“Ginthlemen,” exclaimed the gallant Irishman, “I mane to inthroduce myself and frind to ye without any more bother or pother. My frind, then, ginthlemen, is Misther Frank Cur-r-tis—discinded from a fine family, and once possissed of large estates, all of which, be Jasus! he’s managed to ate up as clane as if dirthy acres were plum-pudding. My name, ginthlemen, is Capthain O’Bluntherbuss, of Bluntherbuss Park, Connemar-r-ra—where I shall be delighted to see ye any time ye may be afther visiting Ould Ireland and I’m at home.”
“Permit me to shake hands with you, Captain O’Blunderbuss,” said the young nobleman; “and with you also, Mr. Curtis. You have rendered me and my friend a service which we cannot easily forget.”
“And which we shall never seek to forget,” added the baronet, emphatically; and then there was a general shaking of hands inside the cab.
Lord William Trevelyan next proceeded to inform his new friends who he and Sir Gilbert Heathcote were; and the reader may conceive the huge delight experienced by Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis when they found themselves in the company of a real nobleman and a real baronet.
“And now, my lor-r-d,” said the gallant officer, “will ye be so obleeging as to explain to us what house that was where all the pother took place, and what was the maning of the pother itself: for, be the holy poker-r! I can’t make head or tail of it!”
“The fact is,” responded Lord William Trevelyan, “it was a mad-house.”
“A mad-house!” ejaculated Mr. Frank Curtis, starting as if stung by a serpent lurking in the straw at the bottom of the cab—while a cold tremor came over him; for it instantly struck him that he and his Irish companion had been instrumental in the escape of a couple of lunatics.
“A mad-house!” repeated the Captain, immediately entertaining the same idea, although not sharing the apprehensions of his friend.
“Neither more nor less,” continued Trevelyan, perfectly unaware of the impression which his words had produced upon the two gentlemen: for, as the inside of the cab was quite dark, he could not observe the change that took place in their countenances.
“You—you—don’t mean to—to—say,” stammered Curtis, fidgetting uncommonly, and thrusting his hand outside the window to grasp the handle of the door: for he began to think that the sooner he emancipated himself from the cab, the better;—“you—you——”
“Hould your tongue, ye spalpeen!” vociferated the Captain, who, fully acquainted with the character of his friend, guessed pretty accurately all that was passing in his mind: for the worthy Irishman, on his part, was determined not to separate from his new friends, whether they were lunatics or not, until he had ascertained if any thing was to be got out of them either in the shape of money or whiskey, or both;—“hould your tongue, ye spalpeen! and let’s hear what his lor-rdship has to say upon the matther.”
“Well, as I was informing you, gentlemen,” resumed Trevelyan, who considered that a proper explanation was fully due to those who had acted such a gallant part in the late proceedings, “the house whence you just now so effectually aided us to escape, is a lunatic-asylum—and the men against whom you fought were the keepers.”
“And who—who were the—the—lunatics?” asked Frank Curtis, perspiring at every pore—for the effects of the whiskey which he had been drinking were completely absorbed in the terror that now influenced him.
“Be Jasus! and I won’t have such questions put to my intimate frind his lor-r-dship, and my parthicular frind the baronet!“ ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss, bestowing upon Frank’s ribs such an unmerciful nudge with his elbow that the gentleman who was made the recipient of the said poke writhed horribly in his seat. “Prosade, sir—my lor-r-d, I mane,” added the gallant officer, who, in spite of his civility towards the nobleman and the baronet, firmly believed that they were lunatics, and had usurped titles to which they had not the slightest claim nor right.
“Your companion asked me who were the lunatics,” said Trevelyan, beginning to be somewhat astonished at the manner of his new friends: “well, to tell you the candid truth, myself and Sir Gilbert Heathcote were supposed to be—although I leave you both to judge whether there could have been the slightest ground for such an idea.”
“O Lord!—O Lord!” murmured Frank Curtis; and again his hand, which he had withdrawn when the captain nudged him, was thrust out of the window to grasp the door-latch.
“Are you unwell, my dear sir?” inquired Sir Gilbert Heathcote, in a tone of much concern—for, being seated precisely opposite to Curtis, he had heard the murmured ejaculations which had escaped that individual’s lips.
“Yes—very,” replied Frank, with a hollow groan.
“Be asy, thin, can’t ye?” whispered the Captain savagely in his ear, at the same time favouring him with another barbarous nudge in the ribs. “Oh! it’s nothln’ at all, at all, with my frind, I can assure ye, my lor-r-d and Sir Gilbert,” exclaimed the gallant officer aloud: “he’s throubled with whazing in the throat when he’s been afther dhrinking an exthra dhrop of potheen—and may be the motion of the cab don’t quite agree with him, bad luck to his nonsense! Well, my lor-r-d, ye were afther telling us that your lor-r-dship’s ownself and Sir Gilbert were belaved to be the lunatics?”
“Just so,” answered Trevelyan; “and had not the affair proved a very serious one to my friend Heathcote, I should be inclined to laugh at the ludicrous manner in which it terminated. Heathcote was immured in that asylum under most treacherous circumstances a short time ago—although, I need scarcely inform you, there was not the slightest pretense for the imputation of insanity——”
“Be the holy poker-r! and any one that’s blind could see that same!” ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss.
“O Lord!” again moaned Frank Curtis; and he slily and stealthily turned the handle of the cab door.
“Determined to rescue my friend,” continued Lord William Trevelyan, “I induced two medical gentlemen, who are under some obligations to me, and whom I admitted into my confidence, to sign the necessary certificates to consign me to a lunatic asylum——”
“O Lord—O Lord!” groaned Curtis, more deeply than before; for even if he had hitherto entertained any doubt as to the state of Trevelyan’s mind, the singular averment just made was quite sufficient to confirm him in the opinion that he was in company with a decided lunatic.
“What the divvel ails ye, man?” growled Captain O’Blunderbuss. “Prosade, my lor-r-d. I’m dapely intherested in your lor-rdship’s narrative.”
“Having thus obtained the certificates,” continued Trevelyan, “I tutored my valet how to act—and he accordingly consigned me to the care of Dr. Swinton—the old gentleman whom you saw in a dressing-gown and night-cap at the foot of the stairs.”
“An arrant ould scounthrel, I’ve no doubt,” interjected the Captain.
“It was necessary, under the circumstances,” resumed Trevelyan, “to fight Sir Gilbert’s enemies with their own weapons. Cunning against cunning—duplicity against duplicity! That was the plan I adopted; and I affected insanity so well, that the Doctor was completely deceived.”
“Be the power-rs! this is excellent,” ejaculated Captain O’Blunderbuss. “It’s not ivery one that could desayve a mad-docthor so well.”
“I really believe that he imagined me to be as mad as a March hare,” said Trevelyan.
“And so you are!” yelled forth Frank Curtis, suddenly throwing the door wide open and making a desperate attempt to leap from the cab, even at the risk of breaking his neck or fracturing his skull—for his terrors had risen to such a pitch that confinement in the vehicle along with two persons whom he firmly believed to be downright mad-men, had become utterly unendurable:—but the iron grasp of the Captain clutched him by the back part of his collar just as he was on the point of bounding franticly forth into the road—and he was compelled, not however without a struggle, to resume his seat.
