“Are you speaking as a man who would make a settlement upon a wife, or as one who is endeavouring to arrange terms with a mistress?” demanded Ellen.
“My sweet girl,” replied Reginald, “know you not that, throughout my career, I have from the pulpit denounced the practice of a man in holy orders marrying, and that I have more than once declared—solemnly declared—my intention of remaining single upon principle! You would not wish me to commit an inconsistency which might throw a suspicion upon my whole life?”
“Then, sir, by what right do you presume that I will compromise my fair fame for your sake, if you tremble to sacrifice your reputation for mine?” asked Ellen. “Is every compromise to be effected by poor woman, and shall man make no sacrifice for her? Are you vile, or base, or cowardly enough to ask me to desert home and friends to gratify your selfish passion, while you carefully shroud your weakness beneath the hypocritical cloak of reputed sanctity? Was it to hear such language as this that I agreed to meet you? But know, sir, that you have greatly—oh! greatly mistaken me! By the most unmanly—the most disgraceful means you endeavoured to wring from me, a few days ago, a secret which certain expressions of mine, incautiously uttered over what I conceived to be my father’s death-bed, had perhaps made you more than half suspect. Those words, which escaped me in a moment of bitter anguish, you treasured up, and converted them into the text for a sermon which you preached me.”
“Ellen,” murmured the rector; “why these reproaches?”
“Oh! why these reproaches?—I will tell you,” continued the young lady, whose bosom palpitated violently beneath the dualma. “Do you think that you did well to press me to reveal the secret of my shame? Do you think that you adopted an honourable means to discover it? When you addressed me in that saintly manner—a manner which I now know to have been that of a vile hypocrisy—I actually believed you to be sincere; for the time I fancied that a man of God was offering me consolation. Nevertheless, think you that my feelings were not wounded? But an accident made you acquainted with that truth which you vainly endeavoured to extort from me! And now you perhaps believe that I cannot read your heart. Oh! I can fathom its depths but too well. You cherish the idea that because I have been frail once, I am fair game for a licentious sportsman like you. You are wrong, sir—you are wrong. I never erred but once—but once, mark you;—and then not through passion—nor through love—nor in a moment of surprise. I erred deliberately—no matter why. The result was the child whom you have seen. But never, never will I err more—no, not even though tempted, as I have been, by the father of my child! You sent to me a messenger—the same filthy hag who pandered to my first, my only disgrace,—you sent her as your herald of love. Ah! sir, you must have already plunged into ways at variance with the sanctity of your character—or you could not have known her! I told her—as I now assure you—that I do not affect a virtue which I possess not;—but if I henceforth remain pure and chaste, it is because I am a mother—because I love my child—because I will keep myself worthy of the respect of him who is the father of that child, should God ever move his heart towards me. Say then that I am virtuous upon calculation—I care not: still I am virtuous!”
The individual in the garb of the Greek Bandit drew a pace or two nearer as these words met his ears.
Neither the rector nor Ellen observed that he was paying any attention to them: on the contrary, he appeared to be entirely occupied in contemplating the dancers from beneath his impervious mask.
“Ellen, what means all this?” asked Reginald: “are you angry with me? You alarm me!”
“Suffer me to proceed, that you may understand me fully,” said Ellen. “You mercilessly sought to cover me with humiliation, when you rudely probed that wound in my heart, the existence of which an unguarded expression of mine had revealed to you. Your conduct was base—was cowardly; and, as a woman, I eagerly embraced the opportunity to avenge myself.”
“To avenge yourself!” faltered Reginald, nearly sinking with terror as these words fell upon his ears.
“Yes—to avenge myself,” repeated Ellen hastily. “When your messenger—that vile agent of crime—proposed to me that I should grant you an interview, I bethought myself of this ball which I had seen announced in the newspapers. It struck me that if I could induce you—you, the man of sanctity—to clothe yourself in the mummery of a mask and meet me at a scene which you and your fellow-ecclesiastics denounce as one worthy of Satan, I should hurl back with tenfold effect that deep, deep humiliation which you visited upon me. It was for this that I made the appointment here to-night—for this that I retired early to my chamber, and thence stole forth unknown to my father and my benefactor—for this that I now form one at an assembly which has no charms for me! My intention was to seize an opportunity to tear your disguise from you, and allow all present to behold amongst them the immaculate rector of Saint David’s. But I will be more merciful to you than you were to me: I will not inflict upon you that last and most poignant humiliation!”
“My God! Miss Monroe, are you serious?” said the rector, deeply humbled; “or is this merely a portion of the pastime?”
“Does it seem sport to you?” asked Ellen: “if so, I will continue it, and wind it up with the scene which I had abandoned.”
“For heaven’s sake, do not expose me, Miss Monroe!” murmured Reginald, now writhing in agony at the turn which the matter had taken. “Let me depart—and forget that I ever dared to address you rudely.”
“Yes—go,” said Ellen: “you are punished sufficiently. You possess the secret of my frailty—I possess the secret of your hypocrisy: beware of the use you make of your knowledge of me, lest I retaliate by exposing you.”
