A STARTLING DISCOVERY.
The following morning Aunt Jane received a letter, which, to her great
dismay and annoyance, obliged her to proceed at once to London, on some
urgent business connected with her late sister’s affairs. I was more
particularly grieved at losing her so unexpectedly, as my guardian had
written to say he was to return in a few days.
I cried most bitterly at parting, and implored her to return as soon as
possible, as I dreaded the arrival of Mr. Henry Mordaunt fearfully. She
kissed away my tears, and her dear little brown eyes looked so hopefully
into mine that I was somewhat comforted.
Aunt Jane had never been pretty, I heard, but she had the most cheering
and hope-giving countenance I ever saw. I ought to have described her,
but I knew when they gave me all that foolscap paper I should never
write this properly. I have described nothing, only just put down the
impression places and people gave my selfish self.
I think the impression her hopeful face at parting gave me, lasted all
that day; but, alas! the next morning my guardian arrived, and there was
such a look of obstinate resolve in his face, and in the decided tones
of his harsh voice, that I felt a vague and most depressing dread of
some impending misfortune. This was increased when he told Mrs.
Mordaunt, in a solemn and significant tone, that he had something very
particular to tell me, and begged for a few minutes’ conversation with
me in the library.
“Oh! come with me there!” I implored of Mrs. Mordaunt.
But he peremptorily refused this; and she, not understanding my fears,
hinted that I had better hear what he had to say.
Mrs. Mordaunt was decidedly a weak woman, though really, as well as
apparently, good-natured, and I felt more angry with her at that moment
than even with Mr. Mordaunt; but I had often observed that he had a
wonderful influence over her, which I afterwards attributed to
mesmerism. I often remember the exact words of the conversations I had
even before that memorable one with Henry Mordaunt; but there was
something so bewildering in the statements he made in that interview,
that it now seems like a terrible dream, and I cannot put it into words.
Yet nothing could be more clear than his statements, or more decisive
than his words, looks, and resolutions. The result of it all was that I
must either consent to be his wife, and retain for my own exclusive use
and disposal Langdale Priory property; or, in the event of my refusal, I
was to lose it all, and become actually penniless.
He held in his hands the undeniable proofs that my father’s elder
brother had married the Canadian girl, Rosalie, and she had given birth
to a son a few months after her husband’s death. But as yet no one knew
of this fact, except one person, who was completely in Henry Mordaunt’s
power, and on whose secrecy he could fully rely. Of course he declared
that he loved me so deeply that he could not exist unless I consented to
be his wife. He then painted in glowing colours the good I could do if I
retained possession of my property and old family place; and drew an
equally vivid picture of what my life would be if I were deprived of all
means of subsistence; for my mother had scarcely any fortune at all. I
knew we should not have sufficient to live in the luxury to which she
had always been accustomed.
He ended by declaring that if I promised to say nothing at all about
this to anyone, he would allow me two days for consideration; but
without that promise he must at once declare publicly the real state of
the case, and give up the property to the real heir, and re-instate him
in all his rights.
“Oh, that I could have seen Aunt Jane!” thought I. Yet there is but one
thing for me to do--if my uncle had really married the girl of whom I
had already heard, his son must have a right to the property, and what
could be more unjust than an attempt to deprive him of it?
Then I gave vent to the anger and indignation I felt, and reproached him
bitterly for his meanness in offering to keep the matter secret.
The fact was that he had probably not given me credit for sufficient
honesty of purpose. He had built upon a want of early training, and
expected that I should have no objection to the subterfuge and deceit he
intended, in order to save my inheritance. He soon saw the mistake he
had made, and I perceived that he dreaded lest I should proclaim to the
world the disgraceful conditions he had offered in the event of my
consenting to be his wife.
For a moment he seemed staggered, and assumed his old oily and
insinuating manner, and looking beseechingly in my eyes, said,
“Well, your beauty will be my excuse, and the wish to protect my dear
friend, your loved father’s child, from loss; and perhaps at some
future time, when the world has turned its cold side towards you, and
that you have experienced the loss of the Marchese Carlo’s love, which I
am convinced will not last when you become poor--at some future day you
may be glad to accept me. For I am rich, richer than you could ever have
supposed I should be. The same ship which brought the proof of your
loss, brought the news that a mine, in which I had purchased shares many
years ago, has become most successful, and at this moment I could easily
realize a million.”
“Your fortune could make no difference to me; I would much rather starve
or sweep the streets,” said I, with a proud and defiant look; at the
same moment a vision of the often-dreaded poverty gave me a cold
shudder, which I endeavoured to conceal by rushing abruptly out of the
room.
I ran to my own apartment, and after locking the door, threw myself on
the floor in a paroxysm of despair. Yes, I was most unheroic, I was
almost as rebelliously and wickedly miserable as when my dear father
died nearly four years before. All the accomplishments and languages I
had learnt since then, the good nun’s training, the books I had read,
and even the words Aunt Jane had spoken, availed nothing to quiet the
rebellious anger and despair which made me writhe and tear my hair in
agony.
“But, Carlo,” I at last thought, “he surely will not desert me; and why
cannot we be happy in Italy, where, if one cannot have luxuries, our
real wants are fewer than in England; and then my voice, so praised by
composers--I could go on the stage, as many have done; and Carlo, even
if his father is angry and gave him nothing, he too has a fine voice and
could act, when we might still be almost happy.”
As these ideas gradually developed themselves in my mind, I rose from
the floor and went to the window. But alas! the lovely view over my
favourite south gardens--the splendid woods beyond reflected in the
clear water; the village cottages or the hill beyond, surmounted by the
beautiful spire of the ancient church; the pretty school my dear father
had built, and all the children I had learnt to know, and the old
cottagers who talked to me of my father and the old family: all this I
must leave for ever.
Again I threw myself down in a paroxysm of despair. Soon, however, a
knock at the door, and the sound of Mrs. Mordaunt’s voice, roused me;
and ashamed of being seen in such abject grief, I started up and
smoothed my hair and dress. I had more pride, probably, though not more
resignation than when I so selfishly shut myself up after my father’s
death. I could not bear to let Mrs. Mordaunt see how badly I bore this
trial. For I concluded that she must have heard of it. But I found that
she had not. She only fancied there was some bad news, because Mr. Henry
looked so miserable, she said, when he came back into the drawing-room,
and he had asked for a private interview with her husband. She then
looked for me in the garden, as she concluded I had gone to my favourite
seat, where the table was generally covered with my books or drawing
things. I then tried to describe to her all that had passed, and how it
had turned out that I was no heiress at all. I say tried, because poor
dear Mrs. Mordaunt was rather stupid and very slow of comprehension, and
the whole thing seemed so strange that she could not understood it at
all.
“But we rent this place,” she said, “and no one can turn us out till you
are of age, and surely you can live here with us.”
“It must belong to--to my cousin,” said I, with a kind of vague wonder
as to what sort of person this cousin, the rightful heir of the old
property, was likely to be. For a few minutes the wondering
speculations about him distracted my mind from my own misfortune. Would
he be like my father, and should I like him so well as to be reconciled
to my loss?
“But he cannot love the place nor my dear father’s memory as I do.”
“You seem to bear all this with most proper resignation,” said Mrs.
Mordaunt.
But I could not bear to be praised for what I did not deserve, so I
confessed what a state of utter and most rebellious despair I had been
in.
“There is no need for that either,” said the dear matter-of-fact woman;
“surely you will have a right to some fortune; and then this cousin,”
she said, with a sudden smile, as if surprised at her own brilliant
imagining, “who knows but this rightful heir, as you call him, will be
very handsome, as I hear his father was; and when he sees you he will
certainly fall in love, and then--then you will be mistress of this
place after all.”
“Oh! that is impossible,” I declared; and then I told her for the first
time of my engagement to my mother’s cousin, Carlo.
“Oh! dear, that is a sad misfortune. I don’t like foreigners at all. You
know it was your dear father’s greatest misfortune that he took up
with--I mean--of course you cannot help having an Italian mother, but,
you know, she took him away from this place, which he loved so much,
where his presence was of so much use to all the country round. You
can’t think how he was looked up to by all parties,” she added. “Oh!
it’s a sad pity you should have gone and engaged yourself that way, and
before you went to school even. I should have thought you must have
forgotten each other by this time. Well, to be sure, as the maids say,
things will be so contrary; but I really don’t seem able to take all
this in yet, nor shall I till I see what you call the rightful owner
with my very own eyes.”