The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics)

by George W. M. Reynolds

  The hag watched that form attentively, and in a few moments exclaimed joyfully, “It is she!”

  Ellen was indeed advancing up the hill. She had come forth for a short ramble; and the clearness of the day had prompted her to ascend the eminence which afforded so fine a view of the mighty metropolis at a little distance.

  When she was near the top, she caught sight of a female seated upon the bench between the trees, and was about to retreat—fearful that her presence might be deemed a reproach for what was in fact an intrusion upon private property.

  But, to her surprise, she observed the female beckoning familiarly to her; and she continued her way to the summit.

  Then, with profound astonishment and no little annoyance, she recognised the old hag.

  “What are you doing here?” demanded Ellen, hastily.

  “Resting myself, as you see, miss,” answered the harridan. “But how charming you look this morning! That black velvet bonnet sets off your beautiful complexion; and the fresh air has given a lovely glow to your cheeks.”

  “You have not uttered that compliment without a motive,” said Ellen, vainly endeavouring to suppress a half-smile of satisfaction. “But you must not suppose that your flattery will make me forget the part which you played when Mr. Greenwood had me conveyed to his house somewhere in the country.”

  “My dear child, do not be angry with me on that account,” said the old hag. “Mr. Greenwood thought that you would prefer me as your servant instead of a stranger.”

  “Or rather, he hired you to talk me over to his wishes—or, perhaps, because he knew that you would wink at any violence which he might use. But I outwitted you both,” added Ellen, laughing.

  “Ah! now I see that you have forgiven me, my child,” cried the hag. “And when I behold your sweet lips, red as cherries—your lovely blue eyes, so soft and languishing—and that small round chin, with its charming dimple, I feel convinced——”

  “Nay—you are determined to flatter me,” interrupted Ellen; “but I shall not forgive you the more readily on that account.”

  “How well this pelisse becomes your beautiful figure, my child,” said the hag, affecting not to notice Ellen’s last observation.

  “Cease this nonsense,” cried Miss Monroe; “and tell me what brings you hither.”

  “To see you once more, my child.”

  “How did you discover my abode?”

  “A pleasant question, forsooth!” ejaculated the hag. “Do you think that I am not well acquainted with all—yes, all that concerns you?” she added significantly.

  “Alas! I am well aware that you know much—too much,” said Ellen, with a profound sigh.

  “Much!” repeated the hag. “I know all, I say—even to the existence of the little one that will some day call you mother.”

  “Who told you that? Speak—who told you that?” demanded Ellen, greatly excited.

  “It cannot matter—since I know it,” returned the hag: “it cannot matter.”

  “One question,” said Ellen,—“and I will ask you no more. Was Mr. Greenwood your informant?”

  “He was not,” answered the hag.

  “And now tell me, without circumlocution, what business has brought you hither—for that you came to meet with me I have no doubt.”

  “Sit down by me, my child,” said the hag, “and listen while I speak to you.”

  “Nay—I can attend to you as well here,” returned Ellen, laughing, as she leant against one of the trees—an attitude which revealed her tiny feet and delicate ankles.

  “You seem to have no confidence in me,” observed the hag; “and yet I have ever been your friend.”

  “Yes—you have helped me to my ruin,” said Ellen, mournfully. “And yet I scarcely blame you for all that, because you only aided me to discover what I sought at the time—and that was bread at any sacrifice. Well—go on, and delay not: I will listen to you, if only through motives of curiosity.”

  “My sweet child,” said the harridan, endeavouring to twist her wrinkled face into as pleasing an expression as possible, “a strange thing has come to my knowledge. What would you think if I told you that a man of pure and stainless life, who is virgin of all sin,—a man who to a handsome exterior unites a brilliant intellect,—a man whose eloquence can excite the aristocracy as well as produce a profound impression upon the middle classes,—a man possessed of a fine fortune and a high position,—what would you think, I say, if I told you that such a man has become enamoured of you?”

  “I should first wonder how such a phœnix of perfection came to select you as his intermediate,” answered Ellen, with a smile, which displayed her brilliant teeth.

  “A mere accident made me acquainted with his passion,” said the hag. “But surely you would not scorn the advances of a man who would sacrifice every thing for you—who would consent to fall from his high place for one single hour of your love—who would lay his whole fortune at your feet as a proof of his sincerity.”

  “To cut short this conversation, I will answer you with sincerity,” returned Ellen. “Mr. Greenwood is the only man who can boast of a favour which involves my shame: he is the father of my child. I do not love him—I have no reason to love him: nevertheless, he is—I repeat—the father of my child! That expresses every thing. Who knows but that, sooner or later, he may do me justice? And should such an idea ever enter his mind, must I not retain myself worthy of that repentant sentiment on his part?”

  “You cherish a miserable delusion, my child,” said the hag; “and I am surprised at your confidence in the good feelings of a man of whom you have already seen so much.”

  “Ah! there is a higher power that often sways the human heart,” observed Ellen; and, as she spoke, her eyes were fixed upon the inscriptions on the tree, while her heart beat with emotions unintelligible to the old hag.

