First produced at the Theatre Royal, Belfast, (under the management of Mr. J. E. Warden on Monday. August, 3, 1869,
SCENE.—ACT I. : Greywood Hall, Cornwall: Acts II. and III in London, Time: 1867-8
An interval of twelve months between the first and succeeding acts
Time of representation—Two hours and twenty minutes,
Costumes.—Modern, All change after the First Act.
Pah ! I know you can't bear Redway because he's an affable, clever fellow.
Affable—because, in spite of his elegant manners, he is not above getting drunk with you at the Greywood Arms.
Mr. Merriton !
And you think him clever because, in spite of your own talent as a billiard-player, he can almost beat you, playing blindfold.
Well, whatever he is—I like him.
So much the worse for you. I should like to
You think his errand
Unless his friend and confidant, Mr. Philip Rashleigh, has commissioned him to extort by force the ten thousand pounds which she has positively refused to lend to her graceless nephew, I don't see what further business he can have down here.
You're quite right, he hasn't any—in fact, he went back to London this afternoon.
Pleasant journey to him, and hoping that he has not troubled himself to take a return ticket. The man alarms me on your account.
Ah! Well, it doesn't seem to me that Lady Belfield has treated Mr. Philip very kindly, in refusing him the money he sent Redway for.
She has acted like a prudent woman. It is hardly five years since Philip Rashleigh came into his fortune of eighty thousand pounds, and a year ago, every penny of it had been squandered, in the devil only knows what round of vice and extravagance.
Well, it was his own; he had a right to spend it how he liked.
Yes, and Lady Belfield's fortune is her own, to dispose of as she thinks best—and what she thinks best at present is, to refuse a halfpenny of it to Mr. Philip Rashleigh. Now, listen to me, Holden ; you and I were born in the same village ; you are the son of a worthy surgeon, who gave you an education which you have not made the most of—I am the son of a small farmer, who had me taught to read and write ——
True; and I quickly learned that one can't earn one pound and spend two without getting into debt.
Misfortunes ?
Yes ; not the least of which is to be preached at by —
By the man through whose interest you were appointed agent for the Greywood estate.
From which post—you are, no doubt, going to
But for the intercession of your daughter, for whom Lady Belfield has long shown an affectionate regard. Grace is a good girl, Holden.
My daughter is—what she ought to be
I wish as much could be said for her father.
Oh! are you going to begin again ?
I've something more to say to you. You know Lady Belfield's history ? The daughter and heiress of a Manchester manufacturer, about twenty years ago she married the late Lord Belfield, to whom she brought a fortune of a hundred thousand pounds. Lord Belfield was a very worthy nobleman, but that did not prevent his wife living unhappily with him.
I know all about that. Her husband's family turned up their aristocratic noses at her on one side, and on the other, her brother quarreled with Lord Belfield on political grounds ; the result of all being that young, handsome, and rich as she was —
She was condemned to a life of exile—here in Cornwall.
Well, what need is there of telling me all this?
I want you to understand that her illness is much more serious than is supposed. We must bo prepared for her death and, therefore—as, for the last two years, you have had the entire control of her money affairs —I am anxious to know, whether, in case she dies, you are prepared to render an account to her representatives.
Her representatives ? She will only leave
That is to say, if she dies intestate.
You, possibly, hope that she wiil not leave a will, because, with the help of your friend Redway, you think it would be easy enough to settle accounts with Mr. Philip Rashleigh.
Do you suppose she means to disinherit her nephew ?
Otherwise she need not have taken the trouble to make a will.
A will! She has made a will, then ?
She has.
That's her affair ; but I am pretty sure Mr.
Perhaps not—especially if she has left her property to her husband's relatives ; to her sister-in-law, Lady Slowburn, who used to call her Lord Belfield's "housekeeper," and who has taken up her quarter at the Hall, with her daughter.
It is for that reason I have given you warning. Nearly forty thousand pounds must have passed through your hands during the last three years, and the expenditure has not been more than a third of that sum.
Don't be at all uneasy,
That is her ladyship's bell. Do not leave the Hall; I may have more to tell you, by-and-bye.
Ah! good evening, Mr. Merriton ; I did not know you had come to the Hall.
I have just been telling your father that Lady Belfield has sent for me.
Yes, you are looking decidedly pale. I thought you were gone to bed. It's late.
I should have gone to rest, father, but her ladyship seemed specially to desire that I should remain with her to-night.
To-night!—But you are worn out, already—I can't have it.
Oh. yes, father.
I say, no ! I'll not allow it.
But it is my duty, father.
Duty or no duty, I say that to-night ——
Speak for me, Mr. Merriton.
Come, come, Holden ; you fear that the continued fatigue will be too much for her ; but sick people have their fancies—and this may be the last service Lady Belfield will require.
Her ladyship is ready to see Mr. Merrington.
Come in with me, Grace. I shall find you here, Holden ?
Beg for me, Mr. Merriton—that I may be allowed to remain up with her ladyship.
Go in and announce me, my dear. I'll try and arrange all this.
I always will say, as only them as have daughters knows what half a parient's troubles is.
My lot it has been only to have one which, in regard to handsomeness, proud I was—eleven months and four days after Gibbs led me to the hymineral altar—but little did I then think as it isn't always handsome is as handsome does with grow'd up daughters of one's own flesh and blood !—far otherwise !
And
I only mean to say that if
Much good may the knowledge be to everybody !
Which, whatever you may think of it, Mr. Holding, seems more than they are likely to know in
respect of
Ah !
doing there ?
Why, seeing whether I can make myself comfortable for the night, since forced I am by that ungrateful girl to go out nursing for my bread, and hard enough it comes to me, however soft the cushions of the cbaii s may be, and in that respect I don't complain
Never have I seen him, but only let me ever get face to face with the fellow as my girl have
married! A coffee-pot a boiling over will be cool to his wife's only living parient remaining
!
Yes. Bless you, if I didn't take something to keep me awake, I should precious quickly be off as sound as a church ; and so will your daughter, if she does not take some, and that strong, too.
Hard it is that I have had to learn such things —and me with a daughter as has a figure as
might have fitted her for any station!
Perhaps, Mrs. Bell, the housekeeper, may have some in the family medicine-chest.
Ah ! I'll go and ask her. Don't leave the room
I must not lose a moment!
Don't be uneasy ! half-a-dozen worthy persons saw me off this afternoon—for London. A little
change of costume, effected in the railway-carriage, enabled me to alight without fear of
recognition at the station from which I had taken my departure five or six hours before.
