"And yet she was innocent!" exclaimed the Marquis, emphatically. "Listen, Prince, to what I am about to say. The old woman to whom you have alluded, inveigled Harriet to my house—and, I confess, by my instructions. I knew that she was married; but the old woman told me not to whom—even if she knew."
"She did know," remarked our hero; "but the marriage was kept secret——"
"And I never asked the vile procuress any particulars concerning it," interrupted the Marquis. "All I coveted was Harriet's person: I cared nothing for her connexions or circumstances. The young mother came hither, with her child in her arms. One of my female servants took the babe from her, and locked her in a room where she expected to find the woman whom she believed to be her friend. But she was alone with me! She knew me—and the conviction that she was betrayed flashed to her mind the moment her eyes met mine. Then she fell upon her knees, and implored me to save her—to spare her. I was inflamed with wine—maddened with desire; and I heeded not her prayers. I attempted to reason with her;—but not all the tempting offers I made her—not all the promises I uttered—not all the inducements I held out, could persuade her to submit to my wishes. I was already a widower, and I even swore to make her my wife, so soon as a divorce could be obtained between herself and her husband, if she would become my mistress. No:—she wept and shrieked—she prayed and menaced—she grew violent and imploring, by turns. At length—for I must tell you all—I had recourse to violence: I was no longer able to master my passions. But she resisted me with a strength and energy that surprised me. I was completely baffled—and Harriet remained innocent!"
"Thank God—thank God!" exclaimed Markham, fervently clasping his hands together.
"Yes, my lord—she remained innocent," continued the Marquis; "and, when I myself grew more cool, I felt ashamed—humiliated—cast down, in the presence of that young woman who had preserved her virtue from my violence,—the first who ever entered that room and conquered me! I suddenly experienced an admiration for her—such as I had never known till then on behalf of any female! I approached her—in my turn I became a suppliant;—but it was for pardon! I deplored the outrage I had committed—I went upon my knees to ask her forgiveness.—'My child!' she suddenly exclaimed, as if awaking from a profound reverie.—I rang the bell, and received her child at the door: in my own arms I carried the babe to her. She covered it with kisses; and my manner touched her—for she declared that she would pardon me, if I never molested her more. I called heaven to witness the sincerity of the oath that I then pledged to observe this condition. Two hours had thus elapsed; and when she was composed, I rang the bell and ordered a hackney-coach to be fetched. When the vehicle arrived, I escorted her to it. But as I handed her down the steps of the front door, a gentleman, who was passing at the moment, caught sight of her countenance.—'Harriet!' he exclaimed, in a voice of mingled astonishment, rage, and despair.—'My husband!' she cried, with a wild shriek; and she would have fallen on the pavement, had I not caught her in my arms.—'Sir,' I said to the stranger, 'this lady is innocent, although appearances may be against her.'—'Innocent!' he repeated, in a tone of bitterness and grief: 'innocent when she comes calmly from the house of the Marquis of Holmesford, and sinks into the Marquis of Holmesford's arms! No: I am not to be deceived! Harriet, vile woman, I cast you off for ever!'—And, with these words, the stranger hurried away."
"Alas! that was my poor father!" said Markham, the tears trickling down his cheeks.
"I had no opportunity to explain the circumstances that had occurred," continued the nobleman, after a pause. "Your father disappeared with the rapidity of lightning; and the moment he was gone, Harriet burst from my arms, evidently in pursuit of him. I was so bewildered with the suddenness of these events, that I remained transfixed as it were to the spot. At length I hurried down the street after Harriet;—but I could not overtake her. Distressed beyond measure, I returned home, vented my wrath upon the old woman, whom I loathed as the authoress of this misfortune, and drove her from my house. The wretch wrote to me afterwards, and even endeavoured to obtain an interview with me; but I would never see her more."
"And did your lordship lose sight of poor Harriet altogether?" asked Richard.
"I once received a letter from her," was the reply: "I think it must have been about a year after the occurrences which I have just related. She wrote in a mild and respectful tone—declaring that the sufferings of her half-famished child could alone have induced her to apply for assistance to me. I enclosed her a hundred pounds, and desired her in my letter of reply never to hesitate to avail herself of my purse—as I should not attempt to take any advantage of the assistance which I might render her. But to my astonishment she sent back eighty pounds—retaining only twenty, and declaring in a brief note that she felt ashamed of being even compelled to accept that sum. I never heard from her again; but I gather from your Highness's observations that she is no longer living!"
"She died unhappily,—miserably upwards of thirteen years ago," said Richard. "A strange combination of circumstances threw me in the way of her daughter,—the orphan whom she left—about fifteen months ago; and it was only last night that I discovered a sister in her whom I had known as Katherine Wilmot."