With these words he produced a flask of brandy, which he handed to the old woman, who drank deeply: he then applied it to his own lips, and drained it of its contents.
“Now I feel all right again!” he cried, as he restored the empty bottle to his pocket. “There’s nothing like a drop of the bingo at a crisis of this nature.”
“Nothing!” observed Mrs. Mortimer, assentingly: for she likewise felt all her resolution—or rather hard-heartedness—suddenly revive under the influence of the alcohol.
“Now, then, let us proceed to business,” said Jack. “I have got my own clasp-knife—a darkey28—and a small jimmey,”29 he continued; “and blowed if it shall be my fault, should we fail in the crack30 to-night——”
“And all that is to follow,” added Mrs. Mortimer, to whom the brandy had imparted a ferociousness which made her thirst as it were to drink her own daughter’s blood.
The two miscreants—male and female—now proceeded in silence; and as they entered Westbourne Place a lovely moon broke forth from behind a cloud hitherto dark and menacing.
“This is the house,” said Mrs. Mortimer, when they came within sight of the dwelling where Laura and the Count of Carignano were slumbering in each other’s arms.
“I know it, old gal,” responded Jack Rily. “We must turn into the lane that leads down by the side of the premises. Come along—quick—there’s a person approaching from behind.”
And, followed by the old woman, he darted into the alley which separated the Count of Carignano’s abode from the neighbouring row of houses.
At the back of the villa there was a small garden, the boundary-wall of which was of no great height; and the Doctor, in the survey of the premises which he took during the evening, had made up his mind to effect an entry in the rear of the building.
“All is quiet,” he said, in a low whisper to his companion. “I will climb on to the top of the wall, and then help you up. We will soon make light work of it.”
But scarcely were these words uttered, when a dark shadow appeared at the end of the lane—and in another moment Jack Rily and Mrs. Mortimer beheld a man hastening towards them.
The old woman instinctively drew close up to her powerful confederate for protection, in case mischief should be intended; and scarcely was this movement effected, when the cause of apprehension was close up to the spot where she and Rily were standing in the deep shade of the wall.
At that instant the moon-beams fell fully upon the man’s countenance; and a cry of horror burst from the lips of Mrs. Mortimer as she recognised her terrible enemy—Vitriol Bob! Simultaneously with that cry, an ejaculation of rage escaped from Jack Rily, who, dashing the old woman away from him, sprang towards the formidable foe.
But ere the sounds of the cry and the ejaculation had died in the air, Vitriol Bob, nimbly eluding the attack of the Doctor, raised above his head something which his right hand grasped; and although the blow was intended for Jack Rily, it fell with an ominous crash full upon the countenance of Mrs. Mortimer, who, striving to escape, but bewildered by terror, was running across the lane, in front of Vitriol Bob, at the instant.
Then—O heavens! what a shriek of agony—what a yell of indescribable anguish broke upon the silence of the night—rending the air with its piercing sound, and raising echoes of even more horrifying wildness throughout the neighbourhood.
Vitriol Bob fled in one direction—Jack Rily in another; and the old woman was abandoned, alike by friend and foe, to her wretched fate!
But—see! the lights gleam in the windows of the very villa which was to have been the scene of a horrible murder: the painful yells, which still continue to beat the air with their agonising vibrations, have aroused the Count of Carignano—aroused also the lovely creature in whose arms he was sleeping. The valet and Rosalie likewise start from their respective couches; and the young Italian nobleman and the man-servant, having hastily thrown on some clothing, descend into the street.
The cries proceed from the lane: they rush to the spot—and there upon the ground they behold a female writhing like a stricken snake, evidently in the most horrible tortures.
What can it mean?
They do not wait to ask the question; but, raising the wretched sufferer from the ground, they bear her into the house—her shrieks and screams lacerating their ears all the time, and her contortions and writhings being so powerful that they can scarcely carry her along.
The neighbours have likewise been alarmed; but none have imitated the example of the generous young Italian, and descended from their bed-rooms to afford assistance. They look forth from their windows—satisfy themselves that aid is at hand—and, believing the uproar to be created by some poor woman in a fit, close the curtains and hasten back to bed again.
In the meantime the Count of Carignano and his valet have borne the writhing—yelling sufferer into the hall; and Laura descends the stairs with a candle in her hand. She has thrown on a dressing-gown, and thrust her naked feet into slippers; and her magnificent hair floats in messy modulations and luxuriant waves over her fine shoulders and her ample bosom.
But scarcely do the rays of the light fall upon the countenance of the suffering wretch, when the Count of Carignano starts back in horror, exclaiming, “Merciful God! do my eyes deceive me?—is it possible? Laura, dearest——”
“’Tis my mother!” cried the young lady, hastening up to the spot where the old woman lay writhing and screaming fearfully upon the mat.
