CHAPTER CLXX.

AGNES AND MRS. MORTIMER.

In the meantime Mrs. Mortimer had not been idle.

Possessed of the letter which had been entrusted to her, she repaired in a hired vehicle to the immediate vicinity of the cottage, and alighted in the lane which was bounded on one side by the thick and verdant hedge that enclosed the garden.

The old woman had not precisely made up her mind how to proceed in the business which she had taken in hand: she knew that the task was a difficult one,--and she trusted rather to the chapter of accidents than to any settled or preconceived project.

For she naturally reasoned within herself that Mr. Vernon had doubtless warned his daughter not to hold any further communication with strangers: she had seen enough, on the evening of her visit to the cottage, to enable her to judge that her presence there was regarded suspiciously by that gentleman, and that her tale was not believed by him;--and she therefore calculated that Agnes had been duly and impressively counselled not to receive her again. Indeed, it was likewise probable that the young lady might have been taught to look upon her as a person having some evil object in view, and that the servants had been charged to maintain a strict watch upon her movements should she make her appearance in that neighbourhood again.

All these reflections were duly weighed by Mrs. Mortimer; and, under the circumstances which they suggested, she found it to be totally impossible to devise beforehand any particular method of carrying out her aims.

She, however, more than hoped that, as the morning was remarkably fine, with a warm summer sun rendering the face of Nature bright and joyous, Agnes would be certain to walk in her garden, if not farther abroad. Nor was she mistaken in the former portion of her expectation: for scarcely had she reached the verdant boundary of the enclosure, when she beheld, through the high hedge, the light drapery of the young lady, who, clad in a morning-dress, was advancing slowly along a gravel-walk, with a book in her hand.

How beautiful did she appear, even to the gaze of the old harridan who now surveyed her from behind the hedge! There was an æsthetic grace in her movements--an enchanting sweetness expressed in her countenance--a gentle refinement in her bearing--and a halo of innocence around her, which rendered her a being with whom it was impossible to associate ideas of sensuality, but whom the heart might worship with the purest, holiest poetic sentiment, as if hers were an ethereal nature.

Her eyes were bent upon the volume which she held in her delicate, white hands; and her little feet moved slowly along the gravel-walk--for she was absorbed in the perusal of the book. She had not fastened the white ribbons of the straw-bonnet that she had evidently put on with a hasty negligence; and those ribbons were thrown back over her shoulders, thus allowing a shower of raven curls to descend on each side of the fair face down to the bosom of her dress.

Around that charming creature streamed the flood of sun-light, making her tresses, dark though they were, glitter like hyperions, and imparting a dazzling whiteness to her drapery, which appeared in strong relief amidst the luxuriant green of the trees and shrubs.

Mrs. Mortimer was rejoiced when she beheld the young lady in the garden--still more rejoiced when she observed that Agnes was approaching that part of the hedge behind which the harridan was concealed.

Several minutes however elapsed before the beauteous creature was sufficiently nigh for Mrs. Mortimer to address her; because she not only advanced slowly, but stopped two or three times when she met with a passage of more than ordinary interest in the work she was reading. It was the novel of “Ivanhoe” that thus rivetted her attention; and she was in the midst of the exalting scene of the combat between Brian de Bois-Gilbert and Wilfred of Ivanhoe.

Suddenly she was startled by hearing her name mentioned;--and she glanced around almost in affright--but no one met her view.

“Miss Vernon--dear Miss Vernon,” repeated the voice: “approach nearer to the hedge--’tis a friend who thus addresses you.”

The maiden instantly recognised the peculiar tones of the old woman who had called upon her nearly a week previously; and, without giving any response, she stood undecided how to act.

“Pray do not refuse to hear me--pray do not go away, Miss Vernon,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer, whose form the young lady could now distinguish through the hedge. “I have something of importance to communicate--and not for worlds would I injure a hair of your head.”

“But I promised my father not to hold discourse with any one who came not with a letter from him,” said Agnes, at length breaking silence: “and moreover,” she added, with some degree of hesitation, “I am afraid that you do not mean any good towards me.”

