Reginald Tracy unfolded the letter, and read as follows:——
“Should my own gloomy presages prove true, and the warning of my medical attendant be well founded,—if, in a word, the hand of Death be already extended to snatch me away thus in the prime of life, while my darling child is * * * * and inform Mr. Markham, whose abode is——”
The words that originally stood in the place which we have marked with asterisks, had evidently been blotted out by the tears of the writer.
Reginald folded the letter as he had received it, and returned it to Katherine.
The young girl immediately replaced it in the little bag, which she sewed up with scrupulous care.
It was the poor creature’s sole treasure; and she prized it as the last and only memento that she possessed of her mother.
“And you know not to whom that unfinished letter alluded?” said the rector, after a long pause, during which the bag, with its precious contents, had been consigned once more to the secret drawer in the work-box.
“I have not the least idea,” answered Kate, drying her tears. “I was only four years old when my mother died, and of course could take no steps to inquire after the Mr. Markham mentioned in the letter. My uncle has often assured me that he took some trouble in the matter, but without success. Markham, you know, sir, is by no means an uncommon name.”
“And your father, Katherine—do you remember him?”
“Oh! no, sir—he died before my mother. When I was old enough to comprehend how dreadful it is to be an orphan, Mr. Tracy, I made that little satin bag to preserve the letter which Death would not allow my poor mother to finish.”
And again the young maiden wept bitterly.
The rector was deeply affected; and for some minutes his sensual ideas concerning the damsel were absorbed in a more generous sympathy.
“But did not the medical man who attended your mother in her last moments, and who is also alluded to in the letter,” asked Reginald,—“did he not afford some clue to unravel the mystery?”
“That question I have asked my uncle more than once,” answered Kate; “and he has assured me that the medical man was a perfect stranger who was casually summoned to attend upon my poor mother only the very day before she breathed her last. Since then the medical man has also died.”
“Your mother was your uncle’s own sister, was she not?” asked the rector.
“She was, sir.”
“And she married a person named Wilmot?”
“Yes—for my name is Katherine Wilmot.”
“I remember that you were so entered upon the school-books,” said the rector. “Your mother must have been a superior woman, for the language of that fragment of a letter is accurate, and the handwriting is good.”
“The same thought has often struck me, sir,” observed Katherine. “And now how strange it is that a person bearing the name of Markham should interest himself in my behalf!”
“Strange indeed!” exclaimed Reginald, whose eyes were once more fixed upon the interesting girl near him,—fixed, too, with an ardent glance, and not one of tender sympathy. “Mr. Richard Markham—the gentleman of whom I speak—called upon me, as I ere now stated, and besought me to exert myself in your behalf. He seems to think that my position and character enable me to do for you that which, coming from him, might awaken the tongue of scandal. The cause of my visit this morning is now at length explained.”
“I am very grateful, sir, for Mr. Markham’s good intentions and your kindness,” said Katherine. “The coincidence in names, which led me to show you that letter, seems a providential suggestion to me to follow the counsel of such generous—such disinterested friends.”
“I thought as I came along,” resumed the clergyman, “that I would procure you a situation with some friends of mine in the country. But—” and he cast upon her a burning look brimful of licentiousness—“I have my doubts whether it would not be better for you to come to my house and assist Mrs. Kenrick in her domestic duties—especially as she is getting very old—and——”
He paused for a moment:—he hesitated, because at the back of the offer there was an unworthy motive at which his guilty soul quaked, lest it should betray itself.
But that pure-minded and artless girl only saw in that offer a noble act of kindness; and she frankly accepted it—upon the condition that her uncle approved of her conduct in doing so.
The rector rose—he had no farther excuse for protracting his visit.
The young girl thanked him for his goodness with the most heart-felt sincerity.
He then took his leave.
CHAPTER CXLV.
HYPOCRISY.
Reginald Tracy proceeded from the dwelling of the hangman to the corner of Tottenham Court Road, where his carriage was waiting for him.
He stepped into the vehicle, and ordered the coachman to drive him to Markham Place near Lower Holloway.
Richard was not at home: he had gone for a short walk with Mr. Monroe, who was yet too feeble to move far without the support of a companion’s arm. They were, however, expected to return in a short time;—besides, Miss Monroe was in the drawing-room; and the rector therefore decided upon walking in and waiting for Mr. Markham.
The name of Miss Monroe produced a powerful sensation in the breast of that man whose passions, until lately dormant from his birth, now raged so furiously. He had seen her in a voluptuous negligee, attending by the sick-bed of her father;—he had heard her utter words of strange self-accusing import, in connection with that parent’s illness;—and his curiosity, as well as his desires, was kindled.
He had been fascinated by that charming girl; and our readers will remember that he had felt himself capable of making any sacrifice to obtain her love!
His mind, too, entertained a distant suspicion—a very distant one, but still a suspicion—that she had strayed from the path of virtue;—for of what else could a daughter, whom he had seen hanging like a ministering angel over her father’s couch, accuse herself?
