CHAPTER CLXV.
LORD WILLIAM TREVELYAN.
The scene changes to the residence of Lord William Trevelyan in Park
Square.
It was evening, and the young nobleman was pacing up and down in an
elegantly furnished parlour, which was lighted by means of a brilliant
gas-jet enclosed in a pale red glass globe--so that the lustre which
filled the room was of roseate hue. The curtains, sofas, and cushions
of the chairs were of a rich crimson; and the paper on the walls
was of a kindred colour and splendid pattern. In each corner of the
apartment stood a marble jar, filled with flowers recently gathered,
and rendering the atmosphere cool and fragrant.
Lord William was tall and handsome, his complexion was somewhat dark,
giving him the appearance of a Spaniard rather than of an Englishman;
and yet the ruddy hues of health were upon his cheeks. His hair was
black as jet, silky as that of a woman, and parted above a brow high,
intellectual, and expressive of a noble mind. His eyes were large
and dark, and full of the fire of genius; and there was something
peculiarly pleasing--almost winning in his smile.
In disposition Lord William was amiable--in manners unassuming: his
character was unimpeachable--and his political opinions were of
the most liberal tendency. His charity was extensive, but entirely
unostentatious: his dependants revered him as a good master, and his
acquaintances loved him as a sincere friend.
He was in his twenty-fourth year; and, until he had set eyes upon
Agnes Vernon, he had never experienced the influence of the tender
passion. But one day, while on a visit to a friend at Norwood, he was
strolling alone in the vicinity, and accident led his footsteps towards
the cottage, in the garden belonging to which he beheld the beauteous
creature whose image had ever since filled his soul.
Truly had he said to Mrs. Mortimer that he adored the fair recluse
of the cottage--that he worshipped the very ground upon which she
trod: his love amounted almost to an idolatry;--and yet he had never
exchanged a word--scarcely even a look, with the object of his
affection!
It could be no world-contaminated heart that entertained such a passion
as this--no selfish soul that could cherish such a pure and holy
attachment.
But it was a generous--upright--noble-minded young man, who was now
anxiously waiting the arrival of the woman with whom he had made an
appointment for the evening in question.
* * * * *
Were the English aristocracy to be judged generally by such nobles
as the Earl of Ellingham and Lord William Trevelyan, the term of its
existence would not now perhaps be within the range of prophecy.
But, as matters now stand,--as the aristocracy is corrupt,
selfish, and cruel--self-sufficient and ignorant--proud and
intolerant--unprincipled, profligate, and tyrannical,--it is not
difficult to predict its speedy downfall.
Therefore is it that we boldly proclaim our conviction that Monarchy
and Aristocracy will not exist ten years longer in enlightened England;
but that a Republic will displace them!
The _hereditary principle_, either in Monarchy or Aristocracy, is the
most detestable idea that ever entered the brains of knaves, or was
adopted by fools.
In respect to Monarchy, we are gravely assured that the principle of
hereditary succession guarantees a nation against the civil wars that
may arise from the pretensions of numerous claimants to the supreme
power. But the history of every monarchical country in the world gives
the lie to this assertion. Crowns have been bones of contention from
time immemorial, and will continue to be so until they be crushed
altogether beneath the heel of Republicanism. Take the history of
England, for instance--that England, where the hereditary principle is
said to be admirable and efficacious beyond all question: thirty-three
Kings or Queens and two minors have reigned in this country since the
Conquest by the Norman ruffian--_and during that period we have had
eight civil wars and nineteen rebellions!_
The LAWS OF GOD, moreover, bear testimony against Monarchy. What said
the Prophet Samuel when the Jews insisted upon having a King? “I will
call unto the Lord, and he shall send thunder and rain, that you may
perceive and see that your wickedness is great which you have done in
the sight of the Lord, _in asking you a King_. So Samuel called unto
the Lord, and the Lord sent thunder and rain that day; and all the
people greatly feared the Lord and Samuel. And all the people said unto
Samuel, Pray for thy servants unto the Lord thy God, that we die not;
_for we have added unto our sins this evil, to ask a King_.”
Either the Bible is true or false. If true--as assuredly it is--then is
the institution of Monarchy _a positive crime,_ tolerated by an entire
nation!
And no wonder that Heaven itself should protest against a system which
is nothing more nor less than setting up an idol for the millions to
worship,--an idol as useless as an Indian pagod, but often as terrible
and slaughterous in its baleful influence as Juggernaut in its fatal
progress.
