CHAPTER CXLVI.

A SKETCH OF TWO BROTHERS.--A MYSTERY.

The nobleman’s cab was got ready in a very few minutes; and while he is driving rapidly along towards Piccadilly, we will place on record some particulars respecting Sir Gilbert Heathcote.

The baronet was a man of about forty years of age, and of very handsome countenance, as well as of tall, commanding figure. He had never married; and report stated that a disappointment in love, experienced when he was very young, had induced him to make a vow to the effect that, as he had lost the idol of his heart’s devotion, he would never accompany another to the altar. Such was the rumour which had obtained currency at the time amongst his friends, and was even repeated at the period whereof we are writing, whenever astonishment was expressed that a man enjoying all the advantages of personal appearance and social position should not have sought to form a brilliant matrimonial alliance. For the baronet was not only very handsome, as remarked above, but he also possessed the superior attraction of four thousand a year. His habits were nevertheless inexpensive: he lived in chambers at the Albany, and had no country seat. Indeed, he seldom quitted London, and was altogether of quiet--even retired habits. He was fond of reading, and was also an admirer of the fine arts: he used often to observe that the only extravagance of which he was ever guilty, consisted in the purchase of a fine picture or of articles of _virtû_;--but these he seldom retained--giving them as presents to his friends or to museums. Not that he was whimsical or capricious, and grew tired to-day of what he had bought yesterday: but he was pleased at the thought of rescuing good paintings and real curiosities from the auction-room or from Wardour-street; and he was wont to observe that he experienced more delight in seeing them in the possession of friends who could appreciate their value, or in museums where their safety was ensured, than in having them left to the mercy of servants in his “bachelor apartments.” The fact was, that his disposition was naturally generous; but this generosity was displayed in a particular fashion--and as he himself admired objects of _virtû_, he fancied that they must likewise prove the most welcome gifts he could bestow upon his friends.

Sir Gilbert had a brother, who was very unlike himself. James Heathcote was an attorney--grasping, greedy, avaricious, unprincipled--and therefore rich. He was only two years younger than Sir Gilbert; but close application to business, evil passions, and parsimonious habits had exercised such an influence upon his personal appearance, that he seemed ten years older. His hair was grey--that of Sir Gilbert was quite dark: his form was slightly bowed--that of the baronet was erect as a dart. James also was unmarried--but not through any disappointment in early life. Indeed, he possessed a heart that might be susceptible of desire, but could not possibly experience the pure feeling of love. He lived in a handsome house in Bedford-row, Holborn; and his apartments were elegantly furnished;--for he was wont to observe that persons who are anxious to get on in this world, must make a good appearance, and that a mean office frequently turns away a person who might prove an excellent client. But his aim was to amass money--his object was to increase his wealth, no matter how: still he had always contrived matters so cunningly, that no one could positively and unequivocally prove him to be a rogue.

With such a dissimilitude of character between the two brothers, it cannot be supposed that any extraordinary degree of intimacy existed on their part. Indeed, they seldom saw each other--although the more generous nature of Gilbert would have cheerfully maintained a more consistent and becoming feeling: but the cold, reserved, matter-of-fact disposition of James proved absolutely repulsive and forbidding in this respect. So great, in fine, was the discrepancy between these men, that people were surprised when they learnt for the first time that the money-making, hard-hearted attorney was the brother of the urbane, amiable, and polished baronet.

These hasty outlines will afford the reader some idea of Sir Gilbert Heathcote on the one hand, and Mr. James Heathcote on the other. We shall see more of them both hereafter; and their characters will then become more fully developed. In the meantime we must return to Lord William Trevelyan, whom we left hastening in his cab, at half-past ten at night, towards the Albany.

On arriving at that celebrated establishment, the young nobleman instituted various inquiries concerning Sir Gilbert; but not the least particle of information of a satisfactory nature could he obtain. It appeared that the baronet had been absent for eight days, and that no communication had been received from him--neither had he given any previous intimation of his intended departure. His brother had been informed of this unaccountable absence; but it seemed that the attorney had taken no step to solve the mystery. This was the only fact which Lord William succeeded in gleaning in addition to the meagre knowledge he already possessed relative to the matter; and he returned homeward with a heavy heart, and experiencing strange misgivings in respect to his friend.

It was near midnight when he re-entered the room where he had left the lady. The moment he appeared on the threshold of the door, she rose from her seat and hastened forward to meet him, her looks revealing the intensity of the anxiety and the acuteness of the suspense which she experienced. But when she saw by his countenance, even before a word fell from his lips, that he had no good news to impart, a ghastly pallor overspread her face, and she would have fallen had he not supported her and led her back to her chair.

