Agnes, clasping her hands together in shuddering horror of the perils
through which she supposed herself to have passed.
“Yes--my dear child,” observed Mrs. Mortimer, “you doubtless owe your
life to me----”
“Ah! madam,” interrupted Agnes, “how can I ever sufficiently thank you
for your goodness?”--then, as a reminiscence struck to her artless
mind with the pang of a remorse, she exclaimed, as she pressed the
old woman’s wrinkled hands to her lips, “It seems fated that I should
suspect those who are my best friends!”
“Do not think of that, my love,” said the wily old creature, who easily
conjectured what was passing in that amiable maiden’s ingenuous soul.
“When you know me better, you will appreciate my conduct towards you
as it deserves. Doubtless your father set you against me--and then
that little misunderstanding relative to the affair of Lord William
Trevelyan----But enough of that for the present! Let me conclude my
little narrative relative to yourself. Well, I was describing to you
how I compelled the man to stop; and I was about to tell you that I
was by no means satisfied with the explanations he gave me. Indeed, I
threatened to summon the assistance of the police; and you may be well
assured that this menace suddenly became a settled resolution, when,
as the moonlight fell upon the countenance of the fair creature whom
the man carried in his arms, I recognised yourself, my sweet Agnes! You
can conceive my astonishment, perhaps--but you can form no idea of the
apprehension that seized on me; for I really love you dearly, although
I have seen so little of you. The man was dreadfully alarmed when he
perceived that I knew you; and I had no difficulty in compelling him to
surrender you into my charge. He then decamped; and I placed you in a
cab which happened to be passing at the time. You now know all.”
“Ah! from what inconceivable perils have you not saved me!” exclaimed
Agnes, full of enthusiastic and impassioned gratitude towards the woman
whom she looked upon as her deliverer. “My dear mother will thank you
warmly--earnestly--most sincerely for this generous act on your part;
and I shall never, never forget the deep obligation under which you
have placed me.”
“Enough on that subject, my dear child,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “You have
spoken several times of your mother--may I ask how you came to discover
her, or how she happened to have remained so long unknown to you?”
“I am bewildered when I think of all that!” returned Miss Vernon,
in a mournful tone. “It was last evening that she came to me--that
she sought me out in my retirement--that she announced herself as my
parent; and my heart’s feelings gave me the assurance that she was
indeed what she represented herself to be. Then I agreed to accompany
her--for she told me that she was unhappy, and she claimed my love and
my duty as a daughter. Oh! my dear madam, you can doubtless understand
how joyous--how delightful were my emotions on thus encountering a
mother whom I had never known till then! I only thought of giving way
to those delicious feelings--until I found myself left in the charge of
strangers. Then it was that I grew afraid--that vague and undefinable
apprehensions took possession of my soul--that I became suspicions of
all and everything--and that I fled! Foolish, mistaken creature that I
was! That one false step of mine threw me into the hands of a monster,
who would perhaps have killed me had you not rescued me from his power.”
Agnes paused, and arranged her hair--her dark, luxuriant, glossy
hair--floating so wildly and yet so beauteously in its dishevelled
state, over her shoulders;--and now, as the tint of the rose had
returned to her cheeks, and her eyes had recovered their witching
softness of expression, she appeared transcendantly lovely to the view
of the old woman, whom the moon-light enabled to survey the charming
creature seated opposite to her.
Suddenly the vehicle stopped;--and Agnes, hastily looking from the
windows, beheld a row of handsome houses on one side, and an enclosure
of verdant shrubs and plants on the other.
“This is not Stamford Street, madam,” she said to Mrs. Mortimer.
“No, my dear child,” was the almost whispered reply: “but it is a place
of safety to which I have brought you. Do you imagine that I, who have
saved your life this night, could intend you any harm? Wherefore be
thus ever suspicious respecting your best friends?”
These words not only reassured Agnes, but made her blush at what she
deemed to be her ingratitude towards her deliverer;--and, pressing the
old woman’s hand fervently, she murmured, “Forgive me, I implore you!”
“Think no more of it, my love,” said Mrs. Mortimer, as she alighted
from the vehicle: then, turning towards the maiden, she added, “Remain
in your place for a few minutes until I have aroused the people of the
house: the chill air of the early morning will give you cold, lightly
clad as you are.”
Agnes signified an assent; and the old woman hastened up to the front
door of the house at which they had stopped. She knocked and rang: but
some time elapsed ere the summons was answered. At length a domestic,
who had huddled on some clothing, made his appearance; and, to Mrs.
Mortimer’s query whether his master were at home, an affirmative reply
was given.
“Then hesitate not to arouse him--for I have called upon a matter of
great importance to his lordship,” said the old woman.
“Certainly I will do so, madam,” returned the domestic; “since you
assure me that your business is pressing. But will you not walk in and
await his lordship’s readiness to receive you?”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Mortimer; “and I have a person with me who must
accompany me. But listen to something that I have to urge upon you. You
will conduct us both, as a matter of course, into the same room: but
when your master is ready to receive me, take care that I obtain an
interview alone with him in the first instance. It is of the highest
consequence that these instructions should be fully attended to.”
“You shall be obeyed, madam,” said the servant.
Mrs. Mortimer now fetched Agnes from the vehicle, which she ordered
to be kept waiting for herself; and the two females were conducted
by the domestic into a handsome apartment, where, having lighted the
wax-candles, he left them.
CHAPTER CLXXX.
AGNES AND TREVELYAN.
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.
[Illustration]
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.
CHAPTER CLXXXI.
EXPLANATIONS.
The reader need scarcely be informed that if Lord William were amazed
at the discovery of the relationship subsisting between two ladies whom
he had hitherto deemed to be perfect strangers to each other, Mrs.
Sefton was not less astonished at having her daughter thus unexpectedly
introduced into her presence and at such an unseasonable hour.
For a few minutes, however, she had no leisure for reflection,--joy
at once more being enabled to strain that beloved child to her bosom
triumphing over all other considerations.
But when the first gush of feeling had somewhat subsided, a horrible
suspicion entered her mind.
Could Lord William have seduced Agnes away from the care of those
friends to whom she was consigned?--could he have entertained the vile
and derogatory idea of using the villa as the receptacle for a young
creature whom he intended to make his mistress?--did he suppose that
Mrs. Sefton would lend herself to such an atrocious proceeding?--and
had he unconsciously brought the child to the house of the mother,
thinking to make a pander of the latter to the dishonour of the former?
All these thoughts flashed with lightning rapidity to Mrs. Sefton’s
mind, as, disengaging herself from the embraces of Agnes, she turned
towards Lord William, and, with flashing eyes and quivering lips,
peremptorily demanded an explanation of the circumstances which had
rendered him the companion of her daughter at such an hour.
Trevelyan instantly divined what was passing in the lady’s bosom; and,
perceiving at once the awkwardness of his position and the grounds of
her suspicions, he hastily gave such explanations as were satisfactory
to Mrs. Sefton, Agnes herself corroborating the main facts.
“Pardon me, my dear friend,” said the now happy mother,
taking Trevelyan’s hand and pressing it fervently in token of
gratitude,--“pardon me if for a moment I entertained the most unjust
and derogatory suspicions.”
“Mention them not, madam,” exclaimed Trevelyan warmly: “but let your
daughter seek that repose which she must so deeply need--and I will
then, as a man of honour, explain to you how I became interested in
her, and how it was that the Mrs. Mortimer whose name has already been
mentioned happened to bring her to my house.”
A slight smile--almost of archness--played upon the lips of Mrs.
Sefton, as she turned towards Agnes,--a smile which seemed to intimate
that she already knew more than the young nobleman fancied, but was not
vexed with him in consequence of the facts thus known to her.
“Come with me, dearest girl,” she said, addressing her daughter, “and I
will conduct you to a chamber where you may obtain a few hours’ repose.
You need not bid farewell to his lordship; for I have no doubt he will
honour us with his presence at breakfast--when you will see him again.”
Agnes blushed and cast down her eyes--she scarcely knew why--as these
words met her ears;--and again the arch smile played upon her mother’s
lips. Trevelyan observed that there was some mystery, though not of a
disagreeable nature, in Mrs. Sefton’s manner; and in a moment--with
galvanic swiftness--the reminiscence of the tears upon the portrait and
the lost letter flashed to his mind.
The ladies disappeared, and Trevelyan threw himself in a chair, to
muse upon the discovery which he had thus made, and which was well
calculated to afford him pleasure. Inasmuch as it was evident from Mrs.
Sefton’s manner and the significant words she had uttered relative to
the meeting at the breakfast-table, that she was _not_ inimical to his
suit.
In a few minutes she returned to the room.
“My dear madam,” said Trevelyan, rising and advancing to meet her, “you
already know that I love your daughter Agnes--that I adore her?”
“And you have already divined how the letter which you must have
missed, came to be lost?” returned Mrs. Sefton, with a smile.
“Yes, madam--and I likewise observed the trace of a tear upon the
portrait which I painted from memory,” continued the young nobleman.
“Oh! then you can make allowance for the feelings of a mother!”
exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, with enthusiasm: “and you will forgive me that
act of apparent ingratitude--nay, of treachery--I mean the purloining
of a document so sacred as a sealed letter--and at a moment, too, when
I sought your aid, and you so generously afforded it?”
“It is for me to implore your pardon as a mother for having dared to
address such a letter to your daughter,” said Trevelyan, with some
degree of embarrassment.
“Then let us accord mutual forgiveness,” exclaimed the lady, extending
her hand, which was immediately pressed with the fervour of gratitude.