This proceeding on the part of Frank Curtis suddenly opened the eyes of both Trevelyan and the baronet to the impressions which the recent proceedings had unmistakeably and naturally made on the minds of their new friends: as if a light had darted in upon them, they now comprehended the cause of Frank Curtis’s singular manner almost ever since they first entered the vehicle;—and they likewise perceived (though they did not rightly interpret) the courtesy which had not only rendered Captain O’Blunderbuss so good a listener to the explanations given by Trevelyan, but had also prompted him to silence and coerce his companion as much as possible.
Accordingly, Trevelyan and Sir Gilbert Heathcote simultaneously broke out into such a hearty fit of laughter that Frank Curtis began to console himself with the idea that they were at least harmless; while Captain O’Blunderbuss set them down as the merriest lunatics he had ever encountered in all his life, and joined with unfeigned cordiality in their glee.
“And so you really thought that we were mad?” exclaimed Trevelyan, as soon as he could compose himself sufficiently to speak.
“Oh! not at all, at all!” cried the Captain.
“But Mr. Curtis firmly believes that we are neither more nor less than lunatics?” said the young nobleman, enjoying the scene.
“Be Jasus! and if he darrs insulth your lor-rdship and your lor-rdship’s frind by even suspicting such a thing, he shall mate me to-morrow mornin’ at twelve paces on Wimbledon Common!” exclaimed the gallant and warlike gentleman.
“Really you excite yourself too much in our behalf, Captain,” observed Trevelyan, who saw plainly enough that O’Blunderbuss was adopting just such a tone and manner as one would use to conciliate and soothe lunatics. “Now tell us the truth, my dear sir,” continued the young nobleman: “do you not think that if we are actually and positively crazy, you and Mr. Curtis cannot boast of being perfectly sane?”
“Be Jasus! and that same is precisely what I’ve often been afther thinking!” cried the Captain, determined to humour the supposed lunatics as much as possible. “As for Frank Curtis here, he’s as mad as the Irish pig that wouldn’t go one particular way save and excipt at such times that it belaved it was being driv another. As for meself, bad luck to me! I’m not blind to my own failings—and I know purty well that I’m as cracked as any damned ould laky tay-kettle.”
The accommodating humour of Captain O’Blunderbuss, who unhesitatingly pronounced himself and his friend Mr. Curtis to be insane, under the impression that such an admission would prove highly gratifying to those to whom it was made, produced such an effect upon the young nobleman and the baronet, that they became almost convulsed with laughter: and it was indeed fortunate that this scene occurred, inasmuch as its extreme ludicrousness tended materially to raise the spirits of Sir Gilbert Heathcote after the wrongs he had suffered and the incarceration he had endured.
It is impossible to say how long the equivoque and the consequent hilarity would have lasted, had not the cab suddenly stopped in front of a handsome house in Park square.
“Now,” thought both Captain O’Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis at the same time, “we shall see the bubble burst very shortly; and it will transpire who our two mad friends really are.”
The summons at the front-door was speedily answered by the appearance of Fitzgeorge in his plain clothes and a couple of footmen in livery, all of whom had waited up the whole night in expectation of the probable return of their master.
As for Fitzgeorge, he ran up to the door of the cab, and perceiving Sir Gilbert inside, exclaimed with unaffected delight, “Thank God! your lordship’s scheme has proved triumphant!”
At these words Captain O’Blunderbuss and Mr. Frank Curtis uttered involuntary ejaculations of astonishment: for they began to think that one of their new friends was really a nobleman after all, and that they might neither of them prove to be lunatics in the long run.
Leaping from the cab, Trevelyan invited the gallant gentleman and his companion to enter the house, observing, with a laugh, “However insane we may all be, we will at least exercise the common prudence of taking a little refreshment after all the hard work and momentous proceedings of the night.”
In a few instants the Captain and Frank found themselves conducted into an elegantly furnished apartment, in the midst of which was a table laid out with costly plate, and spread with a cold repast consisting of dainties that made their months water even to gaze upon. It was likewise a source of great satisfaction to the two gentlemen to behold a buffet well stored with wine and spirits, amongst which latter the Captain had no difficulty in recognising some poteen of the real orthodox colour.
The nobleman and his guests took their seats at table, and did ample justice alike to viands and to wine. Indeed, it was amazingly refreshing to behold the appetite with which the Captain and Frank Curtis addressed themselves to the former, and the zest with which they partook of the latter. They no longer believed that either Trevelyan or Sir Gilbert was mad; and when the former gave them the whole particulars of the story which he had only half finished in the cab, they laughed heartily at the misconceptions they had formed.
Under the influence of the poteen, which was duly produced after supper,—if supper such a meal could called, as it was now long past three o’clock in the morning,—the Captain and Frank Curtis became particularly talkative; when it appeared that, existing under grievous apprehension of certain formidable beings denominated “sheriff’s officers,” they had hired lodgings in the classic region of Globe Town, and that, having spent the evening and best portion of the night at a public-house in the Hackney Road, they were taking a short cut homeward, past the Doctor’s house, when they became the witnesses of the scene wherein they immediately after bore so distinguished a part.
From these and other revelations, which the Captain purposely suffered to ooze out as if quite unintentionally, Trevelyan and Sir Gilbert gleaned sufficient to convince them that their new friends were “gentlemen under a cloud;” and they were not sorry at having ascertained a fact which at once placed them in a position to testify their gratitude for the services of the night.
Accordingly, after exchanging a few words in a low tone with Sir Gilbert, Lord William Trevelyan wrote something upon a slip of paper, and then addressed Captain O’Blunderbuss and Frank Curtis in the following manner:—
“You will pardon me, my friends, for the liberty I am about to take and the observations I am on the point of offering. But it has struck Sir Gilbert Heathcote and myself, from certain words which fell from your lips in the excitement of convivial discourse, that you have experienced some little disappointment respecting the arrival of remittances; and we shall be alike honoured and rejoiced if you will permit us to use the freedom of friends under such circumstances. It is probable that a few hundreds may be of some trifling service to you at this moment; and it will prove a source of unfeigned delight to Sir Gilbert and myself if, in return for the generous aid you afforded us, we can in any way relieve you from a temporary inconvenience.”
Thus speaking, Lord William handed the slip of paper to Captain O’Blunderbuss, who, hastily glancing at it as he folded it up preparatory to consignment to his pocket, observed that it was a cheque for five hundred pounds.
“Be Jasus! my dear frinds,” he exclaimed, addressing himself to the young nobleman and the baronet, “ye do things in such a handsome way that I don’t know how to expriss my thanks at all, at all. Curthis, ye spalpeen!” he cried, suddenly turning round upon his companion, “why the divvel don’t ye jine in making a spache on the occasion?—since my lor-r-d and Sir Gilbert have lint us five hunthred pounds to relave us from our timporary difficulties. But I’ll unthertake to repay that same, my frinds,” he continued, again addressing his words directly to Trevelyan and Heathcote, “the moment I resave my rints from Ould Ir-reland—and bad luck to ’em! So here’s afther wishing us succiss—and be damned to all mad-docthors, say I!”
Having achieved this beautiful peroration, Captain O’Blunderbuss tossed off at a single draught the entire contents of a large tumbler of scalding toddy, and then rose to take his departure.
