"Hamilton, I start for Brussels to-night," was his salutation, as he entered.
"Brussels!" repeated Mr. Hamilton. "Grahame, you are beside yourself.
What affairs can call you to Brussels so suddenly?"
"Affairs—business; aye, of such weight, I cannot rest till they are attended to. Hamilton, you are astonished; you think me mad; oh, would to God I were!" and striking his forehead with his clenched hand, he paced the room in agony.
Ere his friend could approach or address him, he suddenly paused before Caroline, who was watching him in alarm and commiseration, and grasping her arm, with a pressure that pained her, he said, in a voice which blanched her cheek with horror—
"Hamilton, look on this girl, and, as you love me, answer me. Could you be a Roman father, did you see her dishonoured,—the victim, the wilful victim of a base, a treacherous, miserable villain?—say, could you wash away the blackening stain with blood—with her blood—or his, or both? Speak to me—counsel me. My child, my child!" he groaned aloud.
"Grahame, you are ill; my dear friend, you know not what you say," exclaimed Mr. Hamilton, terrified both at his wildness and his words. "Come with me till this strange mood has passed; I entreat it as a favour—come."
"Passed—till this mood has passed! Hamilton, it will never pass till the grave has closed over Annie and myself. Oh, Hamilton, my friend, I had reconciled myself to this marriage; taught myself to believe that, as his wife, she might be happy; and—oh, God! can I say the words?—she is not his wife—he is already married." His trembling limbs refused support, and he sunk, overcome by his emotion, on a chair. Without a minute's pause, a moment's hesitation, and ere her father could find words to reply, Caroline sprung forward, and kneeling beside the wretched father, she seized his hand—
"Be calm, be comforted, dearest Mr. Grahame," she exclaimed, in a voice that caused him to gaze at her with astonishment. "It is a mistaken tale you have heard; a cruel falsehood, to disturb your peace. Lord Alphingham was married, but Annie is now his lawful wedded wife; the partner of his youth, the devoted woman whom for eight years he deserted, is no more. She died the day preceding that which united Lord Alphingham to your child. I speak truth, Mr. Grahame; solemnly, sacredly, I affirm it. Percy will tell you more; I was pledged to secrecy. On her deathbed she demanded a solemn promise from all who knew her tale, never to divulge it, lest it should prove to the discredit of her cruel husband, whom her last accents blessed. I promised Percy it should be sacred, unless an emergency demanded it. Be comforted, Mr. Grahame, indeed, I speak the truth. Lord Alphingham was free, restrained by no tie, when he was united to your child." Rapidly, hurriedly, she had spoken, for she trembled at the wild gaze Grahame had fixed upon her. Caroline's voice rung clear and distinct upon his ear, and every word brought comfort, still he spoke not; but when she ceased, when slowly, more impressively her last words were spoken, he uttered a faint cry, and folding her slight form convulsively to his heart, sobbed like an infant on her shoulder. Thoughts unutterable thronged the minds of Mr. and Mrs. Hamilton as they too listened with fascinated eagerness to Caroline's words; thoughts, not only of the present but the past, rushed quickly to their minds. A year previous Lord Alphingham's wife still lived; though he, villain as he was, had heeded not the sacred tie. Well could they enter into the blessed relief her words had brought to the distracted father. Mr. Hamilton permitted some minutes to elapse in silence, and then gently withdrawing Caroline from Grahame's still convulsive hold, said a few words, in a voice which, though low, expressed that kindly sympathy which seldom fails to reach the inmost soul; and finally succeeded in passing his arm through that of his friend, and leading him to an adjoining room, where, after a time, Grahame conquered his agitation sufficiently to give a connected account of the means through which he had learned the information which had so distracted him. Caroline's words and the influence of his friend restored him to comparative composure; but all was not at peace within until Percy had obeyed the summons of his father, and the information of his sister was confirmed in every point by him. He related the tale of Mrs. Amesfort, with which our readers are already well acquainted, with the addition of her death, of which the letter he received a few days previous had informed him. Many affecting interviews he had had with her, in which she spoke, of her husband, her mother, her child, so fondly, that the tears often started to the eyes of Percy, though her own were dry. In parting from him, she had again implored him not to divulge her secret, unless the interest of her child demanded it, or he saw urgent occasion.
"Let not the breath of calumny sully the name of my child," she said, grasping his hand with a painful effort. "Let her not be looked on as a child of shame, when her birth is as pure and noble as any in the land. If her birth be questioned, let the whole world know she is the daughter of Lord Alphingham. In my mother's care is the certificate of my marriage, also of the christening of my Agnes. But if nothing be demanded, if her lot be happy, it is better both for father and daughter that they remain unknown to each other."
Percy had made the solemn promise she demanded, but the remembrance of her pale features, her drooping form, had haunted him on his return home, and caused that deep gloom his family had remarked. It was more than a week after Mrs. Amesfort's death, before her afflicted mother could write the tidings to the young man, who, on hearing of Annie's conduct, had instantly and actively set about obtaining the exact date of the unfortunate lady's death, and also that of the Viscount's hasty marriage in Scotland. The result was most satisfactory; rather more than a week had elapsed between the two events, and his marriage with Annie was, consequently, sacred and binding. Percy also said, Mrs. Morley had mentioned her intention of instantly returning to Ireland with the little Agnes, from whom she fervently prayed she might never be compelled to part.