A DISAGREEABLE INTERRUPTION.
Mr. Mordaunt fulfilled his intention of starting quite early the next
morning for Langdale Priory, intending to sleep at the inn in the
nearest town, and return on the following day.
Lady Horatia never came down before luncheon, so I made use of the piano
in the drawing-room, under the guidance of the little Brownie. In the
middle of one of my songs, in which the little girl kept up a kind of
acting accompaniment, the door opened, and, to my dismay, Mr. Henry
Mordaunt was announced. I had hoped never to see him again, and wondered
how he could venture to seek me out in this manner. I therefore took it
for granted that he wished to see Mrs. Mordaunt, and I said I would go
and find her. I hastily left the room. Could the man be really in love
with me that he thus persevered, now that I had lost my property, I
thought. I then wished that Lady Horatia had been made acquainted with
his insolent proposal, for I dreaded lest she might good-naturedly ask
him to dinner, or to some party. So I whispered to Brownie that I should
like, if possible, to have a few words with her mother.
“You don’t like that man, I see,” said the shrewd child; “and I hate
him, because he interrupted our song, and made you look angry and
unhappy; and I am sure mamma won’t like him. She never does like people
who look so pretentious and disagreeable as that man does. She will not
ask him, I am certain.”
“I hope not. And that is just what I want--to try and prevent her. He is
related to us, and I am afraid she might.”
We were now at the top of the stairs, and Brownie opened Lady Horatia’s
door, and I heard her say that I wished to speak to her.
“You won’t want me, I know--she has got something very particular to
say, I see by her anxious face, so I’ll go and finish my lessons.”
Yes, I had something very particular to say; and, impelled by the kind
sympathy of her face, I told her of the persecution to which my guardian
had always subjected me, and of his infamous offer to keep the matter
secret and allow me to retain possession of my property, if I would
consent to marry him. I also told her of the still greater horror I had
experienced at his surmise that the world would blame my father, and
imagine that he had suppressed the fact of his elder brother’s marriage
after becoming acquainted with it.
“Impossible!--he was too well known for that,” said Lady Horatia,
indignantly; and then added, while she kissed me tenderly--“My poor
child, you have indeed suffered, and I do not now wonder at your being
in an excited and perhaps somewhat perverse state. You must think no
more about all this, but try to enjoy yourself and your triumphs. And
now I must see about your dress for to-night. I want you to be more
beautiful than ever, for you will meet a rival beauty to-night--a
marvellous beauty, and, strange to say, also a half Italian--the
Countess Rossi.”
“Oh! I have heard of her; and, indeed, she is related to my mother; and
I have also heard of the mysterious disappearance of her husband’s
intended wife, Dorina, the very night before the marriage was to have
taken place. So she has come to London?”
“Yes; she was presented at Court last week--for she has succeeded to a
fine old place and property, Castle Hill--and the sensation she created
at the Drawing-room was most astonishing. Never was anything like it
since the last century, and the days of the Gunnings. People were
breathless with admiration, and quite mobbed her.”
“Yes, she is partly Italian; she is related distantly to”--Carlo, I was
going to say, but checked myself; “but she is more German, and, from
what I hear, she must be a most dreadful person.”
“I can quite imagine that: there is something quite diabolical in her
splendid eyes; she gave me the idea of an evil spirit in the form of an
angel of light--yes, light as well as beauty; for there was something
so strangely dazzling about her--the quick play of expression, the most
brilliant complexion and colouring I ever saw, a hue of indescribable
shiningness all over her, a Venus de’ Medici kind of figure--she
reminded me of those quaint lines of Herbert’s--
‘O Rose, whose hue, angry and brave,
Makes the rash gazer wipe his eye,
Thy root is ever in its grave,
And thou must die.’”
I felt much curiosity to see her, and yet a kind of vague dread, for
Lady Horatia’s description exactly tallied with what I had heard; and,
in fact, it had been whispered that she made away with her cousin and
rival by causing her to fall into some deep chasm in the Hohenstein
caves; but I would not repeat this to Lady Horatia, as I would never
believe that it could possibly be true.