“I grieve to say, madam,” he at length observed, “that I have learnt nothing more than what you already know--unless indeed it be the fact that a communication respecting Sir Gilbert’s disappearance has been made to Mr. James Heathcote, and that he has treated the matter with unpardonable levity--if not with heartless indifference.”

“I do not know that brother--I never saw him,” said the lady, speaking in a broken voice: “but I have heard enough of his character to make me dread him.”

“At the same time, madam,” remarked Lord Trevelyan, in a tone of firm though gentle remonstrance, “there is not the slightest ground for suspicion against Mr. James Heathcote; and such an observation as that which a moment ago fell from your lips, might act most seriously to the prejudice of an innocent man. I likewise am unacquainted with Mr. Heathcote, otherwise than by name----”

“And your lordship is well aware that his reputation is not the most enviable in the world!” exclaimed the lady in an impassioned tone.”

“I have never heard any definite charges against him, madam,” said Trevelyan.

“No--not positive charges which may fix him with the perpetration of a special and particular deed of guilt,” she cried, as if determined to level her suspicions against the attorney: “but your lordship has doubtless heard a thousand vague accusations--usury--extortion--grinding down the poor to the very dust--hurrying on law proceedings with merciless haste--unrelentingly sweeping away the property of his victims----”

“All these charges I have certainly heard, madam,” said Trevelyan; “but I will not admit that they warrant the darkest, blackest suspicion which one human being can possibly entertain towards another. Understand me, madam--I have no motive in defending James Heathcote, beyond the true English principle of never judging a person through the medium of prejudices. For your satisfaction I will call upon Mr. Heathcote to-morrow--I will speak to him relative to the mysterious disappearance of his brother--I will hear his replies--I will even watch his countenance and observe his manner as he speaks. And believe me, madam,” proceeded the young nobleman, emphatically,--“believe me when I assure you that if there should transpire the least cause of suspicion--if there should appear aught to warrant the belief that James Heathcote could have possibly practised or instigated foul play in respect to his brother,--believe me, madam, I repeat, that I will pursue the investigation--I will leave no stone unturned--I will prosecute my inquiries until I shall have brought home that deep guilt to his door. But not for an instant--no, not for a single moment can I believe----”

“Act as you have said, my lord--and, depend upon it, you will find in the sequel that my opinions are not so unjust--so uncalled for--so reprehensible, as you now conceive them to be. But, oh!” exclaimed the lady, clasping her hands wildly together,--“it is terrible--terrible even for a moment to entertain the idea that he whom I love so devotedly may be no more!”

“Compose yourself, madam--tranquillise your feelings, I implore you!” cried Lord William Trevelyan. “We must not give way to despair--we must not harbour the dreadful thought that Sir Gilbert Heathcote has met with foul play, and that he ceases to exist. No--no: let us hope----”

“Oh! my lord, how can we hope in the face of such strange--such mysterious--such suspicious circumstances?” demanded the lady, with mingled grief and bitterness. “Even if he did not choose to acquaint his friends with his intended absence and its motives, he would not be equally reserved towards me. No--he would have seen me ere his departure--or he would at least have written. For you must now learn, my lord, that we have loved each other for upwards of twenty years,” she continued, in a low and plaintive tone. “For twenty years and more have our hearts beat in unison;--and never--never was love so devoted as ours! Alas! mine has been a strange and romantic life; and the influence that has swayed all its incidents was that passion which the worldly-minded treat so lightly. For my father was a worldly-minded man; and, though he knew how fondly I loved and how ardently I was beloved,--though I knelt before him and conjured him by all he held most sacred, and by the spirit of my mother who died in my childhood, not to sacrifice me to the object of _his_ choice, and tear me away from the object of _mine_,--nevertheless, he ridiculed my prayers--he made naught of my beseechings--and I was immolated upon the altar of a parent’s sordid interest. Your lordship has perhaps already understood that the _one_ whom I adored was Gilbert Heathcote. Never--never was love’s tale told with more enchanting sweetness than by his lips: never--never did woman cherish more devotedly than I that avowal of a sincere passion! At that time his personal beauty was sufficient to ensnare the heart of any maiden, though far less susceptible than mine;--and I loved him--loved him madly. But a wealthy noble had seen me; and my father beheld with joy the impression that I had been so unfortunate as to make upon that patrician’s fancy. Moreover, at that period, my sire was suffering cruel pecuniary embarrassments; and the brilliant marriage which he hoped to accomplish for his daughter, appeared the only means of extricating himself from his difficulties. Thus the suit of the nobleman was encouraged by my father--and I was induced by the menaces, the prayers, and the specious reasoning which he employed by turns to move me,--I was induced, I say, to tolerate the visits of the peer, although heaven knows I never could encourage them. Not that his personal appearance was disagreeable--nor that I paused to reflect that his age was more than double my own: no--for he was handsome--very handsome; and, though his years were twice mine, yet he was but in the prime of life. Wherefore, then, did I receive his addresses with loathing?--wherefore did I implore my father to save me from an alliance which was so desirable and so brilliant in every worldly point of view? Oh! it was because my heart was irrevocably given to another--because Gilbert Heathcote possessed all my love!”

