There was the identical being whom four years and five months before, they had hurled down the trap-door of the old house in Chick Lane:—and who, that had ever met that fate as yet, had survived to tell the tale?
For an instant the entire frame of the murderer was convulsed with alarm: the apparition before him—the vision of his assassinated wife—and the reminiscences of other deeds of the darkest dye, came upon him with the force of a whirlwind. For an instant, we say, was he convulsed with alarm;—in another moment he yielded to his fears, and, profiting by his companion’s example, disappeared like an arrow through the window.
Amongst persons engaged in criminal pursuits, a panic-terror is very catching. The Cracksman—formidable and daring as he was—suddenly experienced an unknown and vague fear, when he perceived the horror and unassumed alarm which had taken possession of his comrades. He loosened his grasp upon his intended victim: Walter made a last desperate effort, and released himself from the burglar’s power.
“Approach me, and I will blow your brains out,” cried Montague, pointing his pistol at the Cracksman.
Scarcely were these words uttered, when the burglar darted forward, dashed the lamp from the hands of Montague, and effected his escape by the window.
Montague rushed to the casement, and snapped the pistol after him: the weapon only flashed in the pan.
Montague closed the window and fastened the shutters. He then called Walter by name; and, receiving no answer, groped his way in the dark towards the door.
His feet encountered an obstacle upon the carpet: he stooped down and felt with his hands;—Walter Sydney had fainted.
Scarcely two minutes had elapsed since Montague had entered the room; for the confusion and flight of the burglars had not occupied near so much time to enact as to describe. The entire scene had moreover passed without any noise calculated to disturb the household.
There were consequently no servants at hand to afford Walter the succour which he required.
For a moment Montague hesitated what course to pursue; but, after one instant’s reflection, he took her in his arms, and carried her up into her own enchanting and delicious boudoir.
CHAPTER XXI.
ATROCITY.
GEORGE MONTAGUE placed his precious burden upon the bed, and for a moment contemplated her pale but beautiful countenance with mingled feelings of admiration, interest, and desire. The lips were apart, and two rows of pearl glittered beneath. The luxuriant light chesnut hair rolled over his arm, on which he still supported that head of perfect loveliness: his hand thus played with those silken, shining tresses.
Still she remained motionless—lifeless.
Gently withdrawing his arm, Montague hastened to sprinkle her countenance with water. The colour returned faintly, very faintly to her cheeks; and her lips moved gently; but she opened not her eyes.
For a moment he thought of summoning Louisa to her assistance; then, obedient to a second impulse, he hastily loosened the hooks of her semi-military frock-coat.
Scarcely had his hand thus invaded the treasures of her bosom, when she moved, and unclosed the lids of her large melting hazel-eyes.
“Where am I?” she exclaimed, instinctively closing her coat over her breast.
“Fear not, dearest,” whispered Montague; “it is I—I who love you.”
The scene with the burglars instantly flashed to the mind of the lady; and she cried in a tone rendered tremulous by fear—“And those horrible men—are they all three gone?”
“They are gone—and you are safe.”
“Oh! you will pardon me this weakness,” continued Walter, hastily moving from the bed to a chair; “but two of those villains—I recognised them but too well—were the men who threw me down the trap-door in the old house near Smithfield.”
“Hence their alarm—their panic, when they saw you,” exclaimed Montague: “they fancied that they beheld a spirit instead of a reality. This accounts for their sudden and precipitate flight, till this moment unaccountable to me.”
“And you, George,” said the lady, glancing tenderly towards the young man—“you are my saviour from a horrible death! Another moment, and it would have been too late—they were going to murder me! Oh! how can I sufficiently express my gratitude.”
She tendered him her hand, which he pressed rapturously to his lips;—and she did not withdraw it.
“I heard a noise of a shutter closing violently, and of a pane of glass breaking,” said Montague: “I started from my bed and listened. In a few moments afterwards I heard footsteps on the stairs——”
“Those were mine, as I descended,” interrupted Walter; “for I was alarmed by the same disturbance.”
“And, then, while I was hastily slipping on my clothes,” added Montague, “I heard a scream. Not another moment did I wait; but——”
“You came in time, I repeat, to save my life. Never—never shall I sufficiently repay you.”
Again did Montague press the fair hand of that enchanting woman to his lips; and then, as he leant over her, their eyes met, and they exchanged glances of love—her’s pure and chaste, his ardent and brimful of desire. He was maddened—he was emboldened by those innocent tokens of affection upon her part; and, throwing his arms around her, he imprinted hot and burning kisses upon her lips.
With difficulty did she disengage herself from his embrace; and she cast upon him a look of reproach mingled with melancholy.
“Pardon me, dearest one,” he exclaimed, seizing her hand once more and pressing it to his lips, “is it a crime to love you so tenderly—so well?”
“No, George—no: you are my saviour—you soon will be my husband—you need not ask for my forgiveness. But now leave me—retire to your own room as noiselessly as you can; and to-morrow—to-morrow,” she added with a blush, “it is not necessary that Louisa should know that you were here.”