  “You will then allow this man of whom I have spoken, and who has formed so enthusiastic an attachment towards you, to languish without a hope?” demanded the woman.

  “Men do not die of love,” said Ellen, with a smile.

  “But he is rich—and he would enrich you,” continued the old harridan: “he would place your father in so happy a position that the old man should not even experience a regret for the prosperity which he has lost.”

  “My father dwells with a friend, and is happy,” observed Ellen.

  “But he is dependant,” exclaimed the old hag; “for you yourself once said to me, ‘We are dependant upon one who cannot afford to maintain us in idleness.’ How happy would you be—for I know your heart—to be enabled to place your father in a state of independence!”

  “Would he be happy did he know that he owed the revival of his prosperity to his daughter’s infamy?”

  “Did he divine whence came the bread that was purchased by your services to the statuary, the artist, the sculptor, and the photographer? You yourself assured me that you kept your avocations a profound secret.”

  “Were I inclined to sell myself for gold, Greenwood would become a liberal purchaser,” said Ellen. “All your sophistry is vain. You cannot seduce me from that state of tranquil seclusion in which I now dwell.”

  “At least grant your unknown lover an interview, and let him plead his own cause,” exclaimed the hag, who did not calculate upon so much firmness on the part of the young lady.

  “Ah! think not that he is unknown,” cried Ellen, a light breaking in upon her mind: “a man of pure and stainless life, virgin of all sin,—a man endowed with a handsome person, and a brilliant intellect,—a man whose eloquence acts as a spell upon all classes,—a man possessed of a large fortune and enjoying a high position,—such is your description! And this man must have seen me to love me! Now think you I cannot divine the name of your phœnix?”

  “You suspect then, my child—�
�”

  “Nay—I have something more than mere suspicion in my mind,” interrupted Ellen. “Oh! now I comprehend the motive of that apparent earnestness with which he implored me to reveal the secret sorrow that oppressed me! In a word, old woman,” added the young lady, in a tone of superb contempt, “your phœnix is the immaculate rector of St. David’s!”

  “And do you not triumph in your conquest, Miss?” demanded the hag, irritated by Ellen’s manner.

  “Oh! yes,” exclaimed the young lady, with a sort of good-humoured irony; “so much so, that I will meet him when and where you will.”

  “Are you serious?” inquired the hag, doubtfully.

  “Did I ever jest when I agreed to accept the fine offers which you made me on past occasions?” asked Ellen.

  “No: and you cannot have an object in jesting now,” observed the old woman. “But when and where will you meet him who is enamoured of you?”

  “You say that he will make any sacrifice to please me?”

  “He will—he will.”

  “Then he cannot refuse the appointment which I am about to propose to you. On Monday evening next there is to be a masked ball at Drury Lane Theatre. At ten o’clock precisely I will be there, dressed as a Circassian slave, with a thick veil over my face. Let him be attired as a monk, so that he may be enabled to shroud his features with his cowl. We shall not fail to recognise each other.”

  “Again I ask if you are in earnest?” demanded the old woman, surprised at this singular arrangement.

  “I was never more so,” answered Ellen.

  “But why cannot the appointment take place at my abode?” said the hag.

  “Oh! fie—the immaculate rector in your dirty court in Golden Lane!” ejaculated Ellen.

  “That court was once good enough for you, my child,” muttered the old woman.

  “We will not dispute upon that point,” said the young lady. “If I am worth having, I am worth humouring; and I must test the sincerity of the attachment which your phœnix experiences for me, by making him seek me at a masked ball.”

  “Oh! the caprices of you fair ones!” ejaculated the hag. “Well, my child, I will undertake that it shall be as you desire.”

  “Next Monday evening at ten o’clock,” cried Ellen; and with these words she tripped lightly down the hill in the direction of the mansion.

  The old hag then took her departure by the path on the opposite side; and, as she went along, she chuckled at the success of her intrigue.

  CHAPTER CXLIX.

  THE MASQUERADE.

  The evening of the masquerade arrived.

  It is not our intention to enter into a long description of a scene the nature of which must be so well known to our readers.

  Suffice it to say that at an early hour Old Drury was, within, a blaze of light. The pit had been boarded over so as to form a floor level with the stage, at the extremity of which the orchestra was placed. The spacious arena thus opened, soon wore a busy and interesting appearance, when the masques began to arrive; and the boxes were speedily filled with ladies and gentlemen who, wearing no fancy costumes, had thronged thither for the purpose of beholding, but not commingling with, the diversions of the masquerade.

  To contemplate that blaze of female loveliness which adorned the boxes, one would imagine that all the most charming women of the metropolis had assembled there by common consent that night; and the traveller, who had visited foreign climes, must have been constrained to admit that no other city in the universe could produce such a brilliant congress.

  For the fastidious elegancies of fashion, sprightliness of manners, sparkling discourse, and all the refinements of a consummate civilization, which are splendid substitutes for mere animal beauty, the ladies of Paris are unequalled—but for female loveliness in all its glowing perfection—in all its most voluptuous expansion, London is the sovereign city that knows in this respect no rival.

  In sooth, the scene was ravishing and gorgeous within Old Drury on the night of which we are writing.

