University of Virginia Library

4. CHAPTER FOURTH.
LADY MARION'S KISS.

In the crescent-shaped room of the east wing, sat an aged
man, bending over a table overspread with manuscripts,
the light of a solitary candle upon his withered brow.

He sat in a capacious arm-chair, his slender form attired
in a dark coat, adorned by lace and buttons of gold; while
his cambric ruffles were relieved by a long waistcoat of
black velvet.

His hair, white with age, was plainly gathered back from
his face. His entire appearance denoted wealth and station;
his high and somewhat narrow forehead, deep gray eyes,
and mouth relaxing in a calm smile, betrayed the indications
of an enthusiastic nature, whose fire neither the touch of
sorrow nor the frosts of age could chill.

The semi-circular room was elegantly hung with tapestry
of dark purple; the carpet displayed a soft and rich combination
of colors; the ceiling rising in a dome, blushed with
the delicate tints of the dawn. Altogether, it was a perfect
gem of a chamber, worthy of the luxurious taste of Lady
Marion.

The old man was bent over the table, quietly reading by
the light of the lamp, while—as he passed from paper to
paper, from letter to letter—his withered face gradually
lighted up, and his eye began, by slow degrees, to burn with
the fire of youth.

For the letters that he read, were the letters of love—the
first warm breathings of a heart, now cold forever; written
by a hand that long ago was dust!

The tears fell from the old man's eyes. He placed the
letters in his bosom. Then, he unrolled a huge manuscript,
bearing on its cover the words—“Journal of John Landsdowne.”

Here, written in a fair, clear hand, there, blotted by tears,
again, stained with blood, the journal covered a space of
twenty years.

But what love and adventures, heroism and murder, were
comprised in that history of twenty years!

The old man read with a flushed cheek, an eye all fire, a
heart that writhed within him.

At last as he came to the history of that AWFUL NIGHT,
written by the hand of the murderer himself, the bloody record
dropped from his hand, and he buried his face in his
hands.

“And yet he was a brother!” he gasped. “Two weeks
ago, standing within the shadow of the ruins of the blasted
house, I discovered the fearful history in her grave!

“It was the hand of God that guided me there; the same
hand leads me to the valley of the Wissahikon!”

A shadow fell along the floor, by his side. Do you see
that proud form, standing upon the threshold—that countenance
stamped with an expression that contracts the brows,
while it parts the red lips in a smile?

It is the Lady Marion; she advances and lays her hand
upon the old man's shoulder.

“Ah, is it you, Lady Marion?” he said, raising his eyes.
“Little did I think a year ago, when I encountered you, the
brightest among the beauties—nay, do not smile, 't is but an
old man's compliment!—the brightest among the beauties
who surround the throne of King George, that I should ever
find you here, living in retirement, among the woods of Wissahikon!
You was then known as the `American beauty,'
who had given her hand to Sir George Ferrers. Pardon! if
my words raise an unpleasant feeling. Sir George died
shortly after I saw you at Court. And then, with a heroism
worthy of a Spartan woman, you resolved to return to your
native land, eager to share the perils of freedom rather than
bask in the sunshine of a royal court. Much less did I then
imagine that, through your agency, I should one day recover
my lost daughter — ”

“Yesterday, in the city, you placed those papers in my
hands; and I told you where your child was hidden. You
were also in search of your nephew, Reginald Lansdowne,
of St. Leonard — ”

“I bear in my hand his credentials as Delegate from his
State, to the Continental Congress. He has been strange—
mysterious in his movements for the past year. Heir to an
immense estate—in fact, the actual possessor—with talents
and genius that fit him to shine, even in the Congress, where
so many great men are gathered, he has buried himself from
society for nearly a year. Eh! eccentric? your looks seem
to say.”

“To-morrow you shall clasp your daughter to your arms;
to-morrow you shall present these credentials to Reginald
Landsdowne, of St. Leonard's — ”

“Why not to-night?” and the old man's countenance betrayed
an overwhelming anxiety.

“Do not ask my reasons!” Her smile was accompanied
with one of those glances of her full dark eyes, that flashed
but to conquer. “To-morrow, all will be right! To-morrow,
all my little plans—ha, ha! you see I have a true
woman's taste for mystery—will be fulfilled!”

Thus speaking, she left the room, while the old man bent
down to his papers again.

“All would be well,” he muttered, “if I could only find
my lost son! But it is asking too much of Heaven. And
yet my researches into his history, from the moment when,
but a child, he was torn from his dead mother's side —
Well, well! to-morrow will decide all!”

“To-morrow!” triumphantly echoed Lady Marion, as she
hurried along the corridor and down the stairs. “Ha, ha!
to-morrow!”

She stood in front of the old mansion, on the stone steps
leading to the hall door. In silence, twenty horsemen
awaited there—their steeds grouped round the walk—their
scabbards seen from beneath the folds of their cloaks.

A single horse wheeled from the throng, and his rider,
bending over the neck of the impatient steed, removed his
chapeau from his pale brow.

“Lady Marion, I go to serve my country!” he whispered.

She advanced, and standing on the steps of stone, extended
her hands! Ah! how that pressure fired the leader's blood!
Bending down over the neck of his steed, he—imperceptibly
—wound his arms about her neck, and felt her cheek against
his own, her heart throbbing through her voluptuous bosom.

“If I am successful — ” he whispered.

“Return successful,”—a soft voice breathed the words
upon his lips, and sealed them with a kiss—“and Reginald
Landsdowne, I am yours!”

The sounds rose in the light, and twenty horses darted
away, bearing their gallant and chivalrous riders toward the
city. Away, through the trees, and along the lawn, faint
and fainter, the sound of the hoofs, the clattering of scabbards,
died on the ear.

The figure of a man advanced from the grove, and stood
beside Lady Marion. So utterly absorbed was this woman

in the emotion resulting from her dark schemes, that she
did not notice the presence of the stranger, until after the
lapse of a few moments.

“Ah! Michael, is it you?” she said, at last. “Take horse,
and away; do not lose a moment. While these gentlemen
surround the Committee, you must secure the person of
President Hancock! Do not return to your home; I will
take care that your daughter shall not wonder at your absence!
Away!”

“For Washington!” the bluff old hunter muttered, as he
hurried from the hall.

The Lady Marion stood wrapt in thought.

“He loves her, with a pure passion, and would dishonor
her! Me, he loves, with a passion born of madness;—I can
sway him as I will. For me, he will dishonor his name and
betray his country! Ha, ha!”

Bewitching Lady Marion!