CHAPTER CXCI.

THE OLD MARQUIS AND THE YOUNG LORD.

“My lord, you are a man of honour, I have heard,” began the Marquis,

without any prefatory observations; “and I feel assured that you will

at once relieve me from a most painful state of suspense. Pardon

the excitement which I display--and justify the good opinion I have

conceived of you by giving me without delay the information I am about

to seek. In a word, where is Agnes--my daughter Agnes--the young lady

whom you have seen walking in the garden of the secluded cottage near

Norwood?”

“Is that beautiful creature indeed your lordship’s daughter?” exclaimed

Trevelyan, not altogether surprised at the announcement: for the

agitation which Sir Gilbert Heathcote had shown when the name of the

Marquis of Delmour was mentioned, and the request which he had made to

the effect that the residence of Mrs. Sefton should be kept secret, had

already created in the mind of Lord William a suspicion of the real

truth.

“Yes--Agnes is indeed my daughter--and I am proud of her!” cried the

Marquis. “But I know that she was inveigled away from the cottage

by one who----by her own mother, in fine----and I am likewise aware

that you subsequently entrusted her to the care of a lady of your

acquaintance. This latter information I obtained from a certain Mrs.

Mortimer----”

“The information was correct, my lord,” answered Trevelyan. “And now I

must candidly confess that I have a very difficult part to perform: for

I will not condescend to a falsehood--and I dare not reveal the truth.

This much, however, I unhesitatingly declare--that, by a singular

coincidence, the lady to whom I conducted your lordship’s daughter

proved to be none other than her mother.”

“Her mother! then she is at this moment in the care of that woman?”

ejaculated the Marquis, his excitement increasing: “and you will not

tell me where I can find them?”

“That is the truth which, as I said ere now, I dare not repeat,”

responded Trevelyan, profoundly touched by the evident grief of the old

nobleman.

“Will you be the means of separating a father from his child?” asked

the Marquis, now sinking through exhaustion upon a sofa--for hitherto

he had remained standing, although Trevelyan had twice courteously

indicated the chair that had been placed for his accommodation.

[Illustration]

“Were I to yield to your lordship’s desire,” said the young

nobleman,--“were I to give you the address of--of--”

“Call _her_ Mrs. Sefton, if you will,” interrupted the Marquis,

bitterly: “I know that she passes and has long passed under that name.”

“Well, my lord--were I to give you the address of that lady,” resumed

Trevelyan, “I should be adopting a course calculated to separate a

mother from her child.”

“But that mother is unworthy of being entrusted with the care of her

daughter!” exclaimed the Marquis of Delmour, emphatically.

“My lord, I have not the slightest inclination to enter into matters of

a private nature, and regarding your own family,” said Trevelyan, with

firmness, yet courtesy--and even with commiseration for the sorrow of

the old noble: “much less,” he added, “should I like to be constituted

a judge between your lordship and the Marchioness of Delmour--for such

I presume Mrs. Sefton to be.”

“Without placing your lordship in any disagreeable or invidious

position,” said the Marquis, growing more tranquil as his naturally

powerful mind suggested the utter inutility of giving way to

excitement, “I may yet address you not only in your capacity of

a nobleman endowed with high intelligence and strict notions of

integrity, but also as one who--unless I be much deceived--experiences

an honourable passion for my daughter. Ah! I perceive by your

countenance that such indeed is the sentiment you entertain for Agnes:

and now, therefore, as her father will I address you--as her parent,

her protector, and her natural guardian, I invoke your attention.”

“It would be disrespectful alike to your age and rank, and also to your

position as the father of her whom I sincerely and devotedly love, were

I to refuse to hear whatever your lordship may have to communicate,”

said Trevelyan, after a few moments reflection.

“Thanks--a thousand thanks!” ejaculated the Marquis: “I shall yet move

you in my favour! But tell me--you are acquainted with one whom, if you

please, we will continue to call Mrs. Sefton: has she ever communicated

to you any particulars of her earlier life?”

