Her select patrons had contributed much towards this improvement in her circumstances; but the luxuries in which she could now indulge, were provided for her by the prostitution of her young victims.
She was now dozing in her arm-chair, with her great cat upon her lap; but even in the midst of her semi-slumber, her ears were awake to the least motion of the knocker of the house-door—that sound which was the indication of business!
Thus, when, true to the time appointed in his note, the Resurrection Man arrived at the house, not many moments elapsed ere he was admitted into the hag’s parlour.
“So you have discovered the address of Katherine Wilmot,” said the hag. “Where does she reside?”
“No matter where,” returned the Resurrection Man; “it is sufficient that I can communicate with her, or bring her up to London, when it suits me. I have come now to have a full understanding with you on the subject; and if we play our cards well, we may obtain a round sum of money from this girl—that is, supposing she is really the child of the Harriet Wilmot whom you knew.”
“There can be no doubt of it—there can be no doubt of it,” exclaimed the old hag, rocking herself to and fro. “She is the daughter of that Harriet Wilmot whom I knew, and whose image sometimes haunts me in my dreams.”
“But what proofs have you of the fact?” demanded the Resurrection Man. “It will not suit me to take any more trouble in the matter, unless I know for certain that I am not running a wild-goose chase.”
“I shall not tell you how I came to know Harriet Wilmot seventeen years ago, nor any thing more about her than I can help,” said the old hag resolutely. “I was, however, well acquainted with her—I knew all about her. With her own lips she told me her history. She was for some time engaged to be married to a young man—young at that period—at Southampton. His name was Smithers. Circumstances separated them before the realisation of their hopes and wishes; and she came to London with her father, who soon afterwards died of a broken heart through misfortunes in business.”
“Broken heart!” exclaimed the Resurrection Man contemptuously: “who ever died of a broken heart? But never mind—go on.”
“Harriet was alone in the world—an orphan—unprotected—and without friends or resources,” continued the hag. “She was accordingly compelled to go out to service. A wealthy gentleman saw her, and fell in love with her—but I shall not tell you all about that! No—I shall not tell you about that! Harriet’s was a strange fate—a sad fate; and I do not like to think of the part I acted in some respects towards her,” added the old woman, shaking her head, as if it were in regret of the past.
“Go on,” said the Resurrection Man. “If you have got any thing unpleasant in your memory, all the shakings of heads in the world won’t drive it out.”
“Alack! you speak the truth—you speak the truth,” muttered the old woman. “It was the blackest deed I ever committed—I wish it had never occurred: it troubles me very often; and when I cannot sleep at night, I am constantly thinking of Harriet Wilmot.”
“What is all this to lead to?” demanded Tidkins, impatiently.
“I shall not trouble you with many more of my reflections,” said the hag. “Harriet became a mother: she had a daughter, on whom she bestowed the name of Katherine. Three or four years afterwards I lost sight of her, and never beheld her more. From that time all traces of herself and her child were gone until last year, when the murder of Reginald Tracy’s housekeeper placed the name of Katherine Wilmot before the public. That name immediately struck me: the newspapers said she was sixteen years old—precisely the age that Harriet’s daughter must have been. Then the name of Smithers was mixed up in the proceedings which ensued: I saw it all—Harriet must be dead, and Smithers had adopted her child as his niece! But, to convince myself still further, I went to the Old Bailey—I saw Katherine in the dock: you might have knocked me down with a feather, so strong was the resemblance between the young girl and her deceased mother! I came home—I was very ill:— methought I had seen the ghost of one whom I had deeply, deeply injured!”
“And now you have so far forgotten your remorse that you are desirous to turn your knowledge of Katherine’s parentage to good account?” said the Resurrection Man, with a sneering laugh. “But how do you know that she is not well informed on that head already?”
“She cannot be—she cannot be,” answered the old hag; “she would not bear the name of Wilmot if she was. Besides, I have since ascertained that her mother died when she was only four years old; and therefore Katherine was too young to receive any revelation from her parent’s lips. No—no: I have good reason to believe that Katherine knows nothing of her paternal origin.”
“I am now perfectly satisfied, from all you have told me, that Katherine Wilmot is the daughter of the Harriet whom you knew,” said the Resurrection Man; “and as you seem so positive that she is unaware of many important particulars concerning her birth, I will proceed in the business you have proposed to me.”
“Where is she living?” inquired the old woman.
“If I tell you that,” said Tidkins, “what guarantee have I got that you will not post off alone to her, extort the purchase-money for your secrets, and chouse me out of my reglars? Look you—I have been at the trouble and expense of finding her out—which you never could have done—and I must go halves with you in the produce of the affair.”
“So you shall—so you may,” returned the old woman. “But I will not speak to her in your hearing. I don’t know how it is that I have a strange superstitious awe in connexion with all that concerns Harriet Wilmot’s memory and the existence of her child. I cannot help the feeling—I cannot help it.”
