We must now return to Lord William Trevelyan, who, in pursuance of the promise made to the Marquis of Delmour, proceeded, the moment after that nobleman had left him, to the villa at Bayswater, which he reached shortly after mid-day; and he was at once conducted into the presence of Mrs. Sefton.
This lady was alone in the parlour; and the young nobleman immediately perceived that she had been weeping—although she endeavoured to conceal the fact beneath a smiling countenance as she rose to welcome him.
“My dear friend,” she said, in a voice rendered tremulous by deep emotions; “how can I ever sufficiently thank you for your generosity—your unparalleled goodness, in adopting such measures to procure the liberation of Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”
“You have, then, seen him?” observed Trevelyan.
“He has but this moment left me,” was the slow and mournful response: and, after a short pause, Mrs. Sefton said, as she sank back into her chair, “Our interview was at first a most joyous one—but at the end most melancholy.”
“I cannot understand you,” exclaimed Trevelyan, seating himself near her.
“Nevertheless, it is not my intention to affect any farther mystery, with regard to myself or my affairs, towards you,” said Mrs. Sefton, hastily wiping away the tears that had started to her eyes, and composing her features with the sudden resolution of one who has determined upon the particular course which duty suggests. “Your conduct—the generosity of your disposition—and the attachment which you experience for my beloved daughter, are all inducements and reasons wherefore I should at once communicate to you all my plans.”
She again paused for a few moments, and then continued in the following manner:—
“The dearest hope of my life was accomplished on that day when my darling Agnes was restored to me: and since we have together occupied this secluded but delightful spot, I have had leisure to reflect upon those duties which I owe to my daughter. Moreover, I have well weighed all the circumstances of her position and my own; and I cannot blind my eyes to the fact that a great sacrifice must be made on my part to her reputation—her welfare—her purity of soul.”
“I begin to understand you now, my dear friend,” said Lord William Trevelyan, his countenance lighting up with the animation of joy: for he felt assured that he had not formed a wrong estimate of Mrs. Sefton’s character, when he attributed to her the most amiable qualifications and excellent principles, in spite of her connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote.