CHAPTER CLXI.

AGNES VERNON AND HER FATHER.

We must now return to the cottage near Streatham, were we left the

beautiful and artless Agnes Vernon with her father.

The moment the old woman had quitted the house, Mr. Vernon turned

towards his daughter, and, taking her hand, said, “My dearest child,

how came you to admit a complete stranger into your presence in so

unguarded a manner?”

“As I had never seen her in my life before, dear father,” replied the

charming girl, “I could not for an instant suppose that she had any

evil intention in visiting the cottage; because, having done her no

harm----”

“But, my beloved Agnes,” interrupted her parent kindly, as he made

her sit down near him as he also took a chair, “I have often told you

that the world contains many wicked people, who frequently harbour the

basest and most infamous designs towards young women who are pretty and

unsuspecting as you; and this Mrs. Mortimer, as she calls herself, may

be one of the class I have alluded to.”

“I am sorry indeed that I should have acted in a way to cause you any

displeasure, my dearest father,” said Agnes, her eyes filling with

tears; “but--”

“You do not understand me, my sweet child,” again interrupted Mr.

Vernon, passing his hand affectionately over her glossy hair, and pure,

polished brow; “I am not angry with you--indeed, it would be impossible

to experience any irritation with such an amiable, excellent girl as

you are. But I am alarmed lest evil-disposed persons should seek to do

you an injury--and therefore I recommend caution and prudence on your

part.”

“I cannot comprehend how the old lady who was here just now could

possibly seek to harm me,” said the amiable Agnes, “since I have never

harmed her, and, on the contrary, treated her with the respect due to

her years and her afflictions.”

“What did she tell you, my love?” inquired Mr. Vernon.

Agnes forthwith related, in her own natural, simple, yet agreeable

manner, the entire conversation which had passed between herself and

Mrs. Mortimer.

Her father listened with earnest attention; and for some minutes after

she had ceased speaking, he remained absorbed in deep thought.

“You are not pleased with the incident of this evening,” said Agnes,

at length, and speaking in a timid voice, as she gazed with anxious

fondness on her parent’s pensive countenance.

“Once more I assure you, my well-beloved child,” he responded, “that

I am not angry with you. But you will, perhaps, be somewhat surprised

to hear me declare that I do not believe one syllable of all the old

woman told you. In the great world, Agnes, there is no such thing as

that sentimentalism and sympathy which she professed to be the motives

that led her to visit the cottage ere now. I detected her in two

falsehoods--and I have every reason to suspect all the rest.”

“But was it not natural, dear papa, for her to be desirous to behold

once more the scene where she had passed many happy days with her

deceased husband?” inquired Agnes. “Oh! I can well understand such a

feeling--and I therefore honoured and respected her for entertaining

it.”

“Yes--there are a few generous hearts that would experience such

sentiments,” observed Mr. Vernon; “for perhaps I was too hasty ere now

in the sweeping condemnation which I levelled at what I termed the

great world. At the same time, Agnes, you must not judge the world

by your own pure and unsophisticated soul. And would to God that

experience might never be destined to teach you other lessons than

those which seclusion and good training have already inculcated: would

to God that you might never be compelled to look upon the dark side of

human affairs!”

“Have I other lessons to learn--other teachings to undergo--other

experience to acquire, beyond what I already know?” asked the ingenuous

and candid Agnes.

“Alas! yes--and in a variety of ways,” responded her father, with

a sigh. “You have as yet seen only one phase of the world--that

of tranquillity, serene happiness, and peace. You have not even

heard the storms of that world in the distance. Hitherto your life

has been passed under the most genial influences; and you know

nothing--absolutely nothing, of what may be termed _life_. Again I say,

therefore, how deeply--how earnestly it is to be wished that your mind

may never become acquainted with the bitter teachings of vicissitude or

misfortune.”

