Authors: George W. M. Reynolds,James Malcolm Rymer
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Weak, wearied, subdued, - drenched with
the vain that had accompanied the storm; and in a state of mind bordering upon
madness and despair, the wretched man reached his borne at four o'clock in the
morning.
But whither he had wandered, and which way he had
taken.-whether he had continued running on, or had rested once or often during
that terrific night, he never remembered.
He retired to bed, and slept during several hours. When
he awoke, the sun was shining gloriously through his casement; but the horrors
and the congenial reflections of darkness had left too fearful an impression
upon his mind to be readily effaced; for he was not so inured to vice as to
treat with levity the events of the last night,-events which to his
superstitious imagination had assumed the aspect of celestial warning and
divine menace.
MENTAL STRUGGLES
THE rector of Saint David's fell upon his
knees, and, turning his face towards the casement through which the sun glanced
so cheerfully into the chamber, poured forth his soul to the Being of whose
universal dominion that radiance seemed an emblem. Reginald could now pray. He
had sinned deeply, and he implored pardon; for he conceived that heaven had
deigned to convey a special warning to his mind through the medium of the
clouds and the storm of the preceding night.
"Oh! I am not yet totally lost!" he
exclaimed, joining his hands fervently together: "I am not yet an outcast
from divine mercy! Heaven itself manifests an interest in my welfare: dare I
neglect the warning? No — no! I have sinned — but there is
repentance. Upon my otherwise spotless life there is one stain; but tears of
regret shall be shed unceasingly until the mark be washed away! And thou,
temptress — never more must we meet as we have lately met; I must
shun thee as my evil genius! Yet I do not blame thee — for I myself
was fond, and being fond, was weak. If I fell, and can yet aspire to pardon and
forgiveness, — I who was strong, — what extenuation may not
exist for thee — a poor, weak woman! Oh! let the light of divine
grace shine in upon my soul, even as these bright beams of the orb of day
penetrate with cheering influence to my very heart! Let me rise up from the
depths of sin, stronger than when I fell, — so that sad experience
may tend to confirm my resolves to pursue the paths of chastity and
virtue!"
Thus spoke aloud Reginald Tracy, as he knelt in his
chamber the day after his fall: thus did he breathe vows of future self-denial
and purity. He rose resigned, and penitent, — though at intervals a
species of struggle took place in his breast a conflict between his recently-experienced
sensations of amorous delight and his present resolutions of abstinence from
carnal pleasures.
In a moment when his better feelings were predominant,
he wrote a brief letter to Lady Cecilia, imploring her to forget all that had
taken place between them, and enjoining her, if she entertained the slightest
interest in his earthly and immortal welfare, never to seek to see him again.
Then Reginald gathered all his most valued books around
him, and plunged into his studies with an earnestness which augered well for
the strength and permanency of his good resolutions.
This occupation was for a few minutes disturbed by a
note from Lady Cecilia, imploring a last interview ere they parted for
ever: — but the rector was immoveable in his present precautionary
conduct and he answered her, not angrily, but firmly, to beseech her not to
"lead him into temptation."
Yes,
this man of fiery passions wrestled gallantly with his inclinations: the combat
was at times a fearful one; but he exerted all his strength, and all him power,
and all his energy, to subdue those desires which were smouldering, and were
not quenched, at the bottom of his soul.
It was in the evening of the fourth day after the
rector's fall from the pedestal of his purity, that his studies were
interrupted by the entrance of his house-keeper, who informed him that a
gentleman desired to speak to him.
The rector ordered the visitor to be admitted; and Mr.
Richard Markham was announced.
The object of our hero's call was speedily explained.
Mr. Monroe was lying in a dangerous state, and his life
was despaired of. Mr. Wentworth, the surgeon, who attended upon him, had
recommended him to settle all his earthly affairs, and prepare his soul to meet
his Creator; and the old man, who was fully sensible of the importance of this
advice, had expressed a wish to receive spiritual consolation from a minister
whose sanctity had become proverbial.
"The desire of my dying friend," added
Markham, "must serve as an apology for my intrusion upon you; but, I
implore you, reverend sir, not to hesitate to soothe by your much-coveted
presence the passage of a fellow-creature from this world to a better."
But for a moment the rector did
hesitate: — was he fit to minister divine consolation to
another, — he who was still deeply dyed with sin himself?
Such was the thought which floated rapidly through his
imagination.
Richard urged his request with eloquence. Reginald
Tracy felt that he could offer no sufficient excuse, short of the revelation of
his own guilt, for refusing to attend the death-bed of one who craved his
presence; and he agreed to accompany the young man to Markham Place.
Richard had a vehicle at the door; and m a short time
they reached our hero's abode.
Reginald was conducted to the room where Monroe lay.
Hanging over the pillow, on which the invalid reclined,
was a charming female form, from whose bosom deep sobs emanated, and rendered
almost in audible the words of strangely commingled hope and despair which she
addressed to her father.
She did not hear the door open; and it was only when
Richard approached the bed, and whispered that the Reverend Mr. Tracy was
present, that she raised her tearful countenance.
