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

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “This mute declaration of love is truly romantic,” said Ellen, laughing, as she threw herself, half undressed, into an easy chair, and began to unlace the boots which enclosed her pretty feet.

  Katherine had emerged from her nook, and was sitting on the side of the bed which was farthest removed from Ellen; and there, veiling her blushes behind the curtain, the young maiden continued her artless narrative.

  “I know not how it was,” she said: “but that gentle pressure seemed to remain upon my hand. I can even feel it now, when I think of it. Is not this very foolish, Ellen? But you wish me to tell you everything; and therefore you must expect to be wearied with my frivolous details. The incident which I have just related made a profound impression upon me. The image of the stranger was constantly present to my memory throughout that day. I fancied that there was something sincere—and yet extremely respectful,—something fervent—and yet quite inoffensive—in his manner toward me when he seized and pressed my hand. But I have forgotten to give you some idea of his appearance. He is young—tall—slight—and of a dark complexion. He seems to be of a foreign nation. His eyes are black and animated, and on his lip he wears a small moustache. His gait is elegant; and his manners are evidently those of a polished gentleman.”

  “And his name?” said Ellen. “He has doubtless communicated that?”

  “He has never spoken a word to me,” answered Katherine, with the most ingenuous seriousness. “We have not exchanged a syllable. I think, indeed, that I have already been sufficiently imprudent in allowing him to touch my hand. Still I could not have prevented him—he took it so suddenly!”

  “And you have not exchanged a syllable!” exclaimed Ellen. “But it is as well that matters have remained where they appear to be. I will, however, give you my advice presently. In the meantime, continue your narrative.”

  “I have little more to say,” answered Katherine, with a sigh. “On the following morning I met him once more—that was three days ago, and he accosted me evidently with the intention of speaking. But I hurried on; and he stopped. When I was at some distance, I cast a rapid glance round: he was still standing where I had left him. He saw that I threw that hasty look behind me, for—but, no——I cannot tell you the indiscretion of which he was guilty. It pains me to think of it; and perhaps he himself is conscious of his impropriety, for I have not seen him since.”

  “What, in heaven’s name, did he do?” asked Ellen, surprised by the thoughtful seriousness of her young friend’s manner.

  “Do you wish me to tell you?” exclaimed Katherine. “Well—I must confess all! He kissed his hand to me.”

  “Were I not afraid of wounding your feelings, I should laugh immoderately, Kate,” said Ellen. “Here was I on the tenter-hooks of expectation—awaiting some truly mortifying disclosure; and I find that the only fault which your swain has committed, is a delicate and mute declaration of his attachment. But to speak seriously once more. If you really entertain any sentiment of interest in behalf of this handsome stranger, you must allow time and circumstances to serve you. These romantic meetings, dear Katherine, are calculated to fill your young heart with hopes which may be cruelly disappointed. If he really experience a tender feeling towards you, he will find means to make it known in a more satisfactory, if not more intelligible manner. Then will be the proper time for your friends to ascertain who he is. For the present I cannot,—as I wish you well,—counsel you to incur the chance of meeting him in that wild way again. I am glad you have imparted this secret to me. It shall be sacred. But, oh! I am too intimately acquainted with the world to treat lightly or neglectfully a matter that may so nearly touch,—that does, perhaps, already to some extent concern,—your happiness; more than ever do I now desire that you should pass a few days with me at Markham Place. If your stranger really wishes to know more of you,—if his views be honourable, and his pretensions feasible, he will soon institute inquiries at the farm regarding you. Mr. Bennet will then know how to act. In the meantime there is no necessity to mention the affair to either him or his wife.”

  The tender interest of the subject had so completely absorbed all other ideas in the mind of Katherine, that—no longer under the restraint of the extreme bashfulness which had driven her into the obscure part of the chamber in order to lay aside her vesture—she had emerged from the concealment of the curtain, and gradually approached nearer and nearer towards Ellen, while the latter was affectionately offering her counsel.