I am well aware that my conduct in taking that letter was improper to a
degree,” she continued, after a short pause: “but pray consider all the
circumstances.”
“I do--I do,” interrupted Trevelyan; “and you have nothing to explain.
Oh! I am delighted at the discovery that the beautiful and much-loved
Agnes is your daughter--delighted also to think that, by the perusal
of that letter, you have acquired the certainty of the ardent and
honourable feelings which animate me with regard to her.”
“And Agnes is deserving of your affection, my lord,” said Mrs. Sefton:
“I am convinced that she is in heart and soul all she appears to
be--ingenuousness, amiability, candour, and virtue!”
“Oh! I am well assured of the value of that jewel which, in due time,
I shall implore you to bestow upon me!” exclaimed the generous and
impassioned young nobleman: “and I rejoice that you not only observed
the letter in my apartment, but that you also took it; for it has--”
“It has enabled me to discover my child, whom I had fruitlessly sought
for years, and whom I longed to embrace!” added Mrs. Sefton, wiping
away the tears of joy that started to her eye-lashes. “Oh! my lord, you
may conceive my surprise--my joy, when I beheld that portrait in your
portfolio. Although I had never seen my child since her infancy, yet it
seemed as if a heavenly inspiration imparted to me the conviction that
I was then gazing on her likeness. At all events I murmured to myself,
while contemplating it, ‘_Such must Agnes now be: tall, beautiful, and
with innocence depicted in her countenance, even as this portrait._’
And then I wept as I thought that the dear girl was lost to me for
ever--buried in some seclusion by _one_ who cruelly kept us separated!
I closed the portfolio--rose--and mechanically approached the mantel.
There I beheld the letter--and the address immediately rivetted my
attention. ‘_Miss Agnes Vernon!_’ Oh! yes--it was my own dear daughter
whose portrait I had been contemplating; and I was not mistaken! For
I may be allowed to say, without incurring the imputation of vanity,
that in the countenance of the portrait I traced my own lineaments;
and then--on discovering the letter--I felt assured that nature’s
promptings had not been misinterpreted by me! Because I knew that Agnes
passed under the name of Vernon: that fact I accidentally learnt years
ago, through my husband’s solicitor, who was permitted from time to
time to give me the assurance that my daughter was alive and in health.
You can now conceive, my dear friend, how strong were the emotions
which agitated within me, and which influenced me in seizing upon the
letter--tearing it open--and devouring its contents.”
“And your first impression was doubtless one of indignation against
me for having dared thus to address your daughter?” said Lord William
Trevelyan.
“Far from it, I can assure you!” returned Mrs. Sefton, in a tone of
the deepest sincerity. “I already knew enough of your character to be
well aware that you were honourable in principle and generous in heart!
and the whole tenour of the letter was respectful and delicate, though
earnest and decided,” added the lady, with a smile, as Trevelyan’s
cheeks were suffused with a deep blush. “Besides, my dear friend,”
she continued, in a serious tone, “I have acquainted you with the
history of the crushed hopes and the blighted affections of my own
early years--and I should be the last person in the world to raise an
obstacle in the way of a pure and honourable attachment on the part of
those in whom I felt interested.”
“Then you approve of my suit in respect to your daughter?” exclaimed
Trevelyan, his handsome countenance becoming animated with joy; “and
you will not refuse me her hand?”
“When she attains her twenty-first year, my lord,” replied Mrs. Sefton,
in a solemn tone. “Until then I dare not dispose of her hand in
marriage. She is now nineteen----”
“Two years to wait!” exclaimed Trevelyan, mournfully: “and in the mean
time how many adverse circumstances may occur to separate us!”
“Yours is the age when Hope smiles most brightly,” said Mrs. Sefton;
“and if your affection for my daughter be as strong as you represent
it, believe me, my dear friend, that time will not impair--but rather
strengthen and confirm it.”
“Were years and years to elapse, ere Agnes could become mine, I
should not love her the less!” exclaimed Lord William. “But this may
not be so with her: indeed, I have no reason to hope--much less any
assurance--that she in any degree reciprocates my passion.”
“Agnes will not prove indifferent to your lordship’s merits,” said Mrs.
Sefton, encouragingly. “But we must postpone any farther conversation
on this subject until another occasion. Behold the confusion that
prevails in the house,” she continued, in a more cheerful tone, as she
glanced round the room at the various boxes and packages on which she
had been busied when the arrival of Trevelyan and her daughter had
compelled her to desist from her occupation. “I am about to remove this
morning to a beautiful little villa which I have taken at Bayswater.
By those means I hope to destroy all trace of my new abode, in respect
to those who might seek to tear Agnes from my arms. But I have the law
with me:--yes, the law is in my favour,” she added, in an emphatic
tone; “and I will not surrender up my daughter to _him_----”
She checked herself, and hastily advancing to the window, opened the
shutters.
It was now quite light; and, having extinguished the candles, Mrs.
Sefton returned to her task of placing various valuable effects in a
box. Trevelyan volunteered his assistance, which was accepted; for
circumstances had placed him and the lady on a footing of the most
friendly intimacy together.
“I received your note on my return last evening,” said Mrs. Sefton,
after a pause; “and I regretted much to find that you had obtained no
clue to the place where Sir Gilbert Heathcote is confined.”
“But you must remember, my dear madam, that no time has been lost,”
observed Trevelyan. “It was only yesterday morning that we acquired
the knowledge of Sir Gilbert’s real position; and I have employed my
valet Fitzgeorge, who is an intelligent and faithful man, to obtain an
interview with Green, Heathcote’s clerk, and bribe him to serve us.
From the specimen of the fellow’s character which we had yesterday
morning in this very room, I entertain but little doubt of Fitzgeorge’s
success.”
“God grant that it may be so!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, fervently. “And
if you succeed in discovering the den where Sir Gilbert is confined,
how do you intend to proceed?”
“Still by artifice, my dear madam. We must fight that bad man, James
Heathcote, with his own weapons----”
“Oh! think you not, my lord, that our unfortunate friend is hemmed
round with all imaginable precautions to prevent his flight?” demanded
Mrs. Sefton.
“Doubtless,” answered Trevelyan: “but the janitors and dependants of a
lunatic-asylum are as accessible as other people to the influence of
gold.”
“I now more than ever, if possible, desire the restoration of Sir
Gilbert,” said Mrs. Sefton: then, after a pause, she added in a low
and peculiar tone, “I have many--many strange things yet to tell you,
Lord William: but the present is not the most fitting occasion. In
a few days I will explain every thing--yes, everything,” she said,
emphatically; “and thenceforth there will be no secrets between you and
me.”
The lady again applied herself to the task of preparing for her
removal; and the young nobleman assisted her with as much kindliness
of manner and good-tempered alacrity as if he were her brother, or
already her son-in-law. In this manner the hours passed away until the
time-piece struck nine, when Agnes descended to the breakfast which
was now served up. A messenger was despatched to the Misses Theobald
to give them an assurance of the young maiden’s safety; and in the
course of the day the mother and daughter, accompanied by Lord William,
removed to the beautiful villa prepared for the ladies’ reception at
Bayswater.
Lord William remained with them until the evening, when he took his
leave--but not without observing that pleasure beamed in the eyes of
Agnes as he intimated his intention of becoming a frequent visitor at
the villa.
CHAPTER CLXXXII.
LAURA MORTIMER’S NEW INTRIGUES.
We must now return to Laura Mortimer, whom we left in Paris, and of
whom we have lost sight for some time.
It was in the evening of the fourth day after the incidents recorded
in the preceding chapter, that Laura was seated in her handsome
drawing-room, wrapped up in deep meditation.
Her thoughts were not, however, of a disagreeable nature;--for ever and
anon the fire of triumph flashed from her fine eyes, and her rich moist
lips were wreathed into a smile.
She held a book open in her hand; but her gaze was fixed upon the
ceiling as she lay, rather than sate, on the voluptuous cushions of the
purple velvet ottoman.
The windows were open, and a gentle evening breeze, which had succeeded
the stifling heat of a Parisian summer-day, fanned her countenance
and wantoned with the luxuriant ringlets that floated over her naked
shoulders,--those shoulders so white, so plump, so exquisitely shaped!
The perfumes of choice flowers and the odour of ravishing oriental
scents rendered the atmosphere fragrant: gold and silver fish were
disporting in an immense crystal globe which stood upon a marble table
between the casements--and two beautiful canaries were carolling in a
superb cage suspended in one of those open windows.
On the table near which Laura was placed, stood several crystal dishes
containing the finest fruit that the Parisian market could yield,--the
luscious pine, the refreshing melon, strawberries of extraordinary size
and exquisite flavour, cherries of the richest red, and mulberries of
the deepest purple.
A bottle of champagne stood in a cooler filled with ice; and in the
middle of the table was a superb nosegay of flowers.
The entire appearance of the room and its appointments was luxurious
in the extreme,--comfort being combined with elegance, and the means
of enjoyment distributed with taste;--while she--the mistress of the
place--the presiding genius of the scene--was pillowed voluptuously
upon the immense velvet cushions. So complete was the abandonment of
her attitude, in her deep reverie, that she seemed ten hundred times
more charming than when her artifice devised a thousand studied graces
in order to effect a conquest and captivate a lover.