“Alas! Miss Vernon, can you entertain such cruel suspicions regarding me?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, as if deeply afflicted at the mistrust implied in the maiden’s words. “Of what benefit would it be for me to injure you? or, indeed, how could I possibly injure you?”

“I know not--and yet----”

“Ah! you hesitate, my dear young lady--and you will accord me a hearing,” exclaimed the old woman, eagerly. “In fact, I appeal to your sense of justice not to refuse me this opportunity of vindicating myself against the suspicions which, I am well aware, your father entertains concerning me. But, tell me--what book is that which you hold in your hand?” demanded Mrs. Mortimer, half-suspecting that it might be a novel, and in that case hoping to find a pretext for giving the conversation a turn towards the topic of love.

“It is ‘Ivanhoe,’ madam,” said Agnes. “But really I must not remain here any longer: I should be sorry to suspect you--and yet my father----”

“Dearest lady, not even your parent’s prejudices should render _you_ capable of an act of injustice,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, with an emphasis that made Agnes pause as she was on the point of retreating. “You are engaged in the perusal of one of the finest tales in the English language,” she continued, abruptly diverting the conversation into another channel: “and doubtless you have sighed over the hopeless affection which the beautiful Jewess cherished for him whose heart was given to the Lady Rowena?”

“I have wept for the interesting and charming Rebecca,” said Agnes, in the natural ingenuousness of her character: “although I am well aware that she is only the heroine of a romance, and I cannot precisely understand wherefore she should have been so much attached to Wilfrid.”

“The description is so life-like--is it not?” asked Mrs. Mortimer.

“I know not--and yet it appears to me as if it were all true--as if I could easily persuade myself that such incidents really occurred, and such sentiments could positively exist,” responded Agnes. “But I must leave you----”

“One word, Miss,” interrupted the old woman. “You say that you could easily persuade yourself that such sentiments as those experienced by Rebecca for Wilfrid, and by Wilfrid and Rowena mutually, could actually exist. Believe me, then, when I assure you that although the incidents of that tale are a fiction, the sentiments are the very reverse--and that what the author denominates _love_ is a passion felt and acknowledged throughout the universe.”

“Yes--the love of a father towards his children, and of children towards their parents,” said Agnes. “Oh! I am well aware that such a blessed feeling animates the mortal breast.”

“And there is another phase of that sentiment,” resumed the old woman, immediately: “or rather, the love which you described, is a _feeling_--whereas the love which Rebecca experienced for Ivanhoe, is a _passion_.”

“I cannot comprehend you, madam,” observed Agnes, who gradually grew more and more interested in this conversation, because Scott’s novel had made a deep impression on her mind, and had raised up a sentiment of curiosity which, through the very ingenuousness of her disposition, sought for an elucidation of those descriptions that were entirely unintelligible or only dimly significant to her.

“Suppose that Rebecca had addressed a letter to Ivanhoe, explaining the sentiments which she entertained towards him,” said the wily old woman: “would not Wilfrid have been unkind--ungenerous--even harsh and brutal, not to have perused that narrative of her feelings?”

“But his character _was_ generous,” exclaimed Agnes, emphatically; “and he would not have refused to read such a letter.”

“Precisely so,” continued Mrs. Mortimer. “And now, my sweet young lady, let us suppose that it was Wilfrid who experienced an attachment for Rebecca, and that Rebecca suspected it not;--and suppose, likewise, that Wilfrid penned a letter, in respectful and proper language to the Jewess, describing the sentiments that animated him--what course should the beautiful Israelite have pursued?”

“She would have proved as generous on her side as we have already agreed that Wilfrid of Ivanhoe would have been generous on his part,” answered Agnes, without an instant’s hesitation.

“Such is your opinion, sweet maiden?” cried Mrs. Mortimer, interrogatively.

“I have no reason to think otherwise,” was the immediate response.

“Then, Miss Vernon,” said the old woman, in a tone of mingled triumph and solemnity, “I implore you to peruse the letter of which I am the bearer, and which is intended for you--and for you alone!”

Thus speaking, Mrs. Mortimer thrust Trevelyan’s missive through the hedge; and Agnes received it mechanically, though startled and bewildered by so sudden and unexpected a proceeding.

