THE MARQUIS OF HOLMESFORD.
It was eleven o'clock on the following day, when the Marquis of
Holmesford rose from the arms of one of the houris who formed his harem.
He thrust his feet into a pair of red morocco slippers, put on an
elegant dressing-gown of gay-coloured silk, and passed from the room of
his charmer to his own chamber.
There he entered a bath of warm milk; and, while luxuriating in the
tepid fluid which imparted temporary vigour to a frame enfeebled by age
and dissipation, he partook of a bowl of the richest French soup, called
_consommée_, which his valet presented on a massive silver salver.
Having finished a broth that was well calculated to replenish the juices
of his wasting frame, the hoary voluptuary left the bath, which was
immediately wheeled into an adjacent chamber.
Every morning was a certain quantity, consisting of many gallons, of new
milk supplied for the use of the Marquis of Holmesford; and when it had
served him for one bath, it became the perquisite of his valet.
And what did this domestic do with it? Had he possessed hogs, he would
not have given to those unclean beasts the fluid which had washed off
all the impurities of his master's person:—no—he would not have allowed
the very pigs to partake of the milk with which the disgusting
exudations of the old voluptuary's body had commingled!
But he contracted with a milk-man whose "walk" was in a very poor
neighbourhood; and that milk-man paid the valet a certain sum daily for
the perquisite.
It was then retailed to the poor as the best "country grass-fed milk!"
Let us, however, return to the Marquis.
Upon quitting his bath, he commenced the mysteries of the toilet,—that
ceremony which involves so many repulsive details when connected with
old men or old women who have recourse to cosmetics or succedaneous
means to render less apparent the ravages of time and debauchery.
Taking out his complete set of false teeth, he placed them in a glass
filled with pure lavender water. His dressing-case supplied a silver
instrument to scrape the white fur from a tongue that denoted the fever
produced by the previous evening's deep potations; a pair of silver
tweezers removed the hairs from his nostrils; and, in the meantime, his
wig, stretched upon a block, was skilfully dressed by the valet.
It was past mid-day when Lord Holmesford quitted his chamber, looking as
well as all the artificial means which he adopted towards the
improvement of his person, and all the accessories of faultless clothes,
whitest linen, and richest jewellery, could render an old worn-out beau
of sixty-four.
As he was descending the stairs, a servant met him, and said in a
profoundly respectful tone, "Mr. Greenwood, my lord, is in the
drawing-room."
The Marquis nodded his head, as much as to say that he heard the
announcement, and proceeded to the apartment where the Member for
Rottenborough was waiting.
"Well, Greenwood, my boy," cried the Marquis, affecting the sparkling
hilarity of youth, and endeavouring to walk with a jaunty and easy air,
just as if his old bones did not move heavily in their sockets like a
door on rusty hinges; "how goes the world with you? As for me, by God! I
really think I am growing young again, instead——"
"Your lordship _does_ look uncommonly well," said Greenwood, who had his
own purposes to serve by flattering the nobleman; "and for a man of
fifty-two——"
"Come, Greenwood—that won't do!" cried the Marquis. "Fifty-one, if you
please, last birth-day."
"Yes—I meant in your fifty-second year, my lord," said Greenwood, with
admirable composure of countenance, although he well knew that the hoary
old sinner would never see sixty-four again:—"but, as I was observing,
you are really an astonishing man; and if I were married—egad! I should
deem it but prudent to request your lordship not to call at the house
except when I was at home!"
"Ah! you rogue, Greenwood!" exclaimed the Marquis, highly delighted at
the compliment thus conveyed—for with debauchees in fashionable life
such a degrading assertion _is_ a compliment, and a most welcome one,
too:—"no—no—not so bad as that, either, Greenwood. Friendship before
every thing!"
"No, my lord—_love_ before every thing with your lordship!" cried
Greenwood, gravely sustaining the familiar poke in the chest which his
former compliment had elicited from the old nobleman. "You are really
terrible amongst the women; and, some how or another, they cannot resist
you. By the bye, how gets on the action which Dollabel has against you?"
"What! Dollabel, the actor at the Haymarket!" ejaculated the Marquis.
"Oh! settled—settled long ago. My lawyer ferreted out an overdue bill of
his, for ninety-odd pounds, bought it up for seven guineas, sued him on
it, and threw him into some hole of a place in the City, that they call
Redcross——"
"No—Bluecross, I think," suggested Greenwood, doubtingly—although he
knew perfectly well to what place the Marquis was alluding.
