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.