CHAPTER CLXXIV.

A NIGHT OF TERRORS.

The two ladies hastened to console--or, speaking with greater accuracy, endeavoured to console the weeping girl. But, although she knew how friendly disposed they were towards her--although she felt the full extent of their kindness, and even reproached herself with her inability to yield to its soothing influence,--yet it seemed as if the departure of her mother had left her more alone in the world than ever she was before.

“Dry those tears, my sweet Agnes,” said the elder Miss Theobald, pressing the maiden’s delicate white hand with cordiality and tenderness.

“Oh! do not give way to a sorrow for which you have no real cause,” urged the younger of the two ladies. “A few hours will soon pass, my dear child, and your fond parent will return.”

But Agnes, though acknowledging by her gestures the kindness of the sisters, could not subdue her grief; and her sobbing became more convulsive.

For a tide of conflicting and painful reflections rushed in upon her soul. She remembered all her father’s goodness towards her--the strong injunctions he had given her not to hold intercourse with any one who was not the bearer of a letter from him--and the grief that he would experience when he heard of her departure. She thought, likewise, of the terror and dismay which must even already reign at the cottage on account of her mysterious absence: she beheld, in imagination, the excellent-hearted Mrs. Gifford and the good-natured Jane inconsolable at her loss;--and, apart from all these ideas, she now felt certain misgivings arise in her bosom relative to the step she had taken. Vainly did she endeavour to persuade herself that, acting by the counsel and in obedience to the prayers of her mother, she could not have done wrong: a secret voice appeared to reproach her--an unknown tongue seemed to whisper ominous things in her ears. Terror gained upon her; and, under its influence, her grief became less violent. But her thoughts grew confused--there was a hurry in her brain: she felt as if she had just awakened from a wild and painful dream, and was still unable to collect her scattered ideas;--and still amidst that confusion, flashed, with vivid brightness to her memory, the warning which her sire had so emphatically given to her respecting the snares that were set by the wicked to entrap the artless and the innocent. At length, overcome by the terror which thus rapidly acquired a complete empire over her soul, and forgetting all that was re-assuring and consolatory in her present petition, Agnes Vernon fell upon her knees before the two amazed ladies, exclaiming, as she extended her clasped hands wildly towards them, “Take me home again to my cottage--take me home again, I implore you!”

“My dearest child,” said the elder Miss Theobald, accompanying her soothing words with the tenderest caresses; “what do you fear?--wherefore do you wish to leave us? Are we not your mother’s friends?--and can you not persuade yourself to look upon us in the same light?”

“Oh! yes, madam--I know--I feel that you are my friend--that you wish me well!” cried Agnes, her apprehensions dissipating, but only to allow scope for her anguish to burst forth again.

“Why, then, do you thus give way to your grief?” asked Miss Theobald, raising the young maiden gently, and as gently leading her to a seat.

“I cannot explain my sensations,” sobbed the poor girl: “and yet I feel very--very unhappy.”

“You have doubtless been much excited this evening, my love,” was the reply: “but a good night’s rest will tranquillise you. And remember--you are beneath a friendly roof, and where harm cannot reach you.”

“But I tremble lest I have done wrong, madam,” exclaimed Agnes. “How is it that my father ordains one thing, and my mother counsels another? Oh! I am bewildered with misgivings--I know not what to think, nor how to act?”

“Are you not pleased at having at length embraced a mother?” said the younger Miss Theobald, in a tone of gentle reproach.

“Yes--oh! yes!” ejaculated Agnes, fervently: then, in a mournful voice, she observed, “But I have fled--surreptitiously fled from the home provided for me by a fond and trusting father!”

The two ladies fully comprehended the nature of the conflicting thoughts that were agitating in the breast of Agnes Vernon; and they exchanged rapid glances of mingled sorrow and apprehension. They saw that on one side was a suddenly awakened and ardent love for a mother; and that on the other was a sense of the deference and obedience, as well as of the gratitude, due to an affectionate father. They were, therefore, filled with regret that family circumstances should have placed that pure, artless, and innocent girl in a position which compelled her to balance between the two; and, although they would have moved heaven and earth to induce her to decide in favour of the maternal parent, they recognised the difficulty of the task, and entertained the deepest alarm for its results.