“Ah! that voice!” said the dying Mrs. Mortimer, suddenly desisting from the outpourings of ineffable agony, as the musical tones of her daughter fell upon her ears: “Laura—is it indeed you? Come near—give me your hand—I cannot see you——My God! I am blind—the fiend—the wretch——Come near, I say——Oh! I am dying—and this is the beginning of hell——”
“Mother—mother!” exclaimed Laura, whose heart was touched by witnessing the appalling pain that writhed the form of the old woman.
“Forgive me, my child—forgive me,” gasped the dying wretch: “I came to——But all is growing dark in my mind as well as my eyes——forgive me, I say—forgive me——Oh! God!” she suddenly shrieked forth,—“this—this that I feel now must be Death!”
As these words fell from the old woman’s tongue amidst gasps of agony, convulsions seized upon her—and she expired in the most shocking agonies.
We must now return to Lord William Trevelyan, who, in pursuance of the promise made to the Marquis of Delmour, proceeded, the moment after that nobleman had left him, to the villa at Bayswater, which he reached shortly after mid-day; and he was at once conducted into the presence of Mrs. Sefton.
This lady was alone in the parlour; and the young nobleman immediately perceived that she had been weeping—although she endeavoured to conceal the fact beneath a smiling countenance as she rose to welcome him.
“My dear friend,” she said, in a voice rendered tremulous by deep emotions; “how can I ever sufficiently thank you for your generosity—your unparalleled goodness, in adopting such measures to procure the liberation of Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”
“You have, then, seen him?” observed Trevelyan.
“He has but this moment left me,” was the slow and mournful response: and, after a short pause, Mrs. Sefton said, as she sank back into her chair, “Our interview was at first a most joyous one—but at the end most melancholy.”
“I cannot understand you,” exclaimed Trevelyan, seating himself near her.
“Nevertheless, it is not my intention to affect any farther mystery, with regard to myself or my affairs, towards you,” said Mrs. Sefton, hastily wiping away the tears that had started to her eyes, and composing her features with the sudden resolution of one who has determined upon the particular course which duty suggests. “Your conduct—the generosity of your disposition—and the attachment which you experience for my beloved daughter, are all inducements and reasons wherefore I should at once communicate to you all my plans.”
She again paused for a few moments, and then continued in the following manner:—
“The dearest hope of my life was accomplished on that day when my darling Agnes was restored to me: and since we have together occupied this secluded but delightful spot, I have had leisure to reflect upon those duties which I owe to my daughter. Moreover, I have well weighed all the circumstances of her position and my own; and I cannot blind my eyes to the fact that a great sacrifice must be made on my part to her reputation—her welfare—her purity of soul.”
“I begin to understand you now, my dear friend,” said Lord William Trevelyan, his countenance lighting up with the animation of joy: for he felt assured that he had not formed a wrong estimate of Mrs. Sefton’s character, when he attributed to her the most amiable qualifications and excellent principles, in spite of her connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote.
“Oh! could you suspect even for an instant that I should permit my own selfish passion to triumph over my affection for that dear daughter who has been so miraculously restored to me?” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “No, my lord—no, my esteemed friend—I am not a woman of such a despicable description! Not an hour has elapsed since, in this very room, I said to Sir Gilbert Heathcote, ‘We must separate, my well-beloved—and perhaps for a long, long time—if not for ever!’ He understood me—he appreciated my motives; and he scarcely sought to reason against my resolution—But, oh! this yielding—this assent on his part, was all the more generous—all the more praiseworthy—all the more noble!” cried Mrs. Sefton, in enthusiastic admiration of the absent baronet’s character: “for I must no longer keep the fact a secret from you, my dear friend—although I blush to acknowledge it——But you will not think the worse of Agnes on account of her mother’s crime——”
“Heaven forbid that I should be so unjust!” ejaculated Trevelyan, in an impassioned tone of profound sincerity.
“Thanks for that assurance—a thousand thanks!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “Yes—she indeed is pure and virtuous; and I would sooner perish by my own hand than present to her an example of demoralisation in my own conduct. And it is this same sentiment that animates Sir Gilbert Heathcote—that has induced him to sacrifice all his own happiness to her welfare—so that she may never have to think ill of her mother! And now, my dear friend, you can probably conjecture the truth which my lips scarcely dare frame?—you can perhaps divine wherefore Sir Gilbert Heathcote is so deeply—so profoundly interested in the welfare of Agnes?”
“Yes—I comprehend it all!” cried Trevelyan.
“And now you must look upon me with loathing—with abhorrence,” murmured Mrs. Sefton, burying her countenance in her hands: “you must despise and contemn the adulterous woman who allowed her husband to exist in the belief that another’s child was his own!”
“No—no, my dear madam,” exclaimed the young nobleman; “I entertain no such feelings towards you. I am acquainted with all your history—yes, all——”
“All!” she repeated, in a tone of surprise: then, suddenly recollecting herself, she said, “Oh! true—Sir Gilbert told me that my husband was to call upon you this morning; and his lordship has therefore given you his version of our marriage-history.”
“Indeed, my dear friend,” returned Trevelyan, “he not only corroborated every thing you had already made known to me, but gave me so many additional details, all speaking in your favour—or at least in extenuation——”
“I am glad that the Marquis does me so much justice,” interrupted Mrs. Sefton: “heaven knows that I wish him all possible happiness! And that he has endeavoured to obliterate all recollection of me from his mind, I am well aware; and in the arms of his mistresses he has sought relief from any sense of injury or wrong that he may have experienced. I do not mention this fact for the base and unworthy purpose of disparaging the man whom I know that I have injured: but it is in justice to myself——”
“Ah! my dear lady, let us turn away from this topic as soon as possible,” interrupted Trevelyan.
“Cheerfully—most cheerfully!” ejaculated Mrs. Sefton. “We will speak of Agnes—and of the resolutions which a sense of duty towards her has engendered on the part of Sir Gilbert and myself. Thus stand all our relative positions:—Should Sir Gilbert Heathcote become a frequent visitor at this house, the tongue of scandal would soon find food for its morbid appetite in this neighbourhood; and the discredit into which I should fall—the opprobrium heaped upon me, would be reflected upon my innocent daughter. That is one grave and important consideration. Another is that, even if the former did not exist, or if Sir Gilbert merely called occasionally in the light of a friend, it would be impossible, situated as we are, to avoid little familiarities or marks of affection, which would inevitably appear strange and extraordinary to Agnes, and by degrees shock her pure mind. Lastly, your lordship has honoured her with your attachment—you have demanded of me her hand in marriage when the suitable time shall arrive;—and in the interval the guardianship of the treasure which is to become your own, rests with me. I must fulfil that trust in a manner that will give you no cause to blush for the wife whom you will have to introduce to the world. It is known in some few quarters already—it may become generally known eventually, that the Marquis and Marchioness of Delmour have long ceased to dwell together: but the actual cause of this separation has never transpired, and need not. Thus, hitherto, nothing has occurred to reflect dishonour upon the name of Lady Agnes; and it behoves alike her mother, and him who is her real father, to pursue such a line of conduct as may be most suitable to the welfare, happiness, and peace of that beloved child.”
“I thank you—most cordially, most sincerely do I thank you,” exclaimed Lord William Trevelyan, “for all the resolutions you have adopted, and all the assurances you have now given me! Yes—I am indeed interested in the welfare of your charming daughter; and the generous sacrifices which yourself and Sir Gilbert have decided upon making, for her benefit, prove how noble are your hearts!”
“Nay—now you compliment us too highly,” said Mrs. Sefton, with a smile. “We have determined upon performing our duty;—and if, by so doing,” she continued, in a more serious strain, “I can convince you that the equivocal position in which I have so many years been placed, has not destroyed the sense of rectitude and the true feelings of a mother in my breast, I shall yet be able to receive the assurances of your friendship without a blush, and without experiencing a sense of shame in your presence.”
“Look upon me as your intended son-in-law, my excellent friend!” exclaimed Lord William. “My opinion of you is as high as if I were ignorant altogether of that equivocal position to which you allude; and my sentiments towards Sir Gilbert Heathcote are of the warmest description. For the sake of that daughter whom he dares not acknowledge as such, he renounces your society—he tears himself away from you—he abjures the companionship of her whom he has loved so faithfully for many, many years! This is a self-sacrifice—a generous devotion which cannot be too deeply appreciated. And now, my dear friend,” continued the young nobleman, “it is my turn to give certain explanations. In a word, I have this morning seen your husband, as you are already aware—and he implored me to become instrumental in restoring his daughter to his care. To speak candidly, I came hither for the purpose of reasoning with you on the propriety of yielding to that desire on his part——”
“Oh! you would not separate me from my Agnes?” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, clasping her hands in an appealing manner, while her countenance suddenly became pale and expressive of the acute anguish which the bare idea caused her to experience.
“No—not after all you have now told me!” cried Trevelyan, in a tone so emphatic as to be completely re-assuring. “I have such illimitable confidence in you that it would be an insult,—nay, more—a flagrant wrong,—to entertain the notion under existing circumstances. I shall call upon the Marquis of Delmour this evening or to-morrow, and candidly inform him that I can no longer recommend the separation of Lady Agnes from her mother.”
“I return you my sincerest thanks for this proof of confidence which you give me,” said Mrs. Sefton. “You had not, however, heard all the resolutions upon which Sir Gilbert and myself have this morning agreed; and now I have to make known to you a step that is about to be taken, and which is rendered necessary by the perseverance that the Marquis of Delmour is certain to exert with a view to regain possession of Agnes. I propose to take her to France, where we may dwell in some peaceful seclusion, until the two remaining years of her minority be passed.”
“And during those two years,” demanded Trevelyan, in a mournful tone, “am I to be debarred from the pleasure of beholding her whom I love so well?”
“I do not attempt to establish any interdiction of the kind,” said Mrs. Sefton, with a smile. “You will of course be made acquainted with the place of our abode; and your correspondence or your visits—or both—will be received with delight.”
“In this case, I must not offer a single objection to your plan,” exclaimed Trevelyan, his countenance lighting up again.
“And had I recommended you neither to visit nor correspond,” said Mrs. Sefton, in an arch tone of semi-reproach, “should you have opposed our departure?”
“Oh! no—no: do not think that I am so selfish!” he cried. “I should have considered this to be the day of self-devotion for all who are interested in the welfare of your beautiful—your amiable Agnes. But I behold her in the garden!” he exclaimed, as he looked towards the window opening on the lawn at the back of the villa. “Have I your permission to join her there for a few minutes?”
Mrs. Sefton signified her assent with a smile and a graceful gesture; and in a few moments Trevelyan was by the side of the beauteous Agnes in the garden.
The young lady was mournful at first—because her mother had already communicated to her their intended departure for the continent: but when Trevelyan, turning the discourse upon that topic, gave her to understand that he had received permission to visit them wheresoever they might fix their abode, and correspond with them frequently,—when he even ventured so far as to hint how it was more than probable that he would follow them to the same place, and establish his own temporary dwelling there, so as to be able to see them every day,—then was it that the young maiden’s countenance brightened up, and Trevelyan gathered therefrom the silent but eloquent assurance that he was not indifferent to her.
The few minutes which he had obtained permission to pass with Agnes grew into hours; and when, between four and five o’clock in the evening, Mrs. Sefton came herself to announce to the youthful pair in the garden that dinner was already served up, he uttered an ejaculation of surprise that it could be so late! Agnes said nothing—but cast down her eyes, and blushed deeply; and her mother, who knew what love was and all its symptoms, was now fully convinced that her daughter’s gentle heart was well disposed towards the noble suitor for her hand.
On the following morning, Lord William Trevelyan called upon the Marquis of Delmour, whom he found pacing his apartment in great agitation.
The old nobleman had two sources of annoyance at that moment: the first was the suspense in which he existed relative to the result of his endeavours to regain possession of Agnes, whom he devotedly loved;—and the other was in respect to Laura Mortimer.
He had heard from his bankers on the previous evening that the cheque for sixty thousand pounds had been duly presented and cashed; and he therefore concluded that the young lady had arrived in London. But why had she not written to him? His impatience to receive a note from her was in proportion to the madness—the intensity, of that passion with which her transcendent loveliness and her syren witcheries had inspired him; and his excited imagination conjured up a thousand reasons for this silence. He fancied that some accident might have occurred to her,—or that she had written, and her letter had miscarried; in which case she herself would be marvelling at his tardiness in repairing to her,—or that she had changed her mind, and repented of the promise she had made to become the old man’s mistress. Then jealousy took possession of his soul; and he could scarcely control within reasonable bounds the emotions that agitated in his breast.
The arrival of Trevelyan, however, promised to relieve him of at least one cause of suspense and anxiety; and, the moment the young nobleman entered the apartment, the Marquis rushed precipitately forward to meet him.
“In pursuance of my promise,” said Lord William, when the usual compliments were interchanged, “I called upon her ladyship—Mrs. Sefton, I mean, yesterday—and had a long interview with her.”
“And the result?” demanded, the Marquis, impatiently.
“I regret to state that, after all I heard upon the occasion, I cannot either recommend the withdrawal of Lady Agnes from her mother’s charge, or interfere any farther in this family matter,” responded the young nobleman. “Mrs. Sefton will see Sir Gilbert Heathcote no more, and will devote herself to that maternal care which she is so well qualified to bestow upon her daughter.”
“Then, my lord,” exclaimed the Marquis, impetuously, “I shall at once appeal to the tribunals of my country for that redress which I ought to have demanded long ago.”
“Pardon me, my lord,” said Trevelyan, “for reminding you that there is much to be considered ere you put this threat into execution. By giving publicity to your unhappy family-affairs, you may to some extent act injuriously to the welfare of your daughter.”
“True!” ejaculated the old nobleman, struck by the observation. “And yet am I to remain quiet and tranquil beneath this additional wrong which is thus thrust upon me by her who in law is still my wife?”
“For your daughter’s sake you must endure it—if a wrong it indeed be,” answered Trevelyan solemnly.
“And Agnes—has she learnt the secret of her birth?—does she cling to her mother, in preference to me?—does she devote not a single thought to the father who has ever behaved with so much tenderness towards her?” demanded the Marquis. “Reply, my lord, to all these questions.”
“Your daughter still believes herself to be plain Miss Agnes,” was the answer; “and she is not taught to forget her father.”
“But what must she think of the strange circumstance, that while she believes herself to be the bearer of her father’s name of Vernon, her mother is known by that of Sefton?” asked the nobleman.