One of her naked arms, plump, white, and beautifully formed, lay
across her person as the hand held the book, on which the eyes rested
not, and against the dark binding of which the taper fingers were
set off in the dazzling purity of their complexion and the rosy tint
of the almond-shaped nails: the other arm hung down negligently--not
quite straight, but gently rounded--the fingers of that hand playing
mechanically with the ottoman’s golden fringe that swept the thick
carpet. One of her legs lay stretched completely upon the ottoman: the
other hung over the side, displaying the well-formed foot, the delicate
ankle, and the robust swell of the calf. More voluptuously modelled
than Venus, but with all the elegance attributed to the form of that
fabled divinity,--handsome as Juno, without the stern imperiousness
that characterised the queen of heaven,--and with that subdued
nobility of demeanour which Diana, when out of sight of her attendant
huntresses, might have been supposed to wear,--Laura Mortimer united
in her own person the most fascinating of the charms belonging to the
three principal goddesses of heathen worship.
But let us endeavour to ascertain the subject of her thoughts, as she
lay thus wrapped up in a deep reverie.
“Fortune appears resolved to favour me, and I accept the auspicious
omen with joy. The Marquis is in my power--is my slave--inextricably
shackled by my silken chains! Four short days have been sufficient
to accomplish this victory. When first introduced to him in the
Champs Elysées, I saw that he regarded me with attention--nay, with
admiration; and I that moment signalled him out as the man who is
destined to place me in a proud position--to render me independent of
Charles Hatfield’s hated father! The evening before last I met him
for the second time: this was at the party given by my music-master.
The nobleman was almost instantly by my side, as soon as I made my
appearance; and I knew full well how to gain his favour. When handsome
young men approached me, I received them coldly, and continued my
discourse with the Marquis in a more animated and friendly style
than before. I even hinted to him--or rather suffered him to believe
that it was a relief to escape from the frivolities of the average
run of conversation, in the indulgence of discourse on intellectual
subjects. I saw that the old man was flattered--that he thought highly
of me: in a word, I secured his esteem as I had already acquired his
admiration. We sate next to each other at supper; and he lavished all
his attentions upon me--attentions which I accepted with an air as if
they came from a young and handsome gallant. The Marquis handed me to
my carriage, and solicited permission to call. I signified an assent
with an ingenuousness that could not possibly have seemed affected; and
he squeezed my hand slightly as he bade me farewell. On the following
afternoon he called: this was yesterday--and he remained a long
time. Two hours passed--doubtless like two minutes to him: and I was
completely triumphant. Never did I appear to such advantage: my glass
told me that I was radiantly beautiful--and I could observe full well
that my manner--my conversation--and the delicate artifices I called
to aid, were pre-eminently successful. The old man was ready to fall
upon his knees and worship me: he was in that humour when he would
have laid his whole fortune at my feet. He appeared to be longing to
throw his arms around my neck, and exclaim, ‘_Laura, I adore you!_’
But when I had excited him to the highest possible pitch, I suddenly
directed his attention to some subject of comparative indifference;
and thus did I play with his feelings during two long hours. He went
away half crazy--dazzled, bewildered, not knowing what to think or
how to act--intoxicated with sensual passions mingling with the
purer sentiments of a profound admiration and a cordial esteem. Then
this morning he called again, and I made him become my companion at
luncheon. I affected to be rejoiced that he had thus unexpectedly
dropped in, as I had previously felt low-spirited and dull. He seemed
charmed that his presence was calculated to cheer me: It was a delicate
compliment paid to his conversational powers--and he was flattered
and pleased. Oh! how admirably did I wind myself, as it were, around
him during the three hours that he remained with me this morning: how
successfully did I insinuate myself, as one may say, into his very
soul;--not seizing upon his heart by a sudden attack--but gaining
possession of it by means the more sure because so stealthy,--not
carrying that heart by storm--but gradually and imperceptibly enmeshing
it in snares and toils whence it never can escape, so long as my
real character shall remain a mystery to him. Yes--and this morning,
too, was he not a thousand times on the point of falling upon his
knees, and exclaiming,‘_Laura, I adore you!_’ But still I tantalised
him--still I worked him up to the highest possible pitch of excitement,
and then suddenly discouraged him by some word or gesture that threw
a coldness on all I had before said, and which yet would admit of
no positive interpretation so as to render him hopeless altogether.
And now he is to return again--this evening,--to return, by his own
solicitation;--and this evening--yes--this evening,” thought Laura, her
lips wreathing into a smile of triumph,--“he _shall_ fall down at my
feet and exclaim, ‘_Laura, I adore you!_’”
Thus ran the meditations of this dangerous woman,--so strong in the
consciousness of her almost superhuman beauty--so confident in the
power of her matchless charms and in the witchery of her guileful
tongue!
“Yes--four days will have been sufficient to reduce the proud English
noble to the condition of a captive kneeling at my feet.” she
continued, in her silent but triumphant reverie. “What other woman
in the world can thus effect a conquest with such amazing rapidity?
The tigress hunts for her prey--pursuing the affrighted deer through
bramble and through brake--by the margin of the lake in the depths
of the forest--amidst the trackless mazes of the wild woods,--a
long--tedious--and fatiguing chase, with the possibility of escape for
the intended victim after all. But the boa-constrictor fixes its eyes
upon its prey--fascinates it--renders it incapable of retreat--compels
it even to advance nearer and nearer to its mouth--plays with
it--tantalizes it--sets every feeling and every emotion into fluttering
agitation--and even when about to gorge it, licks it over with his
caresses. And thus do I secure my prey! I am the anaconda amongst
women: none whom I choose to make my victim can escape from the
influence of my witchery--the sphere of my fascination! With me it is
no long, tedious, and wearisome chase: ’tis instantaneous capture and
an easy triumph!”
And again the peculiar smile--half haughtiness, half
sweetness--returned to the lips of the peerless beauty, who felt
herself to be ten thousand times more powerful in the possession of her
transcendent charms, than an Amazonian Queen clothed in armour of proof
from head to heel.
Suddenly the bell at the outer door of her suite of apartments
announced the coming of a visitor; and in a few moments the Marquis of
Delmour was ushered into the room.
Laura had already assumed a sitting posture; and she now rose to
receive the English nobleman.
“Good evening, charming Miss Mortimer,” said the Marquis, taking her
hand and gently touching it with his lips: then, leading her to the
ottoman, and placing himself at a short distance from her, he looked at
her tenderly, observing, “You perceive that I am punctual to the hour
at which I was to make my appearance according to the kind permission
you granted me.”
“Your lordship is most generous thus to condescend to enliven an hour
that would otherwise be passed in loneliness by me,” said Laura,
bending upon him all the glory of her fine bright eyes and revealing
the splendour of her brilliant teeth.
“Beautiful, intellectual, and agreeable as you are, Miss Mortimer,”
observed the nobleman, “it is utterly impossible that you can feel
yourself indebted to an old man like me for the recreation of a leisure
hour. You would only need to throw open your drawing-rooms to the
_élite_ of Paris,to be surrounded by admiring guests.”
“And what if I prefer an hour of intellectual conversation to an entire
evening of empty formalities, ceremonial frivolities, and the inane
routine of fashionable _réunions_?” asked Laura, with an affectation of
candour which seemed most real--most natural.
“You possess a mind the strength and soundness of which surprise
me,” exclaimed the Marquis of Delmour, enthusiastically. “How is it
that, rich and beautiful, young and courted, as you are, you can have
taken so just a view of the world,--that you have learnt to prefer
solid enjoyments to artificial pleasures,--and that you can so well
discriminate between the _real_ on which the gay and giddy close their
eyes, and the _ideal_ or the _unreal_ which they so much worship?”
“You would ask me, my lord, I presume, wherefore I dislike that
turmoil of fashionable life which brings one in contact with persons
who flatter in a meaningless manner, and who believe that a woman is
best pleased with him who most skilfully gilds his _pretty nothings_.
It is, my lord, because I do not estimate the world according to the
usual standard,--because I am not dazzled by outside glitter and
external show. If an officer in the army be introduced to me, I am not
captivated by his splendid epaulets and his waving plumes: I wait to
hear his discourse before I form _my_ estimate of his character.”
“Then neither youth nor riches will prove the principal qualifications
of him who shall be fortunate enough to win your hand?” said the
Marquis, fixing his eyes in an impassioned manner upon the syren.
“Oh! you would speak to me upon the topic of marriage!” exclaimed
Laura, laughing gaily. “To tell your lordship the truth, I should be
sorry to surrender up my freedom beyond all possibility of release, to
any man in existence.”
“What!” ejaculated the old nobleman: “do you mean me to infer that you
will never marry?”
“I have more than half made up my mind to that resolution,” responded
Laura, casting down her eyes and forcing a blush to her cheeks.
“Never marry!” cried the Marquis, in unfeigned surprise. “And what if
you happened to fall in love with some fine, handsome, eligible young
man?”
“In the first place it is by no means necessary that a man should be
fine, handsome, or young for me to love him,” answered Laura, as if in
the most ingenuous way in the world; “and when I _do_ love, it is not
a whit the more imperious that the person or the priest should rivet
my hand to that of the object of my affections. It is within the power
of man to unite hands--and that is a mockery: but God alone can unite
hearts--and that is a solemn and sacred compact that should be effected
in the sight of heaven only.”
“I scarcely understand you, beautiful and mysterious being!” exclaimed
the Marquis, drawing nearer to the syren, who did not appear to notice
the movement.
“I am aware that some of my notions are not altogether in accordance
with those of society in general,” observed Laura, with an affectation
of reserve and diffidence: “but since the conversation has taken this
turn, I do not hesitate to admit that I do hold peculiar opinions with
respect to marriage.”
“You would have me understand, Miss Mortimer,” said the Marquis,
“that were you to find your affections enchained by some deserving
individual, you would not hesitate to join your destinies to his,
without the intervention of the Church to cement the union.”