Selecting one of the quietest inns on the outskirts of the town, I made myself as conspicuous
as possible—in the character of an invalid; retired early to my bed-room, and, as soon as all
was still in the house, slipped out by a back door, by which road I shall return to my room,
with the comfortable feeling that, whatever may happen tonight, my alibi will hold
water! What I have come to tell you is—that this affair must be finished to-night or never. If
there is no will— things will take their course ; but if there
If it exists, it shall be in your hands within the next two hours,
I had no intention of doing so; but—if your ladyship desires it —
No, no, not at all. Your house is only a stone's throw off; it will be easy to send for you, should your presence be needed ; but we are in hopes that Lady Belfield will pass a tranquil night.
Ralph I will go home at once, then.
Will you, before you leave the Hall. Mr. Holden, see that the servants have properly secured
all the doors and windows ? I don't know why, but in this old
Constance, I'm ashamed of you for being so silly.
Good night, Mr. Holden.
Still up, ladies ?
Oh, yes, my dear Mr. Merriton—What have you to tell us?
Everything is, I imagine, as you could wish?
You relieve my mind greatly ; for, really, Lady Belfield's reception of us has been so—so cold.
She has scarcely addressed a word to us since we have been here !
And yet, as soon as we heard from you that she was in danger, we delayed not a moment in hastening to her bed-side.
In the middle of the London season—at great inconvenience.
It was our duty, of course, Lady Belfield being so nearly related to us.
And, as I had the honour to inform you before you undertook the journey—especially as she contemplated naming one or both of you in her will as legatees.
Really, Mr. Merriton, you make us pay somewhat dear for your services.
My dear Lady Slowburn. there is no need for either of us to waste sentiment. You do not like Lady Belfield—she does not like you ; nevertheless she is prepared to leave your daughter a considerable portion of her fortune.
Quite : but she attaches a condition to the inheritance. Of all the members of your family, there was but one who was friendly to Lady Belfield — the late Lord Midford.
My cousin, Lord Midford, was a man of only
Her dearest friend. Pardon me for speaking so plainly. If Lady Belfield, before make making her will, had not been informed of the contemplated marriage between your daughter and the present Lord Midford, his son —
I am sure, Constance, there is nothing for you to blush at. I am happy to think that from the moment Lord Midford made known to me his preference for you, he was informed of the fact of your having no fortune to bring him.
But if, instead of having no fortune, your daughter had a very large one to give him—would that —
Oh, sir !
My love!—If my daughter's marriage with Lord Midford has not already taken place, it is because I made my consent to it conditional—on his waiting six months.
And five months have passed, and only yesterday he wrote to mamma, saying that he cared nothing for my not being rich.
Very well ; I may tell you that it is on the ground of this marriage that she has arranged her will.
Does she know my Arthur—Lord Midford ?
No, she has never seen him. I'll tell you all about it some other time, my love.
I'll go back to Lady Belfield.
The will may now be sealed up. I shall deposit it in one of the drawers of the secretaire in
her room, the key of which she keeps under her pillow ;
This is almost beyond my hopes.
Hush, mamma! The girl Holden is in the room.
I am waiting Lady Belfield's orders. My father wishes me not to sit up.
He is quite right; you are looking pale and
I should not at all mind that, miss, if anything I could do could bring back Lady Belfield's health.
You are a very devoted servant, indeed.
Servant!
Her will, madam ! Oh, is she so very seriously ill ?
In a moment,
I, madam ! I am only waiting to learn whether Lady Belfield wishes me to remain with her to-night.
No, my dear, no.
Do you know why ?
But is she so very—so very ill ?
When all the rest are gone to their rooms you must come to her bed-side.
But why this mystery ?
Ask no questions, my dear child ; the interview will be more important than you think.
Pray tell me!
Plush, we are observed!
Drat the fellow! will he never come back with that laudanum ?
What's the matter, Mrs. Gibbs ?
Matter enough Mr. Merrington! what with a daughter as has throwed herself away in marriage,
and this groom as hasn't come back with the laudanum—
Grace I, Mrs. Gibbs!
Oh, of course, you don't know where you put it, and I've been looking everywhere for it, to give my lady her sleeping-draught.
I'll help you search for it.
No, no ; you go to your room and rest yourself.
Come, mamma, let us go up to our room; I'm overpowered with sleep.
I have some letters to write before going to bed. Good night, ladies.
I myself placed it there by her direction.
Good night, madam.
You must take care of your health, my dear, for we hope that our relative will long require
your excellent services.
Oh, that I may be allowed to serve her all my life.
But you appear more tired than myself. Rest for a few minutes, while I keep watch for you.
Well, take a little coffee, then, but not much, for it's as strong as anything, it is !
I told you it would want a good deal of sugar.
Mrs. Gibbs! do you hear me speak to you?
What could Mr. Merriton mean, when he said that the interview would be important ?
Ah! if she would only wake ! Mrs. Gibbs! I—
I heard a cry and thought you might want assistance.
Let us get away from here as fast as we can ! She was awake, shrieked out, and I was obliged to—to— silence her!
The devil!—but the will ?
I have it. What of Mr. Rashleigh's five thousand pounds ?
Come with me and the money shall be yours.
Quick ! quick, then ! I hear some one moving.
My father and Mr. Redway ! They spoke of Philip Rashleigh—of a will!
What can have been the meaning of those cries, and that violent ringing?
Mr. Merriton ! Oh! hush ! hush !
What has happened?
My dear child, collect your senses. What was the meaning of those cries ?
Oh, pray don't go in !
Not go in—good heavens !
Yes, yes ; go in ! Oh, that I were dead, too !
Dead ?
I do not know—I know nothing.
Let Mr. Holden be sent for instantly.
My father! No, no, no! it was not he ! it was not he!
Have you lost your senses, girl!
Oh, my poor lady !
Lady Belfield!— what of her? Speak, girl! what of Lady Belfield?
Dead! She has been murdered in her bed !
Murdered ! Oh, mamma, take me away !
My dear benefactress, murdered.!
Is it possible ? — by whom ?
Again I say, speak, girl! You know something
Calm yourself, child ; fear nothing, and tell all you know of this horrible affair.
By Jove, Davinci, that's a good idea! political! Whenever you paint the portraits of men who
have made great fortunes in business, always make them looking well to the
Mr. Rashleigh, you have taken the liberty to indulge in this kind of pleasantry several times during the past twelvemonths.
