The Mysteries of London, Vol. II [Unabridged & Illustrated] (Valancourt Classics)

by George W. M. Reynolds

  “Yes,” continued Ellen, after a short pause, “I am married—married, too, to the father of my child;—and that is all that I dare reveal to you at present! I implore you—I beseech you both to ask me no questions; for I could not respond truly to them, and be consistent with a solemn promise of temporary secrecy which I have pledged to my husband! The motives of that mystery are not dishonourable, and do not rest with me. In two or three years there will be no necessity to keep silent. And now tell me, dear father—tell me, Richard—have you sufficient confidence in me, to believe what I have unfolded to you, without knowing more?”

  “Believe you, Ellen!” exclaimed Markham: “oh! why should I doubt you? Your motive in revealing the happy fact of your marriage—a motive instigated by delicacy towards her who is so soon to accompany me to the altar—is so generous, so pure, so noble, that it speaks volumes in your favour, Ellen—and I love you as a sister—a very dear sister.”

  “Yes—it is with a brother’s love that you must regard me,” exclaimed Ellen, emphatically and joyfully; “and you know not what happiness your assurance imparts to me! Let me not, however, be misunderstood in any thing that I have already stated. I would not have you infer that I have been married long—nor that I was a wife when I became a mother,” continued Ellen, casting down her eyes, and blushing deeply. “No—it was only on the 3d of January, in the present year, that I was united to him who will one day give a father’s name to his child.”

  “I care not to know more, Ellen!” exclaimed Mr. Monroe. “You are a wife—and your son, as he grows up, need never be made acquainted with the true date of his parents’ union. That innocent deception will be necessary.”

  “Your father is satisfied—and I am satisfied, dear Ellen,” said Richard: “we should be wrong to seek to penetrate into a secret which your good sense would not induce you to retain inviolable without sufficient motives. I cannot express to you my joy at the revelation which you have made; and, believe me, you will now have no cause to blush in the presence of my Isabella.”

  “Father—Richard,” murmured Ellen, pressing their hands affectionately in her own, “you have made me happy—because you have placed confidence in my word!”

  And as tears of joy stood in her large melting blue eyes, and her face and neck were suffused in blushes, how beautiful did she appear—sweet Ellen!

  “You have banished your young friend from the room,” said Markham, after a short pause.

  “But I will speedily summon her hither again,” answered Ellen; “for she also has something important to reveal to you.”

  “A continuation, doubtless, of the narrative of the mysterious proceedings of the vilest of men and his female accomplice, and concerning which you wrote me full details some weeks ago?” observed Richard.

  “Yes—there is another chapter in that strange history for you to hear,” replied Ellen.

  She then hurried from the room, and in a short time returned with Katherine.

  “Tell Richard the remainder of your story in your own way, dear Kate,” said Ellen, as the young ladies seated themselves side by side upon the sofa.

  “It was nearly a week ago,” began Katherine; “that I rambled forth a little way alone. Ellen was somewhat indisposed and unable to accompany me; and Mr. Monroe had gone into town upon some business. I ascended the hill, and, having enjoyed the prospect for a short time, passed down on the opposite side, and walked through the fields. I was thinking of various matters,—but chiefly of the cruel disappointment which I had experienced in my recently awakened hopes of obtaining information relative to my parentage,—when I suddenly observed a person approaching; and I was somewhat alarmed when I perceived that it was that odious Mr. Banks, the undertaker, whom Ellen mentioned to you in the letter which related all that had taken place at the farm. I was about to retrace my steps, when Mr. Banks called after me, assuring me that I had no reason to be afraid of him, and declaring that he had important news to communicate. My hopes were revived—I felt convinced that his business was to renew those negotiations between myself and the old woman which had been so suddenly interrupted; and I no longer experienced any alarm. He accosted me, and, in his peculiar phraseology—an imitation of which I shall not inflict upon you—declared that a friend of his possessed certain papers which would entirely clear up the mystery wherein my parentage was involved. You may conceive the emotions which this communication excited within me: I trembled to put implicit faith in what I heard—in case of disappointment—in case of deception; and yet I clung—oh! I clung to the hope of at length being enlightened in matters so dear to my heart. Mr. Banks spoke candidly and intelligibly—though with wearisome circumlocution and a mass of hypocritical cant. He said that his friend had purchased the papers of the old woman for a large sum; and that he would only part with them for a larger sum still. In a word, he demanded five hundred pounds; and he assured me that I should not regret the bargain—for there were letters in my poor mother’s own handwriting.”

