In spite of her anxiety to place confidence in Mrs. Mortimer—in spite of the deep obligation under which she believed herself to be lying towards her, Agnes could not subdue a partial feeling of uneasiness when she found that she was in a strange house, evidently the abode of a rich person.

She gazed round the walls covered with splendid pictures—on the chandelier suspended to the ceiling—on the elegant and costly furniture—the superb mantel-ornaments—and down upon the luxurious carpet, so thick that her tiny feet were almost imbedded in it, as if she were walking in snow.

Whose dwelling could it be? Assuredly not Mrs. Mortimer’s—for she was only treated as a visitress. At length, after the lapse of a few minutes, the young maiden ventured to ask, “Who are the friends, madam, with whom you propose to leave me?”

“Does not that very question, Agnes, imply a suspicion injurious to me?” said Mrs. Mortimer, evasively.

“Oh! no—no!” exclaimed Miss Vernon, in a melting tone of the profoundest sincerity. “But may I not ask so simple a question without being liable to such a distressing imputation?”

“Can you not leave yourself in the hands of one who has saved your life and who wishes you well?” said the old woman, speaking in a voice of mingled reproach and conciliation.

“Yes—certainly, madam,” was the immediate answer: “but you yourself are not going to remain here—inasmuch as you have ordered the cabriolet to wait for you.”

“True, Agnes: because I have business of importance to transact at an early hour this morning, and at a considerable distance hence. Reassure yourself, my darling girl,” continued the iniquitous hag: “you will be delighted to meet the person whom you will presently see. Indeed, it is only a little surprise which I am preparing for you—and, after all I have done for you, you surely will not deny me the pleasure which I promise myself in beholding the interview between yourself and the owner of this splendid mansion.”

By degrees, as Mrs. Mortimer spoke, the countenance of Agnes brightened up; for it struck the young maiden that it was her mother whom she was now to meet—and this idea grew into a positive conviction by the time the old woman had uttered the last words of her sentence. She was accordingly about to express renewed gratitude for the happy surprise thus reserved for her, when the door opened and the domestic returned to the apartment.

“Madam, will you follow me?” he said, addressing himself to Mrs. Mortimer.

“My dear child,” observed the old woman, turning towards Agnes and patting her face with a show of affection, “you will remain here for a few minutes—a very few minutes; and then,” she added, with a sly smile, which meant as much as to intimate that she read the hope entertained by Agnes, and should speedily have the pleasure of gratifying it,—“and then, my love, you will not scold me for having kept you a little in suspense.”

Tears of gratitude trembled upon the long dark lashes of the beauteous maiden, although her lips were wreathed in smiles:—but when Nature melts into April softness, ’tis with mingled rain and sunshine.

While Agnes remained alone in the handsome parlour, cradling herself in the hope that the lapse of a few minutes would see her embraced in the arms of her mother, Mrs. Mortimer was conducted into another apartment, where she found herself in the presence of Lord William Trevelyan, who had dressed himself with as much despatch as possible.

“Well, madam,” he said, in a hasty and even anxious tone, “what has brought you hither at this unseasonable hour?—whom have you with you?—and wherefore this desire, as expressed to my domestic, to see me alone in the first instance?”

“My lord, it is Agnes Vernon who has accompanied me, and who is in the room which I have just left,” answered the old woman.

“I thought so—I was afraid that it was so, when the servant gave me a description of her—a very rapid and partial one, it is true, inasmuch as he beheld her only for a few moments. But, great heavens! madam,” continued the young nobleman, speaking with singular and unusual vivacity, “what means this strange proceeding?”

“That Agnes required an asylum, and I brought her hither,” was the response.

“And do you for an instant imagine, madam, that I am capable—that I would be guilty—that I——But, enough! I will say no more to you: I see through your real character—and I loathe and despise it! My God! to think that I should have enlisted a common procuress in my service! Oh! how can I ever look Agnes in the face?—how venture to accost her, after having thus offered her the most flagrant of insults? But, tell me, vile woman,” he exclaimed, seizing Mrs. Mortimer forcibly by the wrist, while his tone and manner alike indicated the most painful excitement,—“tell me, I say, by what detestable artifices you have induced that innocent and unsuspecting maiden to accompany you hither?”