“By Satan,” exclaimed the Resurrection Man, darting a furious glance upon the hag, “you are either a drivelling fool, or you are deceiving me. You entertain compunction about these Wilmots—and yet you purpose to obtain money from the girl. Now is this consistent? Take care how you play with me; for—if I catch you out in any of your tricks—I will hang you up to your own bedpost as readily as I would wring the neck of that damned old cat.”
“You shall see whether I will deceive you—you shall see,” cried the old hag, with some degree of alarm. “Arrange the business as you will, so long as I may have speech of Katherine without being overheard; but you shall be present when she pays me for the secret which I have to communicate.”
“Let that be the understanding, and I am agreeable,” observed the Resurrection Man. “Will it suit you to go a few miles out of town with me to-morrow?”
“Is it to see Katherine?” inquired the hag.
“What the devil else do you think I want your company for?” cried Tidkins: “to take you to dine at Greenwich or Blackwall—eh? Not quite such a fool as that! However, to-morrow morning you may expect me at seven o’clock——”
“It is not light at that hour,” observed the hag.
“I prefer the dusk of either morning or evening,” answered the Resurrection Man. “It suits me better—because I have a few enemies in London. But, as I was saying, I shall call for you at seven to-morrow morning; a friend of mine—one Banks of Globe-Town—has a covered spring-cart and a capital bit of horse-flesh. He will drive us to where we have to go, in no time. So don’t keep us waiting—as the vehicle will be at the bottom of the lane by a quarter to seven.”
The old hag promised to be punctual; and the Resurrection Man took his departure from her den.
CHAPTER CXCVII.
ELLEN AND KATHERINE.
Turn we now to the farm-house of the Bennets near Hounslow—the residence of Katherine Wilmot.
The morning was dry and beautiful—one of those mornings which sometimes cheer us towards the end of January, and give us a short foretaste of the approaching spring.
It was nine o’clock, when the door of the farm-house opened, and two young females ca
me forth to enjoy the fresh air of a charming day.
These were Ellen Monroe—(for by her maiden name must we continue to call her, as she herself, maintained it for the present)—and Katherine Wilmot.
Never had Ellen appeared more beautiful; nor Katherine more sweetly interesting.
They had evidently been conversing on a subject which gave them pleasure; and they were both intent on continuing the same delightful topic during their walk.
The subject of that discourse had inspired Ellen with emotions of pride, as well as of joy. She walked with a dignity and yet an elegance of motion which denoted the vigour of that vital system which was so highly developed in her voluptuous style of beauty. The generous and noble feelings of the heart shone in the light of her deep blue eyes, and in the animation of that countenance where the fair and red were so exquisitely blended. They were indicated, too, by the expression of that short and somewhat haughty upper lip which belonged to the classic regularity of her features, and in the dilation of the rose-tinted nostrils.
Ellen was a finer and far lovelier creature than Katherine;—but the latter was characterised by more of that tender sensibility and touching interest which physiologists deem the development of the intellectual system. The eyes were intensely expressive; and over her features a soft, pale, and modest light seemed to be shed. Her figure was delicate and slight, and contrasted strongly with that luxuriant expansion which constituted the fine and not less symmetrical proportions of Ellen.
“I shall really experience deep regret to leave your dwelling-place, dear Katherine,” observed Ellen, as they entered a hard and dry pathway leading through the fields; “for even at this season, it possesses many attractions superior to the vicinity of a great city.”
“In the warmer months it is a beautiful spot,” returned Katherine. “But you will not leave me today? Consider—you have only been here a few hours——”
“Since yesterday morning,” exclaimed Ellen, with a smile; “and in that time we have formed a friendship which may never, I hope, be interrupted.”
“Oh! never,” said Katherine warmly. “It was so kind of you to come and find me out in my seclusion—so considerate to make me acquainted with all those wonderful events which have occurred to my benefactor——”
“Nay—neither kind nor considerate,” again interrupted Ellen. “Richard’s letter, dated from the city of Abrantani on the 10th, and received by my father the day before yesterday, enjoined him to send me to see you—to make your acquaintance—to assure myself that you are well and happy—and to communicate to you tidings which Richard feels will be welcome to all his friends.”
“Oh! welcome indeed!” exclaimed Katherine with grateful enthusiasm. “How much do I owe to him—and how worthy is he of that rank which has rewarded his grand deeds! Such a man could not long remain a humble individual: his great talents—his noble heart—his fine qualities were certain to elevate him above the sphere in which he was born.”
“And now will the name of Markham go down to posterity,” said Ellen, proudly: “and the glory which Richard has thrown around it, will be to some degree shared by all who bear it. Oh! this was prophesied to me but a little while ago;—and yet, then how far was I from suspecting that the realisation of the prediction was so near at hand, especially too, as that prediction was not uttered with any reference to Richard—but to another,—that other alluding to himself!”
