“Honour!” repeated Jennings; “so then he’s a gentleman, as I suspected.”
“Permit me, Captain Jennings,” said Doctor Robertson, “to recommend to you, what I conceive honour and common sense alike indicate, as the proper course to be pursued in this painful affair. I have not had until this moment, it is true, an opportunity of so much as even speaking to you upon this subject, and do not know, even if I had, that I was at liberty to introduce it. I can have now, however, no scruple in fully telling you my mind; and I must say, that the extreme imprudence into which you have led an inexperienced and fondly-attached girl, threatens seriously to compromise her, not only with her own relatives, but in the eyes of the world. You have placed her in a situation calculated, unless it be at once explained, to prejudice her reputation fatally; and I am bound to say, as an old friend of the family, that unless you come forward frankly, and put Sir Arthur in possession of the real state of facts, I shall feel it my duty to do so myself.”
“There is no need of any disclosure—at least immediately,” said the young man, hurriedly. “Everything is arranged. No one but her old attendant has access to her chamber at home, and Sir Arthur and young Chadleigh don’t see her once in five weeks. They don’t suspect anything, and need not. Is it not clear that an explosion—a scene—just now, would be about the worst thing in the world for her?”
“Very true,” said Doctor Robertson, drily; “all very true; but if there be an explosion, there is no need it should reach her ears. No, no, sir. Believe me, the only honourable course now open before you, is that of promptitude and candour. You ought, without the delay of an hour, to acquaint Sir Arthur with the fact of your marriage.”
“And who the devil—” began Jennings, with a look which partook at once of rage and terror. The expression remained fixed for a time, but the sentence died away unfinished; and muttering some incoherent words, he walked, with a sort of half-agitated, half-defiant air, twice or thrice across the floor, and stopping at the empty fireplace, planted his foot upon the bar, and stood looking vacantly into the inhospitable grate, with an aspect as black and cheerless as its own.
“Well, sir,” said Doctor Robertson, somewhat sternly, “you will, of course, act as you think proper; but I again advise you to be the first to open this affair to Sir Arthur; for, as I have already told you, he shall otherwise learn it all from myself. I have a very strong opinion about it.”
“Of course, of course,” said Jennings, petulantly; and continued, in a haughtier tone, perhaps intended to show Doctor Robertson that his further pursuing the subject would be considered impertinent—“By the way, sir, I ought to have thanked you before this for your able professional assistance.”
“Sir, I intended no obligation whatever to you. My interest is naturally strongly engaged on the poor young lady’s account,” replied Doctor Robertson, gruffly, as he buttoned up his greatcoat to his chin, and then drew on his warm gloves; “for her I would, if need were, do a great deal more.”
He turned, stiflly and grimly, from the young man, shook me again by the hand, and took his departure.
Almost at the same moment, in obedience to an intimation from the attendant, Captain Jennings proceeded up the stairs, to the chamber where the young lady lay. As he followed the matron upstairs, the wailing of a newborn baby reached his ears. This feeble and plaintive appeal to his paternal sympathies, was probably far from welcome; for he looked as if, but for very shame, he would have cursed the helpless little creature; and now he stood at the chamber-door. Perhaps some touch of better feelings moved him, for his look grew sadder and softened. He entered. Faint, and with eyes half-closed, the fair young mother—her sore trial over—lay in the hushed and darkened room. Weak and exhausted as she was, a faint cry of joy broke from her pale lips; and such a look of ecstasy welcomed his appearance, as must have moved a heart of stone.
“Oh Richard, Richard—oh! Richard,” was all the poor creature could say, as he stooped over the bed and kissed her, with at least a show of fondness; while her feeble arm was clasped round his neck with an agony of delight, as if she had never hoped to have seen him again.
“Oh! Richard—Richard, darling!—it is you—darling, it is you!”
She clung to him, sobbing, and smiling, and softly repeating words of endearment, till, gently disengaging himself, he kissed her again, clasped her hand in his, and pressed it, and wrung it fondly, as he sat by the bedside. Thus silently testifying his affection, he leaned back, so that the curtain interposed between his face and hers. Two or three bitter tears started down his cheeks, and such a look of unutterable anguish darkened his countenance, as might have shadowed the eternal despair of the damned. Thus some minutes passed, while he pressed the feeble hand he held with a feverish grasp.
This interview was prolonged to more than an hour; and at length Jennings, warned by the approach of the dawn, took his departure, in sore disorder and dismay—his heart agitated with a tumult of terrible passions and sensations, his brain burning with a thousand wild and irreconcilable plans and projects—a thoroughly miserable man.
Meanwhile, I had returned to my lodgings, and thrown myself into bed, not to awaken to the remembrance of my last night’s strange adventure until late in the day. It is, of course, unnecessary to say, that I felt the intensest curiosity respecting the progress and final denouement