This suspicion—and, at all events, that mystery which hung around the accusation alluded to, served to inflame the imagination of a man who now sought to place no bridle upon his passions. The idea suggested itself to him, that if another had revelled in her charms, why should not he? In a word, his heart glowed with secret delight when he learnt from Whittingham that Miss Monroe was alone in the drawing-room.
On his entrance, Ellen rose from the sofa, and welcomed him with a cordiality which originated in a sense of gratitude for the spiritual comfort he had rendered her father during his illness.
At a glance his eyes scanned the fair form of Ellen from head to foot; and his imagination was instantly fired with the thoughts of her soft and swelling charms—those graceful undulations which were all her own, and needed no artificial aids to improve the originals of nature!
“I am pleased to learn from the servant that your father, Miss Monroe, is able to take a little exercise once more,” said the rector.
“Oh! all danger is now past,” exclaimed Ellen cheerfully. “But at one time, Mr. Tracy, I had made up my mind to lose him.”
“I saw how much you were afflicted,” observed the rector; “and I was grieved to hear you reproach yourself to some extent——”
“Reproach myself!” interrupted Ellen, blushing deeply. “You heard me reproach myself?”
“I did,” answered the rector. “And now, forgive me, if—by virtue of my sacred calling—I make bold to remind you that Providence frequently tries us, through the medium of afflictions visited upon those whom we love, in order to punish us for our neglectfulness, our unkindness, or our errors, towards those so afflicted. Pardon me, Miss Monroe, for thus addressing you; but I should be unfaithful towards Him whom I serve, did I not avail myself of every opportunity to explain the lessons which his wise an
d just dispensations convey.”
“Mr. Tracy,” exclaimed Ellen, cruelly embarrassed by this language, “do you really believe that Providence punished my father for some misconduct on my part?”
“Judging by the reproach—the accusation which your lips uttered against yourself—perhaps in an unguarded moment—when you administered with angelic tenderness at your father’s sick-bed——”
“Sir—Mr. Tracy, this is too much!” cried Ellen, tears starting from her eyes, while her cheeks were suffused with blushes: “it is unmanly—it is ungenerous to take advantage of any expressions which might have been wrung from me in a moment of acute anguish.”
“Pardon me, young lady,” said the rector with apparent meekness: “heaven knows the purity of my intentions in thus addressing you. It is not always that my spiritual aid is thus rejected—that my motives are thus cruelly suspected.”
“Forgive me, sir,—I was wrong to excite myself at words which were meant in kindness,” said Ellen, completely deceived by this consummate hypocrisy.
“Miss Monroe,” continued Reginald, “believe me when I assure you that I feel deep compassion—deep interest, wherever I perceive grief—especially when that sorrow is secret. And, if my eyes have not deceived me, methinks I have read in your young heart the existence of some such secret sorrow. My aim is to console you; for the consolation which I can offer is not human—it is divine! I am but the humble instrument of the supernal Goodness; but God imparts solace through even the least worthy of his ministers.”
“I thank you sincerely for your friendly intentions towards me,” said Ellen, now recovering her presence of mind; “but, since my father is restored to health, I have little to vex me.”
“And yet that self-reproach, Miss Monroe,” persisted the rector, determined not to abandon the point to which he had so dexterously conducted the conversation,—“that self-accusation which escaped your lips——”
“Is a family secret, Mr. Tracy, which may not be revealed,” interrupted Ellen firmly.
“I ask you not for your confidence, Miss Monroe; think not that I seek to pry into your affairs with an impertinent curiosity——”
“Once more, sir, I thank you for the kindness which prompts you thus to address me; but—pray, let us change the conversation.”
These words were uttered in so decided a tone, that Reginald dared not persist in his attempt to thrust himself into the young lady’s confidence.
An awkward silence ensued; and the rector was thinking how he should break it, when the door opened.
Almost at the same moment, a female voice was heard outside the room, saying, in tender playfulness, “Come to mamma! come to mamma!”
Then, immediately afterwards, Marian entered the apartment, bearing an infant in her arms.
Whittingham had neglected to tell her that there was a visitor in the drawing-room.
Poor Marian, astounded at the presence of the rector, could neither advance nor retreat for some time.
At length she turned abruptly away.
Ellen sank back upon the sofa, overcome with shame and grief.
The rector threw upon her a glance full of meaning; but she saw it not—for her own eyes were cast down.
This depression, however, lasted only for a moment. Suddenly raising her head, she exclaimed with that boldness and firm frankness which had been taught her by the various circumstances of the last few years of her life, “You now know my secret, sir: but you are a man of honour. I need say no more.”
“Who has been base enough to leave this grievous wrong unrepaired?” asked Reginald, taking her hand—that soft, warm, delicate hand.
“Nay—seek to know no more,” returned Ellen, withdrawing her hand hastily from what she however conceived to be only the pressure of a friendly or fraternal interest; “you have learnt too much already. For God’s sake, let not my father know that you have discovered his daughter’s shame!”