“Frankly and candidly,” replied the young nobleman, “she has confided

to me a portion of those particulars; and I have this day learnt

sufficient to fill up the few blanks which she left in her narrative.”

“You know, then,” resumed his lordship, “that I wedded her against her

consent: but I knew not at the time--as God is my judge!--that I was

so completely sealing her misery by that marriage. Sophia--that is her

Christian name--was young and beautiful when I first saw her--Oh! so

beautiful that I became madly in love with her: and you may perhaps

be aware that love is selfish--claiming its object at any price, and

at any sacrifice. Her father was in deep pecuniary difficulties--nay,

more--he had done things which would have dishonoured his name and

even endangered his personal safety. I had an enormous fortune at my

command--I told him that I adored his daughter--and he promised me her

hand. On that occasion he concealed from me the fact that the young

lady’s affections were already engaged: indeed, he assured me that

love was as yet a stranger to her bosom, but that she had been struck

by my appearance, although I was so much her senior. The duplicity

of the father was the first fault in that long chain of unpleasant

circumstances and untoward incidents: and, relying on all that he had

thus told me, I at once advanced a hundred thousand pounds to relieve

him from his embarrassments. Soon, however, did I begin to perceive

that my visits were rather tolerated than encouraged by his charming

daughter Sophia; and then I learnt--but not from _her_ lips--that she

loved another. I felt indignant with the father--while I passionately

coveted the daughter; and under the influence of those feelings I

pressed my suit. I was resolved not to be made a dupe by the sire, and

sacrificed by the young lady to a rival. Had she herself frankly and

candidly revealed to me the state of her affections--thrown herself

upon my mercy--appealed to my honour, I should have acted a generous

part, my lord--yes--I should have been generous!”

“But the young lady was coerced by her father, who intimidated her at

one time and ridiculed her at another,” observed Trevelyan: “I remember

full well that she told me of her sire’s unfeeling conduct towards her.”

“Yes--and to me also she made the same revelation, when it was too

late,” continued the Marquis. “However, it was under such inauspicious

circumstances that our marriage took place; and again I appeal to

heaven to attest the truth of my words when I declare that I treated

her with all possible tenderness, affection, and regard.”

“She has done your lordship that justice in narrating those particulars

to me,” remarked Trevelyan.

“But I could not render her happy,” resumed the Marquis: “she was

constantly weeping--and our honeymoon resembled an interval of mourning

after a funeral, rather than a season of felicity succeeding a bridal.

Much as I exerted myself to please her--lavish as I was with money to

procure her the means of recreation and enjoyment--profuse as I became

with the most costly gifts, not only to herself but likewise to all her

relatives and friends, I could never win a smile from her lips. Now

your lordship will admit that this was more than an unpleasant life

to lead--it was absolutely wretched. But your lordship may conceive

the deep vexation which I experienced when, having succeeded on one

occasion in inducing the Marchioness to appear at a ball given by some

friends, I saw her pale countenance suddenly glow with animation and

her eye light up with joy as Gilbert Heathcote advanced to solicit

her hand for a quadrille. And she smiled, too--yes, she smiled--and,

oh! how sweetly upon _him_, as her elegant figure moved with dignity

and grace in the mazy dance. My soul seemed as if it were withering

up within me: I am confident that I must have eyed them with the

ferocity of a lynx. But Sophia appeared to have forgotten that I was

present--that there was such a being in the world as I: her whole

attention was devoted to my rival--her whole thoughts were absorbed in

the pleasure of his society. She danced with him more than once--she

sate next to him at the supper-table--and after the banquet she waltzed

with him. I have ever detested that voluptuous--that licentious--that

indecent dance: but how I loathed--oh! how I loathed it on this

occasion! I tore myself away from the ball-room, and sought a secluded

corner in the card-room. There I endeavoured to reason with myself

upon the absurdity of my jealous rage--of the ridicule to which any

manifestation of the feeling would expose me--and of the contempt I

should inevitably draw down upon myself from my wife, did I allow her

to perceive how much I was annoyed at what she would doubtless consider

a trivial matter. Thus exercising a powerful command over my emotions,

I even assumed a smiling countenance when we returned home, and when I

congratulated her upon having been in such high spirits. But all her

coldness and inanimation had come back, and I thought within myself

that she would not appear thus if Gilbert Heathcote were still in her

society.”

