University of Virginia Library

31. CHAPTER XXXI.

Elkington, with his elbows on the table, and
his chin leaning on his two clinched fists, had listened
to this long and astounding recital with an
attention which scarcely allowed him leisure to
breathe. His eyes were fixed on his mother, and
his bloodless face betrayed his despair. On the
conclusion he drew a long breath, and changed his
attitude for the first time since its commencement.
His motions were slow and thoughtful, and his agitation
seemed to have subsided into gloomy reflection.

“What is your proposition?” said he, in a husky
voice.

“Let us first see how the case stands!” said his
mother, placing the end of her fore finger on her
thumb by way of calculation. “This secret is already
known to—”

“Tell me your proposition at once,” said he, “and
in the fewest words possible.”

There was a fierceness in his manner, now deeply
agitated as he was, which partook of the savageness
of a wild beast.

“This is it, then,” said she, tremblingly. “Ask an
interview with Claude Wyndham. Bind him previously
by oath, whatever may be the result, not to
betray the subject discussed. Offer to put him in
possession of the history of his family—to present
to him a father who will receive him with love, and
a fortune beyond his wildest imagination—this, on
condition of his binding himself to allow you one
half of the estate received. It will be his interest
to do so; and if he says he will make the allowance,
he will. I hate, I loathe him, but I know that if he
gives his simple word, it is stronger than other men's

bonds. This is an offer which he cannot refuse.
From a nameless traveller he will become a nobleman
of rank. From almost a beggar he will suddenly
become immensely rich. The dearest wish
of his life will be gratified. He can then marry Ida,
whom you only value for her fortune. You will
then be above want, my bosom will be disburdened
of the load which oppresses it. Your father, if
he lives, will be happy. You and I will retire to
Florence or Naples, where we can lead the remainder
of our lives in pleasure uninterrupted by the
fears which have destroyed me ever since I wandered
from the innocence of youth. Think of this, my
son, I conjure you. It is the only, the last request
your guilty mother makes you. Say you consent,
and let Claude Wyndham assume his station in society.
I shall die then in peace, feeling that Heaven
has forgiven me all my guilt.”

“You are a fool!” said Elkington.

“Edward, how strange, how fierce you are!
Have you no consideration for the mother who—”

“No, none. It is to your accursed passions, then,
that I am what I am. Your vices cursed me before
I came into the world. I might have been as free,
as noble, as pure from evil as this man, who now
stands scornfully between me and every hope, ready
to tear from me my rank and fortune, and—for God
knows whether the mother too is not saved—to brand
me—me, madam—with the name which I have so
often hurled at him. And now, because you are
tired of the wages of sin—now that you are old, and
hackneyed, and near your death, perhaps—I must
descend from my rank—I must fling away my wealth
—and, just as I am entering into one of the most
brilliant positions possible, I must turn back—sneak
away—become an exile from my country—the mark
of scorn and the victim of dishonour—in order that
you may have pleasant dreams—that your heart
may enjoy the luxury of peace—that your dying

bed may be solaced by canting priests and idle visions
of hereafter. No, madam. The mercy you
have shown to others you must expect. I disclaim
you as a mother if you proceed in your design. I
command you to suffer me to be the master of my
own affairs. I will not enter into any compromise
with this fellow, nor with any man. I will play for
the whole stake. I will be all or nothing. I will
be the Earl of Beverly and master of this inheritance,
or I will blow my brains out. I will have
no middle course. I won't go to this high-born minion
to sue—and kneel—and to be spurned—pitied—
forgiven, perhaps. D—n! He shall learn what
it is to deal with a man. I play for the whole, and
wo betide—”

“Edward, my son—my beloved son, you rave—
you are mad—you know not what you say—what
you do. I will comply with all your wishes. I am
guilty—I will become more so—I will live in anguish—I
will die in despair—only do not look on
me in that frightful manner!”

“Then listen to me! Claude Wyndham must
be put out of the way!”

Lady Beverly turned pale, and sunk back upon
the sofa.

“What do you mean?” she faltered forth; “would
my son become an assassin? Rather than that, I
will myself seek him—I will tell him all—I will—”

A fierce blow from the hand of her desperate son
nearly struck her down, and she staggered back
upon the sofa.

“Oh God!” she cried, covering her face with her
hands, “do not take me yet!”

“You drive me to desperation,” muttered Elkington,
with a sulky composure; “and when I am
goaded—you wonder—you—”

There was a dead pause.

“Forgive me, my mother!” said Elkington, tears
springing from his eyes; “some demon has possessed
me.”

Lady Beverly made no reply; but the deadly
paleness of her neck, ears, forehead, and all that her
hands, still pressed against her face, suffered to be
visible, and of the hands themselves, showed the effect
which this act had had upon her.

“Forgive me!” said Elkington. “Forget it!
Forgive me, my mother! I am a brute.”

“I forgive you, Edward,” said Lady Beverly, in
a voice altered with agony, and yielding one of her
hands to his grasp; “but forget, alas! it is not in
my power. I forgive you, for I am myself to blame.
These fierce passions, unbridled by principle or
religion—that fearful disrespect of all things, human
and divine—it is I who have suffered them to reach
their present state unchecked. I forgive you, my
poor, my wretched son.”

“Then hear me,” said he, “and hear me with
calmness; and, since you see the violence of my
temper—which I know as well as any one, but
which I cannot now help—do not oppose me. I
cannot bear contradiction. I cannot, and I will not.”

“I will be in your hands as wax,” said Lady
Beverly.

“Then hear me. I have no design of taking the
life of my arch enemy but in an honourable way—
in such a way as becomes a gentleman—and as gentlemen
acknowledge to be right and necessary. He
shall meet me. He shall, or I will pursue him like
a bloodhound.”

“He will not.”

“But I tell you he shall; no man can refuse if
another chooses to pursue him. If he does, it must
be at the sacrifice of his honour—his fame—his
place in society—his friends—the respect of men—
the companionship of women. I have sworn he
shall meet me, and he shall. The annuity allowed
him by my father shall be instantly stopped. It
will leave him a beggar, and perhaps in debt. I
will drive him to desperation and destitution; and,

since he has chosen to insult me in so open a way,
as no man shall do and live, I feel myself excusable
in going to any extremity. Once in the field,
it shall be my care to silence his claim, and then no
one stands between me and my rights.”

“You must choose your own course,” said Lady
Beverly; “I have said what I should do. But you
are now the master, and I will not oppose you.”

“Good-by, then,” said Elkington, “for the present;
I have letters to write.”

Lady Beverly left the room; but, having passed
the door, she looked back. Elkington had already
sat down and seized a pen. She gazed at him a moment,
raised her eyes to heaven full of tears, and a
deep sigh broke from her bosom as she slowly withdrew
to hide, in her own room, her various emotions.

Elkington wrote a letter, sealed it, and handed it
to Scarlet, with orders to put it instantly into the
post. Having finished this brief task, he mounted
his horse, and dashed off into the endless and shadowy
alleys of the Park, to lose, if possible, in rapid
motion the sense of his perilous position. He had
no sooner gone than a form crept stealthily from
under the bed, and Carl, with a silent caution which
eluded all observation, his face somewhat pale with
the interest excited by what he had heard, glided out
of the room.