“She has adopted the latter name, as a natural consequence of her restoration to the maternal parent,” was the reply; “but her pure and artless mind cherishes not the curiosity which, in ordinary cases, would prompt many questions relative to all these points. She imagines, generally, that particular causes of unhappiness have led to the separation of her parents, and that the adoption of different names was the necessary result. For the rest, believe me that she will be well cared for by her mother, and that she will never be tutored to think of you otherwise than with respect and gratitude.”
“Is she happy with her mother—happier than she was in her own cottage, under my care?” inquired the Marquis, after a long panic, during which he seemed to reflect deeply.
“She is happy, my lord,” responded Trevelyan: “but I will not aver that she is happier than she was. She thinks of you constantly—speaks of you often——”
“Then I will do nothing that shall interfere with her tranquillity—nothing that shall bring into the light of publicity those circumstances that would give her so much pain,” interrupted the Marquis, who, though sensual, jealous, and imperious in disposition,—though addicted to pleasures of a profligate description,—was nevertheless characterised by many lofty feelings and generous sentiments, as indeed the whole tenour of his conduct towards Agnes had fully proven.
Lord William Trevelyan thanked him for the assurances which he had just given, and shortly afterwards took his leave, highly rejoiced at the manner in which the interview had terminated.
It must be observed that the passion which the Marquis of Delmour had formed for Laura Mortimer and the hope which he entertained of speedily possessing her as his mistress, had in a slight degree diminished the intensity of his anxiety to recover Agnes; inasmuch as his arrangements in respect to Laura had not only served to occupy his mind—abstract his thoughts somewhat from the contemplation of the loss of his daughter—and hold forth the promise of a solace to be derived from the society of that lovely creature whose unaccountable silence nevertheless tormented him sadly.
The day passed—and still no communication arrived. Let it be remembered it was on this self-same day that Laura and the Count were married; and it was during the following night that Mrs. Mortimer met her dreadful death in the manner already described.
The ensuing morning found the Marquis pale, agitated, and racked by a thousand anxious fears, amongst which jealousy was often uppermost as he revolved in his mind all the possible reasons that could account for the protracted silence of the young lady.
He sate down to breakfast for form’s sake—but ate nothing. Never did his gilded saloons appear more desolate—more lonely;—and yet it was not to them that he had contemplated bringing his beautiful mistress!
Presently the morning papers were laid upon the table; and mechanically casting his eyes over one of them, he observed a short article, headed “Diabolical Outrage and Frightful Death.”
He commenced the perusal of the account; and the apathy with which he began, speedily changed into the most intense interest: for the article ran thus:—
“Last night, shortly after the hour of twelve, the inhabitants of Westbourne Place and the immediate neighbourhood were thrown into the greatest alarm by the sudden outburst of the most dreadful screaming, as of a female in mortal agonies. These terrific signs of distress appeared to emanate from a narrow lane, passing by the side of a beautiful villa in the occupation of the Count and Countess of Carignano, who, it appears, had been married in the morning, and had only entered their new abode immediately after the ceremony. His lordship, attended by his valet, lost no time in descending to the succour of the afflicted person, whoever it might be; and they discovered an elderly lady in the agonies of death. They conveyed her into the villa, where, to the horror of the Count and his lovely bride, it was found that the dying woman was none other than Mrs. Mortimer, the mother of the Countess. Medical assistance was promptly sent for; but before the nearest surgeon could arrive death had terminated the sufferings of the lamented lady. The horrible nature of those sufferings can be readily understood, when, on surgical examination, it transpired that an immense quantity of the strongest vitriol had been thrown over her; and there were proofs that the bottle containing the burning fluid had been broken over her head. The affair is involved in some mystery: but it is presumed that, while repairing to her daughter’s abode, she must have missed her way and got into the lane, where some murderous ruffian, undeserving of the name of a man, perpetrated the frightful outrage. Our readers may remember that this is not the only case of the terrible use of vitriol which we have recently been so painfully compelled to record; and, from all we can learn, there is a monster in human shape, well known to the police, and bearing the significant though horrible denomination of Vitriol Robert—or more familiarly, Vitriol Bob—who has for some time past infested the metropolis, and who makes use of the burning liquid as an adjunct to his predatory attacks on the unwary in lone or dark neighbourhoods. The above are all the particulars which we have been as yet able to obtain, owing to the advanced period of the night when the diabolical outrage was perpetrated.
This narrative, detailed with all the mannerism of an export penny-a-liner, excited the jealous rage of the Marquis of Delmour almost to madness.
The whole thing was as clear as daylight! The Mrs. Mortimer who had met her death in such a dreadful way, was evidently the old woman whom he had seen on several occasions; and she was, after all, the mother of Laura! The perfidious Laura herself had become the wife of another;—and the Marquis was compelled to open his eyes to the fact that he had been most egregiously duped by an adventuress.