“My lord, you will be ashamed of yourself for this unworthy conduct towards me, when you come to know all,—yes, ashamed and astonished at the same time,” said Mrs. Mortimer, assuming an air of offended dignity and wounded pride.

“How!—speak!” ejaculated Lord William, dropping the woman’s arm and surveying her with mingled surprise and repentance.

“I shall not waste precious time in entering into details,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer. “Yesterday morning I saw Agnes and induced her to peruse your letter. She was offended, and tossed it indignantly back to me.”

“Ah!” cried the nobleman, his countenance assuming an expression of extreme vexation.

“Yes—and here it is,” continued Mrs. Mortimer, producing the epistle from her reticule, and laying it upon the table.

“But she read it, you say?” exclaimed Lord William.

“Every word,” was the response. “Nevertheless, though softened and even pleased at first, she subsequently thought better of it, and rejected the communication in the manner I have described. I was disheartened, and felt unwilling to return to you with such unwelcome intelligence. An hour ago I quitted the house of a friend in Stamford Street; and in that same street the following adventure occurred to me.”

The old woman then related precisely the same anecdote which she had already told to Agnes, relative to the pretended rescue of that young lady from the power of a man who was bearing her along insensible in his arms.

The young nobleman was astounded; and his manner denoted incredulity.

“I perceive that your lordship puts no faith in my narrative,” said Mrs. Mortimer, who conjectured what was passing in his mind: “but the tale which Agnes can tell you, will corroborate it. She herself will inform you how she fell into the power of the ruffian from whom it was subsequently my good fortune to deliver her; and if you place confidence in her words, you will perforce be led to accord the same favour to mine?”

“And her tale—what is it?” demanded the nobleman, impatiently.

“Yesterday she discovered the mother whom she had lost since her infancy,” answered Mrs. Mortimer.

“Her mother!” exclaimed Trevelyan. “And where is that mother? who is she? Tell me, that I may hasten to her at as early an hour as possible, and implore of her to accord me the hand of her daughter.”

“Be not so hasty, my lord. I am totally unacquainted with Agnes Vernon’s mother; and she herself—poor artless girl! knows, I believe, but little more. It is however certain that the young lady was induced to accompany her newly-found parent from the cottage—that she was consigned to the care of two ladies named Theobald, and dwelling in Stamford Street—that in the night she became the prey to vague and unfounded terrors, which induced her to attempt an escape from the house—and that she fell into the hands of the man from whom I rescued her.”

“And wherefore have you brought her hither?” asked Lord William. “Why not have conducted her back to the ladies to whose care her mother had consigned her—or to the cottage where she has dwelt so long?”

“I have put you in the position of one who may perform a chivalrous action, and thereby win the permanent esteem, gratitude, and love of this beautiful creature whom you adore,” said Mrs. Mortimer; “and now you appear inclined to load me with reproaches. Yes—I perceive that reproaches are trembling upon your lordship’s tongue;—and I who have done all I could to serve you, shall experience nought save ingratitude. Oh! short-sighted lover that you are! Here is a young girl whom I pick up as it were houseless and homeless—and I am already half-way with her to your mansion, before I even learn from her lips how she came in Stamford Street at all, or that she has friends there. But when I do glean those facts, I find that she has escaped from the guardianship of those friends: and could I suppose that they would be willing to receive her again? Now, my lord, it is for you to grant her an asylum—to treat her with all imaginable delicacy and attention—and to leave me to find out her mother, that you may restore the lost daughter to the distracted parent. Doubtless the Miss Theobalds will give me the desired information: and then calculate the amount of gratitude that will be due to you! In spite of her father—whoever he may really be, and whatever opposition he might raise—Agnes is yours; and you gain the object of your heart’s dearest wishes.”