Frank Curtis, who was in a most glorious state of mental obfuscation—beholding two Trevelyans, two baronets, two captains, and heaven only knows how many wax-candles—was with some difficulty induced to stand upon his legs; and his Irish friend was more troubled still to make him use the aforesaid legs when he did get upon them. However, after some little persuasion and more threatening on the part of the Captain, Frank Curtis suffered himself to be led forth from the hospitable mansion.
As soon as Trevelyan and Sir Gilbert Heathcote were alone, the former related to his friend the particulars of the various interviews which had taken place between himself and Mrs. Sefton—that lady’s discovery of her daughter Agnes—and her removal to the villa at Bayswater.
The baronet was profoundly agitated—but it was with mingled surprise and joy—when he heard those tidings relative to Agnes: he rose and paced the room with uneven steps,—and then, reseating himself, appeared anxious to make certain revelations—or rather, unbosom his mind to his young friend. But, feeling perhaps unequal to the task at that moment, after the long hours of excitement through which he had just passed, he said, abruptly, “Trevelyan, I have matters of importance to confide to you: but it shall be for another occasion! I must now leave you—’tis nearly five o’clock—the morning has dawned some time—and I am impatient to repair to the villa at Bayswater.”
“Will you not take an hour’s repose before you depart?” inquired Lord William Trevelyan.
“Oh! I could not close my eyes in sleep again until I have embraced those who——But pardon me for this excitement—this agitation,” exclaimed Sir Gilbert, interrupting himself suddenly. “To-morrow I will tell you all—everything,” he added, pressing Trevelyan’s hand warmly: “and then you will better comprehend the feelings which move me now. Farewell, my dear friend, for the present.”
Sir Gilbert was about to take his departure, when Fitzgeorge entered the room, and addressing himself to his master, said, “My lord, I had forgotten to inform your lordship that when I returned hither last evening, after leaving you at Dr. Swinton’s, I found the Marquis of Delmour waiting——”
“The Marquis of Delmour!” ejaculated Sir Gilbert Heathcote.
“Yes, sir,” replied Fitzgeorge. “The Marquis appeared to be in a very excited state, and was most anxious to see your lordship,” continued the valet, again addressing himself to his master. “I assured him that your lordship was gone out of town, and might not return for a day or two—whereupon he almost flew into a rage with me for giving him such information. He paced the room in great agitation, and asked me several questions relative to any ladies who might visit at the mansion: but I answered that your lordship was not accustomed to receive visitresses at all. At length he took his departure, stating that he should call again in the morning at ten o’clock, and take his chance of finding your lordship at home.”
“I understand full well the meaning of this visit on the part of the Marquis,” said Sir Gilbert Heathcote to Trevelyan, when the valet had retired; “but I have not time for explanations now. My impatience to repair to Bayswater is intense, unseasonable though the hour is for arousing ladies from their slumbers. One request I have, however, to make, my dear Trevelyan,” added the baronet; “and this is, that you will not, under any circumstances, communicate to the Marquis of Delmour the address of the villa occupied by Mrs. Sefton and Agnes.”
“Be well assured, my dear friend,” answered the young nobleman, “that the secret is safe with me.”
The baronet wrung Trevelyan’s hand with the cordial warmth of deep gratitude and sincere attachment, and then took his departure.
Lord William lay down for a few hours, and enjoyed a sound slumber until nine o’clock, when he rose and dressed himself to receive the Marquis of Delmour.
Punctually as the clock struck ten, a handsome carriage drove up to the door; and the Marquis, hastily alighting, was immediately conducted into the drawing-room where Trevelyan awaited his presence.
“My lord, you are a man of honour, I have heard,” began the Marquis, without any prefatory observations; “and I feel assured that you will at once relieve me from a most painful state of suspense. Pardon the excitement which I display—and justify the good opinion I have conceived of you by giving me without delay the information I am about to seek. In a word, where is Agnes—my daughter Agnes—the young lady whom you have seen walking in the garden of the secluded cottage near Norwood?”
“Is that beautiful creature indeed your lordship’s daughter?” exclaimed Trevelyan, not altogether surprised at the announcement: for the agitation which Sir Gilbert Heathcote had shown when the name of the Marquis of Delmour was mentioned, and the request which he had made to the effect that the residence of Mrs. Sefton should be kept secret, had already created in the mind of Lord William a suspicion of the real truth.
“Yes—Agnes is indeed my daughter—and I am proud of her!” cried the Marquis. “But I know that she was inveigled away from the cottage by one who——by her own mother, in fine——and I am likewise aware that you subsequently entrusted her to the care of a lady of your acquaintance. This latter information I obtained from a certain Mrs. Mortimer——”
“The information was correct, my lord,” answered Trevelyan. “And now I must candidly confess that I have a very difficult part to perform: for I will not condescend to a falsehood—and I dare not reveal the truth. This much, however, I unhesitatingly declare—that, by a singular coincidence, the lady to whom I conducted your lordship’s daughter proved to be none other than her mother.”
“Her mother! then she is at this moment in the care of that woman?” ejaculated the Marquis, his excitement increasing: “and you will not tell me where I can find them?”
“That is the truth which, as I said ere now, I dare not repeat,” responded Trevelyan, profoundly touched by the evident grief of the old nobleman.
“Will you be the means of separating a father from his child?” asked the Marquis, now sinking through exhaustion upon a sofa—for hitherto he had remained standing, although Trevelyan had twice courteously indicated the chair that had been placed for his accommodation.
“Were I to yield to your lordship’s desire,” said the young nobleman,—“were I to give you the address of—of—”
“Call her Mrs. Sefton, if you will,” interrupted the Marquis, bitterly: “I know that she passes and has long passed under that name.”
“Well, my lord—were I to give you the address of that lady,” resumed Trevelyan, “I should be adopting a course calculated to separate a mother from her child.”
“But that mother is unworthy of being entrusted with the care of her daughter!” exclaimed the Marquis of Delmour, emphatically.
“My lord, I have not the slightest inclination to enter into matters of a private nature, and regarding your own family,” said Trevelyan, with firmness, yet courtesy—and even with commiseration for the sorrow of the old noble: “much less,” he added, “should I like to be constituted a judge between your lordship and the Marchioness of Delmour—for such I presume Mrs. Sefton to be.”
“Without placing your lordship in any disagreeable or invidious position,” said the Marquis, growing more tranquil as his naturally powerful mind suggested the utter inutility of giving way to excitement, “I may yet address you not only in your capacity of a nobleman endowed with high intelligence and strict notions of integrity, but also as one who—unless I be much deceived—experiences an honourable passion for my daughter. Ah! I perceive by your countenance that such indeed is the sentiment you entertain for Agnes: and now, therefore, as her father will I address you—as her parent, her protector, and her natural guardian, I invoke your attention.”
“It would be disrespectful alike to your age and rank, and also to your position as the father of her whom I sincerely and devotedly love, were I to refuse to hear whatever your lordship may have to communicate,” said Trevelyan, after a few moments reflection.
“Thanks—a thousand thanks!” ejaculated the Marquis: “I shall yet move you in my favour! But tell me—you are acquainted with one whom, if you please, we will continue to call Mrs. Sefton: has she ever communicated to you any particulars of her earlier life?”
“Frankly and candidly,” replied the young nobleman, “she has confided to me a portion of those particulars; and I have this day learnt sufficient to fill up the few blanks which she left in her narrative.”
