73. LXXIII.
MORDAUNT'S SECRET.
“Mordaunt set out for London. He expected, he said, to be
absent for about two months—then he would return, never more
to leave `what was dearer to him than all the world, his home.'
Pathetic, you see! I witnessed the parting—they were locked
for about ten minutes in each other's arms—and then the young
lady sank into a chair, sobbing and crying as if her heart would
break. At that moment, with her auburn ringlets around her
face, she looked `like an angel.' Fenwick, you see, my dear
madam, was the devil lurking near.
“He continued to visit the house, as a friend, during Mordaunt's
absence; and the smiles of the young lady nearly turned
him from his purpose. But those smiles became brighter and
brighter as the days rolled by. One day she would be heard
murmuring, `It is only three weeks now!' Then, `To-morrow
it is only eleven days!' She was counting the time, you see,
before her husband would return—and Mr. Fenwick grew crazy
with rage at the thought. He would lie awake all night, and toss
and rave at the pictures which his imagination drew of their
meeting—their kisses, embraces, fond words. And all this might
have been his! This was to continue before his eyes—all this
happiness of his rival—when he was writhing in agony? He
swore in his heart that he would have his vengeance—and he
kept his oath!”
A gloomy shadow seemed to cross the speaker's face—his eyes
flashed.
“Well, madam,” he continued, “the plan of Fenwick involved
what is popularly known as forgery. He gave his instructions
to the excellent Parkins, and then proceeded to carry out his
design. One day, Mrs. Mordaunt received a letter from her husband—hand-writing,
post-mark, date, every thing complete—
announcing that he would be in New York on a certain day;
and requesting, for reasons which he would subsequently explain,
that she would meet him there. His friend Mr. Fenwick would,
no doubt, take pleasure in escorting her, if asked to do so. Indeed—added
the writer—he had written to Mr. Fenwick, by the
same mail, requesting that he would accompany her to New
York, and see to her safety.
“She came with this letter in her hand, and, before she spoke,
Fenwick announced the receipt of a letter, requesting his escort
for madam. That would have removed all suspicion—but she
had none. Her face glowed—she trembled from head to foot
with joy and excitement, and was ready, on the next morning, to
commence the journey. Leaving the worthy madam Parkins to
keep house in her absence, she set out in her carriage with Mr.
Fenwick, who kindly consented to drive the small vehicle himself.”
The speaker paused and gulped down a mouthful of the raw
spirit. It seemed only to make him gloomier and more morose.
“They had a pleasant journey across the Potomac into Maryland,”
he continued, and stopped one evening at a house where
Mr. Fenwick had friends, or, rather, a friend. It was in a remote
locality between wooded hills, and well suited to the design he
had in view. This was to confine Mrs. Mordaunt, under the old
hag—your respectable aunt, madam—until Mordaunt committed
suicide, or died of misery; then to release her. Toward the
young lady, Fenwick had no ill-feeling—he almost pitied her,
and I swear to you he treated her with the deepest respect. It
was her misfortune, not her fault, that she was entangled in this
network of vengeance!”
He stopped—something like a human expression touched upon
the sneering mask: then it fled away.
“Two days after her arrival,” he said, relapsing into his cynical
coldness, “she gave birth to a son.”
“Ah! and did the child live?”
“It died on the same evening.”
The woman leaned back in her seat, with a look of unmistakable
disappointment.
“Go on,” she said.
“Then you are interested in my pleasing little romance,” said
Fenwick. “Charming—is it not, my dear madam? But I don't
think I have entirely explained the plan of my dear friend Fenwick.
He was not a blood-thirsty monster, only a man who had
sworn vengeance against an adversary. He had none to satisfy
against the wife. It was Mordaunt whom he hated—and that
note of the value of one thousand dollars, with the promise of
more, had been presented, as a small testimony of regard, to the
beautiful Parkins, in order to induce her to poison Mordaunt's
mind upon his return. The little scheme was all arranged.
When he appeared, the skilful Parkins was to rush forward, hair
dishevelled, accents heart-broken, and convey the intelligence
that Mrs. Mordaunt had deserted her husband's roof, in company
with her old lover, Fenwick. It is true that the most devilish
ingenuity was necessary to render this credible to Mordaunt—
but there was the fact of madam's absence, and Fenwick's also.
That gentleman had sold his landed estate—put the gold in his
pocket—and disappeared, along with madam.