Don't forget, Mr. Rashleigh. that you owe your succession to a double crime—a murder and the robbery of a will, that disinherited you.
Nonsense; there was no will.
How do
Why, I was down at Greywood at the time.
On the night when the will was stolen ?
No ; I had gone up to London—hours before— as I proved at the inquest.
Proved!
What do you happen to mean by that ?
I'll keep my meaning to myself, since it does not at once susrgest itself o you.
Take care, Mr. Merriton!
Tut! don't be put out by anything that Merriton says : he means no harm—in spite of his constantly repeating his malicious little story of a will! We all know who killed my equally close-fisted and unfortunate aunt.
You mean Grace Holden?
The inquiry I set on foot put the question of her guilt beyond doubt; every circumstance of
the case went dead against her. In spite of her father's command that she should go to bed,
she insisted on remaining up; then there was the old nurse, sent to sleep with the very
laudanum that was known to have passed through the girl Holden's hands ; then, to crown all,
when she is discovered almost red-handed, she flies from the Hall towards the sea,
Strange her body was never found!
The devil take the whole affair—I'm sick of hearing it talked of !
You mean, you hope I
Married ! I'd no notion Maguilp was married!
To the most enormous extent!
Sitting, my love !
What?
Nothing ; it's of no consequence.
Oh ! I didn't know
What did you say, Vinci ?
Only that—Mr. Rashleigh and his friend will take lunch with us.
That will be jolly! only you'll have to look sharp about it; because, you know, you've got
to paint in the legs of that ballet-dancer to-day. What do you think of that for a swindle,
Rashleigh ? This madame or made-mezelle, or whatever she is, wants to get a first-class
engagement at St. Petersburgh ; so, what is she going to do but have a portrait of herself
painted—with
While yours—witness all the graces that have been painted for the last five years !
Yes, and the Venus's too ! the Minervy's is always draped, so, of course, anything will do
for
My love!
What now ?
Nothing!
Oh! those are not studies of me. This studio ain't Vinci's.
No; it belongs to a friend of mine, who lent it me while he was away in Switzerland, and with whom I am living here, for a-while.
He seems to do deucedly little work, your friend Edgeworth ; for, often as I have dropped in upon you lately, I've never even caught sight of him.
He lives rather retired.
Rather ? confoundedly, I should say, if I was his wife!
He has lately married Lady Slowburn's daughter.
Pray excuse me; my visit is to Mr. Cyril Edgeworth. He is not at home, perhaps ?
The fact is, my lord,—he is, and he is not.
Vinci means, my lord, that when Edgeworth is at home with his wife he's never at home to nobody else. That's about the fact, my lord. But, if you want to see him—he'll open the door to me, my lord.
If I might trouble you so much,
Oh, my lord!
Will your lordship be seated.
Pray don't disturb yourself,
Oh, no! I shall be at my post.
I say, Davinci, it's deucedly odd of your friend Edgeworth, to keep his wife shut up like an
odalisque ! Did he marry a model, like you ?
What is she like? Enormously beautiful?
My idea is, that she must be so ugly he's ashamed to let her be seen.
Ugly ! I should like to see the painter who could do justice to her beauty ! even her husband can't!
By Jove ! What coloured eyes and hair has she ?
Well, if you won't satisfy my curiosity, I throw myself into the sea of speculation, to fish for a probable explanation of the mystery. The first idea I land is, that your friend has appropriated somebody's pet Venus, and is afraid of her being reclaimed.
You'd do better to let the subject alone, seeing that it doesn't in the least concern you.
My dear fellow, anything in the likeness of a mystery in which a woman plays a part has an
irresistible attraction for me ! I shan't be able to eat, drink, or even smoke, till I have
made my way behind your friend's scenes!
Rashleigh !—you appear to forget that Edgeworth is my friend!
You mean that you will try to spoil sport ? Ha, ha!
I mean —
What news, fair Henrietta ?
All the news
Who but your highly appreciative husband, Henrietta ?
M. It's like his rubbish ! He thinks his friend has married a princess in disguise, I believe !
She's as much a princess as I am—and the proof of that is, that she knows you, Mr. Merrington.
Knows me ?
Yes ; and you, too, Rashleigh.
Me! By Jove ! this is becoming thrilling !
When I told Edgeworth that
The deuce ! this is getting complicated !
You'd a-said so, if you had seen how pale her husband turned, and heard in what a tremble-[[ing voice he asked her whether she knowed you ! She says she don't —but that's all my eye, I know.
As for me, I'm not in London more than one month out of the twelve.
What Christian name does she go by ?
Dora, Edgeworth calls her.
Dora ? I know no Dora. Do your recollections enshrine a Dora, Mr. Merriton?
No.
Or yours, Midford?
Oh ! with Venus, name has always gone for nothing ; to Apelles she was Venus Anadyomene, but she had twenty aliases besides.
Well, by Jove! since she claims acquaintance with me, before the day is done I shall do myself the pleasure to present myself to her. St!—here comes the husband !
I have come to tell you that the business which we lately talked of is finally settled. Lady Midford wants you to begin operations forthwith.
I place myself entirely at her ladyship's orders— and if you will come to my private rooms —
My dear Edgeworth, if it is more convenient to you to remain here, we have finished,
By all means ; to-morrow, at the same hour.
Until this evening—good-bye.
Now, gentlemen, we'll go to lunch Rashleigh, will you show your friend the way ?
rangé, now that you are married? Remember me at home !
Thanks is all on my side, I'm sure, my lord !
Good day, Edgeworth, if I don't see you again.
And if you are not better engaged —
Your lordship is only too kind.
I may hope for the pleasure of seeing you ? We dine at eight, and Lady Midford and her mother-in-law, Lady Slowburn, have a dance afterwards—at which, I am sure, they will be happy to see you.
I shall have the honour to accompany my friend Edgeworth.
So, then, my lord, you have collected your originals ?
A good number, at least, both of canvasses and old frames, in addition to the miniatures Lady Midford has already sent to you. Some half-dozen portraits, however, will still have to be created to make the line of beauty complete—especially one of Diana Slowburn, who was a maid of honour at the Court of Elizabeth, and — Lady Midford has made up her mind to believe—a young lady of superhuman loveliness. That will be the only face that will give you any trouble.
Have you any idea of the style of beauty Lady Midford imagines for her ancestress?
By no means a clear idea.
A portrait!
Of your wife! Oh, then I am no longer surprised at your friend Maguilp's description of her beauty.
