“Yes—Agnes is indeed my daughter—and I am proud of her!” cried the Marquis. “But I know that she was inveigled away from the cottage by one who——by her own mother, in fine——and I am likewise aware that you subsequently entrusted her to the care of a lady of your acquaintance. This latter information I obtained from a certain Mrs. Mortimer——”
“The information was correct, my lord,” answered Trevelyan. “And now I must candidly confess that I have a very difficult part to perform: for I will not condescend to a falsehood—and I dare not reveal the truth. This much, however, I unhesitatingly declare—that, by a singular coincidence, the lady to whom I conducted your lordship’s daughter proved to be none other than her mother.”
“Her mother! then she is at this moment in the care of that woman?” ejaculated the Marquis, his excitement increasing: “and you will not tell me where I can find them?”
“That is the truth which, as I said ere now, I dare not repeat,” responded Trevelyan, profoundly touched by the evident grief of the old nobleman.
“Will you be the means of separating a father from his child?” asked the Marquis, now sinking through exhaustion upon a sofa—for hitherto he had remained standing, although Trevelyan had twice courteously indicated the chair that had been placed for his accommodation.
“Were I to yield to your lordship’s desire,” said the young nobleman,—“were I to give you the address of—of—”
“Call her Mrs. Sefton, if you will,” interrupted the Marquis, bitterly: “I know that she passes and has long passed under that name.”
“Well, my lord—were I to give you the address of that lady,” resumed Trevelyan, “I should be adopting a course calculated to separate a mother from her child.”
“But that mother is unworthy of being entrusted with the care of her daughter!” exclaimed the Marquis of Delmour, emphatically.