“And think you, woman,” exclaimed Lord William Trevelyan, unable any longer to subdue his resentment,—“think you that I will blast the fair fame of this young lady by retaining her for even a single hour beneath my roof?—think you that I will obtain for her the inevitable reputation of having been my mistress, previously to becoming my wife? No—a thousand times no! And do you imagine that I read not your heart aright? do you suppose that I am your dupe? I tell you, vile woman, that in bringing the innocent and artless Agnes hither, you fancied you would be throwing in my way a temptation which I could not resist,—a temptation which would thaw all my virtuous principles and honourable notions, and lead me to sacrifice the purity of the confiding girl to my passion. Yes—such was your base calculation: or you would at once and unhesitatingly have conducted her either to the abode of her friends in Stamford Street, or home to her own cottage! Ah! madam, because I belong to the aristocracy, you imagine that I must necessarily be as vile, depraved, and unprincipled as ninety-nine out of every hundred individuals who bear lordly titles. But you have deceived yourself—grossly deceived yourself: and you shall at once have the proof that you are so deceived! Follow me.”

Thus speaking, Lord William advanced rapidly towards the door, imperiously beckoning the vile woman to accompany him.

“Whither are you going, my lord?” she demanded, finding that she had indeed over-reached herself—that the nobleman’s principles were more profoundly rooted than she had imagined—and that all her trouble was likely to go unrewarded.

“Follow me, I say: as you have done this amount of mischief, you shall at least see it remedied to the utmost of my power;”—and the nobleman burst from the room, literally dragging the old woman with him.

In less than a minute they entered the apartment where Agnes was anxiously—oh! most anxiously awaiting the presence of her mother;—and the moment the door was opened, she darted forward to precipitate herself into the arms of her parent.

But, recognising Lord William Trevelyan, she stopped short with a cry of mingled disappointment, surprise, and alarm; while an ashy pallor overspread her countenance.

“Reassure yourself, Miss Vernon—I am your friend, and a man of honour!” were the encouraging words which Trevelyan hastened to address to her.

“And my mother?” said the young maiden, bending a look of earnest appeal upon Mrs. Mortimer, who however shrank back in confusion.

“Your mother is not here, Miss Vernon,” exclaimed the nobleman: “neither does this woman know where to find her. An act of the greatest imprudence has been committed in bringing you hither——”

“Oh! what do I hear?” cried Agnes, clasping her hands. “Is this your house, my lord? If so,” she added, with dignity succeeding grief, “I am innocent of any intention to intrude: indeed, your lordship might full well conceive that I should not have come hither of my own accord—oh! no—not for worlds!”

And tears rolled down the cheeks of the gentle girl for she felt humiliated in the presence of the very man in whose eyes, if her young heart had a preference, she would have fain appeared in another light.

“Oh! Miss Vernon, it is you who do not understand me!” ejaculated Lord William, advancing and taking her hand. “If I spoke of the imprudence which had been committed, it was on your account only! For believe me when I declare that I should be proud,—yes, and in the enjoyment of an elysian happiness, could you enter this mansion to remain here—to command here, with honour to yourself! But I will not avail myself of this opportunity to urge a suit that I have already ventured to prefer, and in the prosecution of which I unfortunately selected so improper an agent.”

As he uttered these words, he bent an indignant look upon Mrs. Mortimer, who turned away petulantly and made for the door.

“Stop, woman!” cried the young nobleman, hastening to detain her: “I cannot yet part with you, intolerable as your presence has become to me. “Miss Vernon,” he continued, again turning toward the maiden, whose sense of humiliation had vanished, and who in her heart of hearts now rejoiced in the conviction that Lord William Trevelyan was indeed as noble in nature as he was in name,—“I need scarcely observe that circumstances compel me to procure for you an asylum for the remainder of the night as speedily as possible. You will permit me to conduct you to the abode of a lady of my acquaintance,—a lady who will receive you with open arms, and who will to-morrow—or rather, in a few hours’ time—herself conduct you to the abode of your friends in Stamford Street, or to your own home near Streatham.”

With these words, the nobleman took the hand of the blushing Agnes, and led her from the house to the vehicle that was still waiting.

“Now, madam, you may depart,” he said sternly to Mrs. Mortimer, as soon as he had seated himself in the cab, opposite to Agnes.

