STORMS
I cannot name his name!
Vengeance to God alone belongs,
But when I think of all my wrongs
My blood is liquid flame!—_Scott._
“Mother! sweet mother, mine! a boon! a boon!” said Perdita, playfully
and coaxingly, hanging around Lady Adelaide’s neck, as they sat together
next morning in their private parlor.
“Well, my dear, what is it?” inquired the latter, anxiously.
“Mrs. Norl plays again to-night, and I want you to let me go and see
her.”
“Again, to the theatre, to-night, my dear! That is too often. No, I
cannot consent.”
“But, oh, mamma, you do not know how I long—how greatly I long to see
her again!” pleaded Perdita, clasping her hands and fixing her eyes
prayerfully on the lady’s face.
“Perdita, my dear, just consider that this is unreasonable!”
“Is it, mamma? I cannot help it! for if I am not permitted to go and see
her, I do think my heart will go right out of my bosom after her! for I
feel her drawing it all the while! and what should I do without my
heart?”
“Perdita, you talk like a silly lover.”
“Well, mamma, I do believe that I am in love with that beautiful
goddess.”
“Perdita, I cannot permit you to go again to-night! so let us hear no
more of it.”
The brow of that young girl, usually so bright and frank, now grew dark
and sullen. She took up her embroidery frame, sat down, turned her back
towards Lady Adelaide and worked on in silence, until she saw Mr.
Deville come up the stairs and enter the little room at the end of the
hall, occupied by him as a study. Then she arose, followed him into the
room, shut the door, and with the privileged familiarity of a dear
child, sat down upon his knees, threw her arms around his neck, drew
down his whiskered face to hers and kissed him.
“What does my little daughter want, now?” asked Orville Deville, gazing
down into her beautiful, dark, bright face, and wondering with concealed
but painful interest whether this beloved and most bewitching creature
were indeed, as Lady Adelaide supposed, _his_ child, the child of
Lionne.
“What does my little daughter want, now, that she coaxes me so
sweetly,—a new necklace?”
“No, father.”
“A new gown? a hat? a spencer? Come, name your wish!”
“It is none of these things, father.”
“What is it, then? Come! speak! you will not find me hard!”
“It is to go this evening again and see Mrs. Norl!”
“My dear, no! your mother does not approve of your doing so!”
“Neither did she yesterday, but you took me, nevertheless,” said
Perdita, changing countenance.
“My dear, yes, I took you, somewhat against her approbation, a
circumstance which I see cause, now, to regret!”
“Father! father! do not say so! Yesterday, by speaking to mamma, you
gained her consent, and you can do the same to-day.”
“No! I only silenced her opposition; and I _could_ not do the same
to-day! Perdita! your persistence is, under the circumstances, improper,
indelicate, even ungrateful!”
“Why, dear father?”
“Because of Lady Adelaide’s known disapprobation!”
“But, father, I do so long with all my heart and soul to see that
wondrous woman again!” exclaimed the young girl, clasping her hands and
straining her eyes in the earnestness of her appeal.
“The greater reason for your not being permitted to do so! This woman
has turned your head! Enough, Perdita! say no more! I regret that I ever
took you thither! I shall take you no more!” said Mr. Deville, in that
tone of firm determination from which his daughter knew there was no
appeal.
With an angry flush upon her dark and sullen brow, she arose and
silently withdrew.
All the remainder of that day, Perdita remained in her own room,
appearing only at meal times.
“That girl is certainly bewitched,” said Donald Lorne to himself; “she,
usually so bright and frank, now grown go dark and reserved! I cannot
understand it at all!”
But Lady Adelaide and Mr. Deville understood it well, and deeply
regretted having thrown their very impressible charge in the way of that
fateful woman.
The next day Mr. Deville found still more cause to regret that
unfortunate step.
As he sat in his little study engaged in penning a letter to his
overseer at River-view, a servant entered and handed him a note and
retired. He opened it in haste and read:
“Mrs. Norl wishes to see Mr. Deville at her apartment, in the theatre
building, this forenoon.”
“Shall I go—or not?” was his thought, as he held the note suspended in
his hand. “I will go,” was his conclusion, as he arose, threw on his
cloak, took down his hat, and sallied forth into the street. A rapid
walk of ten minutes brought him to the theatre. He entered by the
private or stage door, and asked of the young man in attendance, to be
shown to Mrs. Norl’s room. With a bow, that official walked before him,
and opening the door of an apartment beneath the stage, announced:
“Mr. Deville,” and retired.
Orville Deville entered the room.
Lionne was seated in the easy chair beside the centre-table. She was
dressed in a crimson cashmere walking-habit, a mantle of sables, and
wore upon her head a crimson velvet hat, with black ostrich plumes. Her
dark, bright face was flushed with excitement, as, without rising, she
motioned to her visitor to take a seat.