“To-morrow evening, long before this hour, my dear Agnes,” said the elder of the ladies, “you will be comfortably settled in your new home. The villa which your mother intends to inhabit at Bayswater, belongs to my sister and myself. It is a neat little dwelling--neither too much secluded, nor too near to the neighbouring houses; and a large, well-cultivated, and delightful garden is attached to it. Then, my dear child, reflect--remember, that you will possess a constant, a devoted, and a loving companion in your mother: you will no longer pass many, many hours--indeed, the greater portion of your time--in solitude and loneliness, nor be thrown upon the incompatible society of servants, who, however good in heart and well-intentioned, are not such associates as you would select of your own free will.”

“Ah! madam--your words console me,” said Agnes, endeavouring to stifle her sobs. “But how happens it that you should be acquainted with my late mode of life?”

“I did but guess what that mode of life must have been,” returned Miss Theobald; “and I see that I was not far wrong. I knew that your father did not--could not dwell with you entirely--that he could only be a visitor at your place of abode, wherever it might be--and, therefore, I naturally conjectured that you were thrown almost completely upon your own resources.”

“And can you tell me, madam,” asked Miss Vernon, ingenuously, as the thought suddenly struck her,--“can you tell me how it is that my father should wish me to dwell under his guardianship only, and my mother wishes me to rely solely upon her? Or, indeed,” she added, after a few moments’ pause, “I should rather inquire the reason which prevents my parents from living together beneath the same roof, and having me with them? for, according to all the books I have ever read----”

“Ah! my dear Agnes,” interrupted the elder sister, “you would not seek to penetrate into those mysteries which so unhappily belong to the destinies of your parents?”

“Oh! no--no--if it be improper for a child to ask an explanation of such secrets!” exclaimed Miss Vernon, the natural purity of her soul instantly absorbing the sentiment of curiosity that had prompted her queries. “And now let me implore your pardon for having testified so much excitement----”

“It was to be expected, dear child,” said Miss Theobald; “and you have no pardon to solicit. We are delighted to perceive that you have at length recovered some degree of calmness. Rest assured that you will be happy in the society of your mother, whom we have known for years--yes--many, many years, and whom we love as much as if she were a near relative. You will be surprised to learn, Agnes, that when you were a babe, we often fondled you in our arms. Yes: you may regard me with surprise--but it is nevertheless the fact, that my sister and myself have frequently--very frequently nursed and dandled you for hours together.”

“Oh! I was wrong to exhibit so much mistrust and want of confidence in you just now!” exclaimed Agnes, her affectionate soul being deeply touched by assurances so well calculated to move her, and which were indeed strictly consonant with truth.

“Think not of what has gone by, my dear child,” said the younger sister. “We make all possible allowances for the excited state of your mind; and we sincerely hope, as we believe, that happiness awaits you. But it is growing late; and you doubtless stand in need of refreshment ere you retire to rest.”

Then, without waiting for an answer, she rang the bell; and the servant was ordered to bring in the supper-tray. Agnes was in no humour to partake of the meal: indeed, she was in that state of mind when the individual rather loathes the idea of eating, through a total suspension of the appetite. But so delicate were the attentions of the kind-hearted sisters, and so persevering were they in their endeavours to render their guest as much “at home” as possible, that Agnes sate down with them to table; and, if she scarcely ate anything, yet her spirits revived somewhat from the sociable nature of the evening repast.

It was a little after eleven when the Misses Theobald conducted the young lady to the bedchamber which had been prepared for her reception; and, having embraced her affectionately, the good sisters left her, as they hoped, to the enjoyment of that repose of which they knew she must stand much in need.

The moment she found herself alone, the maiden felt unpleasant thoughts returning to her mind; and, in order to escape from them, if possible, she began to lay aside her apparel with unwonted haste. Everything necessary for her toilette had been provided; and the chamber, which was at the back of the house and on the second floor, was elegantly furnished--having an air of comfort that would have been duly appreciated by one in a more settled state of mind than was the amiable girl at the time. In a few minutes she retired to rest; and, contrary to her expectation, sleep soon fell upon her eye-lids--for she was worn out and exhausted by the exciting incidents of the day.