The lady paused, and wiped away the tears which so many varied reminiscences had wrung from her eyes,--while profound sobs convulsed her bosom.

Lord William Trevelyan felt the embarrassment and awkwardness of his position; for it was now past midnight--and he began to reflect that his servants might look suspiciously upon the fact of this protracted visit on the part of a lady who was still young enough, and certainly handsome enough to afford food for scandalous tongues. Not that Lord William was either a rigid saint or a stern anchorite in respect to the female sex: but, although unmarried, he behaved with the utmost circumspection, and would never have outraged decency so far as to make his own abode the place of an intrigue or gallant _rendezvous_. Moreover, the love which he entertained for Agnes Vernon had exercised such a purifying--such a chastening influence upon his soul, that he shrank from the idea of compromising himself by any real impropriety, or of becoming compromised by means of any indiscretion which scandal might think fit to attribute to him.

The lady was however too much absorbed in her own thoughts and emotions to mark how rapidly time was slipping away, or to reflect upon the imprudence of prolonging her visit. Her feelings were painfully excited, not only by the fears which she entertained on account of the absence of Sir Gilbert Heathcote--but likewise by the reminiscences which had been stirred up in her soul, and the outpouring of which to sympathetic ears seemed a necessary vent for a bosom so full of sorrow.

“Yes, my lord,” she resumed, after a short pause, her voice still being characterised by a tone of the most touching melancholy; “my father forced me into that hated marriage--and though I gained rank and a proud position, yet hope and happiness appeared to have forsaken me for ever. But I cannot tell you all,” she exclaimed, hastily, as if a sudden thought had struck her, warning her that she was about to be led by her feelings into revelations of a nature which she would repent, or which would at least be unbecoming and injudicious.

“Madam,” said Lord William, emphatically,--“I do not seek your confidence--I do not even desire it: but you have to do with a man of honour, by whom everything you may impart, whether with premeditation or unguardedly, will be held as sacred.”

“I thank your lordship for this kind assurance,” observed the lady. “Do not imagine that I wish to force you into becoming the depositary of my secrets, in order to establish a species of claim upon your friendship. No--my lord: I am not selfish--neither am I an intriguer,--only a most unhappy--a most unfortunate woman! But it is because you have manifested some little interest in me--because you have so generously promised to aid me in clearing up the mystery which surrounds the sudden disappearance of one so dear to me,--it is for these reasons, my lord, that I am anxious to explain so much of the circumstances of my connexion with _him_, as will convince you that nothing but the sincerest affection on my part could have placed me in a position which the world generally would regard with scorn. I have told your lordship how, loving Gilbert Heathcote, I was forced into a most inauspicious marriage with another: but the name of _that other_ I need not mention. My father saw, when it was too late, that he had indeed sacrificed my happiness on the altar of his own selfishness; and he died of remorse--of a broken heart! My husband--my noble husband--was kind and generous towards me: but I could not love him--and he knew it. Then he grew jealous--and other circumstances,” she added, casting down her eyes and blushing deeply, “embittered our lives. At length--or, I should rather say, at the expiration of a few short years, I fled from him--fled from the husband who had been forced upon me--and sought refuge with the object of my heart’s sole and undivided affection. From that moment I have dwelt under the protection of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,--dwelt in the strictest privacy--happy in the possession of his love--a love which, as well as my own, has known no diminution with the lapse of years. To one of your generous soul--of your enlightened mind, my position may not appear so degrading--so humiliating, as it would to one incapable of distinguishing between the heart’s irresistible affection and a mere sensual depravity. Pardon me, my lord, for having thus obtruded this slight, and, I fear, rambling sketch, upon your notice: but I could not endure the conviction that I must appear in your eyes to be nothing more nor less than the pensioned mistress of your friend. The length of time that _his_ love for me has endured, may be alone sufficient to persuade you that I am not to be confounded amidst the common mass of female degradation and immorality.”

“Madam, I thank you for this explanation--and I comprehend all the delicacy and peculiarity of your position,” said Lord William Trevelyan, rising from his seat, the lady herself having set the example--for it now struck her that she had remained until a very late hour.