“Your lordship has interpreted my meaning in language so delicate as
to be almost ambiguous,” observed Laura. “And yet why should the truth
be thus wrapped up in verbiage? I do not entertain opinions which I am
afraid to look in the face. God forbid! In a word, then, I would ten
thousand times rather become the mistress of the man I loved, than the
wife of him whom I abhorred;--and in loving the former, and with him
loving me, is it not that union of hearts which, as I ere now said,
should be effected only in the sight of heaven?”
“And have you ever yet loved?” asked the nobleman, in a tone of
profound emotion, as he gazed long and ardently upon the splendid
countenance whereon the light from the casements now fell with a
Rembrandt effect, delineating the faultless profile against the
obscurity that had already begun to occupy the end of the room most
remote from the windows.
“Oh! my lord, that is a question which you can only ask me when we come
to know each other better!” exclaimed Laura, after a few moments’ pause.
“And yet I already feel as if I had known you for as many years as our
acquaintance numbers days,” said the Marquis. “Methought yesterday--and
this morning too--that a species of intimacy--a kind of impromptu
friendship had sprung up between us; and now you are somewhat cold
towards me--your manner is not the same----”
“If I have been guilty of any want of courtesy towards your lordship,
I should be truly--deeply grieved,” exclaimed Laura, surveying the
nobleman with well affected astonishment at the accusation uttered
against her.
“Oh! use not such chilling language, Laura--Miss Mortimer, I mean!”
cried the old nobleman, half inclined to throw himself at her feet and
implore her to take compassion upon him. “But I an mad--I am insane
to appeal to you thus!” he continued, in a species of rage against
himself. “How can I suppose that the society of an old man like me is
agreeable to a young and beautiful creature such as you!--how can I
give way to those glorious but fatal delusions that have occupied my
brain for the last forty-eight hours! Oh! Miss Mortimer--would that I
had never seen you!”
And the old nobleman, covering his face with his hands, literally
sobbed like a youthful lover quarrelling with an adored mistress.
“My lord--my lord, what have I done to offend you?” demanded Laura, as
if deeply excited; and, seizing his hands, she drew them away from his
countenance, well aware that the contact of her soft and warm flesh
would make the blood that age had partially chilled, circulate with
speed and heat in his veins.
“If you had attempted my life,” replied the Marquis, with fervid
emphasis, “I should rejoice at a deed that would elicit such kindness
from you as you manifest towards me now!”
And thus speaking, he raised her hands to his lips and covered them
with kisses.
“Tell me--how did I offend you?” she asked, in a voice that was melting
and musical even to ravishment.
“Oh! let us think not of what has passed,” he exclaimed: “but bless me
with the assurance that you can entertain a sentiment of friendship for
the old man!”
“I would rather possess your friendship, my lord, than that of the
handsomest and wealthiest young gentleman whom we met at the party
the other evening,” responded the artful woman, still abandoning her
hands to the Marquis. “Did you not observe that I was pleased with
your attentions--that I refused to dance in order that I might remain
seated next to you, and listening to your conversation--that when the
gay moths of fashion approached me with their fulsome compliments, I
exhibited signs of impatience, and by my coldness compelled them to
retreat--that I gave no encouragement to them in any way----”
“Yes--yes,” interrupted the enraptured Marquis: “I noticed all
_that_--and were I a young man I should have felt myself justified in
addressing you in the language of passion--aye, of ardent and sincere
affection. But--although such are indeed my sentiments towards you--I
perceive all the folly and ridicule of daring to give utterance to them
in your presence: yet God knows that I am ready to lay my fortune at
your feet--and could I offer to place the coronet of a marchioness upon
your brow----”
“Were you in the position to do so, I should refuse it,” said Laura,
emphatically. “All the rest I might listen to----”
“Then you are aware that I am married?” interrupted the nobleman,
fixing an earnest and enquiring gaze upon her beauteous countenance.
“Rumour declares as much,” replied Laura; “and it likewise avers that
you are not happy in your matrimonial connexion. I pity you from the
bottom of my heart--and I behold in the fact itself a new argument
in support of my own peculiar tenets relative to marriage-ties;--for
assuredly you are endowed with qualities calculated to render a woman
happy--or I am deeply, deeply deceived.”
“Ah! It is a sad tale--and I dare not venture upon the narration now,”
said the Marquis, with a profound sigh. “But should our acquaintance
continue--as I ardently hope it may--I will some day give you the
fullest and most ample explanations. And you yourself, charming
creature--is there not some mystery attached to you? How happens it
that at your age you should be so well acquainted with the world?--how
is it that you seem free to follow the bent of your own inclinations,
uncontrolled even by your mother? For rumour declares that you have a
mother alive----”
“I am independent of her in a pecuniary point of view, my lord,”
interrupted Laura; “and I am determined to consult my own ideas of
happiness, instead of adopting the standard of enjoyment and pleasure
established by the fashionable world.”
“Would to heavens that it lay in my power to ensure your happiness--or
even to contribute to it!” exclaimed the Marquis, gazing upon her
with admiration and ardent passion. “Long years have elapsed since I
encountered any woman who inspired me with even half the interest that
I feel in you; and it seems to me that I become young again when in
your sweet society.”
“And, on my side,” answered Laura, casting down her eyes and assuming
a bashful demeanour, “I do not hesitate to admit that I experience
greater enjoyment from your conversation than from that of any other
nobleman or gentleman with whom I am acquainted.”
“Just now, my sweet Miss Mortimer,” said the Marquis, approaching still
nearer to her, and speaking in a tone that was low and tremulous with
emotion,--“just now you declared that ‘_all the rest you might listen
to_’----”
“And I do not attempt to revoke the admission that thus fell from
my lips,” murmured the designing young woman, turning a glance of
half-timidity and half-fondness upon the old nobleman, who, in spite
of a strong and vigorous intellect, was rendered childish and plunged
as it were into dotage by the fascinating--ravishing influence of the
syren-enchantress.
“What am I to understand by those words?” he asked, in an ecstacy of
delight. “Oh! is it possible that you can become something more to the
old man than a mere acquaintance--something more than even a friend----”
“I could wish to retain your good opinion--your esteem for ever!” said
Laura, now turning upon him a countenance radiant with hope and joy.
“It is scarcely possible--I am dreaming--’tis a delicious delusion--a
heavenly vision!” murmured the Marquis in broken sentences,--for he was
dazzled by the transcendant beauty of the houri who seemed to encourage
him in the aspirations which he had formed.
“Is it, then, so extraordinary that I should have learnt to love one
who is so kind--so generous-hearted--so intellectual as yourself?”
asked Laura, leaning towards him so that her fragrant breath fanned his
countenance and her forehead for an instant touched his own.
“Great heaven! Is it possible that so much happiness awaits me?” cried
the Marquis, scarcely able to believe his eyes or his ears: then, after
gazing upon her for a few instants with all the rapturous ardour of a
youthful lover, he sank upon his knees before her, exclaiming, “_Laura,
I adore you!_”
The designing woman’s triumph was complete: the Marquis was
inextricably entangled in her snares;--and, throwing her arms around
his neck, she murmured, “Oh! it is an honour as well as a joy to
possess your love!”
Then the old man covered the charming young woman’s countenance with
kisses; and for several minutes not a word was spoken between them.
But at length the Marquis, who could scarcely believe that he had
won a prize the possession of which all the noblest, handsomest, and
wealthiest young men in Paris would envy him, began to speak upon the
course which it would be prudent for them to adopt. Laura at once gave
him to understand that she should experience no sentiment of shame in
appearing as his mistress; and she undertook--as well indeed she might
do--to reconcile her mother to this connexion which she had formed.
“Let us then return to England without delay,’ said the Marquis. “The
business which has brought me to Paris is now in such a position that
an agent may manage it for me. But tell me--is your mother dependent
upon you?”
“Entirely,” answered Laura, anticipating the course which her noble
lover was about to adopt.
“And your fortune is doubtless large?” he continued, interrogatively.
“It is not nearly so large as rumour has alleged,” was the reply.
“Still it is a handsome competency for one person.”
“Then, as there shall be nothing having even the slightest appearance
of selfishness in my attachment towards you, Laura,” resumed the
nobleman, “you must immediately assign all your property to your
mother; and I will at once--yea, at once--give you a proof of the
boundless devotion with which you have inspired me. Permit me the use
of your desk for a few moments.”
Laura rang the bell, and ordered Rosalie to bring writing materials;
and when this was done, the marquis seated himself at the table and
wrote something upon a sheet of paper. He next penned a letter, which
he folded up, sealed, and addressed; and, turning towards Laura, he
said, “This draught, beloved girl, is for the sum of sixty thousand
pounds, payable at sight at my bankers’ in London. This letter, which
you will have the kindness to send through the post to-morrow, is to
advise them of the fact of such a cheque having been given, and to
prepare them to meet it, so that there may be no hesitation in paying
such a large amount. For it will be my joy and delight to enrich you,
my dearest Laura; so that the old man may to some extent repay the
immense obligation under which he is placed by the possession of such
a heart as thine. I would not have you remain wealthy through your own
resources: henceforth you must owe every thing to me--for if you cannot
be my wife in name, you shall at least be the sharer of my fortune, as
you have consented to be the partner of my destinies.”
“Your generosity, my dear Marquis, only binds me the more closely to
you,” exclaimed Laura, lavishing upon the old man the most exciting
and apparently fervent caresses. “At the same time permit me to
remind you that there is nothing selfish in that affection which so
suddenly sprang up in my bosom towards you: because I am no needy
adventuress--no intriguing fortune-hunter,--and you are well aware
that many a French nobleman would be proud to lay his title at my feet,
were I disposed to decorate my brow with a coronet. My father--who, as
you have doubtless heard, accumulated some money in India--left me well
provided for; and that fortune I shall cheerfully abandon to my mother,
preferring to remain dependent on yourself.”