Never did Satan contrive a scheme more certain of promoting idolatry
than the raising up of Kings and Queens as rivals to the Majesty of
Heaven;--for the root of Monarchy is in hell--the laws of God denounce
the institution as a sin--and the history of the whole world proclaims
that blood inevitably attends upon it!
All men were originally equal; and in no country therefore, could any
privilege of birth give one family a right to monopolise the executive
power for ever: neither can one generation bind that which is as yet
to come. The existing race of human beings has no property in the
one unborn: we of the present day have no right to assume the power
of enslaving posterity:--and, on the same principle, our ancestors
had no right to enslave us. If those ancestors chose to make one set
of laws for themselves, we can institute another code for our own
government. But of course such a change as this can only be made by the
representatives of the People; and in order that the people _may_ have
a fair representation, the following elements of a constitution become
absolutely necessary:--
Universal Suffrage;
Vote by Ballot;
No Property Qualification;
Paid Representatives;
Annual Parliaments; and
Equal Electoral Districts.
Give us these principles--accord us these institutions--and we will
vouch for the happiness, prosperity, and tranquillity of the kingdom.
[Illustration]
The French now stand at the head of the civilisation of Europe. They
are on the same level as the fine people of the United States of
America; and England occupies an inferior grade in the scale.
Alas! that we should be compelled to speak thus of our native land: but
the truth must be told!
As yet almost every country in Europe has demanded and
obtained something of its rulers, in consequence of the French
Revolution;--whereas England has as yet obtained nothing in the shape
of Reform!
Oh! shame--shame! what has become of our national spirit?--are we all
willing slaves, and shall we not agitate--morally, but energetically
agitate--for our rights and liberties?
The aristocracy and the men in power treat the people’s assemblies
with ridicule, and denominate the working-classes, when so assembled,
as “a mob.” They will not discriminate between honest politicians and
the respectable working-classes on the one hand, and the ragamuffinry
of society on the other. They confound us all together in the sweeping
appellation of “_the mob!_”
The insensates! Do they not reflect that if ten or fifteen thousand
persons meet for the purpose of discussing some grand political
question, some five or six hundred pickpockets and mischievous boys are
certain to intrude themselves into the assemblage? Why--black sheep
even find their way into the Houses of Parliament--aye, and into the
very suite of Royalty itself.
* * * * *
But after recording all the above observations, we must once more
declare that we do not recommend violence: we insist upon the necessity
of a grand moral agitation--an agitation which shall pervade the
entire country, as an ocean is roused by the storm into a mass of
mighty waves. The people must assume an imposing attitude; and let the
memorable words of Lafayette be repeated by every tongue:--“_For a
nation to love liberty, it is sufficient that she knows it; and for a
nation to be free, it is sufficient that she wills it!_”
And, oh! my fellow-countrymen, let not this glorious thesis be used
in vain! By the misery and starvation which millions of ye endure--by
the hopeless entombment to which the Poor Law Bastilles condemn ye,
when work fails--by the denial of an honest recognition of the rights
of labour, which is insolently persisted in--by the spectacle of your
famished wives and little ones--by the naked walls of the wretched
hovels in which the labouring population dwells--by the blinding toil
of the poor seamstress--by the insults heaped on ye by a rapacious
aristocracy and an intolerant clergy--by the right which a despicable
oligarchy usurps to hold the reins of power--by the limited suffrage
which leaves the millions unrepresented--by the oppressive weight of
taxation laid upon the productive classes--by the sorrows which the
hard-working operative endures throughout his virility, and the misery
that attends upon his decrepitude--by the badge of pauperism that
the sons and daughters of toil are compelled to wear in the accursed
Union-houses,--by all your wrongs, we adjure ye not to remain at
rest--not to endure the yoke which ye can cast off in a moment--not to
stand still and gaze listlessly, while all the rest of the civilised
world is in motion!
* * * * *
Returning from this digression to the thread of our narrative, we
will suppose that Mrs. Mortimer has at length arrived at the house in
Park Square, and that she is already seated with the young nobleman,
who little suspected the infamous character of the woman whom he had
admitted to his confidence.
“I have been looking forward with much impatience and anxiety to your
coming,” said Lord William: “but even now that you are here, I know not
in which manner you can assist me.”