Maguilp ! He had been speaking of her, then, to ——
On the subject of her great beauty only I assure you. But what is the matter ?
The sooner you set to work, the better Lady Midford will be pleased.
I am entirely at her ladyship's disposal.—Your lordship is sure that neither Mr. Merriton nor Mr. Rashleigh said anything concerning my wife ?
Forgive me, my dear Edgeworth—is it possible that you are jealous?
Of such a man as Rashleigh ?
You do not know, my lord
What ?
Nothing, nothing.
It was not possible for either Mr. Merriton or Mr. Rashleigh to say anything about Mrs. Edgeworth, because they were agreed that she is an entire stranger to them.
Indeed!
That they had never seen her.
Never?
All they said was expressive of surprise at the pains you appear to take to hide your wife from all eyes. Pardon me for saying I think you very unwise to provoke this kind of notice. If you were merely jealous those about you would laugh at you for a while, and end, by ceasing to pay attention to your folly—
As it is, I present an absurd figure to their eyes ? and they have invented all sorts of extravagant stories, in which I play a more or less contemptible part?
My dear Edgeworth, you are really mad to allow yourself to be carried away in this manner. Good heavens! you knew your wife before you married her? —knew her past life, whatever it may have been ? Calm yourself, my dear fellow.
Yes, yes, you are right, my lord; I must calm, myself. Let us leave the subject. You will greatly oblige me by promising never again to refer to the portrait I have shown you.
If you wish it, I promise.
Thanks, my lord. To-morrow, if you will send me the pictures of Lady Midford's female ancestors——
They shall be with you; and, after taking my wife's directions to-night, you may sit down to
the work of re-creating what is intented to be—if not a gallery of unquestionable portraits—a
gallery of unquestionable beauties. "Every lady of our name a beauty," with evidence on canvas
; that is Lady Midford's idea, and if you do not wish my life—and your own, possibly—to be.
made intolerable, you'll do your best to realize it to the letter ; or, perhaps I ought rather
to say to the outline of a nose, and the shape of a finger tip. At eight—sharp, this evening!
Good-bye for the present,
For the present, good day, my lord,
Yes, you may come in.
Will you go on with the portrait?
Presently,
Reproaches ? No, no, no, dear.
If not at anything I said to you—at what then? Dora, am I for ever to see you weighed down by a distress which you will not let me share—the meaning of which even you will not explain to me ?
Oh, Cyril! believe me, my greatest distress is the fear of not making you happy.
It needs but one thing to make me so—confidence between us ; confide to me the secret that is preying upon you.
Dora ! this is an outrage to my reason and my love ! I cannot—I will not rest till I have discovered the secret you are keeping from me! If you will not tell it. I will search, question, till I find an explanation of the mystery of your life.
If you do that, you will do both yourself and me a great wrong, Cyril.
A wrong!
Yes, a cruel wrong.
Yes, Dora, I owe you my life.
And I bless you, Dora, now as gratefully as I did the first moment I knew I owed my life to you.
You were saved, and then I wished still to die, but I no longer had the courage. You had told me the story of your life—your labours, your hopes of fame and happiness; and when your strength was returning, and you walked in the open air and sunlight, resting on my arm, I felt proud that I had saved so rich a life. I was happy to see you live, and there were hours when—in the thought of your bright future—I forgot that I had determined to destroy myself.
And then you learned that I loved you ?
One evening you were seated at my feet, and the sunlight was fading over the sea. You had
before that time besought me to tell you who I was, whence I came, and what had driven me to
take so terrible a resolve as that of self-destruction. I prayed you not to question me;
I know you did, my love.
Then your eyes tilled, with tears—tears that are always in the depths of a great love; and you leaned towards me and said, "I will never question you again— never ! You shall be to me as an angel descended from heaven, who has no name on earth—the guardian spirit of my life, for my life is yours." I held out my hand to you. and you took it, calling me Dora—meaning "God's gift," you told me, and we were married.
It concerns my past life—of which I can tell you nothing.
Speak, darling!
Before I had said the words that made me your wife, Cyril, I swore to you, in God's house, before His altar, that I gave myself to you pure of all fault or crime.
And you were so, Dora—were you not ?
Oh, Cyril! do you doubt it ?
No, no, no ! I do not—I will not doubt! I am happy, and that is all I will ever care to know !
Remember—oh ! remember what you have now said, Cyril. If you doubt my oath —
Spare me, Dora ! I will
I thought I heard your voice. Do you know, my dear fellow, if you don't see about dressing we shall be late at Wimbledon.
At Wimbledon ?
At Lord Midford's
Do you know Lord Midford, Dora ?
You know them ?
No, but——
I'm sure we shall be late, old fellow!
Go, dear ! Take him away ! Mr. Maguilp.
Hear that!—your wife says you're to go!
And you have still to dress. Good-bye, love!
Come along and dress, then ; or I know we shall be too late for dinner.
Of the beautiful unknown—who knows me! That's a devilish good idea, isn't it ?
I say, Redway,—I've a sublime notion! The husband's away—don't you see ? —
The husband's away ?—
And, while the resplendent Henrietta is making the coffee—mysterious beauty,—behold your old
acquaintance at your feet! That's my idea! You stop here till I come back and tell you how
I've carried it out!
Affair! that's a devilish neat synonyme for money ! I'd rather talk about my
charmer behind the curtain here !—thank you all the same for the offer!
But, look here, Rashleigh,—this won't do! I did you a great service —
And I've paid you handsomely for doing it.
But not so handsomely as you promised.
Because you didn't complete the bargain. You didn't bring
You are lying, my dear fellow ; you know you handed the will over to the devil's first cousin, Mr. Moses Nathan, who advanced the money to get it into his clutches — and me with it. With all my heart! I'll redeem it some day, when I'm in luck. In the meantime, you may as well remember, if you are not too drunk—I have still by me a certain little bundle of acceptances forged in my name the manufacture of yourself, in conjunction with the inestimable old blackguard before mentioned—which I took up without a word of question! Ha! ha! ha! You understand each other—I understand you both. If either of you attempt to check me, by a move with the will—I give checkmate at once with those acceptances ! Ha! ha ! ha ! you see, my very highly esteemed friend, it pays sometimes to allow oneself to be robbed!
I'll take your word for it;—but, you know I'm not the sort of man to be frightened by what
somebody
Only, it's equally certain—
But I don't want you to give me money,—if
Certainly,—I can do that,—I never find anything easier to do than give bills ; but—mind you—it's to be the last! What's the figure to be ?