Hastily summoning his carriage, the Marquis proceeded direct to his bankers’; where he found that the sixty thousand pounds had indeed been paid; but, on farther inquiry, he ascertained that an old woman had presented the cheque. The description of the recipient was then given by the clerk who cashed the draft; and the Marquis became convinced that she was none other than Mrs. Mortimer. The bankers perceiving that he was anxious to learn who had actually obtained the money, produced the cheque itself, the female’s name being written on the back in token of acquittal; and there were the words—Martha Mortimer.
In a mechanical way, and while deliberating what step next to take, the enraged nobleman cast his eyes over the draft; when he started convulsively—for he instantly detected the forgery, or rather alteration, that had been effected: and then, in his furious excitement, the principal facts of the story came out—showing how he had been induced to give the cheque.
All was now amazement and alarm in the bank-parlour; and one of the partners in the firm suggested the propriety of repairing immediately to the dwelling of the Count of Carignano, for the purpose of communicating with the Countess relative to the transaction. But the Marquis, who by this time had grown somewhat more cool, began to reflect that any publicity which was given to the matter would only cover him with ridicule; and as the money was not of such consequence to him as the avoidance of the shame attendant on the business, he wisely resolved to hush up the whole affair.
The bankers were by no means averse to this amicable mode of adjustment, inasmuch as it relieved them from all doubt or uncertainty, and all possibility of dispute relative to the party on whom the loss consequent on the forgery was to fall; and they therefore readily consented to retain the transaction profoundly secret. At the same time, they understood fully that they were not to pay the genuine cheque for sixty thousand pounds, in case of its presentation; the Marquis resolving to take time to consider what course he should pursue with regard to that portion of the business.
The old nobleman drove home again; and, on his arrival at his stately mansion, he shut himself up in his own chamber to reflect upon the startling revelations of that day.
Not for an instant did he entertain the idea of seeking an interview with Laura. Such a step was useless: for she had no doubt married, he reasoned, according to her taste. Moreover, his pride revolted at the bare idea of undergoing the humiliation and shame of being laughed at by one who would probably care nothing for any reproaches that might be levelled against her.
But how was he to recover the cheque? It was valid in her hands: for even if she had connived at her mother’s forgery, the collusion could not be brought home to her. Still, the Marquis did not at all admire the idea of paying another sixty thousand—especially for one who had so grossly deluded him.
By degrees the old nobleman’s thoughts became so bewildering that he felt as if he were going mad. He had lost his daughter—he had lost his mistress—he had been duped out of his money—and, vile though Laura evidently was, he nevertheless still adored her image with a devouring passion.
He walked up and down his room in a state of excitement that was increasing cruelly, and that produced a hurry in the brain—a confusion in the ideas—a delirium in the imagination.
The fever of his reflections augmented to such a height that he began to conjure up a variety of evils and annoyances which did not really exist. He pictured to himself his bankers laughing heartily at his folly—retelling the scandal as an excellent joke—and propagating the most offensive rumours all over the town. He fancied that he beheld his friends and acquaintances endeavouring to conceal their satirical smiles as they accosted him—he beheld the entire House of Lords forgetting their dignity and whispering together in a significant manner as he entered the assembly. Then his thoughts suddenly travelled to Agnes; and all his ancient doubts and fears relative to his paternity in respect to her, returned with overpowering violence; until he felt convinced that she was indeed the offspring of an adulterous connexion between his wife and Sir Gilbert Heathcote. Lastly, by a rapid transition, his imagination wandered to the abode of the Count and Countessa of Carignano; and he pictured the lovely—seducing—voluptuous Laura in the arms of a rival!
All these reflections maddened the old man—deprived him of his reason—rendered him desperate—and made life appear to him a burthen of anguish and an intolerable misfortune.
He did not remember his boundless wealth—his proud titles—his stately mansions—and all the means of pleasure, enjoyment, and solace that were within his reach: his morbid condition of mind obtained such a potent sway over him, that he only saw in himself a lone—desolate—wretched old man,—deprived of his daughter—deprived of his mistress—deprived of his money—and with the myriad fingers of scorn pointing towards him.
Though the sun was shining joyously, and its golden beams penetrated into the chamber through the opening in the rich drapery,—yet all seemed dark—dreary—and cheerless to the miserable Marquis of Delmour: his powerful intellect—his vigorous understanding—his moral courage, were all subdued—crushed—overwhelmed beneath a weight of trifling realities and tremendous fancies.
In this state of mind the miserable man suddenly rushed to his toilette-case—seized his razor—and inflicted a ghastly wound upon his throat.
At the same instant that he fell—the blood pouring forth like a torrent—a valet entered the room, bearing a letter upon a silver tray.
Turn we now to the State of Castelcicala—that lovely land which lies between the northern frontiers of the Neapolitan dominions and the southern confines of the Papal territory.
It was a glorious morning—and bright and varied were the hues which the sea took from the rosy clouds, as a splendid war-steamer advanced rapidly over the bosom of the waters.
