The old woman made no answer; but, clutching the bag eagerly, she secured it amongst her tattered garments. Then, ashamed of the greedy impatience which she had manifested, and seeking to avert her nephew’s attention from the fact by turning the conversation into another channel, she said, “I hope you continue to enjoy that happiness, Clarence, which yourself and your excellent Adelais so much deserve!”
“Thank God! my felicity is as complete as man’s can be in this world,” was the reply. “Having now for upwards of nineteen years held the good situation which my kind patron, the Earl of Ellingham, gave me, I have enjoyed a certain means of existence—have acquired influential friends—and have been enabled to rear my sons and daughters in a way which, I hope, will be salutary to them on their entrance into life.”
“And that man—my husband—have you heard of him lately?” enquired Villiers’ aunt, in a low tone and hesitating way.
“Never since the occasion—and that is now nine years ago—when he wrote to announce the death of poor Rosamond at Geneva. I mentioned that fact to you in a letter which accompanied one of the remittances I made to Sydney on your behalf——”
“And from that time you have received no tidings of my husband?”
“Not once!” replied Villiers. “Whether he be alive or dead—what has become of him, I cannot tell you. This uncertainty relative to her father’s fate is a cause of uneasiness to Adelais:—but every state and station in life has its annoyances and its sorrows. Poor Rosamond! she fell into a slow decline shortly after leaving England—and for nearly ten years did she linger on, wasting away! Adelais and I saw her once during that period: we visited Switzerland on purpose. Then how deeply was my wife shocked when she behold the wreck that remained of her once lovely and blooming sister. But I cannot dwell upon that episode in our lives——”
“No—no,” exclaimed Perdita’s mother, now in haste to depart. “I will not distress you,” she added, with a hypocritical appearance of sympathy, “by exacting the painful narrative from you. Farewell, Clarence—farewell.”
The generous-hearted Villiers proffered his hand to his aunt,—that aunt who was once so fine a woman, so elegantly dressed, and the mistress of a splendid mansion,—but who was now hideous to look upon, clothed in rags, and as yet homeless on the face of the earth!
For a few instants her heart swelled with profound emotions as she pressed that hand which was thus kindly extended to her, and tears rose to the very brims of her eyes, but did not run over.
Then she hurried away from his presence:—and the moment she set foot on the threshold of the dwelling—or rather, when its door closed behind her—she subdued the feelings that had well nigh overpowered her; and gave all her attention—all her interest—all her thoughts to the precious bag which she had concealed amongst her garments.