There was something very terrible in the lesson which that young woman gave the libidinous priest on this occasion; and he felt it in its full force.
Cowering within himself, he uttered not another word, but stole away, completely subdued—cruelly humiliated.
Ellen lingered for a few moments on the spot where she had so effectually chastised the insolent hypocrite; and then hastily retired.
The Greek Brigand made a movement as if he were about to follow her; but, yielding to a second thought, he stopped, murmuring, “By heavens! she is a noble creature!”
CHAPTER CL.
MRS. KENRICK.
The rector of Saint David’s returned home a prey to the most unenviable feelings.
Rage—disappointment—humiliation conspired to make him mad.
The old hag had raised his hopes to the highest pitch; and at the moment when the cup of bliss seemed to approach his lips, it was rudely dashed away.
A woman had triumphed over him—mocked his passion—spurned his offers—read him a lesson of morality—taught him that proud man must not always domineer over feminine weakness.
Oh! it was too much for that haughty—that vain—that self-sufficient ecclesiastic to endure!
As he returned home in a hired cab, he threw from the window of the vehicle the Carmelite gown and cowl which he had worn; and bitterly did he reproach himself for his folly in having been seduced into the degradation of that masqued mummery.
Arrived at his own house, he rushed past the housekeeper who opened the door, and was hurrying up-stairs to the solitude of his chamber, when the voice of the old lady compelled him to pause.
“Mr. Tracy—Mr. Tracy,” she exclaimed; “here is a note from Lady Harborough.”
“Tell Lady Harborough to go to the devil, Mrs. Kenrick!” cried the rector, goaded almost to madness by this new proof of Cecilia’s indiscretion.
The old housekeeper dropped the candle and the note, as if she were thunderstruck.
Was it possible that she had heard aright? could such an expression have emanated from the lips of her master—of that man whom the world idolized?
“What is the matter now, Mrs. Kenrick?” a
sked the rector, suddenly recovering his presence of mind, and perceiving the immense error into which his excited feelings had betrayed him.
“Nothing, sir—nothing,” answered the housekeeper, as she re-lighted her candle by means of a lamp which was standing on the hall-table; “only I thought that something very terrible had occurred to annoy you.”
“Yes—yes—I have indeed been grievously annoyed,” said Reginald; “and you must forgive my hasty conduct. I was wrong—very wrong. Do not think anything more of it, Mrs. Kenrick. But did you not observe that Lady Harborough had sent a message——”
“A note, sir. Here it is.”
And as the housekeeper handed her master the perfumed billet, she cast a scrutinizing glance upon his countenance.
He was as pale as death—his lips quivered—and his eyes had a wild expression.
“I am afraid, sir, that something very dreadful has happened to you,” she observed timidly. “Shall I send for the physician?”
“No—no, Mrs. Kenrick: I shall be quite well in the morning. I have received a violent shock—the sudden communication of ill news—the death of a dear friend——”
“Ah! sir, I was convinced that all was not right,” observed the housekeeper. “If you would follow my advice you would take something to compose you—to make you sleep well——”
“An excellent thought, Mrs. Kenrick! If it be not too late, I wish you would send and procure me a little laudanum: I will take a few drops to ensure a sound slumber.”
“I will do so, sir,” answered the housekeeper.
She then repaired to the kitchen, while Reginald hurried up to his own chamber to read Lady Cecilia’s letter, the contents of which ran as follow:—
“Nearly a week has elapsed, dearest Reginald, and I have not seen you! neither have I heard from you. What is the meaning of this? Is it neglect, or extreme caution? At all events the interval which you enjoined for the cessation of my visits to you, has nearly expired; and my impatience will brook no longer delay. I must see you to-night! Precisely as the clock strikes twelve, I will be at your front-door, when you must admit me as on previous occasions—or I shall imagine that you are already wearied of your
“CECILIA.”
“After all,” said the rector, “the presence of Cecilia will in some degree console me for my disappointment of this evening! I cannot remain alone with my reflections—it drives me mad to think of what I am, and what I have been! And laudanum is a miserable resource for one who dreads a sleepless night: it peoples slumber with hideous phantoms. Yes—I will admit Cecilia at the appointed hour:—my housekeeper does not suspect me—my guilty conscience alone makes me think at times that she reads the secrets of my soul!”
The rector seated himself before the cheerful fire which burnt in the grate, and fell into a long train of voluptuous meditation.
He had become in so short a time a confirmed sensualist; and now that his long pent-up passions had broken loose, they never left him a moment of repose.
His reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door; and Mrs. Kenrick entered.
“Kate was fortunate enough to find a druggist’s shop open, sir,” she said, “and procured some laudanum. But pray be cautious how you use it.”
“Never fear,” returned the rector: “I may not avail myself of it at all—for I feel more composed now.”
The housekeeper wished her master a good night’s rest, and withdrew.
The rector then took a decanter of wine from a cupboard, and tossed off two glasses full, one immediately after the other.
The idea that Cecilia would shortly be there and the effects of the wine inflamed his blood, and brought back the colour to his cheeks.