“I understand you, dearest,” returned Montague; “your wishes shall ever be my commands. Good night, beloved one!”
“Good night, dear George,” said the lady;—and in another moment she was again alone in the boudoir.
Montague returned to his apartment, full of the bliss which he had derived from the caresses enjoyed in a chamber that seemed sacred to mystery and love. He paced his own room with hasty and agitated steps: his brain was on fire.
His own loose ideas of morality induced him to put but little faith in the reality of female virtue. He moreover persuaded himself that the principles of rectitude—supposing that they had ever existed—in the bosom of the enchanting creature he had just left, had been undermined or destroyed by the cheat which she was practising with regard to her sex. And, lastly, he fancied that her affections were too firmly rivetted in him to refuse him anything.
Miserable wretch! he was blinded by his own mad desires. He knew not that woman’s virtue is as real, as pure, and as precious as the diamond; he remembered not that the object of his licentious passion was innocent of aught criminal in the disguise which she had assumed;—he reflected not that the caresses which she had ere now permitted him to snatch, were those which the most spotless virgin may honourably award to her lover.
He paced his room in a frenzied manner—allowing his imagination to picture scenes and enjoyments of the most voluptuous kind. By degrees his passion became ungovernable: he was no longer the cool, calculating man he hitherto had been;—a new chord appeared to have been touched in his heart.
At that moment he would have signed a bond, yielding up all hopes of eternal salvation to the Evil One, for a single hour of love in the arms of that woman whom he had left in the boudoir!
His passion had become a delirium:—he would have plunged into the crater of Vesuvius, or throw himself from the ridge of the Alpine mountain into the boiling torrent beneath, had she
gone before him.
An hour thus passed away, and he attempted not to subdue his feelings: he rather encouraged their wild and wayward course by recalling to his imagination the charms of her whose beauty had thus strangely affected him,—the endearing words which she had uttered,—the thrilling effect of the delicious kiss he had received from her moist vermilion lips,—and the voluptuous contours of that snowy bosom which had been for a moment revealed to his eyes.
An hour passed: he opened the door of his chamber and listened.
A dead silence prevailed throughout the house.
He stole softly along the passage and through the anteroom which led to the boudoir.
When he reached the door of that chamber he paused for a moment. What was he about to do? He waited not to answer the question, nor to reason within himself: he only chose to remember that a thin partition was all that separated him from one of the most beauteous creatures upon whom the sun ever shone in this world.
His fingers grasped the handle of the door: he turned it gently;—the door was not locked!
He entered the boudoir as noiselessly as a spectre. The lamp was extinguished; but the fire still burnt in the grate; and its flickering light played tremulously on the various objects around, bathing in a rich red glare the downy bed whereon reposed the heroine of the villa.
The atmosphere was warm and perfumed.
The head of the sleeper was supported upon one naked arm, which was round, polished, and of exquisite whiteness. The other lay outside the clothes, upon the coverlid. Her long hair flowed in undulations upon the snowy pillows. The fire shone with Rembrandt effect upon her countenance, one side of which was completely irradiated, while the other caught not its mellow light. Thus the perfect regularity of the profile was fully revealed to him who now dared to intrude upon those sacred slumbers.
“She shall be mine! she shall be mine!” murmured Montague; and he advanced toward the bed.
At that moment—whether aroused by a dream, or startled by the almost noiseless tread of feet upon the carpet, we cannot say—the lady awoke.
She opened her large hazel eyes; and they fell upon a figure to whom her imagination, thus suddenly surprised, and the flickering light of the fire, gave a giant stature.
Her fears in one respect were, however, immediately relieved; for the voice of Montague fell upon her ears almost as soon as her eyes caught sight of him.
“Pardon—pardon, dearest one!” he said in a hurried and subdued tone.
“Ah! is it so?” quickly ejaculated the lady, who in a moment comprehended how her privacy had been outraged; and passing her arm beneath the pillow, she drew forth a long, sharp, shining dagger.
Montague started back in dismay.
“Villain, that you are—approach this bed, and, without a moment’s hesitation, I will plunge this dagger into your heart!”
“Oh! forgive me—forgive me!” ejaculated the young man, cruelly embarassed. “Dazzled by your beauty—driven mad by your caresses—intoxicated, blinded with passion—I could not command myself—I had no power over my actions.”
“Attempt no apology!” said the lady, with a calm and tranquil bitterness of accent that showed how profoundly she felt the outrage—the atrocity,—that he, whom she loved so tenderly, had dared to meditate against her: “attempt no apology—but leave this room without an instant’s delay, and without another word. Within my reach is a bell-rope—one touch of my finger and I can call my servants to my assistance. Save me that exposure—save yourself that disgrace. To-morrow I will tell you my opinion of your conduct.”
There was something so determined—so cool—so resolute in the manner and the matter of this address, that Montague felt abashed—humbled—beaten down to the very dust. Even his grovelling soul at that moment comprehended the Roman mind of the woman whom he would have disgraced: a coward when burglars menaced her life, she was suddenly endowed with lion-daring in defence of her virtue.