“My lord, pardon me--but wherefore enter into details which only arouse

reminiscences so painful to yourself?” interrupted Trevelyan.

“Bear with me yet a little while,” said the Marquis, speaking in so

mild and plaintive a tone that Lord William could not find it in his

heart to manifest any impatience or any farther disinclination to

hear the old nobleman’s narrative: “bear with me, I say--for I have

a motive in entering into these details,” he continued. “At the same

time, I will not be too prolix, although there are a thousand little

circumstances which recur to my memory, and which might be quoted to

prove how patient and enduring I was under the cruel indifference

wherewith I was treated. But I will content myself by observing

that Sophia smiled only on those occasions when she encountered

Gilbert Heathcote in society or in the fashionable promenades: at

other times she shrouded herself in a species of dreamy apathy. Her

father, perceiving when it was too late how utterly he had wrecked

his daughter’s happiness, died of a broken heart: but, strange to

say, it was not long after this event that Sophia appeared suddenly

to rally a little and seek a more active existence. She began to take

frequent airings in the carriage--grew addicted to shopping--accepted

every invitation that was sent for balls, routs, card-parties, and

concerts--and requested me to take a box at the Opera: in fine,

she speedily plunged into the routine of fashionable dissipation.

Nevertheless, when alone with me, she was ever cold and reserved--if

not positively sullen and morose. In the course of time she was in the

way to become a mother--and I hoped that the birth of a child might

subdue a portion of her coldness towards me, even if the tie were not

strong enough to induce her to love me. But when Agnes--my darling

Agnes--was born, her manner varied not one tittle in respect to myself.

Time passed on--and at last I began to entertain serious suspicions of

the fidelity of my wife--for I found that she had frequent interviews,

not altogether accidental, with Sir Gilbert Heathcote, who about that

time succeeded to a baronetcy and a tolerable fortune. I remonstrated

with the Marchioness upon her imprudence--to give her conduct no

harsher name; and then began a series of quarrels, disputes and

bickerings, which made my life more wretched than ever. On one of those

occasions she reproached me for having married her--and she declared

that she never had loved, and never could love me. Alas! I knew it but

too well,--knew also that she _had_ loved, and _still_ loved another!

And it was likewise after one of those disputes to which I have alluded

that a horrible suspicion first entered my mind--a suspicion that the

Marchioness had been unfaithful to me, and that Agnes was not my own

child.”

“Oh! my lord--continue this painful narrative no farther!” exclaimed

Trevelyan. “It shocks me to be thus made the depositary of secrets of

so delicate a nature!”

“Again do I implore your patience, Lord William,” cried the Marquis:

“and as I have advanced thus far in my sad story, permit me to carry it

on to the conclusion. I was observing, then, that a dreadful suspicion

seized upon me--and yet I dared not accuse my wife of incontinency.

_She_ divined what was passing in the depths of my tortured soul--_she_

conjectured the nature of the apprehension which now began to haunt me

like a ghost! Oh! how I longed to question her--to know the worst--or

to hear her proclaim the injustice of my suspicion: but, no--I dared

not touch upon the subject--my tongue clave to the roof of my mouth

whenever I sought to frame the words that should accuse her. And in

this manner did we drag on a wretched existence,--I experiencing all

the misery of having a young wife who could not love me--and she

feeling all the bitterness of her position in being allied to an old

husband who had grown so jealous and so suspicious. At last the day

came when all my repugnance to utter the fatal accusation suddenly

vanished. I had been more than ordinarily provoked--for at a _dejeuner_

given at the house of some friends, the Marchioness received with such

evident satisfaction the marked attentions of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,