Midnight soon sounded: the rector threw off his shoes, took a candle in his hand, and hastened down stairs.
He opened the front-door with the utmost caution; and a female, muffled in an ample cloak, darted into the hall.
“Cecilia?” whispered the rector.
“Dearest Reginald,” answered the lady, in the same under tone.
They then stole noiselessly up stairs, and reached the rector’s chamber without having scarcely awakened the faintest echo in the house.
The remainder of the night was passed by them in the intoxicating joys of illicit love. Locked in Cecilia’s arms, the rector forgot the humiliation he had received at the hands of Ellen, and abandoned himself to those pleasures for which he risked so much!
It was still dark—though at a later hour in the morning than Cecilia had been previously in the habit of quitting the rector’s house—when the guilty pair stole softly down stairs, without a light.
“Hasten, Cecilia,” murmured the rector: “it is later than you imagine.”
“My God!” whispered the lady: “I hear a step ascending!”
The rector listened for a moment, and then said in a faint tone, “Yes: we are lost!”
A light flashed on the wall a few steps beneath those on which they were standing: it was too late to retreat; and in another moment Mrs. Kenrick made her appearance on the stairs.
“What! Mr. Tracy?” ejaculated the housekeeper, her eyes glancing from the rector in his dressing-gown to the lady in her cloak.
Then the good woman stood motionless and silent—her tongue tied, and her feet rooted to the spot, with astonishment.
Lady Cecilia drew her veil hastily over her countenance; but not before Mrs. Kenrick had recognised her.
A thousand ideas passed rapidly through the rector’s brain during the two or three moments that succeeded this encounter.
At first he thought of inventing some excuse for his awkward situation;—next he felt inclined to spring upon his old housekeeper and strangle her;—then he conceived the desperate idea of rushing back to his room and blowing his brains out.
“Mrs. Kenrick,” at length he exclaimed, “I hope you will say nothing of this.”
The housekeeper made no reply to her master; but, turning a contemptuous glance upon the lady, said, “Madam, allow me to conduct you to the front door.”
Cecilia followed her mechanically; and Reginald rushed up the stairs to his room, a prey to emotions more readily conceived than described.
The housekeeper preceded Lady Cecilia in silence, and opened the front door.
“My dear Mrs. Kenrick,” said the frail patrician, who had now nearly recovered her presence of mind, “I hope you will take no notice of this unpleasant discovery.”
“I shall remain silent, madam,” answered the housekeeper; “but through no respect for you. I however value the reputation of a master whom I have served for many years, too much to be the means of ruining him.”
She then closed the door unceremoniously, and, seating herself on one of the mahogany benches in the hall, burst into tears.
That good woman loved her master with a maternal affection; and she was shocked at this dread confirmation of the faint suspicions which she had already entertained, and which had so sorely afflicted her.
“It is then true!” she thought within herself. “He has fallen! He is a living, breathing falsehood. His eloquence is a mere talent, and not the spontaneous outpouring of holy conviction! The world adores an idle delusion—worships a vain phantom. Oh! what a discovery is this! How can I ever respect him more? how can I ever talk with others of his virtues again? And yet he may repent—oh! God grant that he may! Yes—he must repent: he must again become the great, the good man he once was! It behoves me, then, to shield his guilt:—at the same time all temptation should be removed from his presence. Ah! now I bethink me that he has cast wistful eyes upon that poor girl whom he has taken into the establishment. I must remove her: yes—I will remove her, upon my own authority. He will thank me hereafter for my prudence.”
Thus did the good woman reason within hersel
f.
When she had somewhat recovered from the first shock which the unpleasant discovery of her master’s criminality had produced upon her, she repaired to her domestic avocations.
Kate was already in the kitchen, occupied with her usual duties.
“Katherine, my dear child,” said Mrs. Kenrick, “I am going to give you my advice—or rather to propose to you a plan which I have formed—relative to you——”
“To me, ma’am?” exclaimed the young maiden, desisting from her employment, and preparing to listen with attention.
“Yes, my dear girl,” continued the housekeeper; “and when I tell you that it is for your good—entirely for your good—you would thank me——”
“Oh! I do, ma’am—I thank you in advance,” said Kate; “for I have already experienced too much kindness at your hands not to feel convinced that all you propose is for my good.”
“Well, then, my dear—without giving you any reasons for my present conduct—I am anxious that you should leave this house—”
“Leave, ma’am!” cried Kate, astonished at this unexpected announcement.
“Yes, Katherine: you must leave this house,” proceeded Mrs. Kenrick. “But think not that you will be unprovided for. I have a sister who resides a few miles from London; and to her care I shall recommend you. She will be a mother to you.”
“But why would you remove me from the roof of my benefactor?” asked Kate: “why would you send me away from London, where my only relations on the face of the earth reside?” she added, bursting into tears; for she thought of her poor persecuted cousin the hump-back.
“Do not ask me, my good child,” returned Mrs. Kenrick: “my reasons are of a nature which cannot be communicated to you. And yet—if you knew them, and could rightly understand them—you would not object——”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 13