  The spacious floor was crowded with masques in the most varied and fanciful garbs.

  There were Turks who had never uttered a “Bismillah,” and Shepherdesses who had seen more of mutton upon their tables than ever they had in the fields;—Highlanders who had never been twenty miles north of London, and Princesses whose fathers were excellent aldermen or most conscientious tradesmen;—Generals without armies, and Flower-Girls whose gardens consisted of a pot of mignonette on the ledge of their bed-room windows;—Admirals whose nautical knowledge had been gleaned on board Gravesend steamers, and Heathen Goddesses who were devoted Christians:—Ancient Knights who had not even seen so much as the Eglintoun Tournament, and Witches whose only charms lay in their eyes;—and numbers, of both sexes, attired in fancy-dresses which were very fanciful indeed.

  Then there was all the usual fun and frolic of a masquerade;—friends availing themselves of their masks and disguises to mystify each other,—witticism and repartee, which if not sharp nor pointed, still served the purpose of eliciting laughter,—and strange mistakes in respect to personal identity, which were more diverting than all.

  There was also plenty of subdued whispering between youthful couples; for Love is as busy at masquerades as elsewhere.

  The brilliancy of the dresses in the boxes, and the variety of those upon the floor, combined with the blaze of light and the sounds of the music formed a scene at once gay, exhilarating, and ravishing.

  At about a quarter before ten o’clock, a masque, attired in the sombre garb of a Carmelite Friar, with his cowl drawn completely over his face, and a long rosary hanging from the rude cord which girt his waist, entered the theatre.

  He cast a wistful glance, through the slight opening in his cowl, all around; and, not perceiving the person whom he sought, retired into the most obscure nook which he could find, but whence he could observe all that passed.

  At five minutes to ten, a lady, habited as a Circassian slave, and wearing an ample white veil, so thick that it was impossible to obtain a glimpse of her countenance, alighted from a cab at the principal entrance of the theatre.

  Lightly she tripped up the steps; but as she was about to enter the vestibule, her veil caught the buttons of a lounger’s coat, and was drawn partly off her face.

  She immediately re-adjusted it—but not before a gentleman, masked, and in the habit of a Greek Brigand, who was entering it the time, obtained a glimpse of her features.

  “What! Ellen here!” murmured the Greek Brigand to himself: “I must not lose sight of her!”

  Ellen did not however notice that she had been particularly observed; much less did she suspect that she was recognised.

  But as she hastened up the great staircase, the Greek Brigand followed her closely.

  Although her countenance was so completely concealed, her charming figure was nevertheless set off to infinite advantage by the dualma which she wore, and which, fitting close to her shape, reached down to her knees. Her ample trousers were tied just above the ankle where the graceful swell of the leg commenced; and her little feet were protected by red slippers.

  The Brigand who had recognised her, and now watched her attentively, was tall, slender, well-made, and of elegant deportment.

  Ellen soon found herself in the midst of the busy scene, where her graceful form and becoming attire immediately attracted attention.

  “Fair eastern lady,” said an Ancient Knight in buff jerkin and plumed tocque, “if thou hast lost the swain that should attend upon thee, accept of my protection until thou shalt find him.”

  “Thanks for thy courtesy, Sir Knight,” answered Ellen, gaily: “I am come to confess to a holy father whom I see yonder.”

  “Wilt thou then abjure thine own creed, and embrace ours?” asked the Knight.

  “Such is
indeed my intention, Sir Knight,” replied Ellen; and she darted away towards the Carmelite Friar whom she had espied in his nook.

  The Ancient Knight mingled with a group of Generals and Heathen Goddesses, and did not offer to pester Ellen with any more of his attentions.

  “Sweet girl,” said Reginald Tracy (whom the reader has of course recognised in the Carmelite Friar), when Ellen joined him, “how can I sufficiently thank you for this condescension on your part?”

  “I am fully recompensed by the attention you have shown to the little caprice which prompted me to choose this scene for the interview that you desired,” answered Ellen.

  Both spoke in a subdued tone—but not so low as to prevent the Greek Brigand, who was standing near, from overhearing every word they uttered.

  “Mr. Tracy,” continued Ellen, “why did you entrust your message of love to another? why could you not impart with your own lips that which you were anxious to communicate to me?”

  “Dearest Ellen,” answered the rector, “I dared not open my heart to you in person—I was compelled to do so by means of another.”

  “If your passion be an honourable one,” said Ellen, “there was no need to feel shame in revealing it.”

  “My passion is most sincere, Ellen. I would die for you! Oh! from the first moment that I beheld you by your father’s sick-bed, I felt myself drawn towards you by an irresistible influence; and each time that I have since seen you has only tended to rivet more firmly the chain which makes me your slave. Have I not given you an unquestionable proof of my sincerity by meeting you here?”

  “A proof of your desire to please me, no doubt,” said Ellen. “But what proof have I that your passion is an honourable one? You speak of its sincerity—you avoid all allusion to the terms on which you would desire me to return it.”

  “What terms do you demand?” asked the rector. “Shall I lay my whole fortune at your feet? Shall I purchase a splendid house, with costly appointments, for you? In a word, what proof of my love do you require?”