CHAPTER CLXXIII.

HOPES FULFILLED.

Without pausing to reflect upon the step which she was

taking--forgetful of all the injunctions she had received from her

father, and all the promises of prudence and caution which she had made

to him--obedient only to the irresistible impulse of her feelings--as

if nature’s voice rose dominant above a sire’s mandates,--the Recluse

of the Cottage disappeared from the view of the lady, who remained in

the path outside the garden, a prey to the most torturing fear lest the

young maiden should be intercepted by the inmates of the dwelling.

But Agnes was not compelled to pass through the house in order to gain

egress from the premises. From the stable-yard a gate opened into

the lane; and by this avenue did she proceed--so that there was no

necessity to exercise any wariness or precaution. Had the contrary been

the case--had she been compelled to pause in order to reflect how she

was to escape the notice of the servants, her artlessness of character

and purity of soul would have prompted her to wait and reflect whether

she were acting in accordance with her father’s counsels. She would

then have flown straight to consult Mrs. Gifford; and the result would

have been inimical to the hopes and wishes of the lady who was so

anxiously expecting her in the lane.

But as nothing impeded the maiden’s progress, nor forced her to stay

her steps even for a single instant,--the gate being always left open

during the day-time for the convenience of the gardeners, and these

men being engaged in front of the house on the present occasion,--the

current of her thoughts, impelling her towards the lady, received no

hindrance--no check; and in a few moments Agnes was speeding along the

lane, with a heart influenced by emotions of hope, curiosity, suspense,

and wild aspiration.

For that word “Mother”--that dear, delightful word, which had so seldom

fallen on her ears, and which in an instant excited so many pleasurable

reflections--so many ineffable feelings in her soul,--that word which,

as if with electric inspiration, had suddenly opened to her view an

elysium of the affections which she had never known before, and which

gave promises of felicity the holiest and the purest,--that word, so

fraught with the tenderest sympathies to one who had hitherto lived

in a semi-orphan state,--that word it was which exercised a magic

influence upon the maiden--absorbed all other considerations--and

rendered her impatient to hear more from the same lips whence this word

had come.

And yet she could not have accounted, had she paused to search, for

the spring of the excitement that now ruled her actions. It was not

that she cherished the conviction of finding a mother in the lady who

was waiting to embrace her; but she did half suspect that such would be

the case,--and she certainly hoped--oh! most fervently hoped that she

was not destined to experience disappointment. The very artlessness of

her disposition made her sanguine;--and under these influences did she

hasten along.

The lady advanced to meet her;--and in a few moments they were clasped

in each other’s arms.

“My child--my dearest child!” murmured the fond mother, who had indeed

recovered a daughter in Agnes Vernon.

“Oh! Is it possible?” exclaimed the beautiful creature, in an ecstasy

of joy: “is it possible that you are my parent?”

“I am, my beloved Agnes--I am: and heaven can attest that, though

separated from thee since thine infancy, I have never ceased to think

of thee--never ceased to love thee!”

A faintness now came upon Agnes;--and her mother felt that she was

clinging the more firmly to her in a convulsive effort to prevent

herself from falling.

“Lean on me, my child--here--let me sustain you, my darling Agnes!”

cried the lady. “Oh! how happy am I at this moment--with thee in my

arms! But----My God! she faints!”

And the maiden, overcome by her emotions, fell into a state of

insensibility.

The lady carried her in her arms along the lane: great was the strength

which now animated the mother who had just recovered a long-lost

daughter;--and in a few minutes a hackney-coach, that was waiting

higher up the avenue, received the precious burthen.

When Agnes came to herself, she started as if, on waking from a

delicious dream, she feared that it might prove all a delusion: but

when, by the rays of the setting sun which streamed through the open

windows of the vehicle, she beheld the handsome, pleasing, and yet

mournful countenance of her mother bending over her, a glow of joy

suffused the charming creature’s face--and, throwing her arms around

her parent’s neck, she exclaimed, “Oh! tell me that it is not a dream!

assure me once more who you are!”

“I am your mother, Agnes dearest--your own fond and loving mother, who

has languished after you for years, and who will never separate from

you again, unless by your own consent, or through the stern decree of

an iron tyranny! Yes, Agnes--I am your mother;--and, beautiful though

you be, I may without vanity declare that the stamp of nature proclaims

you to be my child?”