"No—no—that isn't it either," cried the nobleman: "Whitecross
Street—that's it."
"Ah! Whitecross Street—so it is!" exclaimed Greenwood. "What a memory
your lordship has!"
"Yes—improves daily—better than when I was a boy," said the Marquis.
"But as I was observing, my solicitor threw Dollabel into Whitecross
Street gaol, and starved him into a compromise. I consented to give him
his discharge from the debt and a ten-pound note to see his way with
when he came out. But his wife was really a nice woman!"
"She was—a very nice woman," observed Greenwood. "You got out of that
little _crim. con._ very nicely. Then there was Maxton's affair——"
"What! the tea-dealer in Bond Street!" exclaimed the Marquis, chuckling
with delight as his exploits in the wars of love were thus recalled to
his mind. "Oh! that was not so easily settled, my dear fellow. It went
up to within a week of trial; and then Maxton agreed to stop all further
proceedings and take his wife back if she came with a cool two thousand
in her pocket. Well, my lawyer—knowing fellow, that!—drew him into a
correspondence, and got him to receive his wife. Home she went:—Maxton
met her with open arms—declared before witnesses that he was at length
convinced of her innocence—(this he said to patch up her reputation)—and
all was well till next morning, when he asked her to give him the two
thousand pounds, that he might take them to the Bank. Then she laughed
in his face—and he saw that he was done. _Condonation_, the civilians
call it—and so he could not go on with the suit. Capital—wasn't it?"
"Capital, indeed!" ejaculated Greenwood, nearly dying with laughter.
The Marquis never for a moment suspected it to be all forced, but rubbed
his hands together so briskly and chuckled so heartily, that a violent
fit of coughing supervened, and he was compelled to turn aside to hold
in his false teeth.
"Your lordship has caught a little cold," said the Member for
Rottenborough. "But it is nothing—a mere nothing: I often have a cough
like that. I've known many young men—much younger than your
lordship—have worse coughs."
"Oh! I know that it's nothing," cried the Marquis, still stammering with
a diabolical irritation in the throat.
"By the bye," said Greenwood, imagining that he had now so effectually
worked himself into the old nobleman's good graces that he might safely
explain the business that had brought him thither; "you are not in any
hurry for the ten thousand I borrowed of you at the beginning of the
year?"
"Not in the least, my dear fellow," returned the Marquis. "But, while I
think of it, what has become of the fair Georgian—the blue-eyed
Malkhatoun?"
"I handed her over to Dapper some time ago," answered Greenwood. "We
were, however, speaking of those ten thousand pounds——"
"A trifle—a mere trifle. Say no more about it," cried the nobleman.
"I expected as much from your lordship's generous friendship," said
Greenwood, obsequiously. "In fact, I came to tax you for a further
loan—just for a few days——"
"Impossible at present, my dear fellow!" interrupted the Marquis, rather
peremptorily; for he had entertained doubts of his friend's prosperity
for some time past; and this application only tended to confirm his
suspicions. "I am really so pressed at this moment——"
The dialogue was interrupted by the sudden entrance of a servant, who
said, "My lord, the Prince of Montoni requests an interview with your
lordship."
"The Prince—Richard—_here_!" exclaimed Greenwood, thrown off his guard.
"Show his Highness up immediately," said the Marquis, in the tone of a
man who was surprised but not alarmed at this visit.
"My lord," interrupted Greenwood, speaking in a hurried and thick tone,
"I have the most urgent reasons for not meeting the Prince of
Montoni—for not even being seen by him. I implore you not to say that I
am here—not even to allude to me."
And having uttered this hasty injunction, Greenwood passed into a back
drawing-room, which was separated from the front one by folding-doors.
But it was easy to overhear in the former apartment all that was said in
the latter.
Scarcely had the Member for Rottenborough thus retreated, when the
Prince was ushered into the presence of the Marquis of Holmesford.
Those two personages had never met before; and the moment they thus
found themselves face to face, they surveyed each other with rapid but
scrutinising glances.
On one side Richard Markham was naturally curious to behold the man,—the
monster in human form,—who could have practised so much villany against
so much virtue—who, in a word, had destroyed the happiness of the
deceased and lamented mother of Katharine.
On the other hand, the Marquis was struck by the handsome and noble
appearance of that fine young man, who had raised himself from a sphere
comparatively humble to an exalted position—who had led armies to a
crowning triumph through the deadly strife of battle—and who was himself
the personification of that generous spirit of political freedom which
now influences the civilised world from the banks of the Thames to the
waters of the Volga.
