“My lord, I have not the slightest inclination to enter into matters of a private nature, and regarding your own family,” said Trevelyan, with firmness, yet courtesy—and even with commiseration for the sorrow of the old noble: “much less,” he added, “should I like to be constituted a judge between your lordship and the Marchioness of Delmour—for such I presume Mrs. Sefton to be.”
“Without placing your lordship in any disagreeable or invidious position,” said the Marquis, growing more tranquil as his naturally powerful mind suggested the utter inutility of giving way to excitement, “I may yet address you not only in your capacity of a nobleman endowed with high intelligence and strict notions of integrity, but also as one who—unless I be much deceived—experiences an honourable passion for my daughter. Ah! I perceive by your countenance that such indeed is the sentiment you entertain for Agnes: and now, therefore, as her father will I address you—as her parent, her protector, and her natural guardian, I invoke your attention.”
“It would be disrespectful alike to your age and rank, and also to your position as the father of her whom I sincerely and devotedly love, were I to refuse to hear whatever your lordship may have to communicate,” said Trevelyan, after a few moments reflection.
“Thanks—a thousand thanks!” ejaculated the Marquis: “I shall yet move you in my favour! But tell me—you are acquainted with one whom, if you please, we will continue to call Mrs. Sefton: has she ever communicated to you any particulars of her earlier life?”
“Frankly and candidly,” replied the young nobleman, “she has confided to me a portion of those particulars; and I have this day learnt sufficient to fill up the few blanks which she left in her narrative.”
“You know, then,” resumed his lordship, “that I wedded her against her consent: but I knew not at the time—as God is my judge!—that I was so completely sealing her misery by that marriage. Sophia—that is her Christian name—was young and beautiful when I first saw her—Oh! so beautiful that I became madly in love with her: and you may perhaps be aware that love is selfish—claiming its object at any price, and at any sacrifice. Her father was in deep pecuniary difficulties—nay, more—he had done things which would have dishonoured his name and even endangered his personal safety. I had an enormous fortune at my command—I told him that I adored his daughter—and he promised me her hand. On that occasion he concealed from me the fact that the young lady’s affections were already engaged: indeed, he assured me that love was as yet a stranger to her bosom, but that she had been struck by my appearance, although I was so much her senior. The duplicity of the father was the first fault in that long chain of unpleasant circumstances and untoward incidents: and, relying on all that he had thus told me, I at once advanced a hundred thousand pounds to relieve him from his embarrassments. Soon, however, did I begin to perceive that my visits were rather tolerated than encouraged by his charming daughter Sophia; and then I learnt—but not from her lips—that she loved another. I felt indignant with the father—while I passionately coveted the daughter; and under the influence of those feelings I pressed my suit. I was resolved not to be made a dupe by the sire, and sacrificed by the young lady to a rival. Had she herself frankly and candidly revealed to me the state of her affections—thrown herself upon my mercy—appealed to my honour, I should have acted a generous part, my lord—yes—I should have been generous!”
“But the young lady was coerced by her father, who intimidated her at one time and ridiculed her at another,” observed Trevelyan: “I remember full well that she told me of her sire’s unfeeling conduct towards her.”
“Yes—and to me also she made the same revelation, when it was too late,” continued the Marquis. “However, it was under such inauspicious circumstances that our marriage took place; and again I appeal to heaven to attest the truth of my words when I declare that I treated her with all possible tenderness, affection, and regard.”
“She has done your lordship that justice in narrating those particulars to me,” remarked Trevelyan.
“But I could not render her happy,” resumed the Marquis: “she was constantly weeping—and our honeymoon resembled an interval of mourning after a funeral, rather than a season of felicity succeeding a bridal. Much as I exerted myself to please her—lavish as I was with money to procure her the means of recreation and enjoyment—profuse as I became with the most costly gifts, not only to herself but likewise to all her relatives and friends, I could never win a smile from her lips. Now your lordship will admit that this was more than an unpleasant life to lead—it was absolutely wretched. But your lordship may conceive the deep vexation which I experienced when, having succeeded on one occasion in inducing the Marchioness to appear at a ball given by some friends, I saw her pale countenance suddenly glow with animation and her eye light up with joy as Gilbert Heathcote advanced to solicit her hand for a quadrille. And she smiled, too—yes, she smiled—and, oh! how sweetly upon him, as her elegant figure moved with dignity and grace in the mazy dance. My soul seemed as if it were withering up within me: I am confident that I must have eyed them with the ferocity of a lynx. But Sophia appeared to have forgotten that I was present—that there was such a being in the world as I: her whole attention was devoted to my rival—her whole thoughts were absorbed in the pleasure of his society. She danced with him more than once—she sate next to him at the supper-table—and after the banquet she waltzed with him. I have ever detested that voluptuous—that licentious—that indecent dance: but how I loathed—oh! how I loathed it on this occasion! I tore myself away from the ball-room, and sought a secluded corner in the card-room. There I endeavoured to reason with myself upon the absurdity of my jealous rage—of the ridicule to which any manifestation of the feeling would expose me—and of the contempt I should inevitably draw down upon myself from my wife, did I allow her to perceive how much I was annoyed at what she would doubtless consider a trivial matter. Thus exercising a powerful command over my emotions, I even assumed a smiling countenance when we returned home, and when I congratulated her upon having been in such high spirits. But all her coldness and inanimation had come back, and I thought within myself that she would not appear thus if Gilbert Heathcote were still in her society.”