Rose Mortimer; Or, The Ballet-Girl's Revenge — page 197: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

THE BALLET-GIRL’S REVENGE. 191 As soon as they had fallen into crime they had grown weary of each other. The gloss of innocence was no longer there to impart that couleur de rose which is the very life of ‘love. Still they must fly together. They could no longer remain in the land against whose laws they had so fearfully offended. They returned to the Hall and packed up some things for travelling, secured all the valuables they could lay hands upon, and started post haste for the nearest seaport. To cross the Channel was an impossibility, it was said, and they found no boatman who would care to venture the journey, as the weather was rather rough. However, the well-lined purse of the Earl of Sloe- ford smoothed away all difficulties, and a small craft was chartered to carry the fugitive earl and his para- mour away from the land of their birth. It was a rough night, and there was no moon up, and the Sailors who accepted the heavy bribe which the earl gave them told his lordship to prepare for heavy weather. They did not seem to think much of risking their own lives, however. The earl and Lady Bellisle were standing by the low bulwarks at the head of the vessel whilst the three men who had ventured forth to risk their lives for gold were busily occupied astern. ** Farewell, my country,” said the carl, sadly, as he gazed upon the fast receding white cliffs of his native soil. ‘* Farewell! I see you for the last time. Had it not been for you I might have been saved from the path of crime into which I have been led by that base intriguing woman.’’ “Spencer, Spencer!” cried his unhappy lover at his side, ‘‘ what mean you by these accusations ? Know you not—”’ “That I am ruined through you? Yes.’’ * Nay—that you would have been made through me—that for you, ingrate, I have sacrificed every- thing.” “‘ What, forsooth, constitutes everything ?”’ “‘Did I not raise you from the dust? Answer me that.”? ** What do you mean, woman ?”’ ‘‘That you were but a man of straw, an insolvent thing, not worth the slighest credit, when I—oh! I could dash out my brains when I think of it—fell in with you. Where could my woman’s wit have been? But I'll be revenged upon myself for my fooling.”’ ““TDoso,’’ said the earl, with amocking laugh. “ But how ?” ‘“‘T’ll expose myself to all interested. I will rein- state the daughter of Rosalia Hargreaves in her rights. I know that she lives. She is in the charge of Seymour yet, and can be found. At any rate, I can take this vengeance against myself—against you.” The brow of the earl grew clouded with passion. “ At your peril you will breathe one word!” he said. ° “ How, sir? You dare tothreaten me? Man, TI can blow this air-built castle to pieces as easily as I have made it—nay, more, I will.” The earl glanced over his shoulder towards the three men and perceived that they were busily engaged in the management of the vessel. Then he raised his hand, and— ‘© What was that, Joe ?” asked one of the sailors of his mate. “‘ Sounded like a ery.” They went forward, but found their male passenger sitting quietly enough upon a coil of rope half asleep : ‘‘ What noise was that, sir?” asked one of the sailors. «What noise? Didn’t hear any. Where’s the lady, my wife? Tell her that I want her to come here.” “‘ She’s not here, sir. It must be—” ** What?” interrupted the earl, with a start of fear and surprise. ‘‘ What do you mean? Tell me. Say, what is it ?”’ *‘T know not, sir. She has, perhaps, fallen over board.’” ** Tt is not possible.’’ But whether possible or not, one fact is assured. Only one passenger landed on the coast of France, and this was the man. About three weeks after that an Englishman got one of his lungs shot away at Baden-Baden by a pot- bellied German, who had detected him in the act of cheating at cards. ~ He gave a name which the authorities felt convinced must be assumed, as it did not at all correspond with the initials marked on his linen. The only thing which he left behind was a packet of manuscript, which he directed to Rosalia Har- greaves, care of one Seymour, in London. Now we must follow the transmission of this packet, as some wonderful things depend upon it. When the packet arrived in London at the house of this Seymour he was found to be dying. He was at last succumbing to the ravages which alcohol had made on him for the last fifteen years. By his bedside was a young man of rather eccentric appearance and habits, good-looking, thoroughly good- hearted, and exhibiting the utmost patience with the dying man, who was excessively fretful and impatient. ‘‘Ah, Jack,’’ said the dying man, ‘‘I shall never look upon her sweet sunny face again. You—you, Jack, must implore her forgiveness, or I feel that I shall not rest in my grave. You know not how much she has to forgive.’’ s ‘¢ Oh, sir,’’ interrupted the artist—for such he was— “you must have forgotten her sweet nature if you let this trouble you further. You should know better than any one how forgiving she is.”’ “True, true, Jack,” said the dying man. ‘‘ But you know not all she has to forgive. It was I who drove her to the stage. I would have driven her to worse, but she was too pure—too pure. I cannot tell you more, lest you, too, Jack Halliday should turn against me; and I would not Jose the friendship of the man who has kept the wolf from my door for this long time, nor have you hate me as the last breath leaves my worn-out carcase. Give me the packet again.”? ' The young man handed him the packet. “Ah!” he said, reading off the direction with ‘difficulty, for his eyes were fast dimming in death, ‘“‘ this is the first time I have been called Seymour for many a long day, and it will be the last time too!” ‘“ Nay, my old friend—’’ ‘¢ Hush! Remember what I’ve said. Don’t speak with levity at this moment. Donot attempt to persuade me that I’m not dying. You do not think it, and if you did.you. can have no reason for the thought. How can you tell what is passing within me here? How can you know the death-clutch that I feel stealing upon meinch byinch? Slowly it comes—now quicker —remember the packet—forgiveness you know—”’ All was over. The night following the morning of our heroine’s equestrian exploit at the linendraper’s shop she was entering the theatre when a young man looking rather weary and travel-stained ran up just in time to catch her as she was passing through the door. ‘Rose, Rose—Miss Mortimer,” he called. Our heroine turned round sharply to see who it was who was thus familiar with her name. < ‘‘Miss Mortimer,” said the young man, “do you not know me? Is it possible that you have so soon forgotten an old acquaintance ?”’ CoOMmicloo _