“You know, then,” resumed his lordship, “that I wedded her against her consent: but I knew not at the time—as God is my judge!—that I was so completely sealing her misery by that marriage. Sophia—that is her Christian name—was young and beautiful when I first saw her—Oh! so beautiful that I became madly in love with her: and you may perhaps be aware that love is selfish—claiming its object at any price, and at any sacrifice. Her father was in deep pecuniary difficulties—nay, more—he had done things which would have dishonoured his name and even endangered his personal safety. I had an enormous fortune at my command—I told him that I adored his daughter—and he promised me her hand. On that occasion he concealed from me the fact that the young lady’s affections were already engaged: indeed, he assured me that love was as yet a stranger to her bosom, but that she had been struck by my appearance, although I was so much her senior. The duplicity of the father was the first fault in that long chain of unpleasant circumstances and untoward incidents: and, relying on all that he had thus told me, I at once advanced a hundred thousand pounds to relieve him from his embarrassments. Soon, however, did I begin to perceive that my visits were rather tolerated than encouraged by his charming daughter Sophia; and then I learnt—but not from her lips—that she loved another. I felt indignant with the father—while I passionately coveted the daughter; and under the influence of those feelings I pressed my suit. I was resolved not to be made a dupe by the sire, and sacrificed by the young lady to a rival. Had she herself frankly and candidly revealed to me the state of her affections—thrown herself upon my mercy—appealed to my honour, I should have acted a generous part, my lord—yes—I should have been generous!”
“But the young lady was coerced by her father, who intimidated her at one time and ridiculed her at another,” observed Trevelyan: “I remember full well that she told me of her sire’s unfeeling conduct towards her.”
“Yes—and to me also she made the same revelation, when it was too late,” continued the Marquis. “However, it was under such inauspicious circumstances that our marriage took place; and again I appeal to heaven to attest the truth of my words when I declare that I treated her with all possible tenderness, affection, and regard.”
“She has done your lordship that justice in narrating those particulars to me,” remarked Trevelyan.
“But I could not render her happy,” resumed the Marquis: “she was constantly weeping—and our honeymoon resembled an interval of mourning after a funeral, rather than a season of felicity succeeding a bridal. Much as I exerted myself to please her—lavish as I was with money to procure her the means of recreation and enjoyment—profuse as I became with the most costly gifts, not only to herself but likewise to all her relatives and friends, I could never win a smile from her lips. Now your lordship will admit that this was more than an unpleasant life to lead—it was absolutely wretched. But your lordship may conceive the deep vexation which I experienced when, having succeeded on one occasion in inducing the Marchioness to appear at a ball given by some friends, I saw her pale countenance suddenly glow with animation and her eye light up with joy as Gilbert Heathcote advanced to solicit her hand for a quadrille. And she smiled, too—yes, she smiled—and, oh! how sweetly upon him, as her elegant figure moved with dignity and grace in the mazy dance. My soul seemed as if it were withering up within me: I am confident that I must have eyed them with the ferocity of a lynx. But Sophia appeared to have forgotten that I was present—that there was such a being in the world as I: her whole attention was devoted to my rival—her whole thoughts were absorbed in the pleasure of his society. She danced with him more than once—she sate next to him at the supper-table—and after the banquet she waltzed with him. I have ever detested that voluptuous—that licentious—that indecent dance: but how I loathed—oh! how I loathed it on this occasion! I tore myself away from the ball-room, and sought a secluded corner in the card-room. There I endeavoured to reason with myself upon the absurdity of my jealous rage—of the ridicule to which any manifestation of the feeling would expose me—and of the contempt I should inevitably draw down upon myself from my wife, did I allow her to perceive how much I was annoyed at what she would doubtless consider a trivial matter. Thus exercising a powerful command over my emotions, I even assumed a smiling countenance when we returned home, and when I congratulated her upon having been in such high spirits. But all her coldness and inanimation had come back, and I thought within myself that she would not appear thus if Gilbert Heathcote were still in her society.”
“My lord, pardon me—but wherefore enter into details which only arouse reminiscences so painful to yourself?” interrupted Trevelyan.
“Bear with me yet a little while,” said the Marquis, speaking in so mild and plaintive a tone that Lord William could not find it in his heart to manifest any impatience or any farther disinclination to hear the old nobleman’s narrative: “bear with me, I say—for I have a motive in entering into these details,” he continued. “At the same time, I will not be too prolix, although there are a thousand little circumstances which recur to my memory, and which might be quoted to prove how patient and enduring I was under the cruel indifference wherewith I was treated. But I will content myself by observing that Sophia smiled only on those occasions when she encountered Gilbert Heathcote in society or in the fashionable promenades: at other times she shrouded herself in a species of dreamy apathy. Her father, perceiving when it was too late how utterly he had wrecked his daughter’s happiness, died of a broken heart: but, strange to say, it was not long after this event that Sophia appeared suddenly to rally a little and seek a more active existence. She began to take frequent airings in the carriage—grew addicted to shopping—accepted every invitation that was sent for balls, routs, card-parties, and concerts—and requested me to take a box at the Opera: in fine, she speedily plunged into the routine of fashionable dissipation. Nevertheless, when alone with me, she was ever cold and reserved—if not positively sullen and morose. In the course of time she was in the way to become a mother—and I hoped that the birth of a child might subdue a portion of her coldness towards me, even if the tie were not strong enough to induce her to love me. But when Agnes—my darling Agnes—was born, her manner varied not one tittle in respect to myself. Time passed on—and at last I began to entertain serious suspicions of the fidelity of my wife—for I found that she had frequent interviews, not altogether accidental, with Sir Gilbert Heathcote, who about that time succeeded to a baronetcy and a tolerable fortune. I remonstrated with the Marchioness upon her imprudence—to give her conduct no harsher name; and then began a series of quarrels, disputes and bickerings, which made my life more wretched than ever. On one of those occasions she reproached me for having married her—and she declared that she never had loved, and never could love me. Alas! I knew it but too well,—knew also that she had loved, and still loved another! And it was likewise after one of those disputes to which I have alluded that a horrible suspicion first entered my mind—a suspicion that the Marchioness had been unfaithful to me, and that Agnes was not my own child.”
“Oh! my lord—continue this painful narrative no farther!” exclaimed Trevelyan. “It shocks me to be thus made the depositary of secrets of so delicate a nature!”