“I am already well aware, my dear father, from my historical studies

and from the perusal of the books which you have selected for me, that

mankind pursues many and varied conflicting interests, and that _gain_

is the chief object thus sought after, But I am still at a loss,”

continued the beautiful Agnes, “to understand how people can be wicked

enough to injure others who have never injured them, and when the

infliction of such injury can confer no benefit upon the individual

who is guilty of such flagrant wrong. Suppose, for instance, that this

Mrs. Mortimer who was here just now, should in reality entertain some

evil design towards me, how could she possibly acquire any personal

advantage from the pursuit of such conduct?”

“You are as yet too innocent--oh! far too innocent, if not too young,

to understand these matters,” said Mr. Vernon, gazing with all a

father’s affection upon his beauteous and artless child. “Neither is it

for me to remove the film from your eyes in this respect.”

“And yet, dear papa,” she observed, with the most endearing, amiable

_naïveté_, “if no one will point out the shoals, rocks, and quicksands

to me, how can I possibly avoid them? You see that just now I erred by

receiving that person too frankly--too cordially----”

“And the old man who called the other evening, too,” said her father,

with a smile. “Now, do you not perceive, my dear child, that there

is something suspicious in these two visits, which indeed appear

to have some degree of relationship to each other, and perhaps had

the same instigation. I cannot conceive that accident should send

two persons hither, separately and at a short interval, on the same

pretence, unless they were acting in collusion. That such an accidental

coincidence might happen, I admit; but prudence--worldly prudence, my

love, makes us look suspiciously upon such events; and I confess that

this is the light in which I view the present occurrences. The woman

represented herself as the widow of a General who had lately died in

India: now I happen to be so well-informed on these matters as to be

enabled to state most emphatically that no General-officer of that name

has existed for many years past. Finding herself at fault in respect

to her first assertion, your visitor endeavoured to make good her tale

by means of a second; but the falsehood was equally palpable in this

latter case. Now, therefore, my dearest Agnes, you comprehend that

there are good and just grounds for suspecting the motive which led her

hither.”

“Is it possible that persons can be so wicked?” exclaimed the young

maiden.

“It is, alas! too true,” replied her father; “and therefore you cannot

be too much upon your guard in respect to strangers. I wonder that Mrs.

Gifford did not represent to you the impropriety of allowing the old

man to force his way into your presence a few days ago----”

“Both Mrs. Gifford and Jane spoke to me on the subject after he was

gone,” said Agnes, desirous to rescue her two servants from blame: “but

I fancied their timidity had made them conjure up visions of thieves

and housebreakers, and I only laughed while they remonstrated.”

“Then you now perceive, dear Agnes, that they were right in the

observations which they undertook to address to you,” said Mr. Vernon.

“Yes--and I am sorry that I did not listen with more attention,”

answered the amiable girl. “In future, my dear father, I will allow no

one to enter the house unless he or she be the bearer of a letter from

you.”

“This is precisely what I could desire, Agnes,” exclaimed Mr. Vernon;

“and you will afford me unfeigned pleasure if you adhere to this

resolution.”

“You know that I will do all you enjoin--even without questioning your

motives,” observed Agnes. “Command--and I obey.”

“My dear child, the word ‘_command_’ exists not in the vocabulary

that I have to use when conveying my wishes to you. So dutiful--so

good--so willing are you, Agnes, that I have never had occasion to

speak with imperiousness or harshness to you. You do not even question

me concerning those matters which might naturally awaken your curiosity

and your interest.”

“It is sufficient for me to know that you desire me to dwell in this

seclusion,” said Agnes; “and as you have exerted yourself, my dearest

father, to surround me with every comfort--every element of happiness,

I should be indeed ungrateful and unjust were I to seek prematurely

those explanations which you have promised to give me when the proper

time shall arrive.”

“And that time is not so very far distant, Agnes,” said Mr. Vernon.

“Two years more--and I shall no longer have any secrets from you. But

while we are thus conversing, I forget that it is waxing late and that

I have not even as yet begun to account for the sudden and unexpected

visit which circumstances have compelled me to pay you this evening.”