“You will pardon me, my lord,” she said, “for having thus occupied so much of your time. But I know you to be one of Sir Gilbert’s best friends--indeed, the one of whom he was principally accustomed to speak, and whom he loved and relied upon the most. May I hope that you will favour me with a communication, so soon as you shall have seen Mr. James Heathcote? Although, in virtue of my marriage, I bear a proud and a great name, yet for years and years have I been known only as Mrs. Sefton--and by that appellation must I be known to you.”

The lady then mentioned her address in Kentish Town; and, extending her hand to the young nobleman, renewed her thanks for the kindness which he had shown her.

He offered to escort her to her home: but this she declined with a firmness, at the same time in such delicate terms, as to convince him that she would neither compromise herself, nor allow him to be compromised by a courtesy which he could not well have refrained from proposing, although he might not have been well pleased to carry it into effect.

He promised to call upon her as soon as he had anything important to communicate; and Mrs. Sefton then took her departure, Trevelyan ringing the bell in order that the servant might attend her to the door, so that there should be nothing clandestine nor stealthy in the appearance of the visit.

When Trevelyan was once more alone, he threw himself in an arm-chair, and gave way to his reflections--for the evening’s adventure had, in all its details, furnished ample food for thought. In the first place, there was the strange--the unaccountable disappearance of Sir Gilbert Heathcote--a man to whom the young patrician was much attached, and whose friendship he valued highly. Then, in spite of the remonstrances which he had addressed to Mrs. Sefton, he found suspicions existing in his mind relative to James Heathcote--suspicions of a nature which he dared not attempt to define even in the secresy of his own soul; but which nevertheless every moment grew stronger, vague though they were. Next, he pondered upon the particulars of the slight autobiographical sketch the lady had given him; and he dwelt with a yet unsubdued surprise on the fact that his friend Sir Gilbert had maintained, for so long a time and entirely unsuspected, a connexion that fully accounted for his bachelor-life. Lastly, Trevelyan meditated upon the course which he must adopt to discover the baronet’s fate, unless he should speedily re-appear and relieve from their cruel suspense and uncertainty those who were interested in him.

The young nobleman felt not the slightest inclination to retire to rest, although it was now one o’clock in the morning. The adventures of the evening had excited and unsettled him;--but having pondered on the various topics above enumerated, his thoughts insensibly reverted to his beloved Agnes.

Suddenly his eyes caught the portfolio that he had left upon the table; and, opening it, he took forth the portrait of the Recluse of the Cottage. But, ah! why did he start?--what did he see?

Rising from his chair, he held the picture in such a manner that the light gave him a perfect view of it: and, sure enough--beyond all possibility of mistake--there was a mark upon the dress,--a spot, as if a drop of water--perhaps a tear--had fallen upon it.

What could this mean?--how could such an accident have happened?

Again and again he looked,--looked steadfastly--earnestly; and the longer he gazed, the more convinced did he become that his eyes did not deceive him--that he saw aright--and that the stain or the spot was there!

Yet he had not noticed it when, after Mrs. Mortimer’s departure, and previous to Mrs. Sefton’s arrival, he had so long and so ardently contemplated that portrait. No: the mark was not there _then_; or else he--the lover, devouring the entire portrait,--he, the artist, scrutinising with satisfaction every minute detail of his own drawing,--oh! yes--he could not have failed to observe the slightest speck--the least, least spot that marred the general effect of that pleasing delineation!

Was it possible, then, that Mrs. Sefton had inspected the portfolio? Yes--such a supposition was natural enough. She was left alone in that room for nearly two hours; and, in spite of her sorrow, the time must have seemed so irksome to her as to induce her to have recourse to any means to while it away, if not to divert her thoughts into a less melancholy channel.

Yes--yes: he had divined the truth now, no doubt! At least such was his idea;--and then the tear--oh! It was easily accounted for. She was overwhelmed with grief at the mysterious and alarming absence of the man whom she loved; and she was weeping while she turned over the contents of the portfolio.

“Well--it is no matter,” thought Trevelyan, as he arrived at these conclusions: “It would have been far worse had the tear fallen on the face of the portrait,--for I might labour for hours--nay, for days, without being enabled to catch and delineate so faithfully again that sweet expression of countenance which Agnes wears, and which I have succeeded in conveying to my paper. But the mark is upon the dress--and a single touch with the brush will repair the injury. Alas! poor woman,” he added, in his musings, and alluding to Mrs. Sefton, “you have indeed enough to weep for, if you have lost all you love on earth--and, even had you spoilt the portrait altogether, I would have forgiven you!”