“Again do I implore your patience, Lord William,” cried the Marquis: “and as I have advanced thus far in my sad story, permit me to carry it on to the conclusion. I was observing, then, that a dreadful suspicion seized upon me—and yet I dared not accuse my wife of incontinency. She divined what was passing in the depths of my tortured soul—she conjectured the nature of the apprehension which now began to haunt me like a ghost! Oh! how I longed to question her—to know the worst—or to hear her proclaim the injustice of my suspicion: but, no—I dared not touch upon the subject—my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth whenever I sought to frame the words that should accuse her. And in this manner did we drag on a wretched existence,—I experiencing all the misery of having a young wife who could not love me—and she feeling all the bitterness of her position in being allied to an old husband who had grown so jealous and so suspicious. At last the day came when all my repugnance to utter the fatal accusation suddenly vanished. I had been more than ordinarily provoked—for at a dejeuner given at the house of some friends, the Marchioness received with such evident satisfaction the marked attentions of Sir Gilbert Heathcote, that I felt myself insulted and outraged in the presence of the entire company. Accordingly, when we returned home in the afternoon, a violent scene took place between the Marchioness and myself; and it was then that, in a paroxysm of rage, I proclaimed the suspicion which I had for some time cherished—I accused her of infidelity—I revealed the doubt which existed in my mind relative to my paternal claims to the affections of the infant Agnes. Never—never shall I forget that memorable day! The Marchioness heard me—gazed on me fixedly—appeared stupefied and astounded for nearly a minute,—while her countenance became pale as marble—her lips quivered—and her bosom heaved convulsively. I was terrified at her manner—she appeared at that moment to be Injured Innocence personified—I could have thrown myself at her feet and implored her pardon! But, in a thick and hollow voice, she said, ‘All is now at an end, my lord, between you and me! We part—for ever!’—A dizziness came over me—I felt that I had done wrong—that I had gone too far,—and I would have given worlds to be able to recall the fatal accusation! For I was now as firmly convinced of her innocence, as I had a few minutes before been deeply imbued with suspicion;—and I cursed—I anathematised the rashness that had marked my conduct. It was a painful—a distressing scene: for I remember that I fell upon my knees to implore her forgiveness—to beseech her to remain, if not for my sake, at least for that of the child. But this appeal only excited her the more: and when I adjured her in the name of her infant daughter to stay, she uttered a wild cry and fled, as if suddenly seized with insanity, from the house.”
Here the Marquis paused for a few moments, and passed his handkerchief rapidly over his eyes:—the reminiscences of the past were still powerful enough to move him to tears!
“I shall not now detain you long, my lord,” he resumed. “Whither my wife went, I knew not;—but in a short time I heard that she was living in the strictest seclusion and under a feigned name. Will you not despise me when you learn that I employed a spy to watch her actions—to institute inquiries concerning her pursuits and her conduct? But I will conceal nothing from you—and I candidly admit that such was the course which I adopted: for, though I still believed that she was innocent up to the time when my abrupt accusation drove her from the house, I nevertheless naturally conjectured that, on thus quitting me, she had sought the protection of him whom she loved. I was not therefore surprised to hear that Sir Gilbert Heathcote was a frequent visitor at the abode of Mrs. Sefton—by which name she was now known:—but I was unable to glean any positive evidence of criminality on her part. And did I seek such evidence? Yes—for a raging jealousy had taken possession of me; and I longed to punish her for daring to love my rival as she did! But as time passed on and sober reflection worked its influence upon me, I grew ashamed of the course I had adopted—and I now resolved to hush up to the utmost of my power the unhappy position in which I stood with regard to my wife. For I already felt deeply attached to my little daughter—and I determined that, if human precautions could prevent such a misfortune, she should never have to blush for a mother’s shame. I was strengthened in this resolve by the fact that the Marchioness herself was disposed to shroud the past in secrecy as much as possible: else wherefore the feigned name which she had adopted, and the seclusion in which she dwelt? But in the course of a few months certain events transpired which threatened to lay bare to the public the whole of this most painful history. I must explain myself more fully by stating that my wife’s father had made a will leaving some landed property to me, and which was to descend to the child or children that might spring from my marriage with his daughter. A distant male relative of his now set up a claim to that property; and proceedings were taken in the Court of Chancery, from which it transpired that the Marquis and Marchioness of Delmour were living apart—by mutual consent, as it was alleged—and that their infant child was in the charge of the Marquis himself. I shall not weary you with particulars nor details: suffice it to say that the proceedings took such a turn and were of such a nature as to lead to a decree to this effect—that the claims of the distant relative were rejected—that trustees were appointed by the Court to administer the property, until Agnes should attain the age of twenty-one—and that, as no allegation of misconduct had been made against the Marchioness of Delmour, she should have the charge of her daughter!”
This portion of the Marquis’s narrative will explain to the reader wherefore, when conversing with his daughter at the cottage, as detailed in Chapter CLXI., he said to her, “Two years more, and I shall no longer have any secrets from you:” because at the expiration of that period, Agnes would attain her majority. The decree in Chancery likewise explained the ground upon which Mrs. Sefton—alias the Marchioness of Delmour—had observed to Trevelyan, in Chapter CLXXXI., that “the law was in her favour,” in respect to any endeavour that might be made to wrest Agnes from her care; and the same fact elucidates the meaning of her ladyship’s remark that two years must elapse ere she could venture to dispose of the hand of her daughter in marriage.
“Thus was it,” resumed the Marquis, after a brief pause, “that those accursed proceedings which I did not provoke, and which, when once commenced, I could not arrest,—thus was it that they suddenly placed my infant daughter within the jurisdiction of the Chancery Court, and deprived me of the right of retaining her in my care. It is true that I might have instituted counter-proceedings in respect to this portion of the decree: but then I should have been compelled to attack the reputation of my wife—prove her to be an adultress, if such evidence could be acquired—and cover a noble family with shame, while a species of hereditary taint would cling to the reputation of my Agnes. Now, my lord, you can understand my motive in rearing her under circumstances of such privacy—such secresy,—in dooming her to an existence of seclusion—almost of solitude,—and of adopting all possible precautions to prevent her falling into the hands of her mother. And now, also, that you are acquainted with this most sad—this most unhappy history, I appeal to you whether you will be the means of permitting the innocent Agnes to remain in the care of her unworthy parent. If you really love her, my lord—if you propose to make her your wife when she attains her majority—I put it to your honour and to your good sense whether it be preferable that she should pass the interval of two years with her mother, who occupies so equivocal a position—or with her father, who has ever done his duty towards her.”
Trevelyan was cruelly embarrassed by this appeal, which in reality carried so much weight with it and involved so important a point, that he knew not how to act. Much as he was disposed to make all possible allowances for Mrs. Sefton—as we had better continue to call her,—much as he pitied her in consequence of the wretched marriage into which she had been forced—and great as the excuse was for her connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote,—he nevertheless could not avoid being shocked at the idea of the young creature whom he intended to make his wife, remaining in the maternal care.
His good sense and propriety of feeling naturally prompted him, therefore, to advocate the father’s claim to the guardianship of Agnes: but on the other hand, the solemn pledge he had given to Sir Gilbert Heathcote, and likewise his confidence in the good principles of Mrs. Sefton, in spite of her equivocal position—all this forbade him to side at once with the Marquis. Yet how was he to remain neutral?—he who had such a deep and tender interest in the welfare of the lovely—the innocent—the artless Agnes!
While he was still hesitating what course to adopt, and walking up and down the room in an excited manner,—while, too, the Marquis of Delmour, who remained seated upon the sofa, was watching him with the most intense anxiety,—a loud double knock and ring at the front door startled both the noblemen.
“I will not receive any one at present!” exclaimed Trevelyan; and hastily opening the drawing-room door, he hurried out upon the landing, whence he was about to give instructions to the hall-porter to deny him to the visitor, whoever it might be.
But the front-door was already opened; and both the Marquis and Trevelyan heard the hall-porter observing, evidently in reply to a question that had been put to him—“His lordship is particularly engaged, madam, at the present moment: the Marquis of Delmour is with his lordship in the drawing-room.”
“The Marquis of Delmour—eh?” exclaimed a female voice, not unknown to either of the noblemen. “Oh! I am acquainted with the Marquis as well as with my friend Lord William—and I will therefore take the liberty of intruding upon them.”
Before the hall-porter could offer any farther objection, the obtrusive female brushed past him and hurried up the marble staircase—Trevelyan having already retreated into the drawing-room.