Five thousand.
And I'll undertake never to return to London.
'Pon my soul, you're a great creature, Redway !
Look here, my friend,—I'll give you my acceptance for five hundred pounds, just to settle
your "affair" out of the way of
As decidedly as I hold to my determination not to give you one penny more than the five hundred pounds I've offered you!
I withdraw my claim altogether.
You are considerateness itself !
Pray do not forget that you had refused to let me have the sum in question.
I'm very drunk—but I never forget anything I wish to recollect.
There will be no occasion for me to remind you to-morrow, then.
Very good, my dear fellow,
Bosom friends! touching remembrance ! ha ! ha! ha!
Ha! ha! ha!
Drat the dressing I wish as we was all Adams and Eves ! and parlours was paradises with nothing in 'em to ketch in or tumble over! Don't tell me as your misses ain't at home ; she couldn't have left the house without my seeing her!—Where's she gone ?
I don't know.
I should think you don't! Just you go and tell her it's only me.
But she won't see anybody, ma'am.
As if you thought I was anybody! Drat you servants! you've got no more heads than Hollowfurniss on a tea-tray ! Go and tell her I've come to have a chat with her, to prevent her moping herself to bits, like Mary Ann in the molting grange—though what the dickins a molting grange was I never could find out!
Well, I'll
I don't go back to my own apartments until you
I told mistress
And, of course, preciously she blowed you up for not bringing me to her at once?
No, ma'am, she bade me say that she is not feeling well
How
And that she is sorry she can't see you.
Can't see me?—won't, she means!
She's not well.
Fiddlesticks ! What's the matter with her?
I don't know—but she can't see you.
Indeed ! Upon my word ! she gives herself nice airs, I don't think ! and so I shall do
myself the pleasure of telling her. the first time I meet her!
What
Only, that when anybody smacks my face, I generally smacks theirs in return ! That's about the carrow-skuro of it!
Henrietta!
In her own appropriate person, Mr. Rashleigh, —if you've no objection, in course !
Hush!
Oh, that's how the cat jumps ! Thank you for the information, and—pleasant reception!
Yes, sir ; he is not at home at present.
I know it; but Mrs. Edgeworth is at home?
Mistress is ——
Tell her I have come from Mr. Edgeworth.
Will you please to give me your name, sir ?
Your mistress does not know me; tell her a gentleman sent by your master wishes to speak with her immediately.
From master? yes, sir.
By Jove! that was well thought of! Thinking I come from her husband, she'll be sure to come
out of her hiding-place. I don't know how the deuce it is, but I never in my life felt so much
curiosity as I do to see this mysterious beauty, whose pre-nuptial name nobody has been able
to discover, and who turned from black to white —as the strong-speaking Henrietta described
the effect— when she casually heard mine mentioned. A lovely woman who knows me, and is an
enigma to everybody, myself not excepted! The mystification is delicious! Sentimental idea!
Some old, and as I thought extinguished flame, perhaps! By Jove! I quite glow with the
anticipation of refulgent possibilities ! Here she comes—with her servant to play propriety !
Certainly
You do not answer me, sir ! Have you any- thing—anything painful—to communicate to me ?
No ; pray don't make yourself uneasy. But—it is to you—alone—that I wish to communicate the object of my visit.
Leave us, Susan.
We are now alone, sir.
I see we are—but—
Still you are silent, sir ! Oh, do not keep me any longer in suspense, I beg. Has anything happened to my husband ?
Nothing at all serious, I assure you.
Your hesitation alarmed me.
Mr. Merriton, who was to be at Lord Midford's, in company with my husband, this evening? —
And who requested me—
Your name is Rashleigh ?
That's my name,
You are Philip Rashleigh !
You know me ?
Know you! —
If it is so, you have completely the advantage of me, madam, for I certainly do not know you.
You say you do not know me ?
Well, madam, since the ruse has been successful, I confess I came simply because I was curious to see you.
And—to make a further confession—now that I have seen you, I have a still greater curiosity to know something of you.
Leave my husband's house, Philip Rashleigh !
In good time-when I have ascertained who you were before you became Mrs. Cyril Edgeworth.
Will you favour me with the interesting—I'm sure it
Coward! is it because I am alone ?
Precisely ; but if you will not satisfy my curiosity, I'll question your husband on his return.
Question my husband! Why should he answer the questions of such a man ?
Such a man! If you know me so well, madam, you know that whatever I take in hand I go through with it.
Not even hesitating at crime.
Crime!—By Jove, madam, you increase my interest in you by every word you speak! Your husband shall tell me how it has happened that you are so well informed —who you are ! The information may be of some importance to me, I see.
I forbid you to question my husband !
Possibly ; but I assure you there is only one mode by which you can turn me from my purpose—that is, to tell me yourself who you are.
I
Do you know enough ?
You now know the secret of my seclusion—a secret which even my husband does not know. Will you tell it him ?
No!
Wretch and coward ! I know you will not; for you fear that if you were to accuse me I might tell the truth. The truth ?
The truth?
The whole truth—I know it!
Your father betrayed me, then ?
Do not dare to name my father.
And you, Philip Rashleigh, forget the revelation it is in my power to make!
Rash Not in the least; but I remember that—unfortunately for you—the only person who could have supported your testimony is in his grave—your father.
Grace My father dead !
These six months.
Monster!—after tempting my poor father to commit a horrible crime, you have had him destroyed to secure your own safety ; but you have deceived yourself in your atrocious calculations—for if my father is dead, I am living to avenge him !
At the cost of your own life ?
Yes!
Let them as don't know what the anxieties of being a housekeeper is, in a nobleman's family
where there is a mother-in-law lady born, and her daughter is too jealous of her husband to
attend to anything, keep what they has to say about it to themselves, then they'll be sure
not to go wrong, which'll be pleasanter in every way. Take my word for it they may, that so
situated, quite enough she has to do, without having her feelings preyed upon by her only
child as it was her misfortune to have brought into the world with a figure beyond her
station.
That's all nonsense, mamma; you know very well, Arthur ought to have been home by this time.
No, indeed, I don't, my love. Mr. Merriton has just told you that he left him busy with Mr. Edgeworth.
Yes, and it is precisely what he has told me that makes me most uneasy. I can't bear Arthur to be mixed up with stories of mysterious beauties.
You are really absurd, Constance.
No, I am not, mamma. To-day's visit is not the first Arthur has made to Mr. Edgeworth's
studio, but he has never made the least allusion to Mr. Edgeworth's beautiful
wife!