And, oh! what a contrast was formed in that splendid drawing-room where
a great Prince and a wealthy peer now met for the first time:—the one
possessing a heart beating with all the generous emotions that can
redeem frail humanity from some of the dire consequences of the Primal
Fall; the other accustomed to sacrifice all and every thing to his own
selfish lusts and degrading debaucheries:—the one endowed with that
manly beauty which associates so well with the dignity of high rank and
the aristocracy of virtue; the other sinking beneath the infirmities of
age and the ravages of dissipation:—the one noble alike by nature and by
name; the other noble only by name:—the one carrying his head erect, and
well able to meet the glance of every eye that would seek to penetrate
into the recesses of his soul; the other conscious of having outraged so
many hearts, that he quailed beneath the look of every visitor whose
business was not immediately announced:—the one, in a word, the type of
all that is great, good, chivalrous, and estimable; the other a
representative of a vicious hereditary aristocracy!
The Marquis requested our hero to be seated, and, having himself taken a
chair, waited for an explanation of the motives of this visit.
"I have called upon you, my lord," said Richard, "for the purpose of
requesting one half-hour's serious conversation on a subject which
deeply interests me and an amiable girl whom I only yesterday discovered
to be my sister. My name is not unknown to your lordship——"
"I have heard much of your Highness," interrupted the nobleman; "and am
well acquainted with those great achievements which have covered you
with glory."
"When I said that my name was not unknown to your lordship," continued
Richard, bowing coldly in acknowledgment of the compliment thus paid
him, "I did not allude to that title by which the forms of ceremony
compelled me to announce myself: I intended you to understand that the
name of _Markham_ must occupy no agreeable place in your lordship's
memory."
"Your Highness oversteps the bounds of courtesy in undertaking to answer
for the state of my feelings," exclaimed the Marquis, with evident signs
of astonishment: "your Highness insinuates that I have reason for
self-reproach; and this between strangers——"
"Pardon me for interrupting your lordship," said our hero, calmly but
firmly: "if we were personally strangers to each other until now, the
name of my deceased father was not unknown to you; nor am I unacquainted
with your conduct towards one who was dear to _him_. And now, my lord,
let us understand each other. I came not hither on an inimical
errand—scarcely even to reproach you. You are an old man—and it would be
unseemly in me, who am a young man, to assume a tone of intimidation or
of menace. But I come to request an explanation of a certain affair
which is to some degree enveloped in doubt and mystery—although, alas! I
dread the very worst:—I come as one gentleman seeks another, to demand
the only atonement that can be made for wrongs inflicted years ago on
him who was the author of my being;—and that atonement is a full avowal
of the past, so that no uncertainty even as to the worst may dwell in
the minds of those who are now interested in the subject to which I
allude."
"Your Highness is labouring under some extraordinary error," said the
Marquis of Holmesford, warmly. "I declare most solemnly that the name of
your father was totally unknown to me: indeed, I never heard of your
family until the newspapers first became busy with your own exploits in
Italy."
"Is this possible?" cried Richard: then, as a sudden reminiscence struck
him, he said in a musing tone, "Yes—it may be so. In her last letter
addressed to the Marquis of Holmesford poor Harriet intimated that the
name of her husband was unknown to him—and that letter was never sent!"
Although the Prince uttered those words rather in a musing tone to
himself than in direct address to the Marquis, the latter caught the
name of _Harriet_, and instantly became deeply agitated.
"Harriet, my lord?—did your Highness mention the name of Harriet?"
murmured the nobleman.
"Yes, my lord," continued Richard: "I see that I have hitherto been
speaking in enigmas. But I will now explain myself better. It is of one
whom you knew as Harriet Wilmot that I require explanations at your
hands."
"Harriet Wilmot!—yes—I knew her," said the Marquis, faintly: "I did her
grievous wrong! and yet——"
"Your lordship will understand wherefore I feel interested in all that
relates to Harriet Wilmot," interrupted Markham,—"when I declare to you
that she was secretly married to my own father—and it is her child whom
I yesterday embraced as a sister!"
"As there is a God in heaven, my lord," exclaimed the Marquis of
Holmesford, emphatically, "I never until this moment knew the name of
Harriet's husband; and with equal solemnity would I assert on my
death-bed that she was innocent, my lord—she was innocent!"