“Ah! your father dwelt a long time in India!” exclaimed the Marquis, as
if struck by a sudden idea. “Is it possible, then, that I could have
encountered your mother in England? But, no--that woman could not have
been the parent of such a lovely, charming creature as yourself!”
“To whom do you allude, my lord?” demanded Laura, now seized with the
apprehension that her mother might be known to the wealthy lover whom
she had succeeded in ensnaring, and whom she intended to fleece of the
greater portion of his fortune.
“It was but a momentary thought--it exists no longer in my mind,
dearest,” responded the nobleman, who, as he gazed upon the bright and
splendid being before him, felt an ineffable disgust at having even for
an instant associated her in any way with the loathsome old hag to whom
he was alluding. “The fact is,” he continued, “I met a certain female
in London--or rather, in the neighbourhood of London--a short time
ago--indeed, just before I left England; and this woman bore the name
of Mortimer.”
“It is not altogether an uncommon one,” observed Laura, maintaining
an unruffled countenance, though her heart palpitated with continued
apprehension.
“The singularity of the coincidence is that the female to whom I am
alluding announces herself as the widow of a General-officer who had
died in India,” resumed the Marquis.
“My lamented father was a merchant,” said Laura.
“Then of course there can be no identity in that case,” continued the
nobleman. “Besides, having an intimate acquaintance with all military
matters--as I myself held the post of Secretary at War many years ago,
and have since taken a deep interest in that department--I am enabled
to state that no General-officer of the name of Mortimer has recently
died in India.”
“The woman, then, of whom you am speaking, was an impostress?” said
Laura, interrogatively.
“I have little doubt of it,” answered the marquis. “But let us not
dwell upon a subject so perfectly indifferent to us. We were talking of
our plans. Will it suit you, dearest Laura, to quit Paris to-morrow, or
the day after at latest?”
“To-morrow, if you will,” the young woman hastened to reply: for she
now trembled lest her mother should suddenly return and perhaps prove,
though unintentionally, a marplot to all the plans which her intriguing
disposition had conceived.
“To-morrow, then, be it,” said the Marquis. “At noon I shall call for
you in my travelling-chariot. We will return by easy stages to London;
and, on our arrival in the English capital, the handsomest mansion that
money can procure shall be fitted up with all possible speed for your
abode.”
“I care not for a splendid dwelling in London itself,” replied Laura.
“Rather let me have some beautiful and retired villa in the suburbs,
where you can visit me at your leisure, and where we can pass the hours
together without intrusion on the part of a host of visitors.”
“Your ideas on this subject concur with mine,” observed the Marquis,
enchanted with the belief that Laura intended to retire from the
fashionable world and devote herself wholly to him. “The seclusion of
a charming villa will be delightful; and I think I can promise,” he
added with a smile, “that the said villa will have more of my company
than my town mansion. But I shall now take my departure--although with
reluctance: it is however necessary for me to make certain preparations
this evening, as I am to leave Paris thus unexpectedly to-morrow. For a
few hours, then, my Laura, adieu--adieu!”
The old man embraced the young woman with the most
unfeigned--unaffected fondness; and as his arms were cast about her
neck, and he felt her bosom heaving against his chest, he longed to
implore her to allow him to remain with her until the morning--for
the dalliance and the toyings he had already enjoyed had inflamed
his blood, and he aspired to be completely happy without delay. But
he feared lest he should offend her by any manifestations of sensual
longings; for he flattered himself that the connexion which had
commenced between them had its origin in sentiment on her side. He
accordingly withdrew--but reluctantly--from her embrace; and took
his departure, promising to call for her punctually at noon on the
following day.
CHAPTER CLXXXIII.
AN UNEXPECTED VISIT AND A DREADED ARRIVAL.
The moment Laura heard the outer door close behind the Marquis of
Delmour, she exclaimed aloud, “I have triumphed! I have triumphed!
He is in my power--he fell at my feet--he said, ‘_Laura, I adore
you!_’--and the proof of his utter credulity is here--here!”
Thus speaking, she clutched the draught for sixty thousand
pounds--devoured it with her eyes--and then secured it in her
writing-desk.
“Yes: sixty thousand pounds!” she murmured to herself, as she resumed
her voluptuously reclining position upon the ottoman;--“sixty thousand
pounds--gained with but little trouble and in a short time! It would
scarcely matter if I never touched another piece of gold from his
purse; for I am now independent of him--of the hated Hatfields--of
all the world! But I will not abandon my doating English Marquis in a
hurry: I will not cast aside a nobleman who is so generous--so rich--so
confiding! No--no: he will be worth two hundred thousand pounds to
me;--and then--yes--_then_, I may espouse a peer of high title! My
fortune is assured--my destiny is within the range of prophecy. I have
taken a tremendous step this evening: an hour has seen me grow suddenly
rich--already the possessor of sixty thousand pounds! Thanks to this
more than human beauty of mine--thanks to that witchery of manner which
I know so well how to assume--and thanks also to that fascinating
influence wherewith I can invest my language at will, the Marquis
has become my slave. Thus does the strong-minded--the resolute--the
intellectual man succumb to woman, when she dazzles him with her
loveliness and bewilders him with her guile. Sixty thousand pounds now
own me as their mistress! ’Tis glorious to possess great wealth: but
’tis an elysian happiness--a burning joy--a proud triumph to feel that
I am released from the thraldom of those Hatfields--or rather from
a state of dependence upon the father of him whom I lately loved so
well! And my mother, too--my selfish, intriguing, deceitful old mother,
who has ever hoped to make a profitable market of my charms, and hold
despotic sway over me at the same time,--she is no longer necessary to
me--and I may in a moment assert my independence should she dare to
attempt to tyrannise again. The mad old fool! to fancy that she will
succeed in discovering Torrens,--or, even if she did, to hope that
she could compel him to disgorge the treasures which he has perilled
his life here and his soul hereafter to gain! She will return to me
penniless--totally dependent upon me; and I shall allow her a small
income on condition that she locates herself in some obscure spot,
whence her machinations and her intrigues cannot reach me. Not for
worlds would I have her fastened to my apron-strings in London--that
London whither I am about to return, and where I may yet hope to punish
that Mr. Hatfield who for a time so savagely triumphed over me! No--my
mother must be forced into seclusion; her notoriety of character would
ruin me. Constantly incurring the chance of being discovered as the
Mrs. Slingsby of former years--certain to be recognised as the Mrs.
Fitzhardinge who was arrested on suspicion of being concerned in
the murder of the old miser--and having evidently entered into some
intrigue which has brought her under the notice of the Marquis of
Delmour, she can no longer be allowed to associate with me! _Her_ day
has gone by--_mine_ has scarcely begun.”
[Illustration]
Laura--the beauteous, wanton,unprincipled Laura--had reached this point
in her musings, when she was startled by an unusually violent ringing
at the front door bell; and in a few moments a gentleman burst into the
room, his impatience having urged him to cast away all ceremony and
dispense with the introductory agency of Rosalie, who had uttered an
ejaculation of surprise on beholding him.
“Captain Barthelma!” cried Laura, in an astonishment which even
surpassed that of her abigail.
“Yes--my angel: It is I!” exclaimed the enthusiastic young Italian, as,
bounding towards Laura, he caught her in his arms.
His lips were instantaneously fastened to her ripe mouth; and,
remembering the night of love and pleasure which she had passed with
him, she experienced no vexation at his sudden and most unexpected
appearance.
“Can you pardon me for this intrusion?” he demanded, at length
loosening her from his embrace, but seating himself closely by her side
on the ottoman and taking her hands in his own; “can you pardon me, I
ask, adorable woman?” he repeated, gazing upon her in boundless and
passionate admiration.
“It seems that it were useless to be offended with you,” she replied,
smiling with voluptuous sweetness.
“Oh! then you will not upbraid me--you will not reproach me with having
broken the solemn promise that I made you to depart and seek to see
you no more in Paris?” he exclaimed. “But even if you were inclined to
be angry, Laura, it could not in justice be upon me that your wrath
would fall. You must blame your own matchless beauty--you must take
all the fault unto yourself. I feel that I cannot live without you.
Ever since we parted, my brain has been in a ceaseless ferment--my soul
a prey to incessant excitement. By day and by night has your lovely
image been before me: by day and by night have I fancied that I heard
your voice pouring forth the most eloquent music:--I have dreamt that
your lips, breathing odours and bathed with sweets, were pressed to
mine:--and your looks, beaming love, and happiness, and joy, have ever
been fixed on mine! Oh! my imagination has maintained me in a condition
of such pleasing pain that I have been in a species of restless
elysium,--a giddy and sometimes agonising whirl, although the scene was
paradise! At length I could endure this state no longer: and when at a
considerable distance from Paris, on the road to Italy, I suddenly and
secretly quitted the service of the Grand Duke----”
“Oh! what madness--what insanity!” exclaimed Laura, grieved that the
handsome young Castelcicalan should have made so deep a sacrifice for
her--inasmuch as his generous devotion had not only flattered her
pride, but also touched her soul.
“It may be madness--it may be insanity,” repeated Lorenzo Barthelma,
with impassioned warmth: “but those words must in that case be taken
only as other terms for the deepest--sincerest--and most ardent
devotion. Were I a beggar on the face of the earth, I should have acted
in the same manner; because I should have come to you--I should have
thrown myself at your feet--I should have implored you to render me
happy,--and in return I should have toiled from morning to night to
make up for the deficiency of my means.”