“Not for worlds would I do aught to cause you pain!” cried the rector, enthusiastically.
“Thank you—thank you,” murmured Ellen, completely deceived in respect to the cause of Tracy’s warmth, and mistaking for friendly interest an ebullition of feeling which was in reality gross and sensual.
With these words Ellen hurried from the room.
“I have discovered her secret!” said the rector triumphantly to himself, as he rose and paced the apartment, mad passions raging in his breast; “and that discovery shall make her mine. Oh! no sacrifice were too great to obtain possession of that charming creature! I would give the ten best years of my life to clasp her in my arms, in the revels of love! Happy—thrice happy should I be to feel that lovely form become supple and yielding in my embrace! But my brain burns—my heart beats—my eyes throb—my blood seems liquid fire!”
Reginald threw himself, exhausted by the indomitable violence of his passions, upon the sofa.
Scarcely had he time to compose himself, when Markham entered the room.
The rector communicated to him the particulars of his interview with Katherine Wilmot, and concluded by saying that, as the girl was known to his housekeeper, he had determined upon taking her into his service.
“With regard to the fragment of the letter,” observed Richard, “allusion must have been made to some person of the name of Markham who is totally unconnected with our family. We have no relations of that name. I feel convinced that the mention of the name could not in any way refer to my father; and my brother and myself were children at the time when that letter must have been written.”
“It is a coincidence—and that is all,” observed the rector. “But as you have to some extent constituted yourself the benefactor of this young person, do you approve of the arrangement which I have made for her to enter my household?”
“My dear sir, how can I object?” exclaimed Richard, who, in the natural generosity of his heart, gave the rector credit for the most worthy motives. “I consider myself your debtor for your noble conduct in this instance. Under your roof, Mr. Tracy, the breath of calumny cannot reach that poor creature; and there no one will dare to make her family connexions a subject of reproach.”
Some farther conversation took place between Reginald Tracy and Richard Markham upon this subject, and when the former rose to depart, they both observed, for the first time during their interview, that a violent shower of rain was pouring down.
Richard pressed the rector to remain to dinner—an invitation which he, whose head was filled with Ellen, did not hesitate to accept.
The rector’s carriage and horses were accordingly housed in the stables attached to Markham Place; and Whittingham was desired to make Mr. Tracy’s coachman and livery-servant as comfortable as possible—instructions with which the hospitable old butler did not fail to comply.
Dinner was served up at five o’clock; and Reginald had the felicity of sitting next to Miss Monroe.
The more he saw of this young lady, the more did he become enraptured with her,—not, however, experiencing a pure and chaste affection, but one whose ingredients were completely sensual.
The evening passed rapidly away;—the rain continued to pour in torrents.
As a matter of courtesy—indeed, of hospitality, for Richard’s nature was generosity itself—the rector was pressed to stay the night at the Place; and, although he had a good close carriage to convey him home (and persons who have such equipages are seldom over careful of their servants) he accepted the invitation.
There was something so pleasing—so intoxicating in the idea of passing the night under the same roof with Ellen!
CHAPTER CXLVI.
THE BATH.—THE HOUSEKEEPER.
It was scarcely light when the rector of Saint David’s rose from a couch where visions of a most voluptuous nature had filled his sleep.
Having
hastily dressed himself, he descended from his room with the intention of seeking the fine frosty air of the garden to cool his heated brain.
But as he proceeded along a passage leading to the landing of the first flight of stairs, he heard a light step slowly descending the upper flight; and the next moment, the voice of Ellen speaking fondly to her child, fell upon his ear.
For nurses and mothers will talk to babes of even a few months old—although the innocents comprehend them not!
Reginald stepped into the recess formed by the door of one of the bed-chambers in that spacious mansion; and scarcely had he concealed himself there when he saw Ellen, with the child in her arms, pass across the landing at the end of the passage, and enter a room on the other side.
She wore a loose dressing-gown of snowy whiteness, which was confined by a band round her delicate waist, and was fastened up to the throat: her little feet had been hastily thrust into a pair of buff morocco slippers; and her long shining hair flowed over her shoulders and down her back.
The licentious eyes of the clergyman followed her from the foot of the stairs to the room which she entered; and even plunged with eager curiosity into that chamber during the moment that the door was open as she went in.
That glance enabled him to perceive that there was a bath in the apartment to which Ellen had proceeded with her child.
Indeed, the young lady, ever since her residence at Markham Place, had availed herself of the luxury of the bathing-room which that mansion possessed: and every morning she immersed her beautiful person in the refreshing element, which she enjoyed in its natural state in summer, but which was rendered slightly tepid for her in winter.
When the rector beheld her descend in that bewitching negligee,—her hair unconfined, and floating at will—her small, round, polished ankles glancing between the white drapery and the little slippers,—and the child, with merely a thick shawl thrown about it, in her arms,—and when he observed the bath in that chamber which she entered, he immediately comprehended her intention.
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 9