"Oh! if I could believe—if I were assured——"
Richard could say no more: he pressed his hand to his brow, as if to
steady his brain and collect his thoughts; and tears trembled on his
long black lashes.
"Prince of Montoni," cried the Marquis, rising from his seat, and
speaking with more sincerity and more seriousness than had characterised
his tone for many, many years; "I am a man of pleasure, I admit—a man of
gallantry, I allow; but I have no inclination to gratify, no interest to
serve, by uttering a falsehood now. Again I declare to you—as God is my
judge—that Harriet was innocent in respect to myself,—and I believe—nay,
I would venture to assert—innocent also with regard to others—and
faithful to her husband!"
"My lord," said Richard, in a voice tremulous with mingled emotions of
joy and doubt; and as he spoke, he also rose from his seat, and took the
nobleman's hand, which he pressed with nervous force,—"my lord, prove to
me what you have just stated—explain all that took place between
yourself and Harriet on that night which appears to have been so fatal
to her happiness,—show me, in a word, that she _was_ innocent,—and I
will banish from my mind all angry feelings which may have been excited
by the knowledge of your intrigues to undermine her virtue!"
"I cannot for a moment, hesitate to satisfy you in this respect," said
the Marquis. "Resume your seat, my lord—and I will narrate, as calmly
and distinctly as I can, all that transpired on the night when she was
inveigled to my house;—for I perceive that you are well acquainted with
many details concerning her."
"It is but right to inform you," observed Richard, "that the old woman
who aided your designs with regard to her whom I must consider to have
been my step-mother, has committed to paper a narrative of all which she
knew relative to that unfortunate young woman. But there is one gap
which your lordship must fill up—one mystery which is as yet unrevealed.
I allude to the incidents of that fatal night, when, even if Harriet
escaped innocent from this house, she, by some strange combination of
untoward circumstances, lost the confidence of my father—her husband—and
appeared guilty in his eyes."
"And yet she _was_ innocent!" exclaimed the Marquis, emphatically.
"Listen, Prince, to what I am about to say. The old woman to whom you
have alluded, inveigled Harriet to my house—and, I confess, by my
instructions. I knew that she was married; but the old woman told me not
to whom—even if she knew."
"She _did_ know," remarked our hero; "but the marriage was kept
secret——"
"And I never asked the vile procuress any particulars concerning it,"
interrupted the Marquis. "All I coveted was Harriet's person: I cared
nothing for her connexions or circumstances. The young mother came
hither, with her child in her arms. One of my female servants took the
babe from her, and locked her in a room where she expected to find the
woman whom she believed to be her friend. But she was alone with me! She
knew me—and the conviction that she was betrayed flashed to her mind the
moment her eyes met mine. Then she fell upon her knees, and implored me
to save her—to spare her. I was inflamed with wine—maddened with desire;
and I heeded not her prayers. I attempted to reason with her;—but not
all the tempting offers I made her—not all the promises I uttered—not
all the inducements I held out, could persuade her to submit to my
wishes. I was already a widower, and I even swore to make her my wife,
so soon as a divorce could be obtained between herself and her husband,
if she would become my mistress. No:—she wept and shrieked—she prayed
and menaced—she grew violent and imploring, by turns. At length—for I
must tell you all—I had recourse to violence: I was no longer able to
master my passions. But she resisted me with a strength and energy that
surprised me. I was completely baffled—and Harriet remained innocent!"
"Thank God—thank God!" exclaimed Markham, fervently clasping his hands
together.
"Yes, my lord—she remained innocent," continued the Marquis; "and, when
I myself grew more cool, I felt ashamed—humiliated—cast down, in the
presence of that young woman who had preserved her virtue from my
violence,—the first who ever entered that room and conquered _me_! I
suddenly experienced an admiration for her—such as I had never known
till then on behalf of any female! I approached her—in my turn I became
a suppliant;—but it was for pardon! I deplored the outrage I had
committed—I went upon my knees to ask her forgiveness.—'_My child!_' she
suddenly exclaimed, as if awaking from a profound reverie.—I rang the
bell, and received her child at the door: in my own arms I carried the
babe to her. She covered it with kisses; and my manner touched her—for
she declared that she would pardon me, if I never molested her more. I
called heaven to witness the sincerity of the oath that I then pledged
to observe this condition. Two hours had thus elapsed; and when she was
composed, I rang the bell and ordered a hackney-coach to be fetched.