Her dreams were not, however, of a tranquillising description.

In the first place, she fancied that she was roving in her garden, and that she beheld Lord William Trevelyan approaching down the lane. In a few moments he stood by her side; though how he passed the verdant boundary was not quite clear to her. She did not retreat,--yet she felt that she ought to retire: but her feet were rivetted to the ground;--and when he took her hand, the same unknown and invisible influence which nailed her to the spot, forbade her to withdraw that hand which trembled in his own. Then she imagined that the young nobleman began to address her in a style similar to the contents of his letter: she cast down her eyes--she felt herself blushing--and, though she knew that she ought to retreat, she nevertheless listened with emotions of pleasure never experienced before. He pressed her to be allowed to visit her again; and she was raising her eyes bashfully towards his countenance, to read his sincerity in his looks, ere she murmured the affirmative reply that already trembled upon her tongue, when she was suddenly shocked to perceive a marvellous and signal change taking place in him. His face grew wrinkled--the handsome features became distorted and frightful--his clothes took another appearance--and, as she gazed upon him in speechless wonder and alarm, she saw standing in his place a hideous old woman, whom she at length recognised as Mrs. Mortimer. Agnes strove to cry out--but could not: a spell was upon her lips;--and the harridan’s eyes glared upon her with savage malignity. The maiden felt herself sinking in terror to the ground--when the whole scene experienced a sudden variation; and she was now in the parlour of the cottage, with her father seated by her side.

Neither was this second dream of a tranquillising description.

Agnes fancied that her sire was angry with her--that he uttered reproaches for a disobedience of which she had been guilty. At first she could not comprehend the nature of the offence that had entailed upon her this vituperation, and rendered her father’s manner so unusually severe towards her--but at last it flashed to her mind that she had been incautious in receiving at the cottage evil-intentioned visitors;--and then she suddenly found her father engaged in a violent dispute with Mrs. Mortimer, whose countenance seemed more than ever hideous and revolting. How this dispute originated, or how Mrs. Mortimer had got into the room, Agnes knew not: there she however was--and the quarrel waxed warmer and warmer. At length the old woman took her departure: but ere the door closed behind her, she turned on Agnes a look of such fiend-like malignity, that a shriek would have expressed the young maiden’s affright, had not her lips been mysteriously sealed. When the harridan had disappeared, Mr. Vernon renewed his reproaches; and Agnes fancied that, on falling on her knees in the presence of her sire to demand pardon, he spurned her from him--upbraided her with her disobedience and ingratitude--and warned her, in a tone of solemnly prophetic meaning, that her readiness to repose confidence in strangers would bring down some terrible calamity on her head. She was about to promise never more to prove guilty of the disobedience which had elicited all these reproaches and produced all that unwonted harshness on her father’s part, when a third person appeared on the scene;--and this third person was her mother!

But this new dream which now visited the sleeping maiden, was not of a tranquillising description.

She fancied that an earnest appeal was now made to her on either side, placing her in the difficult and most distressing condition of a child who had to decide as to which of her parents she would cling to, and which abandon. Here was her father, reminding her of all he had done for her: there was her mother, proclaiming herself to be unhappy and to need the society and solace of her daughter. On her right hand stood the sire whom she had always known: on her left was the maternal parent whom she had never known before. The countenance of the former expressed misgivings amounting almost to despair: that of the latter was bathed in tears, and indicative of all the agonies of a cruel suspense. Agnes felt that her heart was rent by this scene; and yet it appeared to her that she was bound to decide, and that promptly, in one way or the other. She looked towards her father; and he held out his arms to receive her--his countenance assuming an expression so profoundly wretched that it seemed to say, “If I lose you, I lose all I love or care for on earth.” She turned towards her mother, in order to breathe a last farewell, for that she must accompany her father,--when she beheld her maternal parent on her knees, and extending her clasped hands imploringly, while the pale but beauteous face indicated that life or death was in the decision which was about to be pronounced. Agnes could not resist this earnest--silently eloquent appeal on the part of a mother who had proclaimed herself to be unhappy; and the maiden fancied that she threw herself into that mother’s arms. A cry of misery burst from her father’s lips; and Agnes awoke with a wild start,--awoke, to feel her entire frame quaking convulsively, and her heart palpitating with alarming violence.

