The Mysteries of the Court of London — page 127: what you’re looking at

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114 THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT. incessant visits, and with the letter which in a few months’ time you will write and which you will take care that I shall intercept ? May I not my the pert of a dishonoured and outraged husband ? not you stand the brunt of an action for exim. con., when you know perfectly well that I spall sever cal upon you to pay such damages as may be awarded P and may I not, upon such foundation as the jury’s verdict affords, sue for a divorce against a woman whom I hate and detest? May not, I ask, all these things take place P—and if you get as good as twenty-four thousand pounds for rendering me (iis service, will not you be a gainer as wellas IP Besides, only think of the honour end credit of having the reputation of intri with a Duchess! Why, my good fellow, it will make your fortune in more ways than one—it will be to you better than all that fortune which you have lost at the gambling-table. The whole fashionable world will at once vote you their lion —their star—their phenix—their cynosure. The men will burst with envy and with jealousy, when. with a half-smile upon your countenance you stroll jauntily into the brilliant saloons of patrician mansions : the ladies will tap you with their fans and call you the naughty crea “A truce to this bantering !” interrupted Stan- hope sharply—almost sternly. “It is true that I am in your Grace’s power; but I am not for that reason to be rendered your laughbing-stock. It is impossible that you can mean what you say !” “TI never was more serious in my life, ” an- swered the Duke of Marchmoat. “ By Heaven, my lord! it is a matter wherein I cannot give you credit for the seriousness you speak of, unless you prove it. How know I but that it is some mare, though incomprehensible— some pitfall, though unaccountable—wherein you seek toentrapme? And this dark room too——” “ Perdition take your constant recurrence to the darkness of the room !” interrupted the Duke im- patiently. “You demand proof?—it is difficult to give. And yet in many circumstances may you recognise such proof. For upwards of fifteen years have I been married to Lavinia—and she has given me no heir. Think you that I, bearing ane of the proudest titles in all Christendom— and that title, too, aseociated with immense wealth,— “think you, I ask, that I do not yearn to possess an heir to my distinctions and to my riches? The estates are strictly entailed : think you therefore that it is a pleasurable thing for me to reflect that at my death some far-removed relative, some remote connexion whose very existence is at pre- sent unknown to me—may spring up—poasibly from amidst the dregs of society—for the highest families may be found to have connexiona, though very distant ones, in the lowest sphere——think you, I ask, that it is agreeable for me to reflect that some such dirty claimant may arise when I am gone and prove his right to the coronet which I wear, the estates over which I now -lord it, and the mansions which my taste has embellished ? Now, Stanhope, have I given proofs of my sin- cerity in seeking a divorce from her who presents me with no heir ?” There was a profound silence in the library for upwards of a minute,-—at the expiration of which Mr. Stanhope slowly said, “ Yes—I now believe your Grace to be sincere.” “ Ob, it is well that-I have succeeded in eon- vincing you at last,” observed ti Duke. “T believe you sincere in wishing for an herr,” will | continued Stanhope: “but in the extreme mea- sure which your Grace proposes——”’ “ That regards me,” interrupted the Duke. “ It is for you to consider whether you will enter into my project, and carry it out in the way that I have suggested—or with such variations as etances may render advisable, always keeping the one grand aim in view.” “T will!” answered Stanhope. “Yes—my ne- cessities compel me——I will do it.” “ Then there is no more to be said at observed the Duke. “There is a light in the hall —we will repair to the dining-room—I cannot promise you a fire-——-" “My blood,” interrupted Stanhope, “has not yet cooled down from the terrific fever-heat pro- duced by the excitement of the . Let us have the bottle of wine—the fire may be dis- peneed with.” “Come,” answered the Duke: “we will have the wine.” Christian then heard the double doors of the library open: the light from the hall gleamed in for a moment, and showed him the two forms as they passed the threshold. Then the doors were closed again ; and again was the youth entombex in utter darkness. But let us explain how it was that he had con- tinued so silent and so still throughout this dis- course which he had overheard. When first he became aware that voices were apeaking in the library, he was seized, as we have stated, with a certain degree of alarm ; and this he could not all in a moment shake off. Called out of his sleep in such a manner—finding himself in the dark— not immediately recollecting where he was—and hearing those voices—he thought he must be in a dream ; and the terror which he felt, as well as the numbing cold, completely wiely paralysed him. When bis consciousness became complete, he learnt from the Duke’s words that it was long past midnight, and that the household had retired to rest. The thought instantaneously struck him that if he were found there, sitting up at such an bour, he should be chided—perhaps dismissed from the situation which he had only entered in the morning. This idea appalled him ; he was bewil- dered how to act; and while in this terrible state of uncertainty—not daring to move—scarcely to breathe—the conversation progressed rapidly be- tween tle Duke and Mr. Stanhope. As the reader has seen, it s0on became of a nature which the Duke would not for the world have had any- body overhear; and thus Christian saw that his position was becoming every instant more and more difficult, When the discourse had got to a certuin extent, he dared not suddenly raise his voice and prociasim that there was a listener present :—the natural question would be, where- fore he had remained to listen at all? So he con- tinued motionless and silent, in the hope that the Duke and hig companion ‘would speedily pass away from the library. But as the discourse pre- gressed, it assumed a complexion .so eo startling indeed, if Christian had dared %o start at all,—it grew so engrossing in its terrible interest, that forgetting every other circumstance ? a iets p> an (GO) (C DOO Col