When the vehicle arrived, I escorted her to it. But as I handed her down
the steps of the front door, a gentleman, who was passing at the moment,
caught sight of her countenance.—'_Harriet!_' he exclaimed, in a voice
of mingled astonishment, rage, and despair.—'_My husband!_' she cried,
with a wild shriek; and she would have fallen on the pavement, had I not
caught her in my arms.—'_Sir_,' I said to the stranger, '_this lady is
innocent, although appearances may be against her._'—'_Innocent!_' he
repeated, in a tone of bitterness and grief: '_innocent when she comes
calmly from the house of the Marquis of Holmesford, and sinks into the
Marquis of Holmesford's arms! No: I am not to be deceived! Harriet, vile
woman, I cast you off for ever!_'—And, with these words, the stranger
hurried away."
"Alas! that was my poor father!" said Markham, the tears trickling down
his cheeks.
"I had no opportunity to explain the circumstances that had occurred,"
continued the nobleman, after a pause. "Your father disappeared with the
rapidity of lightning; and the moment he was gone, Harriet burst from my
arms, evidently in pursuit of him. I was so bewildered with the
suddenness of these events, that I remained transfixed as it were to the
spot. At length I hurried down the street after Harriet;—but I could not
overtake her. Distressed beyond measure, I returned home, vented my
wrath upon the old woman, whom I loathed as the authoress of this
misfortune, and drove her from my house. The wretch wrote to me
afterwards, and even endeavoured to obtain an interview with me; but I
would never see her more."
"And did your lordship lose sight of poor Harriet altogether?" asked
Richard.
"I once received a letter from her," was the reply: "I think it must
have been about a year after the occurrences which I have just related.
She wrote in a mild and respectful tone—declaring that the sufferings of
her half-famished child could alone have induced her to apply for
assistance to me. I enclosed her a hundred pounds, and desired her in my
letter of reply never to hesitate to avail herself of my purse—as I
should not attempt to take any advantage of the assistance which I might
render her. But to my astonishment she sent back eighty pounds—retaining
only twenty, and declaring in a brief note that she felt ashamed of
being even compelled to accept that sum. I never heard from her again;
but I gather from your Highness's observations that she is no longer
living!"
"She died unhappily,—miserably upwards of thirteen years ago," said
Richard. "A strange combination of circumstances threw me in the way of
her daughter,—the orphan whom she left—about fifteen months ago; and it
was only last night that I discovered a sister in her whom I had known
as Katherine Wilmot."
"Katherine Wilmot!" exclaimed the Marquis: "surely that name is known to
me?"
"My sister was accused of a crime which the Rev. Reginald Tracy had in
reality perpetrated; and——"
"I remember the occurrence full well," interrupted the Marquis. "When
that exposure of the rector of Saint David's took place, I was struck by
the name of Wilmot; but I suspected not for a moment that the Katherine
Wilmot, who was concerned in that affair, and whose innocence transpired
so clearly, was the daughter of poor Harriet."
"Katharine Markham—for such is now her name," said Richard, "was for a
period the victim of circumstantial evidence—even as a combination of
unfortunate circumstances had persecuted her mother before her. Yes—it
was evidence of that kind which ruined Harriet in the eyes of my father!
But I shall intrude no longer upon your lordship—unless it be to say
that your candid explanation this day has gone far to retrieve the past
in my estimation. For, oh! my lord—you can perhaps understand how
welcome to me is the conviction that the mother of my newly-discovered
sister was virtuous:—and to her, poor girl! the assurance of her
parent's innocence will be joyful indeed! Every thing is now cleared
up—and the narrative of Katherine's parentage is complete. Its truth is
proved by the fact that certain letters now in my possession are in the
handwriting of my father; and some which Harriet also wrote, correspond
with a fragment of a note that the poor creature commenced on her
death-bed, and which has remained in her daughter's possession. One link
was alone wanting to make the history perfect—the occurrence of that
night which was so fatal to my step-mother's happiness. That link your
lordship has supplied;—and I thank you."
The Prince then took his leave of the Marquis.
Scarcely had Richard left the room, when Greenwood re-entered it from
the back apartment.
His countenance was pale—his manner was agitated.
"What is the matter with you?" demanded the Marquis, astonished at his
friend's altered mien.
"Your lordship cannot divine how nearly all that I have overheard
concerns _me_," was the answer.
And Greenwood left the house abruptly.
We must leave the reader to imagine the joy that prevailed at Markham
Place, when the Prince returned thither, the bearer of those happy
tidings which proved the legitimacy of Katherine and the innocence of
her departed but not unlamented mother.