“Generous Lorenzo!” exclaimed Laura, speaking with more sincerity than
had characterised her words for years.
“Ah! then you are somewhat touched by my devotion, angelic woman!”
cried the handsome young officer, drawing her still more closely
towards him, and passing his arm round her slender waist. “But happily
I am no pauper--fortunately I am _not_ dependent upon my own exertions.
When I was with you before, my adorable Laura, I told you that I
possessed a competency; and I then offered to link my destinies with
yours for ever. Now my circumstances have materially altered--and
I rejoice in the fact! For the French papers of this day contain
intelligence of the death of my cousin, the Count of Carignano, at
Montoni; and by that unexpected event I have succeeded alike to his
title and his princely revenues.”
“Oh! my beloved Lorenzo,” exclaimed Laura, now giving way to all
that tenderness towards him which was really in accordance with her
inclinations, but which her more selfish interests would have prompted
her to subdue and stifle had not this last announcement met her ear:
“Oh! my beloved Lorenzo,” she cried, pressing closer to him, so that
he could feel her bosom throbbing like the undulations of a mighty
tide--for she was now powerfully excited, alike morally and sensually:
“how can I reward--how recompense this generosity on your part?”
“By becoming my wife--yes, my wife, Laura--if you will,” returned the
enraptured young man. “For you know not how I love you--how intense is
the passion with which you have inspired me. I am blind and deaf to
all--everything, save your beauties and your witching voice. If you be
the greatest profligate the world ever saw, I care not--so madly do I
love you.”
“And when this delirium shall have passed away, Lorenzo,” murmured
Laura, concealing her burning countenance on his breast, “you will
repent the rashness which induced you to wed with one who had so easily
abandoned herself to you when a complete stranger--and whom--whom--you
knew to be unchaste even then!” she added, her voice becoming
touchingly low and tremulously plaintive.
“To suspect even for an instant that I should ever repent of making you
my wife, Laura, is to doubt my love,” said the Count of Carignano--for
such we may now call him; “and _that_ wounds me to the very soul!
’Tis sufficient for me to know that you are an angel of beauty--and
I reck not if you are a demoness in character. But _that_ I am sure
is impossible. Your loveliness may have led you into temptations,
and your temperament may have induced you to yield: but that you are
generous--good--amiable, I am convinced, Laura;--and that you will
prove faithful to one who places all his own happiness in you, and who
will study incessantly to promote yours--oh! of that I am well assured
also. Say, then, my adored one--can you consent to become the Countess
of Carignano, with a revenue of twelve thousand a year?”
“Not for the dross--oh! not for the despicable dross,” murmured Laura,
scarcely able to restrain her joy within reasonable bounds, and induce
her suitor to believe that no selfish interests were mixed up with the
motives for that assent which she was about to give,--“not for vile and
sordid gold, Lorenzo, do I respond in the affirmative to the generous
proposal that you have now made to me--because I myself am possessed
of a fortune of sixty thousand pounds: but it is because I love
you--yes--I love you, my handsome Lorenzo----”
“Say no more, Laura--beloved Laura!” interrupted the impassioned young
nobleman, straining her to his breast: then fondly--oh! how fondly
did he gaze upon her--upon _her_, that guileful woman--reading the
reflection of his own voluptuous feelings in her fine large eyes, and
then bestowing upon her the most ardent caresses.
Several minutes passed away,--minutes that glided by with rapid and
silent wings;--and the handsome pair scarcely noticed that a single
second had elapsed since last they spoke.
“Tell me, my sweet Laura,” at length said the Count, toying with the
glossy and fragrant tresses of her hair,--“tell me what meant certain
words which you addressed to me on that evening when I was first
blessed with your kindness. You declared that you could not marry me,
although you were not married--that you could not be my mistress,
although you were not the mistress of another--and that you could not
hold out any hope to me, although you were pledged to no other man.”
“That language, apparently so mysterious, is easily explained,”
said Laura, forcing a deep blush into her cheeks as she spoke, and
winding one of her snow-white and naked arms round her lover’s neck,
so that the contact of the firm warm flesh against his cheek sent
the blood rushing through his veins in boiling currents. “I had
abandoned myself to you in a moment of caprice--no, of weakness--of
passion, which I could not subdue: I had yielded to an invincible
impulse, not knowing its nature, and not waiting to ask myself the
question. But when you had been with me a short time, I felt that
I could love you--yes--deeply, tenderly love you; and as I fancied
that, even though you protested the contrary, you could entertain no
lasting affection for me, but on the other hand would soon regret
any hastily and rashly-formed connexion, I was resolved not to place
my own heart in jeopardy, nor incur the risk of loving well and then
sustaining a cruel disappointment. For I feared that you addressed
me in an impassioned tone only because you were labouring under the
delirium of passing excitement and strong though evanescent feelings.
Thus was it, then--for my own sake--that I spoke mysteriously to you,
in order to convince you of the necessity of seeing me no more. But
now, my Lorenzo--now, that you have had several days to reflect upon
the proposal which you then made me--now that I have received such
unequivocal proofs of your love, and that I no longer fear lest you
should be acting in obedience to a sudden impulse,--oh! now, I say, I
can hesitate no longer--and I will become your wife!”
The Count of Carignano drank in the delicious poison of her words
until his very soul was intoxicated; and loving so well as did this
generous-hearted, confiding young man, he paused not for an instant to
demand of himself whether he were loving wisely. But he was contented
to risk all and everything,--happiness--honour--fame--and name,--in
this marriage upon which he had set his mind:--he longed--he burnt--he
craved to possess Laura altogether--to have her to himself;--and he
felt jealous of all the rest of the world until the nuptial knot should
have been tied. It is in this humour and in such a temperament that
the highest peer will marry an actress, who would jump at an offer to
become his pensioned mistress for a few hundreds a-year.
And Laura--what was passing in her mind? The readers may easily
conceive: and yet, lest there should be one or two of imaginations so
opaque as not to be able to divine her thoughts, we will describe them
as succinctly as possible.
She had run down the institution of marriage when in conversation with
the Marquis of Delmour, because she knew that he was already bound in
matrimonial bonds, and that _she_ therefore could not become his wife.
The result was that she was enabled to consent to become his mistress
with much less apparent violation of decency, and without the risk of
shocking his feelings. And his mistress she would have become, as she
indeed promised, had not the arrival of the Count of Carignano turned
her thoughts into an entirely new channel, and placed her interests
altogether in a new light. From the moment that he announced his title
and his wealth, Laura resolved to throw the poor Marquis of Delmour
overboard and accept the proposals of the Italian nobleman.
In fact, Fortune appeared to favour Laura marvellously. Ere now she had
beholden a coronet at the end of a vista of some years: in her musings,
she had said, “The Marquis will be worth two hundred thousand pounds
to me: and _then_ I may espouse a peer of high title!” Such was her
ambitious speculation previously to the arrival of Lorenzo: and now,
since he had come, she no longer need pass through the apprenticeship
of mistress to one nobleman in order to become the wife of another.
No--a coronet was within her grasp: a few days--a few hours might
behold her Countess of Carignano,--with a husband of whom she could not
but be proud, and not with an animated corpse bound to her side.
Here was another triumph for Laura--another cause of glorification
in the possession of those matchless charms which thus captivated so
hastily and triumphed so effectually. Within a few short weeks she
had seen Charles Hatfield--the Marquis of Delmour--and the Count of
Carignano at her feet. The first and last had enjoyed her favours: the
second was in anticipation of them--and, in that anticipation, had paid
sixty thousand pounds. To the first she was wedded--and their marriage
was a secret: to the last she had consented to be allied--and their
union would be proclaimed to all the world!
Oh! associated with all these reflections, were triumphs--glorious
triumphs for Laura Mortimer; and as those thoughts rushed through her
mind, as she lay half embraced in the arms of the fond and doting
Italian nobleman, the delicious rosiness of animation spread over her
cheeks, and kindred fires flashed from under her long silken lashes.
“How beautiful art thou, my adored one!” exclaimed Carignano, as
he contemplated the glorious loveliness of her looks: and then he
pressed his lips to that mouth which was so voluptuously formed, and
which rather resembled a luscious fruit than anything belonging to
human shape. “Oh! how I long to call thee mine--to know that thou art
indissolubly linked to me! But say--tell me--when shall this happy,
happy union take place?--when wilt thou accompany me to the altar?”
“Let us depart for England without delay, my dearest Lorenzo,” murmured
Laura, lavishing upon him the most tender caresses; “and there--in
London--our marriage can be celebrated immediately after our arrival.
Have you any tie--and business on hand to retain you in Paris?”
“None in the world,” was the answer: “and even if I had, everything
should give place to the accomplishment of my felicity and the
fulfilment of your wishes.”
“Then let us take our departure as early as convenient to-morrow
morning,” said Laura.
“And we shall not separate in the meantime?” observed the young Count,
straining the syren to his breast.
She murmured a favourable reply; and, after some minutes of tender
dalliance, she hastened to give her servants the necessary instructions
relative to the preparations for her departure.
A delicate supper was then served up; and the sparkling champagne made
the eyes of the lovers flash more brightly, and enhanced the rich
carnation glow of their countenances.
The time-piece struck eleven; and they were about to retire to rest,
when Rosalie hastily entered the room, and approaching Laura, said in
an under tone, “_Mademoiselle_, your mother has this moment arrived.
I told her that you were engaged--and she awaits your presence in the
breakfast-parlour.”
“It is my mother, dear Lorenzo,” Laura observed to the Count, who had
not overheard the abigail’s communication: “but her arrival will not
in any way interfere with our arrangements,” she hastened to add,
perceiving that the young nobleman’s countenance suddenly expressed
apprehension.
