“Compose yourself, madam—tranquillise your feelings, I implore you!” cried Lord William Trevelyan. “We must not give way to despair—we must not harbour the dreadful thought that Sir Gilbert Heathcote has met with foul play, and that he ceases to exist. No—no: let us hope——”
“Oh! my lord, how can we hope in the face of such strange—such mysterious—such suspicious circumstances?” demanded the lady, with mingled grief and bitterness. “Even if he did not choose to acquaint his friends with his intended absence and its motives, he would not be equally reserved towards me. No—he would have seen me ere his departure—or he would at least have written. For you must now learn, my lord, that we have loved each other for upwards of twenty years,” she continued, in a low and plaintive tone. “For twenty years and more have our hearts beat in unison;—and never—never was love so devoted as ours! Alas! mine has been a strange and romantic life; and the influence that has swayed all its incidents was that passion which the worldly-minded treat so lightly. For my father was a worldly-minded man; and, though he knew how fondly I loved and how ardently I was beloved,—though I knelt before him and conjured him by all he held most sacred, and by the spirit of my mother who died in my childhood, not to sacrifice me to the object of his choice, and tear me away from the object of mine,—nevertheless, he ridiculed my prayers—he made naught of my beseechings—and I was immolated upon the altar of a parent’s sordid interest. Your lordship has perhaps already understood that the one whom I adored was Gilbert Heathcote. Never—never was love’s tale told with more enchanting sweetness than by his lips: never—never did woman cherish more devotedly than I that avowal of a sincere passion! At that time his personal beauty was sufficient to ensnare the heart of any maiden, though far less susceptible than mine;—and I loved him—loved him madly. But a wealthy noble had seen me; and my father beheld with joy the impression that I had been so unfortunate as to make upon that patrician’s fancy. Moreover, at that period, my sire was suffering cruel pecuniary embarrassments; and the brilliant marriage which he hoped to accomplish for his daughter, appeared the only means of extricating himself from his difficulties. Thus the suit of the nobleman was encouraged by my father—and I was induced by the menaces, the prayers, and the specious reasoning which he employed by turns to move me,—I was induced, I say, to tolerate the visits of the peer, although heaven knows I never could encourage them. Not that his personal appearance was disagreeable—nor that I paused to reflect that his age was more than double my own: no—for he was handsome—very handsome; and, though his years were twice mine, yet he was but in the prime of life. Wherefore, then, did I receive his addresses with loathing?—wherefore did I implore my father to save me from an alliance which was so desirable and so brilliant in every worldly point of view? Oh! it was because my heart was irrevocably given to another—because Gilbert Heathcote possessed all my love!”
The lady paused, and wiped away the tears which so many varied reminiscences had wrung from her eyes,—while profound sobs convulsed her bosom.
Lord William Trevelyan felt the embarrassment and awkwardness of his position; for it was now past midnight—and he began to reflect that his servants might look suspiciously upon the fact of this protracted visit on the part of a lady who was still young enough, and certainly handsome enough to afford food for scandalous tongues. Not that Lord William was either a rigid saint or a stern anchorite in respect to the female sex: but, although unmarried, he behaved with the utmost circumspection, and would never have outraged decency so far as to make his own abode the place of an intrigue or gallant rendezvous. Moreover, the love which he entertained for Agnes Vernon had exercised such a purifying—such a chastening influence upon his soul, that he shrank from the idea of compromising himself by any real impropriety, or of becoming compromised by means of any indiscretion which scandal might think fit to attribute to him.
The lady was however too much absorbed in her own thoughts and emotions to mark how rapidly time was slipping away, or to reflect upon the imprudence of prolonging her visit. Her feelings were painfully excited, not only by the fears which she entertained on account of the absence of Sir Gilbert Heathcote—but likewise by the reminiscences which had been stirred up in her soul, and the outpouring of which to sympathetic ears seemed a necessary vent for a bosom so full of sorrow.
“Yes, my lord,” she resumed, after a short pause, her voice still being characterised by a tone of the most touching melancholy; “my father forced me into that hated marriage—and though I gained rank and a proud position, yet hope and happiness appeared to have forsaken me for ever. But I cannot tell you all,” she exclaimed, hastily, as if a sudden thought had struck her, warning her that she was about to be led by her feelings into revelations of a nature which she would repent, or which would at least be unbecoming and injudicious.
“Madam,” said Lord William, emphatically,—“I do not seek your confidence—I do not even desire it: but you have to do with a man of honour, by whom everything you may impart, whether with premeditation or unguardedly, will be held as sacred.”
“I thank your lordship for this kind assurance,” observed the lady. “Do not imagine that I wish to force you into becoming the depositary of my secrets, in order to establish a species of claim upon your friendship. No—my lord: I am not selfish—neither am I an intriguer,—only a most unhappy—a most unfortunate woman! But it is because you have manifested some little interest in me—because you have so generously promised to aid me in clearing up the mystery which surrounds the sudden disappearance of one so dear to me,—it is for these reasons, my lord, that I am anxious to explain so much of the circumstances of my connexion with him, as will convince you that nothing but the sincerest affection on my part could have placed me in a position which the world generally would regard with scorn. I have told your lordship how, loving Gilbert Heathcote, I was forced into a most inauspicious marriage with another: but the name of that other I need not mention. My father saw, when it was too late, that he had indeed sacrificed my happiness on the altar of his own selfishness; and he died of remorse—of a broken heart! My husband—my noble husband—was kind and generous towards me: but I could not love him—and he knew it. Then he grew jealous—and other circumstances,” she added, casting down her eyes and blushing deeply, “embittered our lives. At length—or, I should rather say, at the expiration of a few short years, I fled from him—fled from the husband who had been forced upon me—and sought refuge with the object of my heart’s sole and undivided affection. From that moment I have dwelt under the protection of Sir Gilbert Heathcote,—dwelt in the strictest privacy—happy in the possession of his love—a love which, as well as my own, has known no diminution with the lapse of years. To one of your generous soul—of your enlightened mind, my position may not appear so degrading—so humiliating, as it would to one incapable of distinguishing between the heart’s irresistible affection and a mere sensual depravity. Pardon me, my lord, for having thus obtruded this slight, and, I fear, rambling sketch, upon your notice: but I could not endure the conviction that I must appear in your eyes to be nothing more nor less than the pensioned mistress of your friend. The length of time that his love for me has endured, may be alone sufficient to persuade you that I am not to be confounded amidst the common mass of female degradation and immorality.”
“Madam, I thank you for this explanation—and I comprehend all the delicacy and peculiarity of your position,” said Lord William Trevelyan, rising from his seat, the lady herself having set the example—for it now struck her that she had remained until a very late hour.
“You will pardon me, my lord,” she said, “for having thus occupied so much of your time. But I know you to be one of Sir Gilbert’s best friends—indeed, the one of whom he was principally accustomed to speak, and whom he loved and relied upon the most. May I hope that you will favour me with a communication, so soon as you shall have seen Mr. James Heathcote? Although, in virtue of my marriage, I bear a proud and a great name, yet for years and years have I been known only as Mrs. Sefton—and by that appellation must I be known to you.”