The crest-fallen young man again attempted to palliate his intrusion: with superb scorn she waved her hand imperiously, as a signal to leave the room.
Tears of vexation, shame, and rage, started into his eyes, as he obeyed that silent mandate which he now dared no longer to dispute.
The moment the wretch had left the boudoir, the lady sprang from the bed and double-locked the door.
She then returned to her couch, buried her head in the pillow, and burst into an agony of tears.
CHAPTER XXII.
A WOMAN’S MIND.
WHEN Louisa entered the boudoir on the morning which succeeded this eventful night, nothing in Walter’s countenance denoted the painful emotions that filled her bosom. She narrated the particulars of the burglarious entry of the dwelling, and Montague’s opportune arrival upon the scene of action, with a calmness which surprised her faithful attendant. The truth was, that the attempt of the robbers upon the house, and even the danger in which her own life had been placed, had dwindled, in her own estimation, into events of secondary importance, when compared with that one atrocity which had suddenly wrecked all her hopes of love and happiness for ever.
The usual mysterious toilet was speedily performed; and, with a firm step and a countenance expressive of a stern decision, she descended to the breakfast-parlour.
Montague was already there—pale, haggard, abashed, and trembling. He knew that the chance of possessing a lovely woman and ten thousand pounds was then at stake; and, in addition to the perilous predicament of his nearest and dearest hopes, his position was embarrassing and unpleasant in the extreme. Had he succeeded in his base attempt, he would have been a victor flushed with conquest, and prepared to dictate terms to a woman entirely at his mercy:—but he had been foiled, and he himself was the dejected and baffled being who would be compelled to crave for pardon.
As Louisa entered the room close upon the heels of Walter, the latter greeted George Montague with a most affable morning’s welcome, and conversed with him in a manner which seemed to say that she had totally forgotten the occurrence of the night.
But the moment that Louisa had completed the arrangements of the breakfast table, and had left the room, Walter’s tone and manner underwent an entire and sudden change.
“You must not think, sir,” she said, while a proud smile of scorn and bitterness curled her lips, “that I have this morning tasted of the waters of oblivion. To save you, rather than myself, the shame of being exposed in the presence of my servant, I assumed that friendly and familiar air which appears to have deceived you.”
“What! then you have not forgiven me?” exclaimed Montague, profoundly surprised.
“Forgive you!” repeated the lady, almost indignantly: “do you suppose that I think so little of myself, or would give you such scope to think so little of me, as to pass by in silence a crime which was atrocious in a hundred ways? I loved you sincerely—tenderly—oh! God only knows how I loved you; and you would have taken advantage of my sincere and heartfelt affection. The dream in which I had indulged is now dispelled; the vision is over; the illusion is dissipated. Never would I accompany to the altar a man whom I could not esteem; and I can no longer esteem you. Then again, I offered you the hospitality of my abode; and that sacred rite you would have infamously violated. I cannot, therefore, even retain you as a friend. In another sense, too, your conduct was odious. You saved my life—and for that I shall ever remember you with gratitude: but you nevertheless sought to avail yourself of that service as a means of robbing me of my honour. Oh! all this was abominable—detestable on your part; and what is the result? My love can never avail you now; I will crush it—extinguish it in my bosom first. My friendship cannot be awarded; my gratitude alone remains. That shall accompany you; for we must now separate—and for ever.”
“Separate—and for ever!” ejaculated Montague, who had listened
with deep interest and various conflicting emotions to this strange address: “no—you cannot mean it? you will not be thus relentless?”
“Mr. Montague,” returned the lady, with great apparent coolness—though in reality she was inflicting excruciating tortures upon her own heart; “no power on earth can alter my resolves. We shall part—here—now—and for ever; and may happiness and prosperity attend you.”
“But Mr. Stephens?” cried Montague: “what can you say to him? what will he think?”
“He shall never know the truth from me,” answered Walter solemnly.
“This is absurd!” ejaculated Montague, in despair at the imminent ruin of all his hopes. “Will not my humblest apology—my sincerest excuses—my future conduct,—will nothing atone for one false step, committed under the influence of generous wines and of a passion which obtained a complete mastery over me? will nothing move your forgiveness?”
“Nothing,” answered Walter, with unvaried coolness and determination. “Were I a young girl of sixteen or seventeen, it might be different: then I might be deceived by your sophistry. Now, it is impossible! I am five and twenty years old; and circumstances,” she added, glancing over her male attire, “have also tended to augment my experience in the sinuosities of human designs and the phases of the human heart.”
“Yes—you are twenty-five, it is true,” cried Montague; “but that age has not robbed your charms of any of the grace and freshness of youth. Oh! then let your mind be cautious how it adopts the severe notions of riper years!”
“I thank you for the compliment which you pay me,” said Walter, satirically; “and I can assure you that it does not prove a welcome preface to the argument which you would found upon it. Old or young—experienced or ignorant in the ways of the world—a woman were a fool to marry where she could not entertain respect for her husband. I may be wrong: but this is my conviction;—and upon it will I act.”
The Mysteries of London Volume 1 Page 19