“Yes--and my own heart’s emotions assure me that you are indeed my

parent,” said the lovely girl. “But you observed that we should not

part without my consent. Oh! can you suppose, dear mother, that I

should ever ask to leave you--ever seek to separate myself from you?”

“No, my child--I am sure that you will not!” exclaimed the lady. “At

the same time, Agnes,” she added, in a different and mournful tone, “it

is my duty to inform you that if you choose to live with me, you must

resign all hope of seeing your father again--at least for two years----”

“Oh! say not so!” ejaculated Agnes, bursting into tears. “Surely it

must be with my father’s knowledge that you came to see me--that you

are taking me away with you. And yet,” she added, a sudden reminiscence

flashing to her mind, and causing her to start painfully,--“and yet,

I recollect now that I left the garden stealthily--that you urged me

to come round to you in the lane, unperceived by the servants--that

you knew not my father was in Paris. Oh! mother, mother,” cried the

young girl, again interrupting herself, and speaking with a burst

of anguish,--“what does all this mean? Whom am I to obey--you or my

father?--for it is clear to me that in yielding deference to the

counsel of the one, I must prove disobedient to the other!”

“Tranquillise yourself, dearest Agnes--tranquillise yourself, I implore

you!” exclaimed the lady, straining the trembling--almost affrighted

maiden to her breast.

“Ah! dearest mother, when I hear your voice and receive your kisses, I

have no thought save for you,” murmured the young girl. “Oh! and now

your tears fall upon my cheek. Mother--dear mother--forgive me for what

I said ere now--I will obey you--and you only. But do not--do not weep,

my beloved parent!”

“May God Almighty bless you, Agnes!” fervently exclaimed the lady, her

tears streaming in blinding torrents from her eyes.

“Oh! do not weep--I implore you!” cried Agnes, in a tone of the most

tender affection. “Are you unhappy, dear mother? If so, tell me the

cause of your sorrow!”

“I am both happy and unhappy, Agnes,” was the response, almost choked

with sobs. “I experience ineffable pleasure and acute pain, all at the

same moment! But your words soothe me--your voice descends into my

soul like sweet music--your caresses are as a balm to my bruised and

weltering spirit!”

“Dear mother, let me embrace you closer still!” murmured Agnes,

clinging to her parent in that narrow chaise as if there were an

imminent danger of their immediate separation. “But wherefore are you

happy and unhappy at the same time?”

“I am happy because I have this evening recovered you, and thus seen

accomplished the hope of long, long years,” returned the lady; “and I

am unhappy because I fear that some untoward circumstance will part us

again.”

“Oh! what circumstance can part us, dear mother?” asked Agnes, her

bosom filled with vague alarms. “May I not dwell with you, if I

choose--and if you choose to have me with you?”

“Yes--oh! yes, Agnes,” replied her mother, earnestly and in an

impassioned tone. “But will you not pine--when the excitement of these

new feelings shall have passed away,--will you not pine, I say, for

your secluded cottage--your beautiful garden--and--and your father?”

she added, her voice suddenly becoming low and tremulously plaintive.

“What is that lovely cottage--what are the choicest flowers of that

garden, in comparison with thy love, my dearest--dearest mother?”

exclaimed Agnes: “and, oh! if I must decide between you, on the one

hand, and my father on the other----And yet he has been so kind--so

very kind to me--that it goes to my very heart----”

“Agnes--Agnes--you love your father better than me!” exclaimed the

mother, in a voice of the most piercing, rending anguish. “But it is

natural--oh! it is natural--for you never knew me until now--at least

not since your infancy! Yes, it is natural, I say! Oh! fool that I was

to hope that you could love me well enough to consent to dwell beneath

my roof in future! No--no--it is impossible: I see it all, Agnes--you

would be wretched--miserable, were you to part from your father! I

will take you back to your cottage, then, my child--I will leave you

then--and we must separate upon its threshold, never--never to meet

again, perhaps, in this life!”

“No, dearest mother--speak not thus despairingly--or you will kill

me--you will break my heart!” cried Agnes, her voice choking with sobs.

“You are unhappy--and it is my duty to remain with you----Oh! and God

forgive me for saying it, if it be a crime--but--but--it is also my

wish!”