In a few moments the young nobleman and the Marquis were equally annoyed by the appearance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, decked out in the gayest style, thus unceremoniously forced her way into their presence.
“This is really most fortunate, my lords!” exclaimed the old woman, as she entered with a smirking countenance and a self-sufficient air. “I wished to see you both as early as convenient this morning—and, behold! I find you together. How is the pretty Agnes? Has not your lordship discovered that I told you the truth, when I referred you to this house for information respecting her?” she inquired, turning towards the Marquis.
“Yes, madam,” he exclaimed, hastily: “and as I shall proceed direct hence to my bankers, to instruct them relative to certain cheques which I recently gave in Paris, you may present your draft in the course of the day with the certainty of receiving the amount. I presume that it was for this purpose you desired to see me!”
“Precisely so, my lord,” responded the old woman, scarcely able to conceal the boundless joy which she now experienced: for the Marquis had given her precisely the very information which she was anxious to obtain—namely, that his banker would in the course of the day be directed to cash the various cheques he had recently given when in Paris!
“And what business can you possibly have to transact with me, madam?” demanded Lord William Trevelyan, in a tone of the most chilling hauteur.
“I thought of doing your lordship a service,” answered Mrs. Mortimer; “and yet the manner in which I am received, is but a sorry recompense for my good intentions.”
“To speak candidly, madam,” said the young noble, “I mistrust your intentions and do not require your services.”
“It is true enough that the presence of the Marquis here has forestalled the purport of my own visit,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, secretly enjoying the vexation which she evidently caused Lord William by remaining in the room. “But I may as well prove to you that those intentions which you affect to mistrust, were really good; and therefore I will at once inform your lordship that I came to relate to you all that took place between the Marquis and me in Paris three days ago. For I thought that I might as well prepare you for a visit on the part of my Lord Delmour; and I was in hopes of being the first to reveal to you the high birth of the young lady whom you had believed to be plain Agnes Vernon.”
“For which officiousness you would have expected a handsome remuneration,” said Lord William, with a contemptuous curling of the lip. “No—madam: you will not obtain a single guinea from me! I can read your character thoroughly—and, grieved as I am to be compelled to address a female in so harsh a manner, I must nevertheless beg you to relieve me of your presence as speedily as possible.”
“I have no wish to intrude myself any longer upon your lordships,” observed Mrs. Mortimer; and, with a respectful curtsey to the Marquis and a stiff inclination of the head to Trevelyan, she took her departure.
“And now, my lord,” said the impatient Marquis, “that we are relieved of the company of that despicable woman—for in no other light can I regard her—may I solicit your decision in the important matter that yet remains to be settled?”
“It grieves me—believe me, my dear Marquis, it pains me to keep you in suspense,” returned Trevelyan: “but on one side my inclination prompts me to act in accordance with your wishes—on the other, my word is pledged to retain the abode of—of——”
“Mrs. Sefton,” interrupted the old nobleman, hastily.
“To retain the address of that lady a profound secret,” added Trevelyan. “But this much I will promise—this much I will undertake:—without delay to repair to Mrs. Sefton and urge her to deliver up Lady Agnes to your care. I have that confidence in her rectitude of principle, which induces me to hope for success when I shall have placed the entire matter before her in its proper light.”
“With this assurance I must rest contented for the present,” observed the Marquis. “But hear the resolution to which I have come,” he continued, rising from his seat, and speaking in a tone of excitement. “Hitherto I have done all I could—aye, and far more than the generality of injured husbands would have done—to cast a veil over the unhappy circumstances which I have this morning related to you. But should she refuse to deliver up my daughter to my care—should she entrench herself behind the decision of the Chancery Court—I shall then remain peaceable no longer. It shall be war—open war—between her and me. I will appeal to the tribunals of my country—I will apply to the Ecclesiastical Court and the House of Lords for a divorce—and I will adopt the necessary proceedings and furnish the proper evidence to induce the Lord Chancellor to deprive the erring mother of the care of her child. Such is my determination, Lord William—and you may use the menace, which is no idle one, to bring that woman to reason.”
With these words the Marquis pressed the hand of the young nobleman, and took his leave hastily.
Mrs. Mortimer, who was seated in a cab at a little distance, watching for the departure of the Marquis, beheld him enter his carriage, which immediately drove away; and the humbler vehicle was thereupon directed to follow the more imposing equipage.
The carriage proceeded into the Strand, and stopped at the door of an eminent banking-house, which the Marquis entered.
Mrs. Mortimer, having dogged him thither, alighted at a little distance and dismissed the cab.
She watched the old nobleman come forth again; and then she repaired to a coffee-house in the neighbourhood where she ordered some refreshment to be served up in a private room. She likewise demanded writing materials; and when she was left to herself, she drew forth the cheque for six hundred pounds which the Marquis of Delmour had given her.
“Now for the grand blow,” she thought within herself, as she carefully examined the draft: “and it must be struck boldly, too! But the aim is worth all the risk:—sixty thousand pounds or transportation—those are the alternatives! I have been possessed of enough money in my life to know how sweet it is—and I have seen enough of transportation to be well aware how bitter it is! And the former is so sweet that it is worth while chancing all the bitters of the latter to obtain it. Besides—apart from the delicious feeling of having a vast fortune at my command—how delightful will it be to over-reach the haughty Perdita—or Laura, as she chooses to call herself!”
And here the old woman’s lips curled into a contemptuous sneer.
“I have hitherto managed matters cleverly enough,” she continued in her musings. “Ah! hah! Lord William Trevelyan thought that I called upon him either to gratify some idle curiosity or to extort money. He little suspected my drift! It was to see whether the Marquis had been to him—to learn whether my information had been found correct—to ascertain whether I might present the draft at the bankers’. And then the old Marquis himself!—it was lucky that I found him there—I was saved the trouble of calling at his mansion to worm out of him whether he had instructed his bankers to pay the cheque,—not my paltry draft for six hundred—but Perdita’s grand amount of sixty thousand! In all this I succeeded admirably: and now for the desperate venture.”
Having thus communed with herself, Mrs. Mortimer partook of a little refreshment; for she was anxious to while away an hour before she went to the bank, so as not to present herself too soon after the visit of the Marquis of Delmour to the establishment.
When she had eaten and drank as drunk as much as she cared for, she addressed herself to the grand project which she had in view, and in furtherance of which she had demanded the private room and the writing materials at the coffee-house.
The writing of the Marquis was execrably bad; and it was not a very difficult matter to add ty to the six, and transform the word hundred into thousand, in the body of the cheque; while the simple addition of 00 to the 600l. written in figures in the corner, completed the forgery.
The cheque, therefore, now stood for sixty thousand pounds, instead of six hundred, payable to bearer, no particular name being mentioned as the intended recipient.
When the old woman had thus transformed the document, a glow of triumph animated her hideous countenance: but in a few moments a chill—a cold, creeping tremor came over her—as if a clammy snake were gradually coiling itself around her form, underneath her clothes;—for she remembered all the sensations which she had experienced when she committed the forgery of Sir Henry Courtenay’s name nineteen years previously!
By a desperate effort the old woman shook off the painful feeling that thus influenced her; and, resolving to allow herself no more leisure for reflection, lest her thoughts should make a coward of her, she rang the bell—paid the trifling amount incurred—and took her departure from the coffee-house.