“And yet you yourself appear to be but little pleased at this
occurrence, dearest Laura,” he whispered, gazing fondly upon her.
“I could have wished it were otherwise,” she responded: “but no matter.
There is nothing to fear: I am independent of my mother. Have patience
for ten minutes--and I will return to you.”
With these words, she pressed his hand tenderly and then hurried from
the apartment--the discreet Rosalie having already retired the moment
she had delivered her message.
Laura hastened to the breakfast-parlour; and there she found her
mother, whose garments indicated that she had just arrived in Paris
after a journey in an open vehicle and on a dusty road.
CHAPTER CLXXXIV.
LAURA AND HER MOTHER.--ANOTHER INTERRUPTION.
“Here I am in Paris once more, Perdita--Laura, I mean,” said the old
woman, without moving from the seat which she had taken, and without
offering to embrace her daughter; “and I am within the fortnight
stipulated, too.”
“You have travelled post from Calais or Boulogne, doubtless?” observed
Laura, interrogatively: “for your clothes are covered with dust--and it
is evident that you were not cooped up in the interior of a diligence.
I may therefore conclude that you were successful in your search after
Torrens and your designs upon him,” she added, fixing a penetrating
glance upon her mother’s countenance.
“I was so far successful that I obtained certain intelligence
concerning him,” responded the old woman: “but I failed altogether in
my hope of becoming the possessor of his money.”
“And what was the intelligence to which you allude?” demanded Laura,
who felt convinced from her mother’s manner that she had _not_ failed
in the object of her journey.
“I learnt, beyond all question or doubt, that Torrens really was the
murderer of Percival, but that he himself had met with a violent death.”
“Ah! Torrens is no more?” exclaimed Laura: then, bending a look full of
deep meaning upon her mother, she said in a tone of equal significancy,
“You went to London to be revenged upon him--and he is dead! He
has experienced a violent end. Well--I understand you--I read your
secret--and you need not be more explicit.”
“By heaven! you wrong me, Laura,” exclaimed the old woman, starting
in astonishment and alarm as the justice of her daughter’s horrible
suspicion became suddenly apparent--a suspicion that she herself had
so incautiously engendered by the mysterious manner in which she had
announced Torrens’ death.
“It is not worth while disputing upon the subject,” said Laura, in a
tone which convinced her mother--and, indeed, was intended to convince
her, that no explanation could now possibly wipe away the suspicion
alluded to. “You are doubtless well pleased that Torrens is no
more--and that is sufficient.”
“Perdita--Laura, I mean,” said the old woman, speaking as if her tongue
were parched, or as if ashes clogged up her throat, “why should you
take delight in uttering things to vex and annoy me? For some time
past--indeed ever since the date of your connection with Charles
Hatfield, a barrier has appeared to rise up between us. We seem to
act towards each other as if it were tacitly understood that we are
enemies, or that we mutually harboured distrust and suspicion.”
“I am aware of it, mother--and it is all your own fault,” answered
Laura. “You sought to exercise over me a sway to which I would not and
never will submit; and you menaced me in a manner not easily to be
forgotten.”
“But you had your revenge--for you abused me vilely,” retorted Mrs.
Mortimer, with a malignant bitterness of accent.
“Acknowledged! And you yourself must admit that you provoked my
resentment. But let us not remain here bandying words, which may only
lead to an useless quarrel. Circumstances have opened to me a grand
career--a career, in which my happiness and my interests may be alike
promoted; and I have accepted the destiny thus favourably prepared for
me. In a word, I am about to marry a young Italian nobleman whom I feel
I can love--whom I already love, indeed--and who possesses a proud
title and princely revenues.”
“Ah! you are about to be married?” said Mrs. Mortimer, speaking as
if the project were perfectly natural and without an objection: but
in her heart--in the depths of her foul and vindictive soul, she was
rejoiced,--for this alliance would place her daughter completely in her
power.
The reader will remember that the old woman was aware of Laura’s union
with Charles Hatfield, but that the young lady herself was totally
unsuspicious of that fact being thus known to her mother.
“Yes,” resumed Laura: “I am about to be married. I leave Paris for
England to-morrow morning. I return to London, because I am now
independent of the Hatfields; and at my leisure I shall devise means
to avenge myself for the insults I have received at their hands. It
now remains for you and me to decide upon what terms we are to exist
in future. Be friendly--and I shall allow you a handsome income: be
hostile--and I shall dare all you can do against me.”
“I am sorry that my daughter should think it necessary to propose such
alternatives,” said Mrs. Mortimer. “State what you require me to do.”
“To settle in France--wherever you please,” responded Laura; “and I
will grant you an allowance of two hundred pounds every three months.”
“The pecuniary portion of the conditions is liberal enough,” said Mrs.
Mortimer; “but the rest is as despotic and galling as the terms which
Mr. Hatfield made the other day with you.”
“I much regret that prudence should compel me thus to dictate to you,”
returned Laura: “there is, however, no alternative. ’Tis for you to
yield to my conditions--or open war will at once commence between us.”
“I consent--I agree,” said the old woman, who knew that the time was
not yet come for her to show her teeth in defiance of her daughter.
“So much the better!” exclaimed Laura, but in a tone indicating that
the matter was one of perfect indifference to her; for she little
knew--little suspected how irretrievably her marriage with the Count of
Carignano would place her in her mother’s power. “And now I have one
question to ask you.”
“Speak, Perdita,” observed the old woman.
“Pray remember that my name is _Laura_!” cried her daughter,
petulantly. “You perceive how necessary it is that we should dwell
apart from each other. Your imprudence is really great; and the
question I am about to put to you, refers to some matter in which you
doubtless compromised yourself. Are you acquainted with the Marquis of
Delmour?”
“The Marquis of Delmour!” repeated Mrs. Mortimer, with an expression of
countenance denoting the most unfeigned astonishment. “No--certainly
not. I have heard of him, it is true; but only in the same way that one
hears of any other person conspicuous for rank, wealth, or station. I
have never seen the Marquis of Delmour to my knowledge.”
“Perhaps you have been in his company without knowing who he was,”
resumed Laura. “At all events, have you recently represented yourself,
in any circle or place, as the widow of a General-officer whom you
stated to have died in India?”
The system of duplicity which the old woman determined to adopt towards
her daughter, had so well prepared her to sustain any questioning or
cross-examination on any point, that she did not betray the least
surprise, nor did her countenance undergo the slightest change as that
interrogatory suddenly brought to her mind the conviction that Mr.
Vernon and the Marquis of Delmour must be one and the same person.
Without at the moment perceiving how this discovery could be in any way
useful to her, but still acting with that reserve and wariness with
which she had armed herself in order to meet her daughter, she resolved
not to mention a single word of anything that had occurred in London
relative to the beautiful Recluse of the Cottage, her father, and Lord
William Trevelyan.
Accordingly, and without the least hesitation,--nor quailing, nor
changing colour beneath the penetrating gaze which Laura fixed
upon her,--she said, “I do not remember ever to have made any such
representation as that to which you allude.”
“It is singular--this coincidence,” mused Laura, audibly; “and yet it
is of little import to me.”
“It would appear, at all events, that you must be acquainted with
this Marquis of Delmour of whom you speak?” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a
careless and indifferent tone.
Scarcely were the words uttered, when a violent ringing at the front
door was heard; and in a few moments a voice, instantly recognised
alike by Laura and her mother, exclaimed to Rosalie, “Has your mistress
retired to rest yet? I must see her immediately.”
The abigail, suspecting that it would be better not to allow the
Marquis of Delmour--for he the visitor was--to be brought face to face
with the handsome young Italian, unhesitatingly conducted the nobleman
into the parlour where Laura and Mrs. Mortimer were holding their
interview.
But the moment Rosalie had closed the door behind the Marquis, he
uttered an ejaculation of mingled astonishment and rage, and springing
towards Mrs. Mortimer, exclaimed, “Ah! I meet you again, vile woman!
Give me up my daughter--tell me where you have hidden her!”
And he caught her violently by the arm.
“I know what you mean, my lord,” said the old woman, hastily: “but you
accuse me wrongfully.”
“Wrongfully!” repeated the Marquis, his countenance white with rage:
“no--no! I only accuse you justly--for it must be you who have spirited
away my child--my beloved Agnes!”
“It is false!” ejaculated the old woman, with an emphasis which made
him release his hold of her and fall back two or three paces.
“False, you say!” he cried. “Oh! then, if you have really not done this
flagrant wrong--but if you are in possession of any clue--”
“I am--I am,” interrupted Mrs. Mortimer, seeing in a moment that a
reward was to be obtained and her spite against Lord William Trevelyan
to be gratified at the same time: for she _did_ cherish the bitterest
animosity against that young nobleman, on account of his conduct
towards her when, four days previously, she had taken Agnes Vernon to
his house in Park Square.
“And yet I cannot conceive you to be innocent in this matter,”
exclaimed the nobleman, surveying her with deep distrust and
aversion--and all this time taking no notice of Laura, so profoundly
were his feelings engrossed by the subject which now occupied his mind:
“for wherefore did you visit the cottage where Agnes dwelt?--why did
you intrude yourself upon her presence?”
“All that can be readily explained, my lord,” responded Mrs. Mortimer,
not losing an atom of her self-possession.
“Then tell me where my daughter is--tell me what has become of her?”
cried the nobleman, in an appealing tone; “and if you have been
concerned in removing her from the cottage, I will forgive you! Nay,
more--I will reward you handsomely.”
“Your daughter is in safety--that much I can inform you at once,” said
Mrs. Mortimer.