  Kate wiped away the tears that had started into her eyes as she thus alluded to her maternal parent.

  “I represented to Mr. Banks,” she continued, after a pause, “that I was unpossessed of the immediate command of the sum demanded, and that I must either apply to the solicitor who had the management of my affairs, or wait until your return, Richard, from Italy. I moreover explained to him the extreme improbability that either Mr. Wharton or yourself would permit me to pay so large an amount for the papers, unless they were previously ascertained to be of the value represented. He seemed prepared for this objection; for he immediately declared that if I would name a day and an hour when I would call upon him, accompanied by any one friend, male or female, whom I might choose to select, he would have the papers in readiness, and that I might glance over them in order to satisfy myself of their value and authenticity.”

  “That was certainly a fair proposal for such a gang of villains to make,” observed Richard; “and it invests the entire affair with the utmost importance. Did you give the man any definite answer?”

  “I assured him that I could do nothing without consulting my friends; but that I would write to him in the course of a day or two. He advised me to lose no time; as his friend was not a person to be trifled with.”

  “And that friend,” said Markham, “is the villain Anthony Tidkins—beyond all doubt. He does not dare appear actively himself in this business, for fear of affording me a clue to his haunts; and therefore he employs this Banks as his agent. The whole scheme is as transparent as possible.”

  “Before I parted from the undertaker,” observed Katherine, “I objected to visit his house, and proposed to him that, in the event of my friends permitting me to purchase the papers, he should allow the cursory inspection of them either at Mr. Wharton’s office or at Markham Place. But to this arrangement he expressed his entire hostility, stating emphatically that the documents must be examined and the purchase-money paid at his own house—and that, too, with four- and twenty-hours’ notice of the time which I should appoint for the purpose.”

  “I see through it all!” exclaimed Richard. “Tidkins is afraid to trust his own agent with the papers or with the money paid for their purchase; and he will be concealed somewhere in Banks’s house when the appointment takes place. Hence the notice required. It is as clear as the noon-day sun.”

  “On my return to the Place,” continued Katherine, “I acquainted Mr. Monroe and Ellen with the particulars of the interview between the undertaker and myself; and as your letter, announcing the day when you hoped to set foot on the English soil again, had arrived that very morning, it was arranged that no decisive step should be taken until you were present to advise and to sanction the course to be adopted. I accordingly wrote a note to Mr. Banks, stating that I would communicate with him in a positive manner in the course of a week or ten days.”

  “You acted wisely, dea
r Kate,” said Richard; “and I now question whether the Resurrection Man has not allowed his suspicious avarice to get the better of his prudence. But of that we will speak on a future occasion. You shall purchase the documents, Katherine—and without troubling Mr. Wharton upon the subject. Thanks to the liberality of the Castelcicalan government, my fortune is now far more ample than that which I lost; and pecuniary vexations can never again militate against my happiness. Yes, Katherine, we will yield to the extortion of these villains who are trading in the dearest ties and holiest sympathies of the human heart; but I must tax your patience somewhat—for you can well understand that for a few days I shall be unable to devote myself to even an affair so important as this. To-morrow you can write to Mr. Banks and fix an appointment at his own house—one week hence—the hour to be eight o’clock in the evening, for it is then dark.”