Trevelyan now returned the drawing to the portfolio, which he conveyed to the little room adjoining; and then, retracing his way into the parlour, he approached the mantel-piece to take the letter which he had written to Agnes.

But he was astounded--stupified by the conviction which burst upon him that the letter was gone!

Gone!--it might have dropped upon the floor--on the rug--in the fender? No:--vainly did he search--uselessly did he pry into every nook and corner he could think of;--the letter had disappeared!

He rang the bell furiously.

“Did any one enter this room during my absence just now, and while that lady was here?” he demanded of the domestic, who responded to the summons.

“No, my lord,” was the answer.

“You are certain?” said Trevelyan, with interrogative emphasis.

“I am positive, my lord,” replied the man; then, after a pause, he observed, “I hope nothing unpleasant has occurred, my lord?”

“Yes--no--you may retire,” said the nobleman, abstractedly; and, when the domestic had left the room, he threw himself into a chair, overcome with amazement and grief at the mysterious circumstance that had occurred.

Could Mrs. Sefton have taken the letter? No: the idea was ridiculous. She was too much absorbed in her own sorrows to have leisure for the gratification of an idle and impertinent curiosity. Besides, was she a common thief?--for, let a lady be possessed with ever so prying a disposition, she would not carry her mania to such a point as to steal a letter--a sealed letter--unless she were absolutely dishonest and unprincipled. Surely this could not be the character of the woman whom he had seen in such deep affliction that evening,--a woman who was assuredly what she had represented herself to be, and whose appearance, manners, and language all forbade the idea that she was an abandoned wretch.

“No--I wrong her by entertaining such an injurious suspicion even for an instant!” thought Lord William, when those reflections had passed through his brain. “It is impossible that this afflicted lady can have taken my letter. Besides, had she done so, would she have waited until my return? And again, of what use--of what benefit could the letter be to her?”

He glanced around, and beheld several articles of value lying about in their accustomed places. He had gone out in such a hurry that he had left a purse containing gold upon the mantel--and, remembering the precise amount, he reckoned it and found it to be correct. Lying upon the table was a splendid gold seal, which he had used in closing the letter that was now missed:--in fine, there were numerous objects, either costly or curious, which an ill-disposed person might have self-appropriated, but all of which had been left untouched.

How, then, was it possible to suppose that Mrs. Sefton had purloined the letter?

Nevertheless, it had disappeared; and therefore some one must have taken it?--or else some accident must have happened whereby it was lost?

Trevelyan racked his brain to discover whether it was possible that he himself had removed it from the mantel after he had placed it there: but he felt assured that during the interval which elapsed between the writing of that letter and the arrival of Mrs. Sefton, he had not quitted the apartment.

The affair was most mysterious: nay--it was also alarming;--for how could he possibly account for the disappearance of a sealed letter? If it had indeed been taken by an ill-disposed person, the contents might be made known--perhaps to the prejudice of his suit with Agnes. But he was assured that no one had entered the room during his absence;--and he was so reluctant to fix the deed on Mrs. Sefton, and had so many reasons against such a supposition, that he became equally confident she was in no way connected with the strange occurrence.

At length he reasoned himself into the belief that he must have deposited the letter in some place which he could not recollect; and, as he had in the first instance made a rough draught, he resolved to write a fair copy all over again. This was soon accomplished; and, having sealed and addressed it, he took the new letter with him to his own bed-chamber, so that he might retain it in security until Mrs. Mortimer should call for it in the morning.

It was past two o’clock when Lord William retired to rest; but, though much fatigued, he could not immediately close his eyes in slumber. The affair of the letter haunted him--filled him with vague and undefined misgivings--and assumed an aspect the more mysterious, the longer he contemplated it. He endeavoured to persuade himself that the belief to which he had ere now temporarily lulled his mind was the real solution of the theory: but then would come the evidence of memory, proclaiming that he _had_ placed the letter on the mantel in the parlour, and that he had _not_ touched it afterwards.

In fine, he was bewildered amidst a variety of conflicting thoughts--and his brain grew wearied with the agitation which their jarring contention produced,--so that at length sleep stole upon him insensibly: but though it sealed his eyes in slumber, it did not protect him against the troubled dreams that visited his pillow.

At about nine o’clock in the morning he was awakened by the entrance of his valet, who came to inform him that Mrs. Mortimer had called for a letter which was to be in readiness for her.

Trevelyan started up and glanced anxiously towards the night-table, almost dreading lest that second _billet_ should have disappeared as well as the first:--but it was there in safety--and he now desired his dependant to deliver it to Mrs. Mortimer.