Gilbert Vernon was standing outside the window, on a spacious balcony, around which were placed green wooden boxes and garden-pots containing shrubs and early flowers.
"The evening is very beautiful," said Eliza, in a low tone, to Adeline: "will you not walk with me through the Park? The nurse shall accompany us and the child can be well wrapped up. But, indeed, there are no dangers to fear—for the earth is parched with the heat of the day."
"I feel incapable of any energy," answered Adeline, mournfully—very mournfully. "Never have my spirits been so depressed as they are this evening. Methinks that a presentiment of evil near at hand, weighs upon my soul. Oh! when will this dread state of suspense terminate? For five long weeks has it now lasted——"
"Hush! lady—speak lower!" interrupted Eliza. "Mr. Vernon might suddenly enter from the balcony."
"Ah! my dear friend," returned Adeline; "do I not suffer a fearful penalty for my crimes? But human nature cannot endure this doubt—this appalling uncertainty any longer! What does he mean? what can be his plans?"
"Would that we were indeed able to read them!" said Eliza, earnestly. "But the term of this strange drama must speedily arrive," she continued, sinking her voice to a scarcely audible whisper, as she leant over the unhappy lady whom she thus addressed. "Vernon does not remain here from motives of pleasure: he has not abandoned his projects."
"Yet wherefore should he appear so affectionate towards the child?" asked Adeline. "When he first took my sweet Ferdinand in his arms, oh! how I trembled lest he should strangle him in his embrace; and had not a look from you reassured me, I should have shrieked with terror! But now I scarcely entertain a fear when I see my brother-in-law fondle my child. Tell me, dear friend—how must I account for this altered state of feelings?"
"Habit has taught you to subdue your alarms in this respect," replied Eliza Sydney. "Your brother-in-law has gradually devoted more and more of his attention to your dear Ferdinand; and as he never seeks to take him—nor even to approach him—save with your consent, you are to some extent thrown off your guard. Then, as a mother, you are naturally inclined to think better of that man since he has thus seemed to manifest an affection for his nephew. But, be not deceived, lady—his soul is deep and designing! Think you that he cares for a babe not yet ten weeks old? Oh! no—it is not probable! And when he talks in a hypocritical tone of his lamented brother's child—and expresses those apparently earnest hopes that the heir of Ravensworth may eventually prove an honour to the noble house to which he belongs, and to the ancient name which he bears,—ah! be not deceived by him, lady—I implore you: he means nothing that is good—he is playing a part, the true object of which I cannot fathom!"
"Oh! think not that I am deceived by him, dear friend," answered Lady Ravensworth: "think not that my suspicions relative to him are hushed. No—no: else wherefore should I complain of this cruel suspense? There are times, indeed, when I could throw myself at his feet—implore him to quit these walls—and beg upon my knees for mercy towards my child! Does this show that I have forgotten all those circumstances which have led us to look upon him with an abhorrence that we have alike had so much difficulty to conceal?"
"I am aware of all you must suffer," answered Eliza, with a profound sigh; for she pitied—deeply pitied the wretched but criminal woman: "still it is for your child's sake that I have tutored you to play this game of hypocrisy,—that I have induced you and compelled myself to endure the society of one who is loathsome to us both,—and that we have even condescended to veil beneath smiles our consciousness of his character and atrocious designs. This has been the sum of our hypocrisy;—and how venial it is! And now that all my plans are so nearly matured—with the exception of the return of my messenger from Beyrout——"