“_Faint heart never won fair lady_, my lord,” returned the old woman;
“and you must take courage. The maxim which I quoted is a good one.”
“I do not despair, madam,” said the young nobleman: “and yet I seem as
if I were involved in a deep mist, through which I cannot even grope
my way. Alone and unassisted, I cannot hope to obtain access to that
charming creature; and, if assisted, I will do nothing that shall
violate the respect due to one so pure of heart as I believe her to be.”
“I should have proposed to become the bearer of a letter from your
lordship to Miss Vernon,” remarked Mrs. Mortimer, coldly: “but,
perceiving beforehand that your scruples are over nice and your notions
somewhat of the most fastidious, I really do not see how I can serve
you.”
“I am afraid to write to her--she would perhaps be offended to an
extent that might be irremediable,” exclaimed Lord William, a prey to
the most cruel bewilderment.
“And yet your lordship once endeavoured to bribe the servant-girl to
become the bearer of your amatory epistle,” said Mrs. Mortimer, in a
tone of sarcasm--almost of disgust.
“Now you are offended with me,” cried the young nobleman. “It is true
that I did pen a letter to Agnes--telling her how much I loved her and
how honourable were my intentions--imploring her likewise to grant me a
few moments’ interview, and to pardon the means that I thus adopted of
accosting her, having no other mode of procuring an introduction. Such
a letter I did indeed write,” continued Trevelyan: “but it was in a fit
of despair--of madness--of insensate recklessness.--I know not how to
explain myself! The servant refused to deliver that note--and my eyes
were immediately opened to the impropriety of the proceeding which I
had adopted.”
“And you therefore decline to entrust me, who am well acquainted with
Agnes, to deliver a similar letter into her hand? Your lordship is
wrong in thus refusing to be guided by me,” continued the crafty old
woman. “Think you that with one so innocent, so artless as Agnes, I
cannot prepare the way to render your letter acceptable--at least to
prevent it from producing a sudden shock to her notions of maidenly
propriety?”
“Much as I should be rejoiced could you accomplish that aim,” said
Trevelyan, “I should be ten thousand times happier were you able to
procure me an interview with her.”
“This is madness!” exclaimed the old woman. “Can I not more easily
induce her to read a letter from a stranger, than to receive that
stranger in person? Is not the letter the first and most natural step
to the visit? Trust to me, my lord: I know the disposition of Agnes--I
understand affairs of this nature--and I am also well aware that love
blinds you to the ways of prudence.”
“Be it, then, as you propose,” said Lord William, after a long pause,
during which be reflected profoundly. “I will write the letter this
evening: will you call for it early to-morrow morning?”
“I will,” answered the old woman: “and in less than twenty-four hours I
will undertake to bring you tidings calculated to encourage hope--or I
am very much mistaken,” she added emphatically.
“You do not believe--you have no reason to suppose that the father
of Agnes already destines her to become the bride of some person of
his own choice?” asked Trevelyan, now for the first time shaping in
words an idea that had haunted him for some days past. “Because,” he
continued, speaking with the rapidity of excitement, “I cannot possibly
comprehend wherefore he compels her to dwell in that strict seclusion.”
“I do not believe that you have any such cause for apprehension,” said
Mrs. Mortimer, in a tone of confidence--as if she were well able to
give the species of assurance which she so emphatically conveyed.
“There is a mystery--a deep mystery attached to the fair recluse,--and
what that mystery is, I am myself completely ignorant. But that the
father of Agnes has no such intention as the one you imagined, and that
Agnes herself has as yet never known the passion of love,--these are
facts to which I do not hesitate to pledge myself most solemnly.”
“Oh! then there is indeed room for hope!” exclaimed Lord William, his
countenance brightening up and joy flashing in his eyes.
“A nobleman in your position--blessed with wealth and a handsome
person--endowed with agreeable manners and a cultivated mind,” said
Mrs. Mortimer, “need not despair of winning the love and securing the
hand of a maiden dwelling in utter obscurity and totally unacquainted
with the world.”
“I would rather that she should learn to love me for my own sake,
madam,” observed Lord William, in a serious tone, “than for any
adventitious advantages of rank or social position that I may possess.”
“Well, my lord--we shall see,” said Mrs. Mortimer, rising to depart.
“To-morrow morning I will call for the letter; and I shall proceed
straight over to the cottage: In the afternoon, or evening, I will do
myself the honour of waiting upon your lordship again.”