“Read it, Miss Vernon--read it,” cried the old woman: “there is nothing in its contents to offend you--but perhaps much to please and delight.”

Thus adjured, the young maiden--innocent, artless, and unsophisticated as she was--hesitated no longer, but, opening the letter, commenced its perusal.

The first paragraph, as the reader will remember, ran thus:--

“Pardon a stranger who dares to address you, beautiful Miss Vernon, in a strain that might give you offence, were he not sincere in his language and honourable in his intentions:--pardon me, I implore you--and refuse not to read those few lines to the end! He who thus writes is the individual that you have observed occasionally in the vicinity of your dwelling; and you will perceive by the signature to this letter that he is not a man without ostensible guarantees for his social position. That his character is unimpeachable he can proudly declare; and that he will not address to you, Miss Vernon, a single word which he will fear to repeat in your father’s presence, he solemnly declares.”

At first the maiden’s countenance wore an expression of profound astonishment when she found herself addressed by a person who avowed himself to be “a stranger,” and who proceeded to speak of sincerity of language and honourable intentions. What intentions, then, had he? This was the thought that flashed to her mind. In the next moment she discovered that the letter came from the gentleman whom she _had_ observed, on more occasions than one, in the neighbourhood of the cottage; and now it struck her, as if with a ray of light darting into her soul, that he must have had some object, beyond that of a mere lounge, in so frequently loitering about the precincts of the garden. Something--a something that was nevertheless incomprehensible--told her that she ought to read no more; but at that instant the concluding words of the paragraph above quoted met her eyes--and she murmured to herself, “There can be no harm in perusing the words that he would speak to me in my father’s presence.”

She accordingly read on, until she came to the termination of the next paragraph:--

“Let me, however, speak of myself in the first person again: let me assure you that your beauty has captivated my heart--and that, if any thing were wanting to render me your slave, the description which the bearer of this letter has given me of your amiable qualities, would be more than sufficient. I am rich--and therefore I have no selfish motive in addressing you, even if you be rich also: but I would rather that it were otherwise with you, so that my present proceeding may appear to you the more disinterested. Had I any means of obtaining an introduction to you, beautiful Miss Vernon, I should not have adopted a measure that gives me pain because I tremble lest it should wound or offend you. But mine is an honest--a sincere--and a devoted attachment; and I shall be happy indeed if you will permit me to open a correspondence with your father on the subject. Were he to honour me with a visit, I should be proud to receive him. But if, in the meantime, you seek to know more of me--if I might venture to solicit you to accord me an interview of only a few minutes, you cannot divine how fervently I should thank you--how delighted I should feel! Let this interview take place in the presence of Mrs. Mortimer, if you will: I have nothing to communicate to you that I should hesitate to say before your father or your friends. Oh! how can I convince you of my sincerity?--how can I testify my devotion?--how can I prove the extent of my love?”

While she perused this portion of the letter, the following thoughts and ideas ran rapidly through her mind:--

“My beauty has captivated his heart----Oh! then he believes me to be beautiful! Mrs. Mortimer has spoken well of me to him: in this case, she cannot be a bad woman, and she cannot mean me any harm. Assuredly my dear papa was wrong to suspect her. He has no selfish motive in addressing me--even if I be rich: then, whatever his intentions be, they must be honourable, as he says--because all wickedness is undertaken for the sake of gold. He is afraid of offending me. Oh! how can I be offended with one who addresses me in such a respectful manner, and who seems to fear that the simple fact of thus writing to me will excite my anger? ‘_A sincere and a devoted attachment!_’ Ah! such was the attachment that Rebecca entertained for Wilfrid, and that Wilfrid experienced for Rowena;--and now I perceive something different between _their_ attachment and that which the Templar harboured towards the beautiful Jewess. He wishes to see my father--he wishes to obtain an interview with me!”--And the maiden’s heart began to palpitate, she knew not why: but at this moment it struck her that the writer of the letter was of agreeable person, and that he must be what the author of “Ivanhoe” would have denominated _handsome_. With a gradually increasing fluttering in her bosom, the artless maiden read on--until she suddenly found the paragraph close with the mystic name of _love_!