  Katherine expressed her gratitude to our hero for this additional proof of his kindness towards her.

  The happy party remained in conversation until a late hour—unconscious of the rapid lapse of time, so deeply were they interested in the various topics of their discourse.

  It was, indeed, nearly two o’clock in the morning when the last light was extinguished in Markham Place.

  Nevertheless, the inmates of that happy dwelling rose at an early hour—for there was much to be done that day, and little time for the purpose.

  Ellen and Mr. Monroe repaired to town the moment breakfast was over, to make a variety of purchases in order to render the mansion as complete in all its arrangements as possible for the reception of the bride. Money is endowed with a wondrously electric power to make tradesmen bustling and active; and in spite of the little leisure left for choice and selection, the business-habits of Mr. Monroe and the good taste of his daughter enabled them to accomplish their task in a manner satisfactory to all concerned. Thus, in the afternoon, waggons piled with new and costly furniture, carts laden with chinaware and glass, and others containing carpets, curtains, and handsome hangings for the windows, were on their way to Markham Place.

  And at the mansion, in the meantime, all was bustle and activity. Richard had departed early in the Grand-Duke’s carriage for Richmond; but Katherine superintended all the domestic arrangements; Marian obtained the assistance of two or three char-women in her special department; and Whittingham forthwith added to the establishment, upon his own responsibility, two footmen and a page, all of whom were well known to him and happened to have been out of place at the moment.

  Thus, by the time the young Prince returned home to dinner at five o’clock, the old mansion exhibited an appearance so changed, but withal so gay and tastefully handsome, that he was unsparing in his praises of those who had exhibited so much zeal rendering it fit to receive his bride on the following day.

  CHAPTER CCXXIII.

  THE MARRIAGE.

  The happy morning dawned.

  The weather was mild and beautiful; the sky was of a cloudless azure; and all nature seemed to smile with the gladness of an early spring.

  Markham rose at seven o’clock, and dressed himself in plain clothes; but upon his breast he wore the star which denoted his princely rank.

  And never had he appeared so handsome;—no—not even when, with the flush of his first triumph upon his cheeks, he had entered the town of Estella and received the congratulations of the inhabitants.

  When he descended to the breakfast-room, he found Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and Katherine already assembled: they too were attired in a manner which showed that they were not to be omitted from the bridal party.

  At eight o’clock the Grand-Duke’s carriage drove up to the door; and in a few minutes our hero and his friends were on their way to Richmond.

  “Strange!” thought Ellen to herself; “that I should have passed my honey-moon of twenty-four hours with him in the same neighbourhood whither Richard is now repairing to fetch his bride.”

  The carriage rolled rapidly along; and as the clock struck nine it dashed up the avenue to the door of the now royal dwelling.

  Richard and his companions were ushered into the drawing-room, where the Grand-Duke and the Duchess, with the aides-de-camp, and a few select guests, were awaiting their arrival. The reception which Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and Katherine experienced at the hands of the royal pair was of a most cordial kind, and proved how favourably our hero had spoken of them.

  In a short time Isabella made her appearance, attended by her bridemaids—the two daughters of an English peer.

  Richard hastened to present his friends to the Princess; and the cordiality of the parents underwent no contrast on the part of the daughter;—but if she were more courteous—nay, kind—in her manner to either, that preference was shown towards Ellen.

  And it struck the young lady that such slight preference was evinced towards her; for she turned a quick but rapid glance of profound gratitude upon Richard, as much as to say, “ ’Tis you whom I must thank for this!”