And with these words, the maiden again threw herself upon her mother’s

bosom and wept plenteously, while her arms clasped that parent’s neck

with almost convulsive violence--as if she feared to lose her.

“Now, Agnes, I am happy--oh! supremely happy!” exclaimed the fond

woman. “You will remain with me--and I shall not again submit your

feelings to a painful test by proposing the alternatives which have

already rent your bosom. Listen, however, to me for a short space.

I am a lonely and desolate woman, and have experienced a recent

affliction of an almost overpowering nature. Indeed, I should have

succumbed beneath its weight, had not accident--an accident of a most

extraordinary character--last night revealed to me the place where you

dwelt in such seclusion. Then I suddenly felt that I had something

worth living for--and I came to you this evening, with the hope of

seeing you--yes--and also with the hope of inducing you to accompany

me, that we might dwell together in future. For, oh! Agnes, you cannot

divine how tender--how lasting--how invincible is the love of a mother

for her child. Years and years have passed since I saw you; and I have

pictured to myself my darling daughter growing up in beauty and in

virtue--endowed with elegant accomplishments, and trained in all that

she ought to learn or that would become her--save a knowledge of her

mother! Now, my dearest Agnes, you repay me for that immense--that

boundless love which I have ever cherished for you: now you reward me

for the anxious years--the age of sorrow, as I may term the period

which has elapsed, for me, between your infancy and the present time.

Your father is rich--is possessed of many resources for recreation and

pleasure in the world, which a woman cannot enjoy. He has many, many

friends;--and, deeply though he loves you, he will not miss you so much

as I have missed you, and should miss you still, were you now to be

separated from me. It is, then, a mother who implores her daughter to

give her a daughter’s love--to yield her a daughter’s affection--and

perform towards her a daughter’s duty. All this, my Agnes, I see that

you are prepared to accomplish--even at the sacrifice of your feelings

in respect to your sire. Moreover, that sire has been blessed with

your smiles ever since your birth--or at least has had you under his

guardianship and control: and now--oh! now, am I asking too much when

I beseech you to devote a few years of love to me,--to me who am your

mother--who am unhappy--and who, without you, should now feel so lonely

and desolate that the sooner the cold grave were to close over me, the

better!”

“I will not leave you--I will die sooner!” murmured Agnes, her eyes

streaming and her bosom heaving with convulsive sobs. “But you will not

leave my father--nor that kind and good Mrs. Gifford--in ignorance of

what has become of me?”

“I could not be guilty of such cruelty, my darling child,” responded

the mother. “And now,” she continued, after a rapid glance from the

window of the vehicle, which was at this moment passing by Kennington

Common,--“and now listen again to what I have to say to you. My own

house is in the northern suburb of London; and it is possible that

Mrs. Gifford may be acquainted with the place of my abode. I know not

whether she be; and I should conceive that she is _not_--nevertheless,

there _is_ the possibility, as I observed--and, in that case, she would

adopt measures to tear you from my arms. For this night, then, you must

consent to remain at the house of some ladies of my acquaintance. They

will take care of you--they will be rejoiced to have you with them,

though only for a few hours; and by to-morrow evening I shall have a

dwelling fitted up for our reception. It is my intention to give up

my villa which I now possess--and I know of a sweet cottage, with a

beautiful garden, in the neighbourhood of Bayswater, which I shall

hire at once. All these arrangements can be effected in the course of

to-morrow--for by means of money incredible things are accomplished in

London.”

“Be it as you say, my dear mother,” observed Agnes. “But you will

remain with me this night?--you will not leave me with strangers?” she

exclaimed anxiously.

“Certainly, my child, if you wish it, I will stay with you,” returned

her mother. “Listen, however, to me once again. The friends in whose

care I propose to place you, are two elderly ladles, who will receive

you as the daughter of one whom they sincerely love--for they are as

devoted to me as if I were a near and dear relative, and are acquainted

with much that concerns me. You will be as safe in their charge as if I

myself were with you: for, remember,--by to-morrow night I must have a

home--a good home--prepared for my Agnes,--and it will occupy me until

a late hour _this_ night to make the arrangements for the removal of

all my furniture and other property in the morning. In addition to all

this, Agnes, I should be compelled in any case to return to my house

this evening,--as there may be a communication of importance for me

there,--a communication from a generous friend--noble by nature as well

as by name--and who is interesting himself for me and for _another_----”

“Say no more, my dearest parent,” interrupted Agnes. “I am ready to

obey you in all things and to follow your counsel: but promise to

return and take me away with you as early as you can to-morrow,” she

added imploringly.