Then a gentle flush appeared upon her damask cheek; and a veil rapidly fell from her eyes. She now comprehended how it was possible for Rebecca to be attached to Wilfrid of Ivanhoe:--Agnes had already learnt by heart the alphabet of love! At the same time, her soul retained all its chaste purity, though it lost a trifle of its girlish artlessness:--love began to be comprehensible to her as a refined and poetic sentiment--and not as a less divine passion or earthly sensuousness. A dreamy and unknown joy was stealing into her bosom--as if she had just been blessed with a glimpse of the realms of ethereal bliss;--and, under the influence of these feelings, she read the letter on to its close:--

“I beseech you to reflect, Miss Vernon, that my happiness depends upon your reply. Am I guilty of an indiscretion in loving you? Love is a passion beyond mortal control! He who knows no other deity, deserves not blame for worshipping the sun, because it is glorious and bright; and my heart, which knows no other idol, adores you, because you are beautiful and good. Treat not my conduct, then, with anger: let not your pride be offended by the proceeding which I have adopted in order to make my sentiments known to you;--and scorn not the honest--the pure--the ardent affection which an honourable man dares to proffer you. I do not merit punishment because I love you;--and your silence would prove a punishment severe and undeserved indeed! Again, I conjure you to remember that the happiness of a fellow-creature depends upon you: your decision will either inspire me with the most joyous hope, or plunge me into the deepest despair. At the same time, beauteous Agnes,--(the words--those delightful words, ‘_beauteous Agnes_,’ are written now, and I cannot--will not erase them)--at the same time, I say, if your affections be already engaged--if a mortal more blest than myself have received the promise of your hand, accept the assurance, sweet maiden, that never more shall you be molested by me--never again will I intrude myself upon your attention. For with my love is united the most profound respect; and not for worlds would I do aught to excite an angry feeling in your soul.

“Your ardent admirer and devoted friend, “WILLIAM TREVELYAN.”

While she perused this last paragraph in the letter, Agnes more than once felt an involuntary sigh stealing from her bosom--as if it were called up by a strain of music familiar to her childhood, and reviving many pleasing reflections.

The last portion of the letter became clearly intelligible to her, in consequence of the suggestive incidents which she had been reading in Scott’s novel. For would not Rebecca have received Wilfrid’s hand, had his love not been already plighted to Rowena? It was evident, then, that William Trevelyan sought her--yes, _her_--Agnes Vernon--as his wife; and that he feared lest she should be engaged to wed another! Oh! now she comprehended the full intent--the full meaning of that letter which he had addressed to her: she perceived that he loved her--that he had loitered about the cottage in order to behold her--that he wrote to her, because he feared to offend by accosting her--and that he dreaded no refusal on the part of her father, provided that she was not already pledged to become the wife of another suitor!

“You have read the letter, my child?” asked the old woman, who, even through the verdant foliage of the hedge, had watched every change in the expression of the maiden’s countenance, and had thereby obtained a complete insight into what was passing in her mind.

“Yes, madam,” murmured Agnes, in a tone that was scarcely audible--for she now felt embarrassed, bashful, and timid, she knew not wherefore.

“And you are not offended with Lord William Trevelyan----”

“Lord William Trevelyan!” exclaimed the beauteous girl, now seized with surprise: “is he indeed a nobleman? Oh! I am sorry for that!” she added, giving vent in her artlessness to an expression which confirmed the old woman’s already existing suspicion that her employer was by no means indifferent to the Recluse of the Cottage.

“You are sorry that he is a nobleman, my sweet child?” said Mrs. Mortimer. “Are you afraid that he is too proud to make a humble maiden his wife?”

Agnes blushed deeply, and remained silent.

“Fear nothing on that head,” continued the old woman. “He is no deceiver: his intentions are honourable. And now tell me frankly and candidly--has his letter displeased you?”