  How lovely did Isabella seem—robed in virgin white, and her cheeks suffused with blushes! There was a charm of ineffable sweetness—a halo of innocence about her, which fascinated the beholder even more than the splendour of her beauty. As she cast down her eyes, and the long slightly-curling black fringes reposed upon her cheeks, there was an air of purest chastity in her appearance which showed how nearly allied her heart was to the guilelessness of angels. And then her loveliness of person—oh! that was of a nature so ravishing, so enchanting, as to inspire something more than mere admiration—something nearer resembling a worship. Poets have compared eyes to stars—teeth to ivory—lips to coral—bosoms to snow;—they have likened symmetry of form to that of sylphs, and lightness of step to that of fairies;—but poor, poor indeed are all similitudes which we might call to our aid to convey an idea of the beauty of this charming Italian maiden, now arrayed in her bridal vestment!

  The ceremony was twofold, Richard being a Protestant and Isabella a Roman Catholic. A clergyman of the Church of England therefore united them, in the first instance, by special licence, at the Grand-Duke’s mansion. The bridal party immediately afterwards entered the carriages, which were in readiness, and repaired to the Roman Catholic chapel at Hammersmith, where the hands of the young couple were joined anew according to the ritual of that creed.

  And now the most exalted of Richard’s earthly hopes were attained;—the only means by which his happiness could be ensured, and a veil drawn over the sorrows of the past, were accomplished. When he looked back to the period of his first acquaintance with Isabella,—remembered how ridiculously insignificant was once the chance that his love for her would ever terminate in aught save disappointment,—and then followed up all the incidents which had gradually smoothed down the difficulties that arose in his path until the happy moment when he knelt by her side at the altar of God,—he was lost in astonishment at the inscrutable ways of that Providence which had thus brought to a successful issue an aspiration that at first wore the appearance of a wild and delusive dream!

  On the return of the bridal party to the mansion near Richmond, a splendid banquet was served up; and if there were a sentiment of melancholy which stole upon the happiness of any present, it was on the part of Isabella and her parents at the idea of separation.

  At length the déjeuner is over; and Isabella retires with her mother and bridemaids to prepare for her departure. The Grand-Duke takes that opportunity to thrust a sealed packet into our hero’s hand. A few minutes elapse—Isabella returns—the farewells take place—and the bridegroom conducts his charming bride to the carriage. Mr. Monroe, Ellen, and Katherine follow in a second chariot.

  It was four o’clock in the afternoon when Richard assisted his lovely young wife to alight at the door of his own mansion; and now Markham Place becomes the residence of the Prince and Princess of Montoni.

  Vain were it to attempt to describe the delight of the old
butler when he beheld his master bring home that beauteous, blushing bride; and—as he said in the course of the day to Mr. Monroe, “It was only, sir, a due sense of that comportance which belongs to a man in my situation of authority over the servants that perwented me from collapsing into some of them antics that I indulged in when we heerd of Master—I mean of his Highness’s successes in Castle Chichory, and when he came home the day before yesterday. But I won’t do it, sir—I won’t do it; although I don’t promise, Mr. Monroe,” he added, in a mysterious whisper, “that I shan’t go to bed rayther jolly to-night with champagne.”

  * * *

  It was eleven o’clock that night when Ellen cautiously issued from the back door of the mansion.

  She passed rapidly through the garden, passed out of the gate, and hastily ascended the hill on whose summit were the two trees.

  A man was seated on the bench.

  Ellen approached him, threw her arms round his neck, and embraced him with a tenderness that even appeared to surprise him by its warmth.

  She placed herself by his side; he drew her towards him—and kissed her almost affectionately.

  “You are not happy?” said Ellen, in a plaintive and anxious tone. “I knew that by the contents of the note which Marian gave me just now; and your manner confirms me in the opinion.”

  “I know not how it is,” replied Greenwood, without answering her question in a direct way, “but you never seemed dear to me, Ellen, until this evening.”

  “And am I dear to you now?” she asked, in a tone tremulous with joy.

  “You are—you are,” exclaimed Greenwood, speaking nevertheless in a manner which seemed to indicate that he was giving way to a feeling of weakness which he could not conquer, but of which he was ashamed; “you are dear to me—for my heart appears as if it required something to love, and some one to love me.”