognised yourself, my sweet Agnes! You can conceive my astonishment, perhaps—but you can form no idea of the apprehension that seized on me; for I really love you dearly, although I have seen so little of you. The man was dreadfully alarmed when he perceived that I knew you; and I had no difficulty in compelling him to surrender you into my charge. He then decamped; and I placed you in a cab which happened to be passing at the time. You now know all.”
“Ah! from what inconceivable perils have you not saved me!” exclaimed Agnes, full of enthusiastic and impassioned gratitude towards the woman whom she looked upon as her deliverer. “My dear mother will thank you warmly—earnestly—most sincerely for this generous act on your part; and I shall never, never forget the deep obligation under which you have placed me.”
“Enough on that subject, my dear child,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “You have spoken several times of your mother—may I ask how you came to discover her, or how she happened to have remained so long unknown to you?”
“I am bewildered when I think of all that!” returned Miss Vernon, in a mournful tone. “It was last evening that she came to me—that she sought me out in my retirement—that she announced herself as my parent; and my heart’s feelings gave me the assurance that she was indeed what she represented herself to be. Then I agreed to accompany her—for she told me that she was unhappy, and she claimed my love and my duty as a daughter. Oh! my dear madam, you can doubtless understand how joyous—how delightful were my emotions on thus encountering a mother whom I had never known till then! I only thought of giving way to those delicious feelings—until I found myself left in the charge of strangers. Then it was that I grew afraid—that vague and undefinable apprehensions took possession of my soul—that I became suspicions of all and everything—and that I fled! Foolish, mistaken creature that I was! That one false step of mine threw me into the hands of a monster, who would perhaps have killed me had you not rescued me from his power.”
Agnes paused, and arranged her hair—her dark, luxuriant, glossy hair—floating so wildly and yet so beauteously in its dishevelled state, over her shoulders;—and now, as the tint of the rose had returned to her cheeks, and her eyes had recovered their witching softness of expression, she appeared transcendantly lovely to the view of the old woman, whom the moon-light enabled to survey the charming creature seated opposite to her.
Suddenly the vehicle stopped;—and Agnes, hastily looking from the windows, beheld a row of handsome houses on one side, and an enclosure of verdant shrubs and plants on the other.
“This is not Stamford Street, madam,” she said to Mrs. Mortimer.
“No, my dear child,” was the almost whispered reply: “but it is a place of safety to which I have brought you. Do you imagine that I, who have saved your life this night, could intend you any harm? Wherefore be thus ever suspicious respecting your best friends?”
These words not only reassured Agnes, but made her blush at what she deemed to be her ingratitude towards her deliverer;—and, pressing the old woman’s hand fervently, she murmured, “Forgive me, I implore you!”
“Think no more of it, my love,” said Mrs. Mortimer, as she alighted from the vehicle: then, turning towards the maiden, she added, “Remain in your place for a few minutes until I have aroused the people of the house: the chill air of the early morning will give you cold, lightly clad as you are.”
Agnes signified an assent; and the old woman hastened up to the front door of the house at which they had stopped. She knocked and rang: but some time elapsed ere the summons was answered. At length a domestic, who had huddled on some clothing, made his appearance; and, to Mrs. Mortimer’s query whether his master were at home, an affirmative reply was given.
“Then hesitate not to arouse him—for I have called upon a matter of great importance to his lordship,” said the old woman.
“Certainly I will do so, madam,” returned the domestic; “since you assure me that your business is pressing. But will you not walk in and await his lordship’s readiness to receive you?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have a person with me who must accompany me. But listen to something that I have to urge upon you. You will conduct us both, as a matter of course, into the same room: but when your master is ready to receive me, take care that I obtain an interview alone with him in the first instance. It is of the highest consequence that these instructions should be fully attended to.”
“You shall be obeyed, madam,” said the servant.
Mrs. Mortimer now fetched Agnes from the vehicle, which she ordered to be kept waiting for herself; and the two females were conducted by the domestic into a handsome apartment, where, having lighted the wax-candles, he left them.
In spite of her anxiety to place confidence in Mrs. Mortimer—in spite of the deep obligation under which she believed herself to be lying towards her, Agnes could not subdue a partial feeling of uneasiness when she found that she was in a strange house, evidently the abode of a rich person.
She gazed round the walls covered with splendid pictures—on the chandelier suspended to the ceiling—on the elegant and costly furniture—the superb mantel-ornaments—and down upon the luxurious carpet, so thick that her tiny feet were almost imbedded in it, as if she were walking in snow.