Agnes now regarded her parent with some degree of suspense; for his

remark had brought back to her memory the circumstance that he had

never called at so late an hour before, and, moreover, that this was

the third time he had visited her within the week--an occurrence at

variance with his ordinary habit.

“My dear child,” said Mr. Vernon, speaking in the kindest tone

possible, “I am compelled to leave England on urgent business

to-morrow.”

“Leave England!” repeated Agnes, tears starting into her eyes.

“Yes, my beloved--and I regret to add that my absence may be of some

weeks’ duration. Paris is the place whither this sudden and unexpected

business calls me; and though I shall be away from you, yet will you

ever be present in my thoughts, and I shall write to you frequently.”

“But how many weeks shall you be absent, my dear father?” asked Agnes,

the pearly drops now chasing each other adown her cheeks.

“Eight or ten, my child,” responded Mr. Vernon: “but at the expiration

of that period you will be certain to see me again. Remember, Agnes,

that far longer intervals than this have occurred during which we have

been completely separated--”

“Yes, my dear father--when I was staying in the country with my

governess, who is now no more,” interrupted Agnes, unable to stifle her

sobs: “but ever since her death I have seen you frequently--far more

frequently.”

“Because I removed you to this cottage which I purchased for you, and

which is so much nearer to London than was Mrs. Clement’s abode at St.

Alban’s. However, my sweet Agnes--compose yourself--cheer up--and wipe

away those tears. I cannot bear to see you weep,” he added, his own

voice growing tremulous. “Two months or two months and a half will soon

glide away; and I shall bring you a number of presents from Paris.”

“You spoil me with your kindness, my dear father,” exclaimed the

beautiful girl, throwing her arms about his neck, and embracing him

tenderly. “I am afraid that I must cost you a great deal of money--for

you are always buying me something new. But then, you are very

rich--are you not, dear papa!”

“Thank God, I am--and for your sake!” cried Mr. Vernon, returning her

fond caresses. “The time will come, Agnes, when you will learn how

powerful a talisman, in respect to happiness, is money. Some of the

books which I have selected for you inculcate maxims against avarice,

covetousness, and selfishness: while others even go further, and

endeavour to prove that a moderate competency is more compatible with

true happiness than an immense fortune can possibly be. But I much

question whether the authors of those works would not have leapt at the

chance of giving the truth of their assertions a fair trial through

the medium of experience in respect to the possession of riches.

Such books, however, do good; they infuse salutary thoughts into the

mind--although the influence thereof must inevitably become subdued,

if not altogether destroyed, in proportion as the individual advances

in worldly knowledge, and finds worldly interests crowding upon him.

Riches, my dearest Agnes, may become a blessing or a curse according to

the manner in which the possessor uses them; and by this observation I

believe that I shall have opened a new field for the exercise of your

reflections and good sense.”

“Oh! you have indeed, my kind father!” exclaimed Agnes. “But--to return

to the object of your visit this evening--may I express a hope that the

business which calls you to Paris is of no unpleasant nature?”

“By no means, my love,” answered Mr. Vernon, smiling affectionately

upon his amiable daughter. “And now I must take my departure--for it

is eleven o’clock. You will remark, dear Agnes, the advice I gave you

relative to the visits of strangers; for I should be unhappy indeed, if

I thought that your artless, unsuspecting character were likely to be

the very cause of exposing you to peril.”

“You may depend upon my prudence in future, dear father,” said Agnes;

“and I am rejoiced that you have given me such timely warning. Oh! who

could have thought that the old man who seemed so deeply affected,

and the woman who spoke so tenderly of her deceased husband, could

have harboured any sinister design? It is really enough to render one

suspicious of everything and everybody in future.”

“No, my dear child--you must not fall into the opposite extreme,” cried

Mr. Vernon, hastily. “Because, for instance, a mendicant to whom you

give alms should turn out to be an imposter, do not argue therefrom

that all destitute persons are rogues. I do not wish distrust and

suspicion to take the place of your generous frankness and amiable

candour; but I am desirous that, while preserving the artlessness and

ingenuousness of your disposition, you should at the same time adopt

those precautions which common prudence suggests. And now, my sweet

Agnes, embrace me and then retire to your own chamber--for, ere I

depart, I have a few instructions to give to Mrs. Gifford, whom you

will please to send hither to me.”