that I felt myself insulted and outraged in the presence of the

entire company. Accordingly, when we returned home in the afternoon,

a violent scene took place between the Marchioness and myself; and

it was then that, in a paroxysm of rage, I proclaimed the suspicion

which I had for some time cherished--I accused her of infidelity--I

revealed the doubt which existed in my mind relative to my paternal

claims to the affections of the infant Agnes. Never--never shall I

forget that memorable day! The Marchioness heard me--gazed on me

fixedly--appeared stupefied and astounded for nearly a minute,--while

her countenance became pale as marble--her lips quivered--and her bosom

heaved convulsively. I was terrified at her manner--she appeared at

that moment to be _Injured Innocence_ personified--I could have thrown

myself at her feet and implored her pardon! But, in a thick and hollow

voice, she said, ‘_All is now at an end, my lord, between you and me!

We part--for ever!_’--A dizziness came over me--I felt that I had done

wrong--that I had gone too far,--and I would have given worlds to be

able to recall the fatal accusation! For I was now as firmly convinced

of her innocence, as I had a few minutes before been deeply imbued with

suspicion;--and I cursed--I anathematised the rashness that had marked

my conduct. It was a painful--a distressing scene: for I remember that

I fell upon my knees to implore her forgiveness--to beseech her to

remain, if not for my sake, at least for that of the child. But this

appeal only excited her the more: and when I adjured her in the name

of her infant daughter to stay, she uttered a wild cry and fled, as if

suddenly seized with insanity, from the house.”

Here the Marquis paused for a few moments, and passed his handkerchief

rapidly over his eyes:--the reminiscences of the past were still

powerful enough to move him to tears!

“I shall not now detain you long, my lord,” he resumed. “Whither my

wife went, I knew not;--but in a short time I heard that she was

living in the strictest seclusion and under a feigned name. Will

you not despise me when you learn that I employed a spy to watch

her actions--to institute inquiries concerning her pursuits and her

conduct? But I will conceal nothing from you--and I candidly admit

that such was the course which I adopted: for, though I still believed

that she was innocent up to the time when my abrupt accusation drove

her from the house, I nevertheless naturally conjectured that, on thus

quitting me, she had sought the protection of him whom she loved. I

was not therefore surprised to hear that Sir Gilbert Heathcote was a

frequent visitor at the abode of Mrs. Sefton--by which name she was now

known:--but I was unable to glean any positive evidence of criminality

on her part. And did I seek such evidence? Yes--for a raging jealousy

had taken possession of me; and I longed to punish _her_ for daring to

love my rival as she did! But as time passed on and sober reflection

worked its influence upon me, I grew ashamed of the course I had

adopted--and I now resolved to hush up to the utmost of my power the

unhappy position in which I stood with regard to my wife. For I already

felt deeply attached to my little daughter--and I determined that, if

human precautions could prevent such a misfortune, she should never

have to blush for a mother’s shame. I was strengthened in this resolve

by the fact that the Marchioness herself was disposed to shroud the

past in secrecy as much as possible: else wherefore the feigned name

which she had adopted, and the seclusion in which she dwelt? But in the

course of a few months certain events transpired which threatened to

lay bare to the public the whole of this most painful history. I must

explain myself more fully by stating that my wife’s father had made

a will leaving some landed property to me, and which was to descend

to the child or children that might spring from my marriage with his

daughter. A distant male relative of his now set up a claim to that

property; and proceedings were taken in the Court of Chancery, from

which it transpired that the Marquis and Marchioness of Delmour were

living apart--by mutual consent, as it was alleged--and that their

infant child was in the charge of the Marquis himself. I shall not

weary you with particulars nor details: suffice it to say that the

proceedings took such a turn and were of such a nature as to lead to

a decree to this effect--that the claims of the distant relative were

rejected--that trustees were appointed by the Court to administer the

property, until Agnes should attain the age of twenty-one--and that, as

no allegation of misconduct had been made against the Marchioness of

Delmour, she should have the charge of her daughter!”