Whose dwelling could it be? Assuredly not Mrs. Mortimer’s—for she was only treated as a visitress. At length, after the lapse of a few minutes, the young maiden ventured to ask, “Who are the friends, madam, with whom you propose to leave me?”
“Does not that very question, Agnes, imply a suspicion injurious to me?” said Mrs. Mortimer, evasively.
“Oh! no—no!” exclaimed Miss Vernon, in a melting tone of the profoundest sincerity. “But may I not ask so simple a question without being liable to such a distressing imputation?”
“Can you not leave yourself in the hands of one who has saved your life and who wishes you well?” said the old woman, speaking in a voice of mingled reproach and conciliation.
“Yes—certainly, madam,” was the immediate answer: “but you yourself are not going to remain here—inasmuch as you have ordered the cabriolet to wait for you.”
“True, Agnes: because I have business of importance to transact at an early hour this morning, and at a considerable distance hence. Reassure yourself, my darling girl,” continued the iniquitous hag: “you will be delighted to meet the person whom you will presently see. Indeed, it is only a little surprise which I am preparing for you—and, after all I have done for you, you surely will not deny me the pleasure which I promise myself in beholding the interview between yourself and the owner of this splendid mansion.”
By degrees, as Mrs. Mortimer spoke, the countenance of Agnes brightened up; for it struck the young maiden that it was her mother whom she was now to meet—and this idea grew into a positive conviction by the time the old woman had uttered the last words of her sentence. She was accordingly about to express renewed gratitude for the happy surprise thus reserved for her, when the door opened and the domestic returned to the apartment.
“Madam, will you follow me?” he said, addressing himself to Mrs. Mortimer.
“My dear child,” observed the old woman, turning towards Agnes and patting her face with a show of affection, “you will remain here for a few minutes—a very few minutes; and then,” she added, with a sly smile, which meant as much as to intimate that she read the hope entertained by Agnes, and should speedily have the pleasure of gratifying it,—“and then, my love, you will not scold me for having kept you a little in suspense.”
Tears of gratitude trembled upon the long dark lashes of the beauteous maiden, although her lips were wreathed in smiles:—but when Nature melts into April softness, ’tis with mingled rain and sunshine.
While Agnes remained alone in the handsome parlour, cradling herself in the hope that the lapse of a few minutes would see her embraced in the arms of her mother, Mrs. Mortimer was conducted into another apartment, where she found herself in the presence of Lord William Trevelyan, who had dressed himself with as much despatch as possible.
“Well, madam,” he said, in a hasty and even anxious tone, “what has brought you hither at this unseasonable hour?—whom have you with you?—and wherefore this desire, as expressed to my domestic, to see me alone in the first instance?”
“My lord, it is Agnes Vernon who has accompanied me, and who is in the room which I have just left,” answered the old woman.
“I thought so—I was afraid that it was so, when the servant gave me a description of her—a very rapid and partial one, it is true, inasmuch as he beheld her only for a few moments. But, great heavens! madam,” continued the young nobleman, speaking with singular and unusual vivacity, “what means this strange proceeding?”
“That Agnes required an asylum, and I brought her hither,” was the response.
“And do you for an instant imagine, madam, that I am capable—that I would be guilty—that I——But, enough! I will say no more to you: I see through your real character—and I loathe and despise it! My God! to think that I should have enlisted a common procuress in my service! Oh! how can I ever look Agnes in the face?—how venture to accost her, after having thus offered her the most flagrant of insults? But, tell me, vile woman,” he exclaimed, seizing Mrs. Mortimer forcibly by the wrist, while his tone and manner alike indicated the most painful excitement,—“tell me, I say, by what detestable artifices you have induced that innocent and unsuspecting maiden to accompany you hither?”
“My lord, you will be ashamed of yourself for this unworthy conduct towards me, when you come to know all,—yes, ashamed and astonished at the same time,” said Mrs. Mortimer, assuming an air of offended dignity and wounded pride.
“How!—speak!” ejaculated Lord William, dropping the woman’s arm and surveying her with mingled surprise and repentance.
“I shall not waste precious time in entering into details,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer. “Yesterday morning I saw Agnes and induced her to peruse your letter. She was offended, and tossed it indignantly back to me.”
“Ah!” cried the nobleman, his countenance assuming an expression of extreme vexation.
“Yes—and here it is,” continued Mrs. Mortimer, producing the epistle from her reticule, and laying it upon the table.
“But she read it, you say?” exclaimed Lord William.