Come, come, don't give way to such silly fancies. Remember you have company to entertain.
And which—here
I was wondering whether we should see you at all at dinner.
I
Very, I should say.
I've had a good deal to do in town. I shall just have time to dress. Mr. Edgeworth and a friend of his are coming to dinner.
A friend of his ?
A young painter, who is living in the same house with him.
Is that unpleasant to you ?
Not at all. I thought, at first, you might
Mrs. Edgeworth ?
Of course I could have offered no opposition.
I have not the honour of knowing her.
Have you not ?—have you never seen her ?
Never. Mrs. Edgeworth leads a very retired life, and it appears she neither likes to go out nor to receive visitors.
That's unfortunate, because Mr. Merriton tells us she is extremely handsome.
You speak with extraordinary certainty for one who has never seen the lady !
I have seen her portrait,
I must tell you candidly, Arthur, I don't think you are entirely blameless. There has latterly been a good deal that has appeared like concealment in your conduct.
I own I
Oh!—it has awaked unpleasant recollections?
Bitter ones, believe me.
This is too much!
You forget, Arthur, that your mother suffered deeply on account of your father's
inconstancy ; that she died, perhaps earlier than she might, had she not had cause to suspect
that he had given to another the affection which was hers of right. Do not bring upon my
child this inheritance of misery !
Constance, when I can tell you the secret of my care, you shall judge whether I have not
just cause for all I do and suffer. To-day we have friends and
I won't be troubled any more—I'm
Thanks, dear ! Believe me, if the secret had been mine alone I should already have imparted
it to you. I am going to dress.
Well?
Leastways, begging your ladyship's pardon— two painters it was as he spoke of.
What is it you want to know, Mrs. Gibbs ?
What was the name of the painter your daughter married ?
Never would the ungrateful girl let me know, or long ago I would have found him out!
Impossible! a daughter of Mrs. Gibbs! your suspicions are really making you unreasonable,
My duty to your ladyship, and begging to remind you that whatever is her married name, Henrietta I had her christened, six weeks and one day after she were born—smiling like a image.
May I beg you to excuse Lord Midford for not being present to receive you ?
Oh ! I'm sure, pray don't think of apologising.
The fact is, he stayed so late in town.
At my house, then, I fear it must have been.
Your ladyship overrates the few finished studies—
But you have some wonderful portraits— one, at all events have you not ?
Ah, madam !—
Mamma, show Mr. Maguilp our gallery.
We can now speak freely.
Lord Midford tells me that you are quite resolved to carry out your idea of having a complete series of the ladies of your family.
One and all ?
Without exception ; that of the Lady Diana being made supreme—something lifted above the beauty we meet with in ordinary life—ideal and yet human ! It seems to me that, if I were a painter, such a type of beauty would always be present in my mind.
Indeed, madam ?
The painter's highest ideal of beauty must —I imagine— always be the woman he loves ; and if, in the present day, he fails to produce on his canvas such lovely creatures as the Fornarina of Raphael, and the Joconda of Leonardo da Vinci, it is because he lacks the courage of the great Italian painters, who gloried in exhibiting to the world the objects of their adoration.
It may be that he prefers the sancity of his passion to public admiration of its object.
But his fame as a painter ?
Would be too dearly won by such a sacrifice.
A secret, madam ?
One which Lord Midford would never forgive me for having spoken of to you.
Lord Midford ! Excuse me, madam,—but, has his lordship spoken to you on the subject of this secret?
Without intending to do so.
Pray let us talk of something else.
One word more, madam—and forgive me if I speak too freely. From what, you have said, I am sure that you have become acquainted with the fact of my life being darkened by a shadow of mystery. I am sure it cannot be—mere idle curiosity that prompts you to probe my secret, at the risk of wounding
A heart already bleeding with jealousy !
Madam! who told you ? ——
My own heart, Mr. Edgeworth—that suffers equally with yours.
Oh, madam ! is it possible you believe ——
No,—nothing, Mr. Edgeworth. I—I'm very sorry I spoke.
You have said too much, madam, not to say more. Has Lord Midford ever spoken to you of—of Mrs. Edgeworth ?
We are both getting out of our depths, Mr. Edgeworth. Whatever my husband's past life may have been—he is not accountable for it to me.
But Dora—my wife—is accountable to me for hers!
Dora ?—that is not the name I imagined.
Oh! that is very likely : it is not her proper name.
My love, I want you.
I'll come, mamma,
Begging pardon, my lady—but if you
You had better question him yourself.
I must have an immediate explanation with Lord Midford I cannot—will not—rest till I have
satisfied my doubts,
I take your word for it, ma'am ; but
Little would it signify, sir, if you didn't; for there is born ladies in this house, and servants—as their words was never doubted—in one of the best of families of Cornwall—which, though not my native place of birth, is where I lived and met with my misfortune, a year ago it is —
Cornwall ? a year ago ? Tell me clearly, if you can, my good woman, what you mean.
G. My daughter, sir?
Ungrateful that she was, I will say! and her with a figure as, painted in iles or water, any nobleman in the land would have been proud to hang in his drawring room!
You say you were living in Cornwall twelve months ago ?
Well you may say that!
Nothing you can have to say against my Henrietta—whatever have been her ingratitude to me as brought her into the world
Henrietta! your daughter's name is Henrietta?
As there is parish books to prove, whenever my word—which is her own mother's—is not sufficient to be took alone!
My good woman
Tell me first that my ungratiful child is well in her health.
Well, more astonished I never was—to think that, after all, it wasn't him ! But now I know his name— and here he is !
Where's Edgeworth, I wonder ? Another elderly female ! I seem to gravitate towards all the elderly women in this house—or they towards me !
Which that my name have took your speech away, is what does not surprise me !
Escape ! Can you think it possible I thought of such a thing ? after enjoying the
unexpected pleasure of meeting you in the midst of such agreeable associations? Nothing of
the sort, I assure you!
She thought, perhaps, that you might not have been able to —
Which I hope you will allow me to say, Mr. Maggie's, that always it have been my fortune to
live in the midst of persons as
That difficulty might have been got over, as you say, no doubt; but, as it accidentally happened that writing was overlooked in your daughter's education
My daughter's education, Mr. Maggies—what- ever you may think of it—is what it is! But what, as her own mother, I can say is—that with such a figure as hers
I beg your pardon for interrupting you, but I'm sure they are sitting down to dinner!