  The scene was now a most touching one.

  In the large arm-chair reclined the young wife, her luxuriant hair, not yet arranged for repose, flowing in shining waves over her ivory shoulders, and forming a dark curtain behind her arching neck, the dazzling whiteness and graceful contour of which were thus enhanced with an effect truly enchanting;—while a stray curl of the glossy hair, detached from the mass behind, and more fortunate than its companions, fell on the glowing bosom which was without shame revealed in the sanctity of that chamber.

  And, standing meekly before the young wife,—with downcast eyes and blushing cheeks,—was the young virgin,—her white arms supporting the loosened garments over her bosom in that sweet attitude of modesty which so many great masters have loved to delineate in their marble representations of female beauty.

  It seemed as if Venus, the Queen of Love, were enthroned in the voluptuous negligence of the boudoir, and had suddenly assumed a demeanour befitting her sovereign sway, while she tutored one of her attendant Graces in some lesson whose importance demanded that unusual seriousness.

  “And now, dearest Katherine,” added Ellen, after a moment’s pause, “I have given you the best advice which my humble capacity allows me to offer and I think so well of you that I feel convinced of your readiness to follow it.”

  “I should be unworthy of your good opinion—I should despise myself, were I to hesitate a moment what course to pursue,” returned Kate; and, yielding to the generous emotions of friendship, she threw herself on the bosom of her whom she had made the confidant of her young love.

  “And you will consent to pass a short time with me at Markham Place?” said Ellen, embracing her affectionately.

  “I will follow your counsel in all things, dear Ellen,” replied the maiden, weeping from emotions of gratitude and love.

  Human nature has no essence more pure,—the world knows nothing more chaste,—heaven has endowed the mortal heart with no feeling more holy, than the nascent affection of a young virgin’s soul.

  The warmest language of the sunny south is too cold to shadow forth even a faint outline of that enthusiastic sentiment. And God has made the richest language poor in the same respect, because the depths of hearts that thrill with love’s emotions are too sacred for the common contemplation. The musical voice of Love stirs the source of the sweetest thoughts within the human breast, and steals into the most profound recesses of the soul, touching chords which never vibrated before, and calling into gentle companionship delicious hopes till then unknown!

  Yes—the light of a young maiden’s first love breaks dimly but beautifully upon her as the silver lustre of a star glimmers through a thickly-woven bower; and the first blush that mantles her cheek, as she feels the primal influence, is faint and pure as that which a rose-leaf might cast upon marble. But how rapidly does that light grow stronger, and that flush deeper,—until the powerful effulgence of the one irradiates every corner of her heart, and the crimson glow of the other suffuses every feature of her countenance.

  CHAPTER CCI.

  THE HANDSOME STRANGER.—DISAPPOINTMENT.

  On the ensuing morning Farmer Bennet departed early for London.

  After breakfast, Ellen said, with a significant smile: “The weather is fine, Kate: let us take advantage of it. Your country air does me so much good.”

  Katherine blushed, and then smiled also; but she offered no objection to the proposed walk.<
br />
  The toilette of the young ladies was soon complete; and they sallied forth on their little excursion.

  “Mr. Bennet has promised to call at Markham Place,” observed Ellen. “I have written a note to my father, stating that I shall return to-morrow, or next day at latest; and I have intimated my intention of bringing you with me. I most sincerely hope that some fresh tidings have been received from Richard.”

  “And in that wish I earnestly partake,” said Katherine. “But wherefore do you choose this path?” she added in a tremulous tone, and with downcast eyes.

  “Because it is the most pleasant,” answered Ellen, laughing. “It seems, moreover, that your handsome stranger was determined to seek you in one direction, as well as in another; and if he be in the neighbourhood this morning, rest assured that he will see you—whichever way you may pursue. Love has as many eyes in this respect as Argus. I am with you, dear Kate—you have a companion, and there is no indiscretion in even taking this very path where you have on most occasions met your unknown. Besides, should he be here to-day, I am anxious to catch a glimpse of him. To-morrow or next day you will leave this vicinity of pleasant memories—at least for a time; and——”

  “Ellen, Ellen!” murmured Kate, suddenly; and she caught her companion by the arm.

  “Ah! I understand!—compose yourself, Katherine—compose yourself,” was the rapid reply. “It would be improper to betray any emotion. See—he is approaching slowly;—in the name of heaven, compose yourself!”

  And, in effect, a handsome young man, with a dark complexion, fine and expressive eyes, and a graceful figure,—was advancing in the opposite direction. But he came slowly, as if anxious to keep some favourite object as long in view as possible!

  How the pulse of the maiden’s young heart quickened, as she beheld her unknown lover approaching.

  And now the handsome stranger came near:—and Katherine drew close to her companion, as the timid fawn relies for protection on the stately deer.

  The look of the stranger was cast for a moment upon Ellen; but not the bright glance of her eye—nor the rich colouring of her cheeks, framed as they were in masses of glossy hair—nor that symmetry of swelling bust, delicate waist, and matchless proportions of a finely-moulded form,—not this assemblage of charms induced the stranger to dwell for more than an instant on Katherine’s companion. No:—it was to Katherine herself that his eyes reverted with adoring glance; and though he gazed fixedly upon the retiring maiden, yet there was something so respectful in his manner, that it was impossible to take offence at it.

  He made way for the two ladies, and raised his hat as they passed.

  Katherine returned the salutation without turning her eyes towards him.

  “Your stranger is not only handsome,” observed Ellen, when they were at such a distance as to incur no danger of being overheard; “but he is also of an appearance so respectable—so superior,—I had almost said noble,—that I cannot for a moment suppose his intentions to be dishonourable. At the same time, why does he not address you? He might, without impropriety, have taken advantage of my presence to speak to you; and, to tell you the truth, it was to afford him such an opportunity that I brought you in this direction.”

  We need not record the conversation that ensued: the reader does not require to be informed that its principal topic was the love of the young maiden—a theme on which she was naturally pleased to speak, and in the discussion of which Ellen indulged her;—not, however, with the view of fanning the flame of incipient passion; but with the affectionate motive of warning her against the encouragement of hopes which might never be fulfilled.

  The walk was prolonged until two o’clock, when the young ladies retraced their steps to the farm. Mr. Bennet had not yet returned from London: dinner was however served up. The fresh air had given Ellen an appetite; but Katherine ate little, and was somewhat pensive.

  Indeed, the maiden had sufficient to engage the meditation of her young mind. The evident impression which the handsome stranger had made upon her, and the hope that evening would bring her the much-desired information relative to her parents, divided her thoughts.

  But of what nature would the old woman’s secrets prove? In what manner were they to be a source of comfort to her? It will be remembered that Smithers had made her acquainted with certain particulars relative to her mother; and the sad inference had been that Katherine was of illegitimate birth. Would the tendency of the old woman’s communications be to clear up this mystery in a manner satisfactory to the young maiden? As yet all was doubt and uncertainty; and conjecture was vain!

  It was about four o’clock when the farmer made his appearance.

  He entered the parlour, where Ellen, Katherine, and Mrs. Bennet were sitting, with a countenance expressive of supreme satisfaction.

  “I have glorious news for you, young ladies,” he exclaimed; “and, indeed, all who know Mr. Markham——I beg his pardon, the Marquis——must be rejoiced.”

  “Oh! what of him?” ejaculated Ellen and Kate, as it were in one breath.

  “Patience for a moment,” said the farmer. “Here is a letter from Mr. Monroe to you, Miss,”—addressing Ellen; “and that will explain every thing yet known of the affair.”

  Ellen hastily tore open her father’s note, and began to read its contents aloud:—

  “January 29th, 1841.

  “You will be supremely delighted, dearest Ellen, to hear the joyful tidings which I am able to communicate. This morning’s newspapers publish a Telegraphic Despatch from Toulon, stating that a grand and decisive battle took place beneath the walls of Montoni on the 23d. Richard was completely victorious. The Austrian army was routed with tremendous loss; the Grand Duke fled; and the capital was delivered. Our dear benefactor is safe. The steamer which conveyed these tidings to Toulon left Montoni in the afternoon of the 24th, at the moment when Richard was entering the city—as the Regent of Castelcicala!

  “Nothing more is known at present; but this is enough not only to reassure us all—but to fill our hearts with joy. My blood glows in my veins, old as I am, when I think of Richard’s grand achievements. To what a proud height has he raised himself—second only to a sovereign! As I looked forth from the casement ere now, and beheld the two trees on the hill-top, I could not avoid a sorrowful reflection concerning Eugene. What can have become of him? I——”

  “Heavens! dearest Ellen, are you ill?” exclaimed Katherine, seeing that her friend suddenly turned ashy pale.

  “No, Kate: it is nothing! The abruptness with which we have received these tidings——”

  “Yes—you are unwell,” persisted Katherine, and she hastened to procure water.

  Ellen drank some; and the colour slowly returned to her cheeks.

  “I am better now, Kate,” she said. “Do you terminate the perusal of my father’s letter.”

  Katherine, perceiving that her friend really seemed to have revived, read the remainder of the note in the following manner:—

  “I fear that he will not be enabled to tell so glorious a tale as his younger brother—even if the appointment be really kept on his part! But enough of that. You speak of bringing Miss Wilmot, to pass a few days at the Place. I entirely approve of the project, if the excellent people with whom she is living, and of whom Richard has spoken to us so highly, be willing to part with her.

  “I must not forget to mention that poor Whittingham is nearly crazed with joy at Richard’s success. You remember his extravagant but unfeigned manifestation of delight when we received the tidings of the battle of Abrantani and its results. Then the worthy fellow danced and capered madly, exclaiming, ‘Master Richard a Markis!’ all day long. But when I read him the Telegraphic Despatch this morning, he took his hat and kicked it all round the room—a new hat too,—until it was battered into a state beyond redemption,—shouting all the time, ‘Here
’s a glorious cataplasm!’ (meaning ‘catastrophe,’ no doubt):—‘Master Richard a Markis, and a Regency! I’ll get drunk to-night, sir: I haven’t been intosticated for many a year; but I’ll get drunk to-night, in spite of all the Teetotallers in London! Thank God for this glorious cataplasm!’ And he rushed out of the room to communicate the news in his own way to Marian. But conceive my surprise when I presently heard the report of fire-arms: I listened—a second report followed—a third—a fourth. I became alarmed, and hastened into the garden. There was Whittingham firing a salute with his old blunderbuss; and Marian’s new plaid shawl was floating, by way of a banner, from the summit of a clothes’ prop fixed in the ground. Poor Marian did not seem to relish the use to which her Sunday shawl was thus unceremoniously converted; but all the satisfaction she could obtain from Whittingham was, ‘It’s a glorious cataplasm! Master Richard’s a Regency!’ And away the old blunderbuss blazed again, until the salute was complete. I do really believe the excellent-hearted old man intends to illuminate the Place this evening; and I shall not interfere with the ebullition of his honest joy.

  “I write this long letter while Mr. Bennet partakes of some refreshment.

  “Trusting to see you and your young friend to-morrow or next day at latest, I am, dearest Ellen,” &c., &c.

  It is unnecessary to state that the news from Montoni diffused the most lively joy amongst the party assembled in the parlour of the farm-house.

  Ellen speedily recovered her usual flow of excellent spirits, and expressed her sincere satisfaction at that remarkable elevation on the part of Richard which had excited the enthusiasm of her father.

  Mr. and Mrs. Bennet offered no objection to the proposal that Kate should pay a visit to Markham Place: on the contrary, though grieved to part with her, they considered that change of scene could not do otherwise than benefit her.