“You have honored me with a summons to your presence, madam, and I am
here,” said Mr. Deville.
Lionne bowed, and vouchsafed no further answer.
“Will you condescend to inform me to what circumstance I am indebted for
this distinction, and also in what manner I can serve you?” inquired Mr.
Deville, coolly.
“You shall know anon,” deliberately replied the lady.
“Will you permit me to inquire why, since this interview was imperative,
why I was not summoned to your apartments, which nearly join my own, at
the City Hotel?” demanded Deville.
“I never receive gentlemen in my private apartments,” replied Lionne.
“Let me at least know the business upon which you have summoned me.”
“Assuredly!——The young girl who was with you at the theatre on Monday
night, why was she not brought on last night?”
“Because I did not think proper to indulge her.”
“And _not_ because she did not desire to come! I am answered.”
“Yes; though I do not recognize your right to ask.”
“No matter. I have the means of compelling you to recognize any right
which I may claim. And to-day I intend to put that means in force.”
“Explain yourself, madam!”
“I will. To-night I play Queen Katharine in Henry VIII. I wish to have
that young girl present at the performance.”
“Arrogant woman! your ‘_wish_’ shall not be gratified. She shall _not_
be again exposed to your syren arts!” exclaimed Deville, firmly.
“Remember that I have the means of enforcing my will!” sneered Lionne.
“Remorseless fiend, you have not! I tell you now, do your very worst!
You have come to the end of your power over me. No more ‘black mail’ in
any shape or form can be raised from me upon the sins of my youth,”
exclaimed Deville, indignantly.
“Ha? is it so? Do you, then, no longer recognize, or no longer regard
this document?” sneered Lionne, laying before him a copy of that fatal
marriage-certificate.
“Yes, madam; I recognize and I regard it. But I no longer fear—I defy it
and you!”
“Madman! to-morrow this document, exposed, must consign you to a
prison!” exclaimed Lionne.
“Let it do so. The fate cannot be more dishonoring than the slavery to
which its existence has condemned me for the last ten years! Lionne! I
tell you, once for all, I am resolved to break the spell that binds me,
and to dare the worst! Go! proclaim to the world my sins and your
wrongs!”
“Orville Deville! a disposition to relent and to forgive—a disposition a
stranger to my heart for years—comes over me!” said Lionne, in a changed
and melting tone. “Orville Deville, my heart yearns for that child whom
I saw seated at your side in the box on Monday night! Orville Deville,
give her to me! My soul cries for her. She is only your adopted
daughter—not dear to you, not necessary to you. Give her to me, and we
are quits for life!”
“Lionne, your demand is madness, and cannot be gratified,” said Deville,
firmly.
“Orville, give me that girl that my soul craves as its salvation, and I
will give back into your hands these fatal documents, by the possession
of which I hold your position, honor, and liberty at my disposal!”
“No, Lionne, no! I were baser than the basest could I sell for such a
price a child so dear to Lady Adelaide!” said Deville, sadly, but
firmly.
“Yet she is not the child of Lady Adelaide! And _my_ heart yearns
towards her with a passion potent enough to overcome all other feelings
in my bosom! Orville Deville, I adjure you to tell me—_who and what is
that child_?” exclaimed Lionne, rising and clasping her hands, and
straining her eyes upon him in the earnestness of her entreaty.
“Madam, you must permit me, for the present, to decline answering your
question!”
“Orville Deville! if I free you from all the earthly consequences of
your crime—if I give into your hands the only existing proof of that
crime—will you give me that child?” prayed Lionne, with clasped hands.
“No, madam, I will not!” replied Deville, folding his arms.
“If, in addition to that, I consent to go far away from your sphere, and
molest you no more forever, will you then give me the desired of my eyes
and heart?”
“No, madam; I will not!”
“If, in addition to all the rest, I sign a paper, ceding to you the
lands and lordships of Glen Lennark, then will you give me this child?”
“No, Lionne, no!” said he determinedly.
“In truth, it seems to me like madness, the desire I have to possess
that girl. Deville! hitherto I have rather chosen to _hold_ than to
_use_ the power I possess over you! By it I have chosen rather to
_control_ than to destroy you.”
“To _torment_ me, rather. But, Lionne, your power of threatening and
tormenting is at an end this day, when I resolve to dare the worst!”
“Or shall be at an end to-morrow, when, unless that girl shall be given
up to me, I shall strike my last blow and—destroy you!”
“Do so, then, madam! Give me the _coup de grace_, it will be a mercy!”
“You are mad to refuse an offer that I am as mad, perhaps, to make you!
But if between this and to-morrow morning, you should have a lucid
interval, send me word that you accept my offer; else prepare for prison
and a disgraceful exposure.”