My daughter, Mr. Maggles
You shall see her.
Deceiving me you are not, Mr. Maggles? When shall I see my ungrateful child ? Name the day.
Say this day ten years—I mean, this day week.
One ! Good evening !
Boy—I mean, girl.
Bless it! I always said my Henrietta —
Stop! Mr. Maggies!
I've just received this note, and want you to hear the contents without delay,
It relates to pressing business, then?
What answer have you given ?
None, yet; your servant is waiting outside to deliver it when it's ready. I prefer that the "explanation" here spoken of should be made directly to you.
To me ?
My dear Lord Midford, I was honoured by your father's friendship—may I speak out ?
My dear Merriton—of all things, I wish you would.
Here goes, then! If I am not enormously deceived, Lady Midford is already jealous.
Merriton!
I knew it could not be done! and it's exactly because I do not wish to be mixed up in an impossible manner in an affair—at the bottom of which there is plainly a lady—I have read you this letter instead of answering it without consulting you.
My dear Merriton, you shall shortly hear how groundless are your suspicions,
With all my heart. In the mean time, mind what you are about.
The gentleman who brought the note, my lord.
To find myself in the presence of Lord Midford, instead of Mr. Merriton? No, my lord ; but I wrote to Mr. Merriton in the expectation that he would show you my note.
The hour of your visit is somewhat inconveniently chosen, but if you will make your communication, whatever it is
Very briefly, my lord ; but first—I know I may rely on your lordship's word—you must promise me that if you should not think fit to agree to the terms I am about to propose to you—
Give me your promise of secrecy, my lord, and I will explain.
I promise.
As the price of the secret I have to confide, I demand ten thousand pounds.
What have you to give me for so large a sum?
Something worth fifty thousand pounds to Lady Midford, and fifty thousand more to another member of your family, possibly. You see I do not ask a large price.
Pray explain yourself more clearly.
The will!
And I know where it is to be found !
The girl who was accused of killing Lady Belfield did not destroy it, then?
The poor girl you speak of was as innocent as yon are, my lord.
Innocent! oh ! are you sure of that ?
As certain as that I am now standing in your lordship's presence.
Thanks, my lord. I trust entirely to your lordship's word. On the strength of what I can tell, Grace Holden may be able to prove her own innocence.
Have you not already guessed, my lord?
Mrs. Edgeworth ——
Is Grace Holden.
That her innocence may be established, I have no doubt. The first thing we have to do is to secure the will.
It is not in your possession, then?
No, it is in the hands of a Jew ; but it is to be had for the money, for which it is held as security; only, my lord, there is not a moment to be lost in getting it into your possession. A certain project of Mr. Philip Rashleigh's makes delay dangerous.
A project of Philip Rashleigh's ?
My lord, he has determined on having an interview with Mrs. Edgeworth, even if he has to force his way into her presence.
But be does not know her.
Nor does she know him ; but he is bent on finding out the secret of her seclusion, and if he discovers who she is—he is not the man to stick at destroying her to secure his own safety.
His own safety !
It was with his connivance that Holden undertook to steal the will, and deliver it into my hands.
You, then
Yes, I was the tool of Philip Rashlsigh and the Jew with whom he is heavily in debt; and he has broken the bargain he made for my services.
Only save Mrs. Edgeworth, and I will more than keep my promise to you !
One thing more, my lord. Besides giving me the ten thousand pounds for the will, you must promise to let me have twelve hours to get out of the country, before the magistrates have anything to do with the affair.
I give you my word.
Come with me at once, then, my lord. Rashleigh may even now, be with Mrs. Edgeworth.
I'm perfectly ready to follow you.
Pardon me, my lord—I wish to have a moment's conversation with you—to ask you a question.
Quickly, then, my dear Edgeworth.
My wife—the portrait I showed you to-day—do you know her ?
I do.
You confess?
Confess !—Ah ! I understand you ; but, believe me, your suspicion wrongs both your wife and me. At this moment she is in danger, Edgeworth—Philip Rashleigh ——
Rashleigh!
Hasten home, without a moment's delay, my dear Edgeworth, and protect your wife from the insults of that heartless scoundrel.
My wife in danger of insult from Philip Rashleigh! He, too, is known to her! Forgive me, Lord Midford ; I have greatly wronged you by a suspicion ; but l am grievously entangled in a constantly-expanding net of mystery.
My dear Edgeworth, lose not a moment in reaching your home !
And for us time flies, my lord.
Come, then.
Good heavens, Arthur! are we to sit down to dinner to-day or not ?
My love, you must apologise for me ; an affair of vital importance calls me to town ngain.
Arthur!
I am very sorry, dear, but I must go.
Really, if dinner is to be delayed much longer, I fear I may be driven to nibble the furniture !
Oh! Mr. Maggles! waiting for this opportunity I have been, to ask you whether my granddaughter —bless her little heart!—is like
Like?—oh, yes, enormously ! You wouldn't know her whiskers one from the other! Good
evening!
I am lost! I am lost; In this monster's power, every moment of my life will be filled with
terror worse than death. Uncertain whether my unhappy father lives or dies, I dare not give
this wretch up to justice !—but he who has no scruples, whenever his own safety demands it,
will denounce me ! No, no ; I cannot endure the thought of my miserable past being laid bare
to Cyril's eyes ! Torn from his roof, he would drive me from his heart! Better a thousand
times, that I should fly, no matter where, so that it be far, far away from all who may now
recognise me and bring the dreadful truth to his knowledge ! Let me not hesitate. My jewels
will buy me food,
Ma'am ——
You spoke of going to bed early, ma'am.
I—I have not made up my mind. My headache is better, and I may sit up until your master returns.
Master will most likely be late, ma'am.
You are right; and, perhaps I had better not wait,
Oh! very well, ma'am,
Good heavens ! what will this girl think !—and when Cyril returns, how shall I be able to
hide my sufferings from him ? He will see that I am pale and trembling! and to-morrow, and
to-morrow, it will be the same ! No ! I cannot bear such a life of torment! Let me die at
once and end it!
Is her mind wandering ?
Have pity on me, Cyril!
Yes, it is I.
I've had a frightful dream!
A dream ?
Yes—I dreamt that you were driving me from your house!
On what account ?
Because I do not know—I forget.
There has been no need for
Philip Rashleigh ?
No, it was not Philip Rashleigh who told me that you had received his visit while I was out, but the whole household !—your neighbour, your servant, are full of the scandalous story ! From them I had it!