“Every word,” was the response. “Nevertheless, though softened and even pleased at first, she subsequently thought better of it, and rejected the communication in the manner I have described. I was disheartened, and felt unwilling to return to you with such unwelcome intelligence. An hour ago I quitted the house of a friend in Stamford Street; and in that same street the following adventure occurred to me.”
The old woman then related precisely the same anecdote which she had already told to Agnes, relative to the pretended rescue of that young lady from the power of a man who was bearing her along insensible in his arms.
The young nobleman was astounded; and his manner denoted incredulity.
“I perceive that your lordship puts no faith in my narrative,” said Mrs. Mortimer, who conjectured what was passing in his mind: “but the tale which Agnes can tell you, will corroborate it. She herself will inform you how she fell into the power of the ruffian from whom it was subsequently my good fortune to deliver her; and if you place confidence in her words, you will perforce be led to accord the same favour to mine?”
“And her tale—what is it?” demanded the nobleman, impatiently.
“Yesterday she discovered the mother whom she had lost since her infancy,” answered Mrs. Mortimer.
“Her mother!” exclaimed Trevelyan. “And where is that mother? who is she? Tell me, that I may hasten to her at as early an hour as possible, and implore of her to accord me the hand of her daughter.”
“Be not so hasty, my lord. I am totally unacquainted with Agnes Vernon’s mother; and she herself—poor artless girl! knows, I believe, but little more. It is however certain that the young lady was induced to accompany her newly-found parent from the cottage—that she was consigned to the care of two ladies named Theobald, and dwelling in Stamford Street—that in the night she became the prey to vague and unfounded terrors, which induced her to attempt an escape from the house—and that she fell into the hands of the man from whom I rescued her.”
“And wherefore have you brought her hither?” asked Lord William. “Why not have conducted her back to the ladies to whose care her mother had consigned her—or to the cottage where she has dwelt so long?”
“I have put you in the position of one who may perform a chivalrous action, and thereby win the permanent esteem, gratitude, and love of this beautiful creature whom you adore,” said Mrs. Mortimer; “and now you appear inclined to load me with reproaches. Yes—I perceive that reproaches are trembling upon your lordship’s tongue;—and I who have done all I could to serve you, shall experience nought save ingratitude. Oh! short-sighted lover that you are! Here is a young girl whom I pick up as it were houseless and homeless—and I am already half-way with her to your mansion, before I even learn from her lips how she came in Stamford Street at all, or that she has friends there. But when I do glean those facts, I find that she has escaped from the guardianship of those friends: and could I suppose that they would be willing to receive her again? Now, my lord, it is for you to grant her an asylum—to treat her with all imaginable delicacy and attention—and to leave me to find out her mother, that you may restore the lost daughter to the distracted parent. Doubtless the Miss Theobalds will give me the desired information: and then calculate the amount of gratitude that will be due to you! In spite of her father—whoever he may really be, and whatever opposition he might raise—Agnes is yours; and you gain the object of your heart’s dearest wishes.”
“And think you, woman,” exclaimed Lord William Trevelyan, unable any longer to subdue his resentment,—“think you that I will blast the fair fame of this young lady by retaining her for even a single hour beneath my roof?—think you that I will obtain for her the inevitable reputation of having been my mistress, previously to becoming my wife? No—a thousand times no! And do you imagine that I read not your heart aright? do you suppose that I am your dupe? I tell you, vile woman, that in bringing the innocent and artless Agnes hither, you fancied you would be throwing in my way a temptation which I could not resist,—a temptation which would thaw all my virtuous principles and honourable notions, and lead me to sacrifice the purity of the confiding girl to my passion. Yes—such was your base calculation: or you would at once and unhesitatingly have conducted her either to the abode of her friends in Stamford Street, or home to her own cottage! Ah! madam, because I belong to the aristocracy, you imagine that I must necessarily be as vile, depraved, and unprincipled as ninety-nine out of every hundred individuals who bear lordly titles. But you have deceived yourself—grossly deceived yourself: and you shall at once have the proof that you are so deceived! Follow me.”
Thus speaking, Lord William advanced rapidly towards the door, imperiously beckoning the vile woman to accompany him.
“Whither are you going, my lord?” she demanded, finding that she had indeed over-reached herself—that the nobleman’s principles were more profoundly rooted than she had imagined—and that all her trouble was likely to go unrewarded.
“Follow me, I say: as you have done this amount of mischief, you shall at least see it remedied to the utmost of my power;”—and the nobleman burst from the room, literally dragging the old woman with him.
In less than a minute they entered the apartment where Agnes was anxiously—oh! most anxiously awaiting the presence of her mother;—and the moment the door was opened, she darted forward to precipitate herself into the arms of her parent.