“Fear not, my darling Agnes,” replied the mother: “I shall be as

anxious to embrace you to-morrow as you possibly can be to see me.”

While this conversation was in progress between the two ladles in

the hackney-coach, the sun had set--twilight had become absorbed in

the shades of night--but the vehicle was now proceeding along the

Blackfriars-road, which was brilliant with the gas-lamps stretching

away in two approximating lines, and ultimately becoming confounded

together on the arching bridge in the distance.

At length the hackney-coach passed out of the Blackfriars-road into

Stamford-street; and Agnes, looking from the left-hand window, saw

that the three first houses on that side of the way, towards which her

eyes were turned, were in a condition so ruinous and dismantled as to

strike a chill to her susceptible heart. But the unpleasant sensation

almost instantly vanished, when the coach drew up at the door of a

house in excellent repair, and presenting, in outward appearance, a

remarkable contrast to those dilapidated buildings.

Here Agnes and her mother alighted; and the young maiden no longer

thought of the sinister-looking ruins adjoining, when she found herself

in a comfortable parlour, where both herself and parent received a

cordial welcome from two elderly ladies whose benevolent countenances,

agreeable manners, and kind speech were calculated to inspire

confidence at once.

The name of these maiden sisters was Theobald; and they were indeed

possessed of excellent dispositions and endowed with the most amiable

qualities. The moment that Agnes’ mother entered the room, they rose to

embrace her with the warmth of an unfeigned friendship; and even before

the young maiden was introduced to them, they exclaimed, as if suddenly

struck by the same sentiment, “Ah! this is the dear girl whom you have

so long pined to recover? We need not wait to be told that she is your

daughter: the likeness between you proclaims the fact!”

And then they embraced Agnes in her turn.

The young lady’s mother drew the elder Miss Theobald aside, and

said, “I propose to leave my beloved child with you for this night.

Circumstances compel me to return home without delay. I have decided

upon taking your beautiful little villa at Bayswater, and shall

remove all my furniture thither the first thing in the morning. It is

fortunate that the sweet dwelling should have been thus in want of a

tenant at this moment.”

“I am delighted for your sake, my dear friend,” responded Miss

Theobald, “that the villa is unoccupied. We will send one of our

servants at day-break to make all the necessary preparations for your

reception. Oh! how sincerely--how deeply do I congratulate you upon

having recovered your long-lost daughter!” added the kind-hearted

woman, in a tone of profound feeling.

“It is indeed a source of indescribable solace to my wounded spirit,

as you, my dear friend, may well conceive--for you are acquainted with

the principal events of my chequered existence. But I must now depart:

it is growing late--and ere I seek my couch this night, I shall have

arranged everything for my removal to Bayswater to-morrow.”

With these words the lady turned towards Agnes, saying, “My dearest

child, I leave you in the care of these excellent friends, whom it is

only necessary to know in order to love.”

“I feel that I do already love them, my dear mother,” responded the

young maiden, as she threw herself into her parent’s arms.

“Farewell--till to-morrow, my sweet Agnes: soon after mid-day you may

expect me--and the Miss Theobalds can tell you that the new home to

which you are then to accompany me, will leave you nothing to regret in

reference to your own little secluded cottage and beautiful garden in

Surrey.”

“Wherever I may dwell with you, dear mother--there shall I enjoy

contentment,” answered Agnes, tenderly embracing her whom in two short

hours she had thus learnt to love with an affection that seemed to have

existed for years.

“Adieu, my darling child,” murmured the fond mother; and she then took

her departure.

Agnes listened until the sounds of the retreating wheels were no longer

audible--or rather, until they were absorbed in the din of the numerous

vehicles passing in the immediate neighbourhood of the house: and then

a sudden chill seized upon her heart--a damp fell upon her spirits--her

feelings, powerfully excited by the incidents of the day, experienced

a rapid revulsion--and, unable to control her emotions, she burst into

tears.