For a few moments--nay, for nearly a minute, she lay stretched upon her back, endeavouring to compel her thoughts to settle themselves in their proper places, so that she might attain the assurance whether she had just beheld realities, or had only been the victim of distressing dreams;--and when she was enabled to arrive at the latter conclusion, she started up in her bed, exclaiming, “Nevertheless, this is more than I can endure!”

Then came the consciousness of where she was, and why she was there,--how she had fled from the home that her father had provided for her, and in spite of all his solemn injunctions and prudential warnings,--how her mother had left her in a strange place, and with persons who were strangers to her,--and how Mrs. Gifford would be certain to send to Paris without delay and communicate the afflicting tidings to Mr. Vernon.

The maiden’s brain reeled, as these thoughts flashed through it;--and at this moment, when her senses appeared to be leaving her, the clock of Christ Church, in the Blackfriars-road, proclaimed the hour of _one_!

The sound came booming--rolling--vibrating through the air, like a solemn warning: at least, so it seemed to the disordered fancy of Agnes Vernon;--and, with feelings worked up to an intolerable pitch, she leapt from her couch.

To obtain a light was an easy matter--for the necessary materials were at hand; and when the flame burst from the tip of the lucifer match, Agnes cast a hurried and affrighted glance around, as if she dreaded to meet some hideous countenance or horrible form in the chamber. Not that she was naturally timid: no--far from it;--her very innocence and purity rendered her courageous on ordinary occasions. But she was now under the influence of emotions powerfully wrung--of feelings strained to an unusual tension;--and she had no control over her imagination, which was disordered and excited.

One idea dominated all the rest. This was to escape from the house--to escape, at any hazard and at all risks. Not for worlds, she thought, could she return to that bed where such distressing visions had rent her soul;--and she could not pass the rest of the night alone, and in a strange place. No: she must return to the cottage--retrace her way to the home which her father had provided for her--and endeavour to reach that friendly threshold in time to prevent Mrs. Gifford from transmitting to her sire the news of her disobedience.

But her mother! Oh! she should see that parent again--she would explain everything--and perhaps arrangements might be made to suit the views and accomplish the happiness of all! In the mean time, however, she must escape--she must return home,--she could not endure the idea of remaining another hour--no--nor even a minute longer than was necessary--in that stranger-dwelling!

With lightning speed did all these thoughts,--or rather glimpses of thoughts--for they were too brief, too fleetingly vivid, to deserve the name of reflections--pass through the maiden’s mind, as she threw on her apparel with a congenial haste; and in three minutes she was dressed. Her bonnet was in the parlour below: but that she could take on her way out of the house--or she cared not if she did not find it at all. She would escape in any case, and at all events; and if she could not find a vehicle to convey her home--she would walk, although she might have to ask her way at every step. For Agnes had worked herself up to a pitch of desperation: a fearful panic was upon her;--she knew not, neither did she pause to ask in her own soul, why she longed so ardently to fly from that house:--an irresistible and almost incomprehensible influence urged her on--and the hurry of her actions was in accordance with the hurry of her brain.

Her hair was flowing over her shoulders: she just waited a moment--a single moment, to fasten it up in a large knot behind; and then, taking the light in her hand, she stole noiselessly down the stairs.

A profound silence--a silence which her footsteps disturbed not--reigned throughout the house.

All, save the affrighted--half-maddened girl, slept.

She gained the hall--she endeavoured to enter the parlour to procure her bonnet: but the door was closed--and she now remembered that the elder Miss Theobald had taken the key with her when they had all quitted that room for the night.