“I should be deceiving you were I to answer in the affirmative,” responded Agnes; “and yet I feel--at least, it seems as if I feel that I ought to be displeased, although I cannot in truth declare that I am. But I will send this letter to my dear father, who is in Paris----”

“Ah! Mr. Vernon is in France,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, delighted to find the way thus cleared for the furtherance of the projects which she had in hand; for she was resolved to make herself particularly useful to Lord William in his suit with the beautiful Agnes, so that her claims upon him might be all the more considerable. “However, my dear child,” she continued, “you would do well not to trouble your father at present, since he is doubtless engaged in particular business on the Continent----”

“Oh! my father will be delighted to find that I communicate to him everything that occurs,” interrupted Agnes; “and since Lord William Trevelyan so especially alludes to my dear parent in his letter----”

“Miss Vernon--Miss Vernon,” exclaimed the old woman, impatiently, “this is a matter of so much delicacy, that I must implore you to be guided by me----”

“Would you counsel me not to forward this letter to my father?” asked the maiden, in a tone so low and tremulous that it afforded no aid to the reading of the thoughts that dictated the question.

“Such is the advice that I should assuredly give you, my dear child--at least for the present,” was the response.

“And do you think,” continued Agnes, in a tone still lower and still more tremulous than before,--“do you think that Lord William Trevelyan would proffer me the same counsel?”

“I have no doubt of it, sweet maiden,” hastily replied Mrs. Mortimer. “For _his_ sake--for _your_ sake it were best that none save myself should become acquainted with the secret of your love----”

“Oh! madam,” exclaimed Agnes, in a voice of touching remonstrance and pathetic reproach, “if this love of which you speak be a feeling that must alienate me from the sympathies of my father, and compel me to cherish a secret that I dare not impart to him, I can have no hope that happiness will be the result! Farewell, madam; restore the letter to him who honoured me by addressing me in those terms that for an instant dazzled and bewildered me--and tell him that it were better for him to think no more of Agnes Vernon!”

Having thus spoken, the maiden tossed the letter hastily, but not insultingly, over the hedge, and hurried away towards the cottage.

Mrs. Mortimer was for a few minutes stupified by this decisive and most unexpected proceeding. She had imagined that Agnes had become a complete dupe to the specious arguments she had used to ensnare her; and she was astounded to find that fair creature, so innocent and artless asserting an energy of volition which was inspired by the purest sentiments of rectitude, and which dominated over the nascent feelings of affection evidently engendered in her bosom by the suit of Lord William Trevelyan.

The old woman knew not how to act. She perceived that it was useless to endeavour to obtain another interview with Agnes--at least on the present occasion; and she was unwilling to return to her employer with the acknowledgment that her policy had rather marred than forwarded his interests. She therefore now began to reflect whether it were not better to abandon the business altogether, and return to Paris, where her daughter’s affairs might afford scope for her intriguing qualifications and likewise augment her pecuniary resources. She was already possessed of between five and six thousand pounds--the amount wrung from the hands of her miserable husband; and she came to the conclusion that it was scarcely worth her while to waste any more time in a matter which, even were she successful, would only bring her a recompense of a few hundreds.

Having made these hasty reflections, Mrs. Mortimer thrust Trevelyan’s letter into her reticule,--for she never destroyed documents that related to private affairs; and, returning to the hackney-coach, desired to be driven to the Borough.

She alighted in Blackman Street, and, having dismissed the vehicle, repaired to the coffee-house where she had taken up her abode.

As she was passing by the bar-parlour, in order to reach the staircase leading to her own chamber, the mistress of the establishment came forth and beckoned her into the room: then, closing the door, the woman said, in a tone savouring somewhat of cool insolence, “I tell you what it is, Mrs. Mortimer--the sooner you accommodate yourself with other lodgings, the better: ’cos, though I ain’t over partickler and makes no imperent inquiries about them as paytronises my house--yet, for all that, I can’t abide such wisitors as come on your account just now. Leastways, I’d rayther be vithout ’em.”

“My good woman!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, surveying the landlady with an astonishment the most real and unfeigned, “you must be labouring under some mistake. I hope that I’m a respectable person; and I am sure that I shall bring no discredit on your house. As for any visitors who have called on my account, I expect none--and therefore there is an error in the matter.”