“I shall expect you with impatience, madam,” returned Trevelyan, as he
politely hastened to open the door for her.
Mrs. Mortimer took her leave; and the young nobleman sate down to pen a
letter to Agnes Vernon.
But this was not so easy a matter as he had anticipated. Sheet after
sheet of paper did he spoil,--a hundred times did he commence--and as
often did he throw aside his pen in despair. Now he fancied that his
style was too bold--then he conceived it to be too tame and vague: now
he imagined himself to be too complimentary in his language towards
one possessing a mind so chaste and pure--then he felt assured that he
was acting indiscreetly to write at all. In the course of an hour he
was swayed by such an infinite variety of conflicting sentiments and
impressions that he was almost inclined to throw up the task in despair.
At length, however, he made a beginning which pleased him; and his pen
then ran fluently enough over the paper, until the letter was composed
in the following manner:--
“Pardon a stranger who dares to address you, beautiful
Miss Vernon, in a strain that might give you offence,
were he not sincere in his language and honourable in his
intentions:--pardon me, I implore you--and refuse not to
read these few lines to the end! He who thus writes is the
individual that you have observed occasionally in the vicinity
of your dwelling; and you will perceive by the signature to
this letter that he is not a man without ostensible guarantees
for his social position. That his character is unimpeachable
he can proudly declare; and that he will not address to you,
Miss Vernon, a single word which he will fear to repeat in your
father’s presence, he solemnly declares.
“Let me, however, speak of myself in the first person again:
let me assure you that your beauty has captivated my heart--and
that, if anything were wanting to render me your slave, the
description which the bearer of this letter has given me of
your amiable qualities, would be more than sufficient. I am
rich--and therefore I have no selfish motive in addressing
you, even if you be rich also: but I would rather that it were
otherwise with you, so that my present proceeding may appear
to you the more disinterested. Had I any means of obtaining
an introduction to you, beautiful Miss Vernon, I should not
have adopted a measure that gives me pain because I tremble
lest it should wound or offend you. But mine is an honest--a
sincere--and a devoted attachment; and I shall be happy indeed
if you will permit me to open a correspondence with your father
on the subject. Were he to honour me with a visit, I should
be proud to receive him. But if, in the meantime, you seek to
know more of me--if I might venture to solicit you to accord
me an interview of only a few minutes, you cannot divine how
fervently I should thank you--how delighted I should feel! Let
this interview take place in the presence of Mrs. Mortimer, if
you will: I have nothing to communicate to you that I should
hesitate to say before your father or your friends. Oh! how
can I convince you of my sincerity?--how can I testify my
devotion?--how can I prove the extent of my love?
“I beseech you to reflect, Miss Vernon, that my happiness
depends upon your reply. Am I guilty of an indiscretion in
loving you? Love is a passion beyond mortal control! He who
knows no other deity, deserves not blame for worshipping the
sun, because it is glorious and bright; and my heart, which
knows no other idol, adores you, because you are beautiful and
good. Treat not my conduct, then, with anger: let not your
pride be offended by the proceeding which I have adopted in
order to make my sentiments known to you;--and scorn not the
honest--the pure--the ardent affection which an honourable
man dares to proffer you. I do not merit punishment because I
love you;--and your silence would prove a punishment severe
and undeserved indeed! Again, I conjure you to remember that
the happiness of a fellow-creature depends upon you: your
decision will either inspire me with the most joyous hope, or
plunge me into the deepest despair. At the same time, beauteous
Agnes,--(the words--those delightful words, ’beauteous Agnes,’
are written now, and I cannot--will not erase them)--at the
same time, I say, if your affections be already engaged--if
a mortal more blest than myself have received the promise of
your hand,--accept the assurance, sweet maiden, that never
more shall you be molested by me--never again will I intrude
myself upon your attention. For with my love is united the most
profound respect; and not for worlds would I do aught to excite
an angry feeling in your soul.
“Your ardent admirer and devoted friend,
“WILLIAM TREVELYAN.”
With this letter the young nobleman was satisfied. He considered it
to be sufficiently energetic, and at the same time respectful: he saw
nothing in it against which the purest mind could take exceptions; and,
in the sanguine confidence natural to his age, and to the honourable
candour of his disposition, he already looked upon his aims as half
accomplished--his aspirations as half gained.