Then did the eyes of the rector glance upon one of the
most lovely beings whom Nature ever invested with all her choicest gifts;
and — even in that solemn moment when he stood by the bed of one who
was pronounced to be dying — his soul was stirred by the presence of
that transcendent beauty.
"Oh! sir," exclaimed Ellen, in that musical
voice which was now rendered tremulous by deep emotions, "how grateful am
I for this prompt attention to the wish of my dear — dear
father!"
"I deserve no gratitude for the performance of a
Christian duty,' answered the rector, as he approached the bed.
Markham took Ellen's hand and led her from the chamber,
in order to allow unrestrained converse between the clergymen and the invalid.
An hour elapsed, and the bell of the sick-room rang.
Ellen hurried thither, and found her father composed and resigned to meet his
fate. The rector sate by his bed-side.
"This holy man," said Monroe, "has
taught me how to die like a true Christian. Weep not, dearest Ellen; we shall
meet again hereafter."
"Oh, my dearest father," exclaimed the young
lady, bursting into an agony of tears; "it is I — I who have
murdered you! My conduct — "
"Silence, Ellen — — accuse
not yourself in that dreadful manner," interrupted her father.
Reginald was astonished at the words which had just
fallen from the daughter's lips; and he surveyed her with increased interest
and curiosity.
At that moment Mr. Wentworth entered the room. He found
the invalid better, and his countenance was animated with a ray of hope.
This expression of his inward feelings, was not lost
upon Ellen; and she interrogated him with a rapid and imploring glance.
"Mr. Monroe must be kept very — very
quiet," said the surgeon in a whisper, which was addressed to both Ellen
and Reginald Tracy.
"And then — there is hope?"
murmured Ellen in breathless suspense.
"Yes — there is hope," repeated the
surgeon solemnly.
"May heaven be thanked for that assurance on your
part," said Ellen, fervently.
The rector contemplated her with an admiration which he
could not restrain; and, in spite of himself, the thought flashed across his
mind, how far more lovely was Miss Ellen Monroe than Lady Cecilia Harborough!
Then, indignant with himself for having allowed the comparison to force itself
upon his attention, he rose to take his departure.
The invalid had just sunk into a deep slumber and Mr.
Wentworth intimated his intention of passing the night by his side.
"I will call again to-morrow morning," said
Reginald, addressing Miss Monroe; "for I perceive that this gentleman is
not without hopes."
"Thank you — thank you, sir, for your
kindness," answered Ellen with grateful enthusiasm. "Your presence
seems to have brought a blessing into this sick-room."
She extended her hand towards him, and he pressed it
for a moment in his.
His whole frame seemed electrified with a sudden glow;
and he hurried somewhat abruptly from the room.
When he reached his own abode once more, he felt a
profound melancholy steal into his soul; for he seemed more lonely, and more
solitary than he ever yet had been.
He retired to rest, and his dreams were filled with the
images of Cecilia and Ellen. When he awoke in the morning, he was discontented
with himself — with the whole world: he experienced vague longings
after excitement or change of scene; — he could not settle himself,
as on the four previous days, to his studies; — his books were
hateful to him. He wandered about his house — from room to
room — as if in search of something which he could not define, and
which he did not discover: he was pursued by ideas only dimly comprehensible,
but which were at variance with his recently formed resolutions of purity and
virtue. He was restless — discontented — uneasy.
At length he remembered his promise to return to
Markham Place. The idea seemed to give him pleasure: he longed to see Ellen
Monroe once more; — and yet he did not choose to make this admission
to himself.
With a beating heart did he cross the threshold of
the house in which that
delightful vision had burst as it were, upon his sight on the previous evening.
He was immediately conducted to the sick room where Ellen was sitting alone by
her father's bed-side.
The old man slept.
Ellen rose and tripped lightly to meet him, a smile
upon her charming, though pale and somewhat care-worn countenance.
Laying her hand gently upon his, she whispered, 'He
will recover! Mr. Wentworth assures me that he will recover!"
"Most sincerely do I congratulate you upon this
happy change," said Reginald. "I can well comprehend the feelings of
an affectionate daughter who is allowed to hope that her parent may be restored
to her."
"Yes, sir — and so good a father as
mine! added Ellen. "But it was all my fault — "
Then, suddenly checking herself, she cast down her
eyes, and blushed deeply.
"Your fault, Miss Monroe?" repeated the
rector, inspired with the most lively curiosity to penetrate the mystery of
that self-accusation which he had now heard for the second time: "I cannot
believe that any fault of yours — you whom I found hanging over your
beloved father — "
"Let us speak no more upon that subject,"
interrupted Ellen, vexed with herself for having so unguardedly said what she
had relative to the primal cause of her father's dangerous illness. "He
will recover — something tells me that he will recover; and
then — oh! how I will cherish him — how I will exert myself
to make the remainder of his days happy!"
Her countenance became flushed as she spoke; and
Reginald's glances were fixed, by a species of invincible fascination, upon the
beautiful being in whose presence he stood.
He felt at that moment that he could sacrifice every
thing for her love.
