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.

“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.