University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

The first thing which met the eyes of Lady Beverly
as she entered the room was Elkington; his
face pallid, his whole manner marked by extraordinary
agitation, and three open letters upon the table.

“Good Heaven! Edward,” cried she, “what is
the matter?” And the sight of his distress banished
the smile from her lips.

“Shut the door!” said he, in a husky voice.

She obeyed.

“Where's Scarlet?”

“He waits with the carriage.”

“Dismiss the carriage.”

“Great Heaven! what does this mean? From
whom are these letters? What is the matter?”

“Do as I bid you!” said he, sternly.

Startled to be addressed in so rude a manner, the
affrighted woman obeyed without speaking.

“Look to the two outer room doors,” said he;
“we must be alone, and no eyes must peer at us
through cracks and keyholes, as your trusty Carl
makes his observations of Mr. Claude Wyndham!
Now, madam, I have news for you.”

“For the love of Heaven—!”

“You have taken, as you thought, very efficient
measures to ascertain who is your friend Mr. Claude
Wyndham?”

“Yes,” said Lady Beverly, turning deadly pale;
“what do you know of him?”

“That he is the son of my father,” said Elkington
—“that he is my brother—that he is the heir of the
Beverly estates and titles! The clothes we wear,
the carriage we drive, our luxuries, our fortunes, our
expectations, are his, and we are beggars!”

Lady Beverly stared wildly at her son as he made
this abrupt communication with the air of a ruffian,
for vice, debauchery, and passion had entirely brutalized
his nature. She made an attempt to laugh,
but, with an hysterical gasp, she staggered back,
and his arm only saved her from falling upon the
floor. He bore her to the sofa, and threw her upon it.

“D—tion!” said he; “she has been up to this
before. I knew she had something in her mind. I
wish to God she might lie there till—”

He finished in an under tone his dire imprecation,
and, taking a glass of water, dashed it in her face.
In a few moments she recovered.

“Oh, God!” cried she, “what is all this? Is it
a dream? Edward, my son—my beloved Edward—
you are pale—you tremble—your eyes glitter with
unnatural light—say I am raving—say it is a dream
—what—when—”

“It is no dream, madam,” and he pointed to the
letters. “I tell you we are beggars, unless—”

Lady Beverly seized the letters, and read them
with shaking hands and choking breath. When she
had finished she pressed her hands against her forehead
with a gesture of deep despair.

“Is it true?” demanded Elkington, fiercely.

“It is. It is the judgment of Heaven. God's
own hand is in it. The bolt which has been so long
hovering over my head has fallen at last. We are
—we are beggars. Claude Wyndham is—”

“Silence, madam,” said Elkington, in a voice of

thunder. “Breathe not a word, if you do not wish
me to inflict upon you instant death, and to finish
the morning by blowing my own brains out.”

He opened a case and took down a pair of pistols.
Lady Beverly, by the greatness of the danger, and
with the effort of a mind, although darkly stained
with guilt, yet greatly superior in strength to that
of her son, caught his arm.

“Let me go, madam. By —, I will never
live to be taunted with dishonour—to be the victim
of poverty—of debt—of derision—of pity. One single
blow, and I shall rest in peace.”

“When other means fail,” said Lady Beverly, in
a low voice, but one full of calmness, and which arrested
and awed him for a moment—“when the
world knows what we know—when Claude Wyndham
himself knows it—when he has his estates—
when no other means are left to save us from poverty,
I will, with you, by a single act, end all my
shame and misery; but you are giving up the battle
before it is fought. Claude Wyndham may be
kept ignorant—this Richards may be kept silent.
What cause is there for despair yet, even should
this secret transpire? Before that event can take
place, you may become the husband of Ida, or Claude
Wyndham may die! You are then the rightful holder
of a fortune of your own.”

“But this Richards!” said Elkington, a glance
of hope shooting across his gloomy countenance;
“with such an insolent cutthroat at my side, how
can I secure myself against his demands? Will two
—three — five — ten thousand pounds satisfy him?
What limits are there to his voracity? The more
I give, the more he will require. I shall live a
slave with this cursed thing hanging over me. I
shall tremble at every whisper!”

“There is one thing which you can do to secure
an independence, and rescue you from Richards and
all other fears; but, before you can comprehend the
subject in all its bearings, I must tell you, at length,

the fearful and black secret which has preyed upon
my mind for so many years, and which, but for you
and your interest, I should long ago have revealed,
for I am not totally lost to principle.”

“To what, madam?”

“Do not sneer, my son!”

“When you begin to cant, I cannot help it. Tell
your story plainly; I really want to hear it, since I
am, it appears, so much interested.”

“Are the doors perfectly safe?” said Lady Beverly.

Elkington rose and opened the door of the drawing-room
where they sat. It was a corner chamber,
looking on two sides upon the street, and on the
other two sides opening into two other rooms, both
appropriated by themselves. These outer doors
were firmly locked.

“You may speak,” said he; “no one can overhear
us.”

Lady Beverly threw off her shawl and opened
her dress, as if with a sense of heat and suffocation;
a paleness overspread her countenance like that of
death, and she made one or two ineffectual attempts
to speak before her voice would perform its office.