The Royal Standard of Castelcicala floated from the main-mast; and upon the deck was a group of officers in magnificent uniforms, gathered around a young man of tall form and noble air, who was attired in deep black. But upon his breast a star denoted his sovereign rank; and his commanding, though unaffected demeanour well became the chieftain of a mighty State.
That gallant steamer was the Torione, the pride of the Royal Navy of Castelcicala—that young man was Richard Markham, now become the Grand Duke of the principality which he had rescued from slavery—and amongst the aides-de-camp in attendance was his enthusiastic admirer, the erring but deeply repentant Charles Hatfield.
Shortly after ten o’clock on this glorious morning the steamer came within sight of Montoni, the capital of Castelcicala; and as soon as the Royal Standard was descried by those in that city who were earnestly watching the arrival of their new monarch, the artillery of the batteries and the cannon of the ships in the harbour thundered forth a salute in honour of the illustrious prince.
In an hour and a half the steamer swept gallantly into the fine port of Montoni; the yards of all the vessels were manned; and the welkin rang with enthusiastic shouts of welcome.
Richard—or, as we should rather call him, Ricardo—was deeply affected by these demonstrations, which he acknowledged with many graceful bows; and when he landed amongst the greatest concourse of multitudes ever assembled on the quays of Montoni, and amidst the most joyous cries and the thunder of the artillery, he retained his hat in his hand as a proof of respect to that Sovereign People from whom his power emanated.
The royal carriages were in attendance; and as he rode along the streets towards the palace, the vast crowds kept pace with the vehicles, cheering and waving their hats and handkerchiefs all the way. The windows and balconies were filled with gentlemen and elegantly-dressed ladies; and flowers were thrown forth by fair hands in token of the general delight which attended upon the arrival of the warrior-prince.
As on the day after the memorable battle of Montoni, which gave peace and freedom to Castelcicala, the bells were ringing in every tower, and the cannon were still vomiting forth their thunder, their fire, and their smoke, when the Grand Duke Ricardo alighted at the entrance of the palace. There—upon the marble steps—stood the joy of his heart, the charming and well-beloved Isabella, with their two children, the little Prince Alberto and the Princess Eliza—so called after a valued friend.31 In company with Isabella were her mother (now Dowager Grand Duchess), Ricardo’s sister the Princess Katherine, and her husband Prince Mario. All were dressed in deep mourning: but the presence of Ricardo evoked smiles as well as tears,—and those who wept for the loss of the late lamented Grand Duke, found consolation and experienced a source of ineffable joy in the possession of him who had become his successor.
Moreover, the funeral of the departed one had already taken place; and there was consequently no sad ceremony to be performed which might revive the bitterness of grief.
That evening Montoni was brilliantly illuminated; and the streets were thronged with multitudes who made a general holiday on the occasion of the arrival of that excellent prince to whom they owed so much.
And it was a glorious spectacle to behold the appearance of the people in that capital of the most prosperous country in the whole world. Not a mendicant was to be seen: the loathsome rags and hideous emblems of poverty which meet the eye in every thoroughfare and in every corner of London, had ceased to exist in Montoni. The industrious classes were all cheerful in looks and neat in attire; and instead of the emaciated women, and pale, sickly children observable in such appalling numbers in the British metropolis, the wives of the working-men were all comely and contented, and their offspring ruddy with the hues of vigorous health. Oh! it was a blessed—blessed thing to behold those gay and happy multitudes—rendered thus gay and thus happy by means of good institutions, honest Ministers, and a Parliament chosen by the entire male adult population!
Though the streets were thus thronged to excess, and the houses of entertainment were crowded, the utmost order, sobriety, and tranquillity prevailed. There were no police visible: because none were required. Every citizen, whether employer or employed—whether capitalist or mechanic—whether gentleman or artizan—whether landowner or labourer, was himself a policeman, as it were, in his own good conduct and excellent example. For from the time that liberal and enlightened institutions, involving the true spirit of Republicanism, were applied to Castelcicala, the regular police-force had been abolished and no necessity arose for its revival.
Such was the aspect of the capital of Castelcicala—that model State where Liberty, Fraternity, and Equality were acknowledged principles, practically known and duly appreciated.
On the ensuing morning the Grand Duke Ricardo proceeded to the Chamber of Deputies, where the Senators were also assembled on the occasion. The galleries were crowded with ladies and gentlemen; and the whole of the diplomatic corps were in the seats allotted to them. Even though all present were in deep mourning for the late sovereign, the aspect of the spacious hall was far from gloomy, though solemn and imposing.
The arrival of the new Grand Duke was expected with the most intense interest. It was well known that not only had he suggested the principal reforms which Duke Alberto had applied to Castelcicala, but that he was even far more liberal in his political opinions than his departed father-in-law. It was consequently anticipated that on the present occasion he would enunciate the line of policy which it was his intention to adopt; and every one felt convinced that this would prove a day memorable in the history of Castelcicala.