The old woman turned sulkily away, muttering threats of vengeance; but these were unheeded by the chivalrous Trevelyan, who gave hasty instructions to the driver, and the vehicle rolled rapidly on towards Kentish Town.

Agnes could not do otherwise than appreciate all the delicacy of Lord William’s conduct towards her; for it is no disparagement to the extreme artlessness of her mind to state that she comprehended wherefore he had compelled Mrs. Mortimer to wait until they had quitted the house. But she could scarcely collect her bewildered ideas into a settled state—so rapid was the whirl of incidents and adventures through which she was doomed to pass on this memorable night. Had she paused to reflect upon her position, with that seriousness which it required, she would have requested the nobleman to conduct her at once to the dwelling of the Misses Theobald: but he had deported himself towards her with the generosity of a brother, and she acted in obedience to his suggestions without waiting to analyse them. In a word, she was full of confidence and ingenuous reliance in him; and she felt as if she had suddenly found a stanch and sincere friend in the midst of cruel difficulties and deep embarrassments. A dreamy kind of repose stole over her as she was borne along in the vehicle: and yet she not only heard the few remarks which her companion addressed to her, but likewise answered them in a befitting manner.

On his side Trevelyan was a prey to the strangest excitement; accident having not only thus procured him the acquaintanceship of her whom he loved so fondly, but having likewise placed them in a relative position, establishing as it were a friendship—almost an intimacy. Moreover, had he not touched her delicate white hand—touched it gently, it is true, and without venturing to press it,—but still touched it, and even held it for a few moments in his own? Had he not discovered, too, that if she appeared surpassingly lovely when seen from a distance, a nearer contemplation of her charms was only calculated to enhance his admiration and strengthen his devotion? And, lastly, had not the musical tones of her silver voice been breathed in his hearing, wafting words that were addressed to himself, and making every fibre in his heart vibrate deliciously to the dulcet sounds? Yes—all this he felt and appreciated; and he was happy.

The conversation that passed between them during the drive to Kentish Town was slight, and chiefly confined to such observations as a well-bred gentleman would address to a lady under circumstances of embarrassment, and to such responses as those remarks were calculated to elicit. The young nobleman was careful to avoid any allusion to the letter which he had sent to Agnes, or to the circumstances that had thus thrown them so singularly together; and she, understanding his forbearance and perceiving his unwillingness to take the least advantage of her peculiar position, felt her esteem—we might almost say her love—increase in his favour.

In about twenty minutes the cab stopped at the gate of a beautiful villa; and as the orient sky was now flickering with the first struggling beams of a summer sunrise, Agnes was enabled to obtain a tolerably distinct view of the picturesque spot. The fresh breeze, too, fanned her countenance, recalling the roses to her damask cheeks; and as she threw back the shining masses of hair from her forehead, Trevelyan’s eye could trace the blue veins so delicately marked beneath the white skin of that fair and polished brow.

On alighting at the entrance to the villa, Trevelyan and his beautiful companion were both struck by the glimmering of lights which shone through the divisions in the parlour shutters, and the rays of which, peeping forth, struggled with sickly effect against the dawning of a new day. Those lights, too, were evidently moving about; and it was therefore clear that the inmates of the dwelling were astir even at that early hour.

The summons at the front door was almost immediately responded to by a female servant, who, in reply to the young nobleman’s questions, stated that Mrs. Sefton was at home, and had risen thus early in order to make preparations for removal to a new house which she had taken in another suburb of London.

Trevelyan and Agnes were accordingly admitted forthwith; and the domestic conducted them to the parlour, where Mrs. Sefton was busily engaged in packing up her effects. She was much surprised when she heard Trevelyan’s voice, and immediately apprehended that some misfortune was in store for her—some evil tidings, perhaps, relative to Sir Gilbert Heathcote.

But scarcely had Agnes reached the threshold of the apartment, when—the moment Mrs. Sefton turned to receive her visitors—the young girl gave vent to an ejaculation of mingled astonishment and joy, and, bounding forward, was in the next instant clasped in that lady’s arms.

“My dearest—dearest mother!”

“Agnes—my beloved child!”

These were the words which explained to Trevelyan the scene that he now witnessed.