I shall meet him !
No, Cyril, no! you must not! I entreat, I implore you by all the tenderness we have felt for each other!
The tenderness!
Avoid this man, Cyril! I ask it of you by your love for me!
My love !—Woman ! is it possible you do not understand me ! I tell you, I know that this man Rashleigh has visited you this evening—that he is to repeat his visit, that you forbade your servant to speak to me on the subject; and you appeal to my love ! Strumpet! I know you at last! the mystery with which you have so carefully shrouded your past life is solved ! You have been Philip Rashleigh's mistress !
Oh ! your airs of innocence will no longer mislead me!
What! you have the effrontery to pity me!
Yes ! because I love you—with a love whose depth I scarcely knew till now !
Enough of hypocritical tears ! I am no longer to be duped by them. I—I—
Finish, Cyril—you spurn me from your house ?
Where are you going?
What does it matter ? You have driven me from your house.
Dora!
Tell me. Dora, tell me!
I can tell you nothing.
Nothing?
Nothing !
Then you shall not leave the house ! I will keep you here till he comes to fetch you—for he said he would return—and then I will force him to tell me all he knows of you!
Cyril, I have given you all that was mine to give in this world—my life, my love, my hope—for my only hope of peace was in the death I turned from for your sake ! In return for all I gave you, I asked but one thing —I besought you not to seek to know who I am, and you promised me.
A rash, senseless promise, which I cannot keep !
And yet, only to-day, you renewed it.
Since then you have deceived me! and that wrong cancels all obligation. You received Philip Rashleigh here, did you not ?
Grace It is true.
And instructed your servant to keep the fact from me ?
I did.
Well, then!
You drive me from your house, Cyril; do I complain?
But if you have not deceived me, for what purpose did Philip Rashleigh visit you?
Farewell, Cyril!
Go, then—since you will have it so ! he is waiting for you, perhaps! and may you not escape
the punishment you deserve, for having broken a heart that loved you so deeply as mine !
Your sufferings, Cyril, are not half so hard to bear as mine.
Oh, then, why will you not with a word remove the suspicion that tortures me and makes me torture you ? Tell me that I have deceived myself ! tell me that you truly love me ! Oh ! tell me this, Dora !
Heaven only knows how I love you, Cyril.
And yet you doubt my love !
Doubt your love ?
Yes.—Dora, if I were at this moment to tell you that
You, Cyril ?
If I were to confess to you that, in a moment of thoughtlessness, or recklessness, I had committed a crime —
Cyril?
After such an avowal, would you still love me ?
A crime ?
Speak! would you still love me ?
Dora!
That—that I had committed a—a murder ?
You?
That I was a thief?
You think it possible!
Stay! my reason loses itself in a bewildering maze ! I know only that I owe my life to you— that I have loved you with all the ardour of my soul! Whatever may have been your crime, I will not abandon you—you shall not leave the shelter of my roof. Stay—till to-morrow— till I have thought of what is best for your future —
You shall not—you shall not! Help! help!
If he is alone. I will make bold—
Lady Midford and Lady Slowburn !
Being both extremely anxious to see you, Mr. Edgeworth, they prevailed on me to escort them.
Pray, no apologies; but permit me to enquire to what I may attribute the honour of such a visit?
You will not be surprised, I am sure, when you learn the object of it.
Do not trouble yourself, sir.
A few minutes after you left our house this evening. Lord Midford hastily left home; you can, perhaps, tell us where he went?
I have no notion, madam.
Indeed ?
There's no signature to it.
Read on.
On that account I at once handed this note to Lord Midford.
Who, as soon as he read it. hurriedly left home, and I can find no trace of him. After the revelations of this note—as to the intimacy which apparently exists between Lord Midford and the person named —
Mrs. Edgeworth, madam ?
If she
To me, madam !
To you or Mrs. Edgeworth. You have the right to question her.
Question her ? No, madam—I was wrong to read this letter.
Mr. Edgeworth, my anxiety on Lord Midford's account is far too great to permit me to stand upon ceremonies. He may have been the victim of a crime.
A crime !
I?
You know her I say ! In heaven's name, tell me who she is!
Who is she?
Grace Holden !
Grace Holden! what is this name—and who are your
You, too, Cyril! Oh, no—no—no! Tell me that I am out of my senses—that there is no one here but yourself and me, Cyril !
No, there are others here.
And besides——
Lady Slowburn and her daughter,—true; the hour has come at length ! Heaven's will be done !
I sincerely pity you, Mr. Edgeworth,—but the crime is of too dark a character to be left unpunished.
Cyril! Cyril!
Speak ! is this true?--Silent! Guilty !
Hush! hush, dear ! you shall know all presently,
Let this unhappy woman escape! since you are safe,—whatever her guilt may have been—I cannot bear the thought of causing her destruction.
I have no such hesitation,—and therefore, at once, accuse this woman of being the murderer of my unfortunate aunt!
A murderer!
He!
Scoundrel!
A little less familiarity, my lord, if you please,— and no indignant sentiment.
Philip Rashleigh,—do you know where I have just come from? Wait!
Who destroyed it—if there ever was one!
But all have not yet heard her motive for so accusing herself; this was, to save the man whom she believed to be her father.
Believe ! Oh ! my lord,—what do you mean ? For pity's sake ! If that unhappy man were not my father
Holden not her father!
There must be no "ifs" and "beliefs" here; I call on all present to bear witness tbat she has distinctly admitted having stolen and destroyed my aunt's will!
The will which made her the heiress to one half of Lady Belfield's great wealth !
It's a forgery !
The Jew of whom I bought it knew its value better as a security, Philip Rashleigh.
This is that hound Redway's doing ! Good-night! the sooner I settle accounts with
him—
It means that—if justice does not gravely miscarry, you will answer to it for the life of Lady Belfield.
If my life is spared, cousin Midford,—it will be for a day of reckoning between us for
to-night's work, take my word for it!
Oh ! my lord,—for heaven's sake tell me what all this dream-like business means.
I placed it there myself, by direction of my poor friend, Lady Belfield, on the night of her death.
Oh, may heaven bless you for this moment's happiness! too great for me bear alone! — Brother ! Cyril! —husband!
I dare not raise my eyes to you, Dora! Hate me — spurn me ! I have forfeited your love! An angel was sent me from heaven, and I was blind to the radiance of her presence! Leave me to the darkness in which I am alone worthy to live.
On earth, Cyril, there is no light for me but that which comes love-laden from your eyes,