During her walk to the bank, which was close at hand, she rapidly calculated in her mind all the chances of success. The Marquis had unquestionably been thither to give instructions relative to the draft held by Laura as well as that which had been given to herself; and there was not the slightest reason to fear that her daughter had followed so closely on her steps from Paris as to have been able to visit the bank during the hour that had just elapsed. As for the excellence of the forgery—or rather of the alterations, Mrs. Mortimer entertained no apprehension on that score; and thus, all things considered, she deemed failure to be impossible.
With an apparent outward composure, but with a palpitating heart, the old woman entered the bank, and presented her cheque to one of the clerks. He surveyed it narrowly—took it into the private office, or parlour, doubtless to submit it to one of the proprietors of the establishment or some responsible person—and remained away upwards of two minutes.
Two minutes!—but that interval was an age—a perfect age in the imagination of the old woman! It was an interval composed of such intense feelings that the hair of a young person might have turned suddenly grey,—feelings of such burning hope and such awful suspense, of such profound terror and fervid expectation, that while molten lead appeared to drop upon one side of her heart, ice seemed to lay upon the other!
At length the clerk came back; and Mrs. Mortimer darted a rapid—searching—penetrating glance at his countenance.
Nothing save respect and civility could she trace thereon: and she instantly knew that she was safe!
Then came such a revulsion of feeling—such a subsiding of the terrors and such an exaltation of the hopes which she had conceived—that it was as if she were shooting upwards from the profundity of a deluge of dark waters and suddenly breathed the fresh air again and beheld the bright sun and the smiling heavens overhead.
The clerk proceeded to count out bank-notes for the sum specified in the cheque; and as he handed the fortune—yes, literally a fortune—over to the old woman, he considerately gave her a caution to take care of the vile characters who frequently lurked about the doors of banking-houses.
Mrs. Mortimer thanked the clerk for his well-meant advice, and sallied forth from the establishment, with a heart so elate that she could scarcely believe in the success of the tremendous fraud, now that it had passed triumphantly through the ordeal.
But as she was crossing the threshold, she heard a name suddenly mentioned; and, hastily turning her head, she found herself face to face with Jack Rily, the Doctor!
The individual whom Mrs. Mortimer thus unexpectedly and unpleasantly encountered, had made a considerable improvement in his personal appearance during the few days that had elapsed since she saw him last.
The old fur cap, the greasy velveteen shooting-jacket, the rusty waistcoat, the corduroy trowsers, and the heavy high-lows, were exchanged for a shining silk hat, a complete suit of black clothes, and a pair of Wellington boots: his shirt was likewise new and clean, and he wore a satin stock instead of the blue cotton handkerchief tied loosely round his neck.
He had evidently endeavoured to make himself look as respectable as he could: but the almost African hue of his complexion—the horrible hare-lip, through the opening of which the large white teeth glistened up to the gums—and the yellow fire that seemed to shine in the small and restless eyes, gave him such a peculiar aspect that it was scarcely possible for any one who passed to avoid noticing him.
“Mrs. Mortimer, my beloved tiger-cat, how are you?” he exclaimed, grasping the old woman’s hand and shaking it violently.
“Very well, thank you, Mr. Rily: but pray do not detain me now, there’s a good soul—for I have not a moment to spare——”
“I shan’t detain you, old beauty,” interrupted Jack; “because I’ll just do myself the pleasure of walking along with you. Come—take my arm—you needn’t be ashamed to do so now: I think I’m pretty tidily rigged—eh?”
Thus speaking, he glanced complacently over his own person, and then bestowed a look upon the outward appearance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, as we have already observed, was dressed with unusual gaiety.
“Come, my dear—take my arm,” exclaimed the Doctor.
“Really, Mr. Rily, you must excuse me,” said the old woman, who was most anxious to get away from the vicinity of the bank, but by no means desirous of remaining in the company of the Doctor: “I have a particular matter to attend to immediately! If, however, you desire to see me, I shall be most happy to meet you this evening——”
“This fiddlestick!” interrupted Jack Rily, impatiently. “You know that you never kept the appointment you made with me after that Stamford Street affair the other day—when you went away with the young girl in the cab; and yet you assured me that there was money to be got through her——”
“Well, well—I have not time to talk of the matter now,” said Mrs. Mortimer, angrily: “and I must take my leave of you.”
“Lord bless you! I’m not going to be put off in this fashion, old lady,” cried Jack. “It suits me to have a little further chat with you—and I’m determined the whim shall be gratified. So take my arm at once, and come along. If we stand here palavering, we shall soon have a mob about us—because it isn’t every day that two such handsome people as you and I are seen together,” he added, with a horrible chuckle.
“But perhaps you are not going my way,” said Mrs. Mortimer, still hesitating to take the proffered arm, and deeply vexed at this encounter.
“Oh! yes I am—because I’ll go any way you like,” responded Jack Rily, in the most accommodating spirit.
“Well—you shall be my companion for a short time,” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, affecting to laugh in good humour; and, taking his arm, she proceeded with him along the Strand.
“I met our friend Vitriol Bob last night at a public-house,” observed Jack, who seemed quite proud of having the hideous old woman clinging to him. “He looked remarkably savage when he saw me in my bran new toggery—for he thought to himself that the money which purchased it ought to have belonged to him. I hadn’t seen him since the night in Stamford Street; and, as he had the impudence to stare at me in a threatening manner, I went up to him and whispered in his ear, ‘What about old Torrens, Bob?’ He turned quite livid with rage, and ground his teeth together; then, after a few moments’ consideration, he said—also in a whisper—‘If it wasn’t that you knew that secret, I’d serve you out nicely, old fellow: but I’ll be even with you yet, I dare say.’—‘Whenever you like, Bob,’ said I; and then we sate down in different parts of the room and stared at each other all the time we were smoking our pipes. But not another word passed between us; and the other people who were present, knowing that we were excellent pals until lately, wondered what the devil was the matter.”
“And did he bury the dead body, do you know?” inquired Mrs. Mortimer.
“I didn’t put the question to him,” answered Jack Rily. “Nothing more passed between us than what I have just told you: but I have no doubt that he laid old Torrens two or three feet under the kitchen floor in the Haunted House. And now, how do you suppose that I and Vitriol Bob stand with regard to each other?”
“As enemies, I should suppose,” replied Mrs. Mortimer, wondering by what means she could possibly shake off her disagreeable companion.
“As mortal—implacable—unrelenting enemies,” continued the man, lowering his voice: for his loud talking had already attracted the notice of the passers-by in the Strand, and he had just caught sight of a policeman who appeared to be eyeing him rather suspiciously. “Yes—as bitter enemies,” he repeated. “Not that I have any resentment now against Bob: because my revenge is gratified, and I am more than even with him. But as he will take the first opportunity to thrust a knife into my ribs, or dash his vitriol bottle in my face, whenever he catches me in a lonely place,—why, I must be prepared to struggle with him to the very death. So, my old tiger-cat,” added the Doctor, with amazing cheerfulness, considering the gravity of the topic, “whenever he and I do so meet, only one of us will walk away alive. That’s as certain as that you’re leaning on my arm, and that I’m proud of your company.”
“Is Vitriol Bob, as you call him, such a desperate fellow?” inquired Mrs. Mortimer, wishing the Doctor at the hottest place she could think of.
“Why, I’ve told you all about him before,” exclaimed Jack. “And now let me give you a little piece of advice about yourself, old gal——”
“About me!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, with a shudder occasioned by a presentiment of what she was going to hear.