We should observe that on the platform of the Chamber, instead of the throne being placed for the reception of the Grand Duke, a simple arm-chair was raised about three feet higher than that occupied by the President of the Deputies; and instead of the royal standard flowing with its graceful drapery over-head, the tricolour was suspended to the wall. These changes, it was well known, had been effected by order of the Grand Duke himself; and all present were aware that his Sovereign Highness was not the man merely to displace the symbols of royalty without having some congenial and practical object in view.
At half-past ten o’clock the Ministers entered and took their seats amidst loud applause from the galleries; for this was the same Cabinet that Ricardo had nominated five years previously, during his brief Regency; and its policy had been such as to gain for it the enthusiastic affection of the nation and the admiration of the whole civilised world.
Shortly after the arrival of those high functionaries, the Royal Family appeared in the Chamber, amidst deafening cheers, and took their seats upon the platform, behind the President’s desk; and in a few minutes the roar of the artillery on the ramparts announced to the capital that the Grand Duke had quitted the palace on his way to the legislative assembly.
It was precisely at eleven that Ricardo, attended by his staff, entered the hall; and his presence was the signal for a more hearty renewal of the cheering, while the ladies in the galleries waved their snowy handkerchiefs in unfeigned welcome.
But it was almost immediately noticed that the Grand Duke appeared—not in the royal robes worn on such occasions by all his predecessors—but in the uniform of a Field-Marshal, with a black crape round his left arm in token of mourning for the late monarch. He was decorated only with the Castelcicalan Order of Knighthood, and did not even wear upon his breast the star that denoted his sovereign rank. These circumstances gave a sharper edge to the keenness of curiosity; and when the cheering, which was loud and long, died away beneath the lofty roof of the spacious hall, the silence that ensued was deep and solemn as that of the tomb.
Then the Grand Duke, rising from the arm-chair which he had for a few moments occupied, addressed the assembly in the following manner:
“My Lords and Gentlemen,—You have recently experienced a great and grievous loss in the death of a wise, enlightened, and virtuous Sovereign, whose brief but glorious reign was devoted to those measures best calculated to ensure the happiness, prosperity, and morality of the Castelcicalan people. The name of Alberto will live in history so long as the world shall endure; and his memory will be cherished in the hearts of this and all succeeding generations of the inhabitants of that clime which his wisdom and his example have so supremely blessed.
“Had I consulted my own private feelings, I should have allowed some time to elapse ere I appeared before you to shadow forth that line of policy which it is my duty to recommend to your deliberations: I should have craved leisure to weep over the loss of my illustrious father-in-law, and meditate upon those grand lessons which his memorable reign have taught us. But I feel that the welfare of an entire people is too solemnly important and too sacred a thing to be for even a moment lost sight of; and that when the head of a State is called away to the tomb, his successor must devote no time to a grief which cannot recall the departed, but must at once take up without intermission the grand work of reform that was progressing at the period of Death’s arrival. For it is a great and flagrant wrong for those who are entrusted with power, to interpose delays in the proper exercise thereof; and that man is a traitor to his country and deserves execration who dares to intimate that there is no need of haste in accomplishing a great national good.
“These are the motives which have induced me to appear thus before you even at so early a period that the remains of my lamented predecessor can scarcely be said to have grown cold in the tomb: but I repeat that if men accept the responsibilities of power and office, they must permit no considerations to retard them in the performance of their duty and the fulfilment of their high vicarious mission.
“Last evening I assembled the Ministers around me, and submitted to them the views which I had some time ago matured, and which I proposed to put into practice so soon as the natural course of events and the will of the Sovereign People should place me at the head of affairs. The Ministers were unanimous in adopting those views, and cheerfully undertook to lay them in the usual manner before the Legislative Assemblies. But in the meantime, it behoves me briefly to detail the nature of these plans which are thus deemed suitable to the interests and in accordance with the just rights of the Castelcicalans.
“In the first place I propose that the form of Government shall be Republican, not merely in institutions, but likewise in name; and in order that this idea may be fully carried out, it will be necessary that certain sacrifices should be made in particular quarters. I now especially allude to the class denominated the nobility. The existence of aristocratic titles is totally incompatible with the purity and simplicity of Republicanism; and the country therefore expects from the patriotism of the nobles a ready concession of these invidious distinctions,—distinctions which are nothing more nor less than the relics of feudal barbarism. For my part, I cheerfully undertake to set the example, if example be indeed required to induce men to the performance of their duty. With this determination I have come before you to-day,—not as the Grand Duke of Castelcicala—not as a Sovereign-Prince,—but as the First Magistrate of the State, retaining only that military rank which I have won upon the fields of victory. From this moment, then, you may know me, and I wish to be known only, as General Markham; and this same abnegation of title I proclaim on the part of my beloved wife, my revered mother-in-law, and the rest of the Royal Family.”