This portion of the Marquis’s narrative will explain to the reader

wherefore, when conversing with his daughter at the cottage, as

detailed in Chapter CLXI., he said to her, “Two years more, and I

shall no longer have any secrets from you:” because at the expiration

of that period, Agnes would attain her majority. The decree in

Chancery likewise explained the ground upon which Mrs. Sefton--_alias_

the Marchioness of Delmour--had observed to Trevelyan, in Chapter

CLXXXI., that “the law was in her favour,” in respect to any endeavour

that might be made to wrest Agnes from her care; and the same fact

elucidates the meaning of her ladyship’s remark that two years must

elapse ere she could venture to dispose of the hand of her daughter in

marriage.

“Thus was it,” resumed the Marquis, after a brief pause, “that those

accursed proceedings which I did not provoke, and which, when once

commenced, I could not arrest,--thus was it that they suddenly placed

my infant daughter within the jurisdiction of the Chancery Court,

and deprived me of the right of retaining her in my care. It is true

that I might have instituted counter-proceedings in respect to this

portion of the decree: but then I should have been compelled to

attack the reputation of my wife--prove her to be an adultress, if

such evidence could be acquired--and cover a noble family with shame,

while a species of hereditary taint would cling to the reputation of

my Agnes. Now, my lord, you can understand my motive in rearing her

under circumstances of such privacy--such secresy,--in dooming her

to an existence of seclusion--almost of solitude,--and of adopting

all possible precautions to prevent her falling into the hands of her

mother. And now, also, that you are acquainted with this most sad--this

most unhappy history, I appeal to you whether you will be the means of

permitting the innocent Agnes to remain in the care of her unworthy

parent. If you really love her, my lord--if you propose to make her

your wife when she attains her majority--I put it to your honour and

to your good sense whether it be preferable that she should pass the

interval of two years with her mother, who occupies so equivocal a

position--or with her father, who has ever done his duty towards her.”

Trevelyan was cruelly embarrassed by this appeal, which in reality

carried so much weight with it and involved so important a point,

that he knew not how to act. Much as he was disposed to make all

possible allowances for Mrs. Sefton--as we had better continue to call

her,--much as he pitied her in consequence of the wretched marriage

into which she had been forced--and great as the excuse was for her

connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote,--he nevertheless could not avoid

being shocked at the idea of the young creature whom he intended to

make his wife, remaining in the maternal care.

His good sense and propriety of feeling naturally prompted him,

therefore, to advocate the father’s claim to the guardianship of Agnes:

but on the other hand, the solemn pledge he had given to Sir Gilbert

Heathcote, and likewise his confidence in the good principles of Mrs.

Sefton, in spite of her equivocal position--all this forbade him to

side at once with the Marquis. Yet how was he to remain neutral?--he

who had such a deep and tender interest in the welfare of the

lovely--the innocent--the artless Agnes!

While he was still hesitating what course to adopt, and walking up

and down the room in an excited manner,--while, too, the Marquis of

Delmour, who remained seated upon the sofa, was watching him with the

most intense anxiety,--a loud double knock and ring at the front door

startled both the noblemen.

“I will not receive any one at present!” exclaimed Trevelyan; and

hastily opening the drawing-room door, he hurried out upon the landing,

whence he was about to give instructions to the hall-porter to deny him

to the visitor, whoever it might be.

But the front-door was already opened; and both the Marquis and

Trevelyan heard the hall-porter observing, evidently in reply to a

question that had been put to him--“His lordship is particularly

engaged, madam, at the present moment: the Marquis of Delmour is with

his lordship in the drawing-room.”

“The Marquis of Delmour--eh?” exclaimed a female voice, not unknown to

either of the noblemen. “Oh! I am acquainted with the Marquis as well

as with my friend Lord William--and I will therefore take the liberty

of intruding upon them.”

Before the hall-porter could offer any farther objection, the obtrusive

female brushed past him and hurried up the marble staircase--Trevelyan

having already retreated into the drawing-room.

In a few moments the young nobleman and the Marquis were equally

annoyed by the appearance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, decked out in the

gayest style, thus unceremoniously forced her way into their presence.