But, recognising Lord William Trevelyan, she stopped short with a cry of mingled disappointment, surprise, and alarm; while an ashy pallor overspread her countenance.
“Reassure yourself, Miss Vernon—I am your friend, and a man of honour!” were the encouraging words which Trevelyan hastened to address to her.
“And my mother?” said the young maiden, bending a look of earnest appeal upon Mrs. Mortimer, who however shrank back in confusion.
“Your mother is not here, Miss Vernon,” exclaimed the nobleman: “neither does this woman know where to find her. An act of the greatest imprudence has been committed in bringing you hither——”
“Oh! what do I hear?” cried Agnes, clasping her hands. “Is this your house, my lord? If so,” she added, with dignity succeeding grief, “I am innocent of any intention to intrude: indeed, your lordship might full well conceive that I should not have come hither of my own accord—oh! no—not for worlds!”
And tears rolled down the cheeks of the gentle girl for she felt humiliated in the presence of the very man in whose eyes, if her young heart had a preference, she would have fain appeared in another light.
“Oh! Miss Vernon, it is you who do not understand me!” ejaculated Lord William, advancing and taking her hand. “If I spoke of the imprudence which had been committed, it was on your account only! For believe me when I declare that I should be proud,—yes, and in the enjoyment of an elysian happiness, could you enter this mansion to remain here—to command here, with honour to yourself! But I will not avail myself of this opportunity to urge a suit that I have already ventured to prefer, and in the prosecution of which I unfortunately selected so improper an agent.”
As he uttered these words, he bent an indignant look upon Mrs. Mortimer, who turned away petulantly and made for the door.
“Stop, woman!” cried the young nobleman, hastening to detain her: “I cannot yet part with you, intolerable as your presence has become to me. “Miss Vernon,” he continued, again turning toward the maiden, whose sense of humiliation had vanished, and who in her heart of hearts now rejoiced in the conviction that Lord William Trevelyan was indeed as noble in nature as he was in name,—“I need scarcely observe that circumstances compel me to procure for you an asylum for the remainder of the night as speedily as possible. You will permit me to conduct you to the abode of a lady of my acquaintance,—a lady who will receive you with open arms, and who will to-morrow—or rather, in a few hours’ time—herself conduct you to the abode of your friends in Stamford Street, or to your own home near Streatham.”
With these words, the nobleman took the hand of the blushing Agnes, and led her from the house to the vehicle that was still waiting.
“Now, madam, you may depart,” he said sternly to Mrs. Mortimer, as soon as he had seated himself in the cab, opposite to Agnes.
The old woman turned sulkily away, muttering threats of vengeance; but these were unheeded by the chivalrous Trevelyan, who gave hasty instructions to the driver, and the vehicle rolled rapidly on towards Kentish Town.
Agnes could not do otherwise than appreciate all the delicacy of Lord William’s conduct towards her; for it is no disparagement to the extreme artlessness of her mind to state that she comprehended wherefore he had compelled Mrs. Mortimer to wait until they had quitted the house. But she could scarcely collect her bewildered ideas into a settled state—so rapid was the whirl of incidents and adventures through which she was doomed to pass on this memorable night. Had she paused to reflect upon her position, with that seriousness which it required, she would have requested the nobleman to conduct her at once to the dwelling of the Misses Theobald: but he had deported himself towards her with the generosity of a brother, and she acted in obedience to his suggestions without waiting to analyse them. In a word, she was full of confidence and ingenuous reliance in him; and she felt as if she had suddenly found a stanch and sincere friend in the midst of cruel difficulties and deep embarrassments. A dreamy kind of repose stole over her as she was borne along in the vehicle: and yet she not only heard the few remarks which her companion addressed to her, but likewise answered them in a befitting manner.
On his side Trevelyan was a prey to the strangest excitement; accident having not only thus procured him the acquaintanceship of her whom he loved so fondly, but having likewise placed them in a relative position, establishing as it were a friendship—almost an intimacy. Moreover, had he not touched her delicate white hand—touched it gently, it is true, and without venturing to press it,—but still touched it, and even held it for a few moments in his own? Had he not discovered, too, that if she appeared surpassingly lovely when seen from a distance, a nearer contemplation of her charms was only calculated to enhance his admiration and strengthen his devotion? And, lastly, had not the musical tones of her silver voice been breathed in his hearing, wafting words that were addressed to himself, and making every fibre in his heart vibrate deliciously to the dulcet sounds? Yes—all this he felt and appreciated; and he was happy.