The surgeon and Richard Markham now entered the
apartment; and Reginald received the thanks of our young hero for the attention
which he had shown to the old man whose life had ceased to be despaired of.
After a somewhat protracted visit, the rector took his
leave.
But throughout that day Ellen alone occupied all, his
thoughts. What fault of hers could have
thrown her father upon a bed of
sickness, whose only termination was at one time anticipated to be in death?
what could have been the conduct of so fond a daughter to have produced such
terrible results? Had she strayed from the path of virtue? This was the only
feasible solution of such a mystery. Then a terrible pang of jealousy shot
through his breast.
And why should he be jealous? What was that young girl
to him?
He was jealous, because his ardent passions
instinctively attracted him towards that beautiful creature; — and
she was every thing to him, because she was so beautiful, and because he
desired her!
Yes — a new flame now burnt in his
heart — a flame as violent, as relentless, as fierce, as that which
had already made him the slave of Lady Cecilia Harborough. But was he this time
to become a slave or a victim?
He sat down and reasoned with himself. He endeavoured
to crush the feelings of licentiousness which had been re-awakened in his heart.
But as vainly might he have endeavoured to lull the
Maelstroom with a breath, or to subdue the rage of Vesuvius with a drop of
water!
Such was his frame of mind, when an old woman sought
his presence in the evening.
He had made it a rule, throughout his career, never to
be difficult of access to those who wished to see him; and now that he felt the
fabric of his fair fame to be tottering upon the verge of a precipice, he was
not inclined to deviate from any of those outward forms which had aided in the
consecration of his renown. He accordingly ordered his housekeeper to admit the
old woman to his presence.
The instant a hag, with a horribly wrinkled
countenance, entered his study, he started — for that repulsive face
was not altogether unknown to him.
Then, in another moment, he remembered that he had once
seen her standing at the door of Lady Cecilia Harborough's abode in Tavistock
Square; and that the glance which she had thrown upon him, on that occasion had
for an instant struck him with sinister foreboding.
The old woman seated herself, and, without any
preamble, said: "A man of great learning like you, reverend sir, cannot be
otherwise than a man of great taste. This conviction has emboldened me to call
upon you in preference to any other, relative to a most perfect work of art
which fortune has thrown in my way."
Reginald gazed upon the old woman in speechless
astonishment: her mysterious — indeed, incomprehensible. language,
induced him to believe that she was some unfortunate creature bereaved of her
right senses.
"Listen to me for a few minutes, reverend
sir," continued the hag, "and I will explain my meaning to you. Your
charity, as well as your taste, is about to be appealed to."
"Speak," said the clergyman, somewhat
impatiently, for he longed to be left alone again with his reflections, which
had just assumed a most voluptuous complexion when his privacy was thus
intruded upon.
"I will not detain you long — I will not
detain you long," cried the old hag. "You must know, reverend sir,
that a foreign sculptor — a poor Italian — came some few
months ago to lodge at my humble dwelling. He was in the deepest distress, and
had not the means to procure either marble or tools. I am very poor — very
poor, myself, sir; but I could not see a fellow-creature starving. I bought him
marble — and I bought him tools. He went to work, toiling day and
night almost unweariedly; and a week ago he put the finishing stroke to the
statue of a nymph. His art has enabled him, by means of colour, to give a
life-like appearance to that admirable work of art; so that as you contemplate
it, it seems to you as if the eyes were animated, the lips breathed, and the
bosom rose and sank with respiration."
"And your artist is, no doubt, anxious to dispose
of his statue?" said the rector.
"Precisely so," answered the hag. "I do
not profess to be a judge myself; but I can speak of the effect which it
produced upon me. When I saw it finished — standing upon its pedestal
I was about to address it as a living being."
"The effect must, then, be indeed striking,"
observed Reginald, with the voluptuous train of whose ideas this picture was
well adapted to associate.
"Were you to judge for yourself, reverend
sir," said the old hag, "you would find that I have not overrated the
perfection of this masterpiece. The sculptor demands but a small price for his
statue- — it would be a charity were you to purchase it yourself, or
recommend one of your friends to do so."
"When and where could I see this matchless work of
art?" asked Reginald, whose curiosity was now strangely excited.
"At my own humble dwelling in Golden Lane is this
statue concealed," replied the horrible old hag; "and no mortal eyes,
save the sculptor's and mine own, have yet glanced upon it. If you will
accompany me now, you can inspect it without delay."
Reginald referred to his watch, and found that it was
past nine o'clock. The evening was pitch dark; and he did not, therefore, dread
being seen in the company of that hideous old woman. Besides, even if he
were — was he not often summoned at all hours to attend upon the last
moments of some dying sinner?
"I will proceed with you at once to your
abode," said the rector, after a few moments' hesitation.
"And you will do well," answered the hag;
"for I can promise you a fine treat in what you are about to see."
While the rector stepped aside to put on his cloak and
hat, a strange smile curled the lips of the wrinkled harridan; but as Reginald
again turned towards her, her countenance instantly resumed its wonted
composure.
They then went out together.