“The name of the young lady is—Georgia Conway.”
The woman half rose from her chair, with flashing eyes, and said:—
“Who told you that?”
Darke smiled. There was something lugubrious in that chilly mirth.
“An emissary on whom I can rely, brought me the intelligence,” he said, “Colonel Mohun was wounded in the battle of Fleetwood, and entering a house where she was nursing the wounded, fainted, and was caught in her arms. From that moment the affair began. She nursed him, and he was soon healed. I had myself inflicted the wound with a pistol ball—but the hurt was trifling. He got well in a few days—and was ready to meet me again at Upperville—but in those few days the young lady and himself became enamored of each other. She is proud, they say, and had always laughed at love—he too is a woman-hater—no doubt from some old affair, madam!—but both the young people suddenly changed their views. Colonel Mohun became devoted; the young woman forgot her sarcasm. My emissary saw them riding out more than once near Culpeper Court-House; and since the return of the army, they have been billing and cooing like two doves, quite love sick! That’s agreeable, is it not, madam?”
And Darke uttered a singular laugh. As for the woman she had grown so pale, I thought she would faint.
“Do you understand, madam?” continued Darke. “Colonel Mohun is in love again; and the name of his friend is—Georgia Conway!”
The woman was silent; but I saw that she was gnawing her nails.
“My budget is not exhausted, madam,” continued Darke. “The young lady has a sister; her name is Virginia. She too has a love affair with a young officer of the artillery. His name is William Davenant!”
And the speaker clutched the arm of a chair so violently that the wood cracked in his powerful grasp.