The beauteous maiden once more threw her arms round her father’s neck

and covered his face with her kisses and her tears: then, having

received his blessing--a blessing which he gave from the very bottom of

his heart--she reluctantly tore herself away from his arms, and quitted

the room.

In a few minutes Mrs. Gifford, the housekeeper, made her

appearance. She was a woman of about fifty-six years of age--stout,

respectable-looking, and with a countenance in which honesty and

good-temper were alike read as plainly as the words in a book.

On entering the parlour, she closed the door carefully behind her;

and then her demeanour suddenly became profoundly reverential as she

advanced towards the father of her young mistress.

“Mrs. Gifford,” said he, in a tone of friendly confidence, “I am about

to visit Paris, and therefore thought it necessary to see you for a few

moments, previous to my departure. Not that I need recommend my beloved

child to your care--for I am well assured that you watch over her

safety and her happiness as zealously as if she were your own daughter.”

“Your lordship--” began the housekeeper, in a tone of the deepest

respect.

“Hush!” exclaimed he whom we must still call Mr. Vernon, in spite

of the aristocratic title by which Mrs. Gifford had addressed him:

“remember that walls have ears, my good friend! I was about to observe

to you that Agnes, through the amiable confidence and ingenuousness

which are natural to her, has allowed two strangers,--one a few

evenings ago--the other this very night,--to intrude themselves upon

her; and I tremble lest their motive be a bad one. The gardener and his

assistant invariably sleep in the out-house, I hope?”

“Yes, my--I mean, sir,” answered Mrs. Gifford; “and they are resolute,

determined men, who would not permit plunderers to enter these premises

with impunity.”

“Good!” exclaimed Mr. Vernon. “Did you yourself see the old man who

called here the other night?”

“I did not, sir,” replied Mrs. Gifford. “But Jane assured me his

appearance was that of a man worn down with old age, wretchedness, and

poverty, rather than of an evil-intentioned person. Shall I tell your

lord--shall I tell you, sir,” said the good woman, hastily correcting

herself, “what is my impression relative to that old man? Why, sir,”

she continued, perceiving that Mr. Vernon nodded approvingly, “it

struck me that it might be that Mr. Torrens, who used to live here

many, many years ago, and of whom we heard such dreadful tales shortly

after your lord--I mean, shortly after you bought the cottage.”

“But those tales--has Agnes learnt them?--have they reached her ears?”

demanded Mr. Vernon, hastily: “because they might terrify and alarm

her.”

“No, sir--she is entirely ignorant of all the legends attached to this

house,” was the reply; “and it is not by any means likely that they can

reach her ears. Jane is a discreet, good girl, and would not allude to

them for worlds.”

“Thank God!” ejaculated Mr. Vernon; “for were Agnes to learn what we

ourselves only heard after the entire purchase was concluded and you

were located here,--were she to learn, I say, that a horrible murder

had been committed in this house, I would at once procure her another

dwelling. But you were speaking ere now about the very Torrens who was

so unjustly accused of that foul crime.”

“I was observing, sir, that I fancied the old man who called here the

other night might be he; for as Miss afterwards told me, he spoke of

having lived here many years ago, and of the terrible misfortunes

he had endured; and then he glanced round the parlour repeatedly,

observing in an audible though anguished tone, ‘_This is the very

room--this is the very room!_’ And _this_ is the room,” continued Mrs.

Gifford, “where the baronet was murdered; and therefore I conclude that

the old man was none other than the wretched Torrens.”

“Your surmises are most natural,” said Mr. Vernon, after a few moments’

reflection. “But who, then, was the old woman that came just now? And

yet,” he proceeded, “though I spoke of her lightly and irreverently as

_an old woman_, I am bound to admit that there was really a something

about her which gave me the idea of one who had seen better days. Her

language was especially lady-like and correct. She said she had lived

here many years ago--”

“And yet,” interrupted Mrs. Gifford, “the cottage was shut up for

nearly eight years after the murder; and then the landlord into whose

hands it had fallen, and who was a widower, came and resided here

himself, as no one would take it. He occupied it until his death; and

then your lord--and then, I mean, you purchased it, sir, together with

the garden and orchard attached to it.”

“And what would you infer from all these circumstances?” inquired Mr.

Vernon.

“That if the old woman really did live here many years ago, it must

have been during Torrens’ time,” explained the housekeeper; “because he

built the cottage, and resided in it until the murder; after which, as

I just now said, it was shut up for a lengthened period. Now, strange

though it may seem, an idea has likewise struck me relative to the old

woman--or old lady--”

“And what is your idea!” asked Mr. Vernon.

“That she is that Mrs. Slingsby--or Mrs. Torrens, who got into

trouble at the same time as the husband she had just married. If my

conjectures are correct, sir, I do not think that you have any cause

for apprehension in the two visits which have been paid to the cottage.”

“I congratulate you upon the shrewdness which you have displayed

in dealing with the subject,” said Mr. Vernon, smiling; “and I am

inclined to adopt the views which your sagacity suggests. Perhaps,

then, there is really nothing to fear: but, of course, Mrs. Gifford,

you will exercise the utmost prudence and the most unwearying vigilance

in regard to my darling child. You know how dear she is to me--you

are also acquainted with the unhappy circumstances which force me

to condemn her to this seclusion until she shall have attained her

twenty-first year--unless,” he added, in a more measured tone, “death

shall in the meantime snatch away that woman whom I cannot call my----”

“My lord! my lord!” exclaimed the housekeeper, in an imploring voice;

“give not way to recollections which always excite you so painfully!

With me your charming Agnes is safe--and you are well aware that I love

her as much as if she were my own child! Besides, the deep--the many

debts of gratitude which I owe to your lordship----”

“Hush! hush!” interrupted Mr. Vernon; “for again I tell you that the

very walls have ears--and I would not that my rank should be even

suspected----”

“Pardon me--I forgot your oft-repeated injunctions on that head,”

said Mrs. Gifford. “But you must not suppose that because I am thus

sometimes oblivious in your presence, I ever allow a single word to

slip from my tongue that may create a suspicion in the mind of Miss

Agnes or Jane.”

“And now, Mrs. Gifford,” observed Mr. Vernon, “I have one more question

to ask you:--has that young gentleman who once dared to ask Jane to

deliver a note to my daughter--has he ventured into this neighbourhood

since?”

“I must confess, sir,” was the answer, “that I have seen him loitering

about the cottage on one or two occasions: but as he never seeks to

obtrude himself upon the notice of Miss Agnes, I have not thought it

worth while, nor even prudent, to suggest to the dear young lady what

course she ought to pursue in case he should address her. Besides, he

appears to be a gentleman in every sense of the word; and I do not

apprehend any rudeness on his part towards your daughter. Indeed, he

appeared much humiliated and very penitent when Jane so resolutely

refused to become the bearer of his missive or to receive his bribe.”

“You have acted with prudence: it would be unwise to make any

observation to Agnes relative to this stranger, under present

circumstances,” said Mr. Vernon. “Were you to speak to her on the

subject, you must necessarily explain the nature of that sentiment

which has attracted the young gentleman to this neighbourhood--and

to talk to her relative to the passion of love, were to destroy some

portion of that artless innocence--that infantine purity of soul, which

characterises her. In a word, I trust my dear child to your care and

discretion, Mrs. Gifford;--and I shall expect that you will write to me

at least once a week during my absence.”

Mr. Vernon then wrote upon a slip of paper the address where letters

would reach him in Paris; and, having next placed a roll of bank notes

in Mrs. Gifford’s hands for the expenses of the little establishment

until his return, he took his departure.

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