“No such a thing!” cried the landlady, her choler rising. “There was two men which come just now: and, what’s more, they was officers with a search-warrant--and I couldn’t perwent them from doing their dooty.”

“Officers!--a search-warrant!” ejaculated Mrs. Mortimer, now becoming frightened--although she could not conceive what feature of her recent conduct could have excited any suspicion on the part of the myrmidons of justice:--but suddenly a fear of an appalling nature seized upon her--for her money was all concealed in her chamber up-stairs. “Oh! it’s wery well on your part, ma’am, to put a good face on the bisness,” said the landlady: “but it’s nevertheless true for all that. A great tall hulking feller and a seedy-looking old man----”

“An old man!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, now becoming sick at heart.

“Yes--an old man,” proceeded the coffee-house-keeper’s wife; “and he said he was a officer with a search-warrant, and that t’other was his assistant----”

“’Tis a trick--a vile trick! I see it all--I understand it now!” cried the wretched Mrs. Mortimer, staggering towards a chair and gasping for breath:--but in a few moments she seemed to be endowed with a sudden energy, and, bursting from the room, she rushed up-stairs to her own chamber--the landlady, who was a stout and therefore less active woman, following as quickly as she could.

Mrs. Mortimer entered her room, and darted towards her trunk. The lid resisted not her attempt to raise it--for the lock had been forced. She plunged her hand amidst the clothes that the box contained, and felt for _something_ underneath:--but the object of her anxious--her desperate search, was not there;--and, with a groan as it were of mortal agony, she sank upon the floor.

The landlady, who entered the room at this moment, and who was not naturally a bad-hearted being, hastened to raise the miserable woman. She placed her on a chair, and tore off, rather than quietly removed, her bonnet and shawl: but Mrs. Mortimer’s jaw fell--her countenance was ghastly pale--she seemed to be dying.

On water being sprinkled on her face, she came to herself; and the landlady said, “What is the matter with you? I can’t understand the meaning of all this.”

“I have been robbed--foully robbed,” returned Mrs. Mortimer, in a hoarse and hollow tone: but she did not reflect that, no matter how her husband had obtained his money, she had played the part of a foul robber or extortioner towards _him_.

“Robbed!--what do you mean?” cried the landlady. “Wasn’t them real officers as come just now?”

“No--a thousand times _no_,” ejaculated the old woman, growing infuriate as her energies revived. “It was a base plot--a vile design:--but I will be avenged--terribly avenged! He must have found someone to advise him--some one to assist him in all this! They watched me--they marked when I went out--and, under pretence of being officers, they succeeded in searching my box--and, what is worse,” she added, with a demoniac contortion of the countenance,--“they succeeded in robbing me!”

“Was it the old man who did this?” asked the landlady.

“Yes: that ancient villain, with the pale face,” was the reply. “But tell me--was not his countenance pale and wrinkled?--and did he not seem nervously excited while speaking to you?”

“Just so,” answered the landlady.

“Ah! I thought that I was not mistaken!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone that indicated a concentration of the most ferocious rage and diabolical hate in her savage breast. “But leave me now--I must be alone for a short time--I must ponder upon all this, and determine how to act. I am not altogether without friends--nor yet without resources.”

“Well, ma’am,” said the landlady, “I hope you won’t think no more of what I told you just now--I mean, about leaving the place. Since those fellers wasn’t officers, and you ain’t a suspicious person, I’m sure I don’t want to get rid of you.”

“I shall not leave you quite yet, my good woman,” responded Mrs. Mortimer; “and I am not angry on account of what you said just now. But pray let me be alone for the present.”

The landlady withdrew in obedience to this request; and Mrs. Mortimer sate down upon the bed to ruminate on the misfortune that had produced so sudden and deplorable a change in her position.

Scarcely, however, had she brought her mind to reflect with some degree of calmness on the situation of her affairs, when she heard heavy and hasty footsteps ascending the staircase.

Dreading lest some new calamity were about to overtake her, she started to her feet in trepidation and nervous excitement: nor was she reassured when the door was unceremoniously opened, and a man of most repulsive appearance bounced into the chamber.