But we have already said that Agnes cared not for the bonnet;--and without bestowing a second thought on the matter, she approached the front-door. Alas! there was a more serious disappointment still--the key of that door had likewise been taken up stairs.

An expression of bitter vexation passed over the pale countenance of the maiden--an expression more bitter than that beauteous countenance had ever before worn: but, in another instant, it was succeeded by something like a gleam of hope and joy,--for Agnes bethought her that there was a yard at the back of the house--she had seen it, in the moonlight, from her bed-room window--and there might be a means of egress in that direction.

Cautiously descending the stairs leading into the kitchens, which were below the level of the street, she hastened to the back-door, which, to her joy, proved only to be bolted.

Oh! now she would escape--she would escape, even if she were forced to climb a wall and enter the enclosure belonging to a neighbouring house: for, with the excitement occasioned by her present proceedings, the panic influence which urged her on acquired fresh power every moment.

Extinguishing the light, she left the candlestick in the house, and then emerged into the yard.

The fresh air, as it fanned her face, seemed to breathe whispering promises of freedom, and gave her renewed courage.

The moon was shining gloriously; and as she cast a glance of rapid survey around, she beheld the backs of the dilapidated houses the fronts of which had struck her with such sinister effect when she first entered Stamford Street, in the hackney-coach, in the evening.

There was no mode of egress from the yard save by scaling the boundary walls, which were low on either side.

Not an instant did Agnes hesitate: the fittings of a water-butt served as a ladder for her delicate feet;--and, behold! the sylph-like form of the maiden passes nimbly and lightly over the wall, into the yard belonging to the ruined house next door: for it strikes her that egress by means of an uninhabited building must be certain beyond all risk or doubt.

The moon-light streams, with silvery rays, upon the sombre walls--the dark window-frames, with the blackened fragments of glass remaining in them--the back-door hanging crazily and loosely on its hinges--and the rust-eaten bars of the back-kitchen window. The yard is overgrown with rank grass, reaching above the ankles; and the ground is ragged and uneven--the chances of tripping being moreover multiplied by the brick-bats and the broken bottles scattered about.

The ruined aspect of the house and the long-neglected condition of the yard, or small garden as it once was, behind the building, constituted a scene of desolation, and conveyed an impression of utter loneliness to the mind of the young lady that made her shrink back for a moment as she placed her hand on the rusty latch of the crazy door leading into the lower premises. And seemed she not the sprite of some maiden who had been foully dealt with in that gloomy, tomb-like place, and whose unquiet ghost came to haunt the scene where her blood had been ruthlessly spilt and her mortal remains lay concealed in unconsecrated ground? Yes--such she indeed appeared, with her ashy pale face--her white dress, rendered whiter still by the moonbeams that played upon it--and her long dark hair which, having become loosened in the act of scaling the wall, now flowed all wildly and dishevelled over her shoulders!

We said that she hesitated for a moment to push her way into the dark and ruined building, wrapped as it was in sepulchral silence: but the dominant influence which had hitherto impelled her, asserted its empire once again; and, thrusting open the door, which was by no means a difficult matter--she entered the dilapidated house.

A chill struck to her heart and a vague terror seized upon her, as she now plunged, as it were, out of the pure moonlight into the utter darkness of those premises: but, subduing her fears, she advanced a few paces, with her arms extended so as to grope for the stairs.

Her right hand encountered the bannisters, which were loose and crazy, and raised a rattling noise as she grasped them: no longer alarmed, however, but feeling that the means of escape were gained, she was about to ascend the steps, when a door suddenly opened immediately in front of her--a light appeared--and the rays of the candle thus abruptly thrust forth revealed a countenance so hideous--so monster-like, that for a few moments Agnes stood transfixed in speechless horror--stupified--paralysed--motionless as a marble statue.

And glaring with horror also, were the eyeballs whose rivetted looks met her own: then a loud, hoarse, and affrighted voice exclaimed, “The ghost! the ghost!”--and the light, dropping suddenly on the ground, was immediately extinguished.

A piercing shriek burst from the lips of Agnes; and she fell senseless at the foot of the stairs.