Having sealed and addressed the letter, he placed it upon the
mantel-piece ready for Mrs. Mortimer when she should call in the
morning: then, fetching a portfolio from an inner room, he opened
it, and from amongst several drawings in water-colours, selected one
on which his gaze was immediately rivetted with deep and absorbing
interest.
For that painting--executed by his own hand--was a portrait of Agnes
Vernon; and even the most fastidious critic, if acquainted with the
original, must have pronounced it to be a living likeness.
Yes: on that paper was delineated, with the most perfect accuracy, the
fair countenance of the _Recluse of the Cottage_,--every feature--every
lineament drawn with a fidelity to which only a first-rate artist, or
an amateur whose pencil was guided by the finger of Love, could have
possibly attained. There were the eyes of deep blackness and melting
softness,--there was the high, intelligent forehead,--there was the
raven hair, silken and glossy, and seeming to flow luxuriantly even in
the very picture,--and there was the rich red mouth, wearing a smile
such as mortals behold upon the lips of angels in their dreams. How
charming was the entire countenance!--how amiable--how heavenly the
expression that it wore!
And no wonder that the likeness was so striking--so accurate--so
faithful;--for the young nobleman had touched and retouched it until
he had delineated on the paper the precise counterpart of the image
that dwelt in his mind. Hours and hours had he devoted to that labour
of love:--on each occasion when he returned home after contemplating,
from behind the green barrier of the garden, the idol of his adoration,
he addressed himself to the improvement of that portrait. At one time
he had beheld the maiden to greater advantage than at another; and
then he studied to convey to the card-board the last and most pleasing
impression thus made upon his mind; until he produced a likeness so
faithful that not another touch was required--no further improvement
could be effected.
And, like Pygmalion with his Galatea, how Lord William Trevelyan
worshipped that portrait! No--the simile is incorrect; because
the sculptor learnt to adore the statue that was cold and
passionless--whereas the young nobleman was blest with the conviction
that there was a living original for the image he had so faithfully
traced upon his paper,--and it was that living original whom he made
the goddess of his thoughts.
The clock had struck ten, and Lord William was still bending over the
portrait that lay upon the table, when a footman entered the room
to announce that a lady who declined to give her name solicited an
interview with the young nobleman.
Lord William, hastily closing the portfolio, desired that she might be
immediately shown into his presence.
The domestic bowed and retired.
In a few minutes he returned, ushering in the unknown visitor, who wore
a veil over her countenance: but the moment the footman had withdrawn,
she raised the veil, and disclosed a face that was strikingly handsome,
though pale and careworn. She was apparently about thirty-six or
thirty-seven years of age--with dark hair, fine hazel eyes, and good
teeth. Tall and well-formed, her figure, which was rather inclined
to _embonpoint_, was set off to advantage by the tasteful--indeed
elegant style of her dress; and in her deportment there was an air of
distinction denoting the polished and well-bred lady.
Lord William received her with becoming courtesy, requested her to be
seated, and then awaited an explanation of her business.
“Your lordship is doubtless surprised at receiving a visit at so
unseasonable an hour, and on the part of a complete stranger,” began
the lady, in a pleasing though mournful tone of voice: “but I know not
to whom else to address myself for the information I now seek--and if
you cannot afford it to me, I shall be unhappy indeed.”
“Madam,” said Lord William, somewhat astonished at this mysterious
opening of the conversation, “if it be in my power to serve you, I
shall render that service cheerfully.”
“You are well acquainted, I believe, my lord, with Sir Gilbert
Heathcote?” observed the lady, somewhat abruptly, as she bowed her
thanks for the assurance the young nobleman had given her.
“Sir Gilbert Heathcote, though much older than I, is an intimate friend
of mine,” observed Trevelyan.
“Do you know where he is--what has become of him?” demanded the lady,
in a still more anxious tone than before.
“I really do not, madam,” was the reply.
“Merciful heavens!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands together in a
paroxysm of sorrow.
“I have not seen him for this week past,” continued Trevelyan.
“But--are you ill, madam? Can I offer you anything?--shall I summon
assistance?”
And, as he spoke, the nobleman rose from his seat and approached the
bell-pull.
“No--no, my lord!” cried the lady. “Do not ring--do not call your
servants! I shall be better presently. But pardon me if I could not
control my feelings,” she added, wiping the tears from her eyes.