“Yes—about you, my tiger-cat,” repeated the Doctor. “Remember that Vitriol Bob never forgets or forgives—and he owes you one. That’s all! But, when I think of it, I shall constitute myself your lawful protector—because I never did meet any woman so precious ugly as you are; and ugliness, when joined to ferocity, is beauty in my eyes—as I have before told you.”
“Well, well—we will discuss all these points another time,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “I must leave you here,” she added, stopping suddenly short at the corner of Wellington Street, leading to Waterloo Bridge.
“Your way is mine,” observed Jack Rily, coolly, as he compelled her to walk on. “But, by the bye, what were you doing in that bank at the door of which I met you?”
“I merely went in to see a clerk of my acquaintance,” replied the old woman, cursing in her heart the odious companion who thus pertinaciously attached himself to her.
“Come, that won’t do, old gal!” exclaimed Jack, as he paid the toll for them both at the gate of the bridge. “I am so well acquainted with all the rigs and moves of London life, as to be able to tell in a moment whether a person coming out of a bank has been to receive money, or not. If it’s a gentleman, he feels at his breeches-pocket to see that the cash is all safe—or he buttons his coat over his breast which proves that the notes are in his waistcoat. If it’s a woman, she gripes her reticule precious tight—or smoothes down her dress just over where her pocket is—or else settles her shawl over her bosom, when the notes are there. This last was precisely what you did; and therefore, my old tiger-cat, I know that you’ve got money in the bosom of your dress as well as if I saw you put it there.”
“You’re quite wrong for once in your life, Mr. Rily,” said Mrs. Mortimer, trembling at the remarks which had just fallen upon her ears.
“Then why does your arm shake so as it hangs in mine?” demanded the Doctor, with an imperturbability which frightened the old woman more than if he had actually used threats: for, little as she had seen of him, she was well enough acquainted with his character to perceive that he was meditating mischief.
“My arm did not shake,” cried Mrs. Mortimer, mastering up all her courage and presence of mind, “But here we are at the end of the bridge, and I must bid you good-bye. When shall we meet again?”
“We are not going to separate in a hurry, I can tell you,” said the Doctor: “so don’t think it. You know I love you,” he added with a horrible grin, which opened his harelip so wide that he seemed to be an ogre about to devour her; “and I love much more still the bank-notes that you have got in your bosom. Besides, it is my duty to protect you from Vitriol Bob; and, in addition to all this, I think we shall be able to knock up a very cozie partnership together.”
“And suppose that I decline the honour you intend me?” asked the old woman, assuming a tone of bitter sarcasm in order to induce Rily to believe that she was not afraid—though, in reality, her heart was sinking within her.
“In the case which you have suggested, I shall force you to do as I choose and act as I desire,” coolly responded the Doctor.
“Force me, indeed!” repeated the old woman, withdrawing her arm, and stopping short in the Waterloo Road.
“Yes—force you,” said Jack Rily, compelling her to take his arm again and also to walk on. “You had better not provoke me, because I am not the man to stick at trifles; and if you make a noise and raise a mob, I will swear black and blue that you are my wife—that you have bolted with my money—and that the notes are concealed somewhere about your person. Then, if the police should interfere, you will have to give an account of how you became possessed of the notes aforesaid;—and I dare say, from the estimate I have formed of your character, you would not like to be questioned on that point. In a word, then—unless I am mightily deceived—you have committed some nice little bit of roguery; and I mean to go halves with you.”
This tirade was spun out to such a length and delivered in such a measured tone of coolness, that Mrs. Mortimer, who was perfectly astounded at the menaces with which it opened, had leisure to recover her self-possession: but the rapid survey of her position which she was enabled to take while the Doctor was finishing his harangue, was far from consolatory. She had indeed committed a little roguery, and would indeed be sorry to be questioned by the police; and she knew, moreover, that Jack Rily was quite capable of carrying all his threats into immediate execution.
What, then, was she to do? There was no alternative but to bend to circumstances—make the best of a bad job—and trust to the chapter of accidents so as to avail herself of any occurrence that might turn up in her favour.
“Well—you keep silent, old gal,” said the Doctor, after a short pause. “Is it that you don’t admire me sufficiently to take me as a husband, in the fashion of leaping over the broom-stick?”
“It is of the utmost importance that I should attend to certain pressing matters,” returned Mrs. Mortimer; “and afterwards I shall be happy to fall into all your plans and projects.”
“Well, we will attend to the pressing matters together,” said the Doctor. “A husband and wife must have no secrets from each other. But since we have come this way, and as my abode happens to lie in the immediate neighbourhood, I propose at once to introduce you thereto and install you as mistress of the place. I have got a comfortable crib—for Torrens’s money did wonders for me as you may well suppose.”
At this moment a project flashed to the mind of the old woman. What if she were to yield, without farther hesitation or remonstrance, to the Doctor’s proposals, and watch her opportunity either to murder him or escape when he was asleep? By wheedling herself into his confidence, she would know where he deposited the money which, she feared, must pass from her hands into his own; and she could repossess herself of it, if he were disposed of, or if she were wakeful while he slept.
“I do not mind accompanying you to your lodgings,” she said; “and there we can talk over the whole business much better than in the open street.”
“There! now you are getting into a better frame of mind,” observed Jack Rily. “This way:”—and he turned into the low streets lying on the left-hand side of the Waterloo Road, between Upper Stamford Street and the New Cut.
The neighbourhood alluded to swarms with brothels of the most infamous description; and half-naked women may be seen at all hours lounging about at the doors, and endeavouring to entice into their dens any respectable-looking men who happen to pass that way. Robberies are of frequent occurrence in those houses of ill fame; and the great aim of the vile females inhabiting them, is to entrap persons who are the worse for liquor and whose appearance denotes a well-filled purse. Neighbourhoods of this kind should be shunned by all decent persons, as if a pestilence were raging there!
It was into Roupel-street that Jack Rily conducted Mrs. Mortimer; and when he had introduced her to a small but well furnished parlour, with a bed-chamber communicating by means of folding-doors, he produced a bottle of brandy, saying, “Now let us drink to our happy meeting this day!”
Filling two glasses with the potent liquor, he handed one to the old woman, who swallowed the contents greedily: for she felt that she stood in need of a stimulant.
“Now, my beautiful tiger-cat,” exclaimed the Doctor, as he drew down the blind over the window, “I am about to subject you to a little ceremony which may be perhaps looked upon as the least thing uncourteous; but it must be accomplished all the same. So don’t let us have any bother about it.”
Thus speaking, he approached the cupboard whence he had taken the brandy, and drawing forth a huge clasp-knife, he touched a spring which made the blade fly open and remain fixed as if it were a dagger.
“You do not mean to hurt me?” exclaimed the old woman, now becoming terribly alarmed—so much so, that she sank exhausted into a chair, while her looks were fixed appealingly on the man’s countenance.
“Not unless you grow obstreperous or have any of your nonsense,” said Jack. “I love you too well to harm you,” he added, with a leer that made him more hideously ugly than ever: “but I must have my own way all the same. So just be so kind as to place upon the table the Bank-notes which you have got in the bosom of your gown. It is but fair that I should have a wife who can bring me a dowry—and you must leave it to my generosity,” he went on to say, with a chuckling laugh, “how much I shall settle upon you afterwards.”