Katherine cast a glance of surprise towards her companion, whose last words were unintelligible to her; and Ellen, apparently recollecting herself, hastened to add, “But I was speaking of matters which are yet unknown—yet strange to you. Think no more of my observations on that topic. There are times when the soul is lost and bewildered in the contemplation of the world’s strange events and marvellous vicissitudes; and such has often been the case with me during the last few days. It was on the 16th of January that we received the letter which imparted us the tidings of Richard’s first exploit—the capture of Estella. Oh! how sincerely I prayed for his success—and yet I trembled for him! My father, too, had some misgivings; but we endeavoured to reassure each other, mutually concealing our fears. Two or three days afterwards we received the news of his triumphant entry into Villabella;—another interval of a few days, and we had a letter from him, giving us a brief account of the Battle of Piacere. Our fears were almost entirely dissipated by the tidings of this glorious achievement; and if any doubts yet lingered, they were completely dispelled by the news of the great victory of Abrantani. Oh! how well has he earned that coronet which now adorns his brow!—how well does that proud title of Marquis become the great, the generous, and the good!”
“Would that his struggles were over, and that the civil war was put an end to in Castelcicala!” exclaimed Miss Wilmot—for the news of the great victory beneath the walls of Montoni were yet unknown in England.
“I have no fears for the result,” said Ellen: “a conqueror has he hitherto been—and a conqueror will he remain! Heaven itself prospers him in this undertaking: the wise dispensations of Providence are apparent throughout his career in the Grand Duchy. Had the first expedition, which landed at Ossore, succeeded, there were great chiefs—Grachia and Morosino—who would have taken the lead in the State. But the enterprise failed—and those patriots were numbered with the slain. The idea of releasing from their captivity his companions in that fatal affair, led Richard to the attack of Estella. He succeeded—and he stood alone at the head of the movement. There was not a chief amongst the patriots to dispute his title to that elevated situation.”
“Yes—the finger of heaven was assuredly visible in all those circumstances which led to my benefactor’s greatness,” remarked Katherine. “Methinks that when I see him again, I shall be strangely embarrassed in his presence:—instead of addressing him by the familiar name of Mr. Markham, my lips must tutor themselves to breathe the formal words ‘My Lord,’ and ‘Your Lordship;’ and——”
“Oh! you wrong our noble-hearted friend—our mutual benefactor,” interrupted Ellen. “Rank and distinction—wealth and glory cannot change his heart: he will only esteem them as the elements of an influence and of a power to do much good.”
The young ladies paused in their conversation, because two persons were approaching along the pathway.
A man muffled in a large cloak, and with a countenance of cadaverous repulsiveness scowling above the collar, advanced first; and behind him walked a female whose bowed form denoted the decrepitude of old age. There was an interval of perhaps a dozen yards between them; for the woman was unable to keep pace with the more impatient progress of the man.
“Is this the way, young ladies, to Farmer Bennet’s?” demanded the foremost individual, when he was within a few feet of Ellen and Katherine.
“It is,” replied Kate. “You may see the roof appearing from the other side of yonder eminence. Mr. Bennet is not, however, within at this moment: he has gone to a neighbouring village on business, and will not return till two o’clock.”
“Then you know Farmer Bennet?” exclaimed the Resurrection Man—for he was the individual who had addressed the young ladies.
But before Katherine could give any reply, an exclamation of astonishment broke from the lips of Ellen, whose eyes had just recognised the countenance of the old hag.
“Well, Miss—do I have the pleasure of meeting you once more?” said the detestable woman, with a leer comprehensively significant in allusion to the past: then, as her eyes wandered from Ellen’s countenance to that of Katherine, she suddenly became strangely excited, and exclaimed, “Ah! Miss Wilmot!”
“Is this Miss Wilmot?” demanded the Resurrection Man, with an impatient glance towards Katherine, while he really addressed himself to the old hag.
“My name is Wilmot,” said Kate, in her soft and somewhat timid tone. “Was it for me that your visit to the farm was intended?”
“Yes—and we must speak alone, too,” said the hag.
“No!” ejaculated Ellen, hastily and firmly; “that may not be. I am Miss Wilmot’s friend—the friend, too, of one in whom she places great confidence; and whatever you may have to communicate to her cannot be a secret in respect to me.”
And, as she uttered these words, she glanced significantly at her young companion.
“Yes,” said Kate, who understood the hint conveyed in that look, although she was of course entirely ignorant of the motives of Ellen’s precaution: “yes—whatever you may wish to communicate to me must be told in the presence of my friend.”
“But the business is a most delicate one,” cried the Resurrection Man.
“Oh! I have no doubt of that,” exclaimed Ellen, with a contemptuous smile which the hag fully comprehended.
“Do you know this young lady?” asked the Resurrection Man, in an under tone, of the old woman, while he rapidly indicated Ellen.
“I know that young lady well,” said the hag aloud, and with a meaning glance: “I know you well—do I not, Miss Monroe?”
“I am not disposed to deny the fact,” replied Ellen, coolly; “and I can assure you that my disposition is as resolute and determined as you have always found it to be. Therefore, if you have aught to communicate to Miss Wilmot, say it quickly or come with us to the farm, where you will be more at your ease: but, remember, I do not quit this young lady while you are with her.”
“You will repent of this obstinacy, Miss—you will repent of this obstinacy,” muttered the hag.
“It may be so,” said Ellen: “nevertheless, menaces will not deter me from my purpose.”
The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics) Page 67