“Thanks--thanks for this assurance!” cried the old nobleman, clasping
his hands together in gratitude for the relief thus imparted to his
mind: then, suddenly recollecting the presence of Laura, he turned
towards her, and in a tone of mingled suspicion and reproach, said,
“But how is it that I find you with the very person of whom I spoke to
you somewhat disparagingly two short hours ago?”
“She claims some distant relationship with me, my dear Marquis,”
Laura hastened to observe--but without manifesting the slightest
embarrassment; while the rapid and intelligent sign which she made to
her mother, and which was altogether unperceived by the nobleman, was
fully understood by the old woman.
“Ah! that is on account of her name being _Mortimer_,” said the
Marquis, completely satisfied by the answer which Laura had given
him--especially as the old woman offered no contradiction. “And now
I must request you to accede to some alteration in our plans for
to-morrow,” he continued, drawing Laura aside, and speaking to her in
a low tone. “On my return just now to the hotel where I am staying, I
found a letter containing the afflicting intelligence that a daughter
of mine--a daughter whom circumstances have compelled me to keep in the
strictest seclusion--had suddenly and most mysteriously disappeared
from her dwelling in the neighbourhood of London. This happened five
days ago;--but Mrs. Gifford--my dear child’s housekeeper, and I may
almost say _guardian_--did not immediately write to me, hoping that
Agnes would return. Oh! you may conceive how deeply this event has
grieved me----”
“I sympathise sincerely with you, my dear Marquis,” interrupted Laura,
affecting to wipe away tears from her eyes: for it suited her purpose
to remain on good terms with the old nobleman until she should have
cashed her draft for the sixty thousand pounds. “Yes--I sincerely
sympathise with you,” she repeated: “and I can anticipate the proposed
alterations in our arrangements. You intend to start immediately for
England----”
“Without a moment’s unnecessary delay,” said the Marquis, who was
greatly excited by the intelligence he had received from Mrs. Gifford:
“the instant I return to my hotel, a post-chaise and four will be in
readiness for me. But may I hope that you will follow me to London as
speedily as convenient?”
“I shall depart to-morrow, my dear Marquis, at the hour already
arranged,” responded Laura; “and deeply do I regret that my
preparations are so backward as to render it impossible for me to offer
to become your travelling-companion at once.”
“Dearest Laura!” murmured the Marquis, for a single moment losing the
remembrance of his affliction in the doting passion he had formed for
the beautiful woman who was thus grossly deluding him. “Our separation
will not be very long,” he continued; “and I hope that when we meet in
London three days hence, I may have good news to tell you respecting
Agnes. Now, madam,” he exclaimed aloud, turning towards Mrs. Mortimer,
who, while affecting to be examining the mantel-ornaments, was vainly
endeavouring to catch the sense of what was passing at a little
distance between her daughter and the Marquis; “now, madam,” he said,
approaching her with an abruptness that made her start, “I do not
think I shall be insulting you if I offer you a hundred guineas for
the information which you professed yourself able and willing to give
relative to my daughter--my dear and well-beloved Agnes.”
“A hundred guineas, my lord!” exclaimed Mrs. Mortimer, contemptuously:
“if you really love that young lady whom you call your daughter, you
must surely consider that it is worth five or six times the amount
named in order to regain possession of her.”
“Laura dearest:----I mean, Miss Mortimer,” said the nobleman,
impatiently, as he turned towards the young lady,--“oblige me with
writing materials, and I will speedily satisfy this woman’s rapacity.”
“Perhaps I might also exact a recompense for keeping secret the good
understanding which exists between your lordship and ‘_dearest Laura_,’
and which you so unguardedly betrayed?” observed Mrs. Mortimer, in a
tone of bitter sarcasm, and with a malignant glance darted from her
snake-like eyes at her daughter.
“Silence, woman!” ejaculated the Marquis, speaking with the emphasis of
authority: then, the writing materials being now placed before him, he
sate down and wrote a cheque, which he tossed across the table to Mrs.
Mortimer, saying, “I am sorry that I have not enough money about my
person to satisfy your demands. I am therefore compelled to give you a
draft upon my London bankers; and you will perceive that it is for _six
times_ as much as I at first offered you,” he added, dwelling on the
words which the old woman had herself used to indicate the amount of
her expectations.
“Yes--my lord: I see that it is for six hundred pounds,” she observed,
coolly and quietly, as she folded up the cheque and secured it about
her person. “And now I will tell you what I know concerning your
daughter; and I take heaven to witness that I will not mislead you.”
“If you do, my good woman,” interrupted the Marquis, “you will find
payment of the cheque stopped at the bank. Go on; and delay not--for my
time is precious.”
“In a word, my lord,” said Mrs. Mortimer, the contemptuous manner in
which she was treated by the haughty peer being fully counterbalanced
by the handsome bonus that had just fallen into her hand,--“Lord
William Trevelyan, whom you doubtless know well by name, if not
personally, is deeply enamoured of your daughter; and he employed me to
take a letter to her. I acquitted myself of the task: but Miss Agnes
is a perfect dragon of virtue--and I could make little impression upon
her.”
“God be thanked!” ejaculated the Marquis, fervently.
“Well--although Lord William’s passion is honourable enough, I have no
doubt, yet Miss Agnes----”
“And is it Lord William who has taken her away?” demanded the Marquis,
unable to restrain his impatience or any longer endure the tortures of
suspense.
“No, my lord--it was her mother!” said Mrs. Mortimer, watching through
profound curiosity the effect which this announcement would produce
upon the nobleman.
“Ah! then my worst apprehensions are confirmed!” he exclaimed, in a
tone of poignant anguish.
“But do not give way to despair, my lord,” said Mrs. Mortimer: “for
Miss Agnes subsequently escaped from the house where her mother placed
her----”
“Oh! I then she loves me still--_me_--her father!” exclaimed the
Marquis, in accents of joy: “and she yielded not to the wiles of that
woman----But proceed, madam--proceed!” he cried, suddenly interrupting
himself, and again speaking in a tone of impatience.
“Having escaped, as I have just said,” resumed Mrs. Mortimer, “Agnes
fell into the power of ruffian, from whose hands I was fortunate
enough to rescue her; and, not knowing precisely whither to take her,
I thought it best to consult Lord William Trevelyan upon the proper
course to adopt. His lordship, who is a man of honour--and pray
remember to tell him that I say so,” she added, with a slight accent
of malignity,--“his lordship immediately placed her in the care of a
lady of his acquaintance; and it is to him that you must apply, my Lord
Marquis, for the address of your daughter’s new abode.”
“And all that you have told me is true?” exclaimed the old nobleman.
“If it should prove otherwise, your lordship has in your own hands the
means of punishing me,” responded Mrs. Mortimer.
“True!” cried the Marquis; “and now I am somewhat consoled by the
tidings you have given me. My daughter is safe, and in the society of
honourable persons. I thank you, madam.”
He then turned away to shake Laura cordially by the hand ere he took
his departure.
“You will leave to-morrow at mid-day, dearest,” he said, in an under
tone to her whom he fondly hoped to make his mistress, but who was so
grossly deluding him.
“Yes--without fail,” was the reply.
“And on your arrival in town you will instantly send me word at which
hotel you take up your temporary residence?” continued the Marquis. “I
shall hasten to join you, and hope to have a charming villa ready to
receive you.”
“You are too good, my dear Marquis, to think to much of me at a time
when your heart is so severely lacerated on account of your daughter,”
said Laura, likewise speaking in a whisper.
“There is nothing that I would not do for you, beloved Laura,”
responded the infatuated old noble. “You hold already a cheque for
sixty thousand pounds: that is nothing to what I will do for you, my
dearest angel. And if I allude to pecuniary affairs at all, it is
to convince you how anxious I am to ensure your happiness, not only
now--but likewise when I shall be no more.”
Thus speaking, the Marquis of Delmour pressed Laura’s hand fervently,
and was about to hurry away, when, suddenly recollecting something, he
drew her still farther aside, and said in a very low whisper, “Have
nothing to do with that woman dearest! I dislike her looks--I mistrust
her altogether. She is evidently an adventuress. Oh! how could I have
ever supposed even for an instant that such a wretch was the mother of
such an angelic being as my Laura?”
Another fond and impassioned look--another pressure of the hand--and
the Marquis was gone.
Of all this latter dialogue which took place between that nobleman and
Laura, and which was carried on in a very low tone, Mrs. Mortimer,
who strained all her auricular faculties to catch even a syllable,
succeeded only in overhearing a very short sentence. But that one
sentence she did manage to catch; and a highly significant as well as
deeply important one was it for her.
And these were the words which she thus caught--“_You hold already a
cheque for sixty thousand pounds!_”
Quickly as the first glass of sparkling wine infuses a delicious
sensation throughout the entire frame,--so speedily did that one
sentence create a burning joy in the breast of the old woman. She saw
through it all:--Laura had wheedled the Marquis out of that immense
sum--and now she intended to jilt him, and espouse the Italian noble!
“A cheque for sixty thousand pounds!” thought Mrs. Mortimer within
herself, while the Marquis and Laura were still whispering together:
“sixty thousand pounds! Well--we shall see! It is better than a paltry
six hundred.”
And, while thus musing, she affected to be smelling the flowers on
the mantel-piece, until the door suddenly opened and closed again
instantaneously--and then she turned round towards Laura, for the
Marquis was gone.
“And you assured me that you knew nothing of the nobleman who has just
left us?” said Laura, fixing her eyes with cold contempt on her mother.
“I knew him only as Mr. Vernon until I saw him here this evening,” was
the answer.