The young nobleman, in spite of the adjuration to the contrary,
hastened into the adjoining room and speedily returned with a decanter
of spring water and a tumbler. He then filled the glass and presented
it to his afflicted visitor, who thanked him for his delicate attention
with a look expressive of gratitude--the words that she would have
uttered being stifled in her throat.
Refreshed with the cooling beverage, she said, after a short pause, “My
lord, have you the slightest conception where your friend Sir Gilbert
Heathcote is? Did he intimate to you his intention to leave London? did
he hint at the probability of his departure from England? Oh! I conjure
you to tell me all you know: for--for--you cannot divine how much--how
deeply I love him!”
Trevelyan was struck with astonishment at these last words,--words
that were uttered in a tone of such convincing, such profound
sincerity, that he could not for an instant question their import. And
yet--though since the days of childhood Trevelyan had known Sir Gilbert
Heathcote--he had never heard that the baronet was married: on the
contrary, he had invariably understood him to be a single man. If this
latter belief were the true one, then, was the lady now in his presence
the mistress of his friend?--for assuredly she had not spoken with the
confidence of a sister, but with the hesitation of one who reveals a
fact that is in some way associated with shame.
The lady perceived what was passing in the mind of Trevelyan; and in a
low but fully audible tone, she said, “My lord, circumstances compel me
to reveal myself to you as your friend’s mistress. Yes: though I love
him more than ever wife could love--yet am I only his mistress,--for,
alas! I am the wife of another! And now, my lord,” she added, with deep
feeling, “you may spurn me from you--you may command your lacquey to
thrust me from your dwelling: but I implore you to give me tidings of
Sir Gilbert!”
“Madam,” exclaimed Trevelyan, the moment he could recover from the
bewilderment into which this impassioned address plunged him, “not
for worlds could I do or say aught to augment year affliction--much
less to insult you. I declare to you most solemnly that I have neither
heard nor seen anything of Sir Gilbert Heathcote for a week. I called
at his chambers in the Albany the day before yesterday, and was simply
informed that he was not at home. I left my card without thinking to
make further inquiries--not suspecting that his absence had been for
days, instead of hours.”
“Oh! yes--upwards of a week has elapsed since I saw him,” exclaimed the
lady, with difficulty subduing a fresh outburst of grief. “Each day
have I been to the Albany--and still the answer is the same--‘_He has
not returned!_’ No--he has not returned,” she added, clasping her hands
together; “and he has not written to me! O God! I fear that some fatal
accident has befallen him!”
“Do not give way to such a distressing belief,” cried Trevelyan,
feeling deeply for the unfortunate woman, whose grief was so
profound and so sincere. “Shall I make inquiries--immediate
inquiries--concerning him? Perhaps I may learn more than a lady
possibly can.”
“Generous-hearted nobleman!” exclaimed the visitor; “how can I ever
repay you for this kindness towards an utter stranger?”
“Remember also, madam,” said Trevelyan, “that, apart from my readiness
to serve you or any lady whom affliction has overtaken, I begin to
experience some degree of anxiety on behalf of a gentleman who has
ever shown a sincere friendship towards me. Not another minute will I
delay the inquiries which, alike for your sake and his, I now deem it
necessary to institute.”
Thus speaking, the young nobleman rose from his chair.
“My lord,” said the lady, rising also, and speaking in a tone
indicative of deep emotion, “may I hope to receive a communication from
you as early as possible? My suspense will be great--it is even now
intolerable----”
And she burst into tears.
“Madam,” interrupted the young nobleman, profoundly touched by her
affliction, which was evidently most unfeigned, “you can either
accompany me, or remain here until my return. Perhaps the latter will
be the more desirable--at least if you can restrain your impatience, so
natural under the circumstances, for a couple of hours. But perhaps,”
he added, an idea striking him,--“perhaps you live at some distance----”
“I am the occupant of a house in Kentish Town,” said the lady; “and
therefore my dwelling is not very far from your lordship’s. If you see
no impropriety in it--if there be no one here whom my presence would
offend,” she continued, speaking in a subdued and almost timid tone, “I
would rather--oh! much rather wait until you return.”
“By all means, madam,” exclaimed the generous-hearted young noble.
“Should you require anything during my absence, the servants will obey
your summons; and they will receive my orders, ere I depart, to pay you
every attention.”
“I shall not trouble them, my lord,” was the reply: “but I return you
my deepest--sincerest thanks for the kind consideration with which you
treat me.”
Trevelyan bowed, and then quitted the room.