“You see how every thing tended to deceive Mordaunt; but,
in addition to this, some letters were handed to him. One was
from his wife—I wrote it—announcing that she was about to
leave him for ever, in company with the only person she had ever
really loved. The other was from me—I mean from Fenwick,
madam—and it contained only these words: `You were my
successful rival. What are you now?' When those letters were
given to Mordaunt, he no longer doubted. In one day, they said,
he became ten years older. Then he commenced the hunt after
the triumphant Fenwick; but that gentleman managed to have
his name inserted in a list of passengers sailing for Europe, and
saw that Mordaunt received the paper. That took him out of
the country—and he did not return for more than fifteen years.
“Thus you will perceive, my dear madam,” continued the
speaker coolly, “that Mr. Fenwick may be said to have at last
secured a very pretty little vengeance. His rival was broken-hearted
and in exile—his hate, and it was intense, was for the
moment glutted. But, you will ask, what became of Mrs. Mordaunt?
My dear madam, did you ever hear of that scourge
called puerperal fever? The young lady was attacked by this
malady upon the birth of her child, and lost her reason. I was
sorry,” muttered Fenwick. “I swear to you I was sorry, and
all was done that could be done. She was sent to a public asylum
under her maiden name, and there she remained, uncured,
until her cousin, Miss Grafton, now an orphan, discovered her.
“My story's growing rather prosy—eh! my dear madam?”
continued Fenwick. “Well, it is nearly done. There was a
curious end to all these adventures. Miss Grafton was the exact
image of her cousin, Frances Carleton, when she was a young
lady—fair complexion, golden ringlets, blue eyes, and all. So
what must that admirer of the ladies, Mr. Fenwick, do, but fall
in love with her? He met her one day at the asylum—and often
thereafter. He formed the design of marrying her. But she was
incessantly engaged in her duties as assistant at a school—her
father, the clergyman, having followed his wife to the grave,
leaving the daughter nothing. Then one day, Fenwick said, `I
will give your poor cousin a quiet home, if you will come and
take care of her, Miss Grafton;' and lo! with the sweet Parkins
for companion, the two ladies came to reside in the lively mansion
we now occupy.”
The woman nodded; and her companion coolly went on:
“The plans of Fenwick had thus apparently been crowned
with success. His hatred was gratified; his rival miserable and
in exile; the young lady whom he loved as the living image of
Frances Carleton, the light of his youth, was under his roof.
But when was virtue really rewarded? The insane lady never
even seemed aware of her benefactor's existence; Miss Grafton
had evidently taken up a positive dislike to him; and presto!
who should reappear upon the scene but Mordaunt, strong,
dangerous, and thirsting for the amiable Fenwick's blood!
“That gentleman put himself to no trouble to meet Mr. Mordaunt,
having other affairs to attend to; but fate brought them
together at Richmond, in April last year, and they fought, Mr.
Fenwick receiving a bullet in his breast, which he purposes some
day to return with interest to its owner. Soon afterward, in
July of the same year, the rivals met again at the Stone House,
near Manassas, when Mr. Fenwick was engaged in the pious
task of burying the insane lady, in the spot where she had been
so happy. This was in accordance, as you know, my dear
madam, with her own request: we took the body there, and,
when retiring from the grave, Mr. Fenwick was again assailed by
his adversary. And for what? Had he made the poor lady lose
her mind? Not at all. It was the fever. Had he produced her
death? No, she was treated with all kindness, for Mr. Fenwick
really pitied her, and religiously obeyed her last request.
“Thus you see, my dear madam, Mr. Fenwick was an ill-treated
personage. Everybody tries to cut his throat, and Miss
Grafton, on your late excursion to Alexandria to attend to some
of your affairs there, leaves you on the road, doesn't wait to say
good-by, and takes refuge with entire strangers, instead of
returning, as she should have done, to this hospitable roof.
When Mr. Fenwick puts himself to the trouble of discovering
her retreat, and presents himself before her, she draws herself
up with the air of a queen, declares that she never wishes to
return to this lively abode in the Wilderness, and plainly intimates
to him that his visits are disagreeable, his addresses hateful.
Yes, hateful!” added Fenwick gloomily. “You were right
in what you said to me one day—she cannot bear me. And I—
I would cut off my right hand to win this girl!”
For a moment there was silence. Then Fenwick broke into
a harsh laugh.
“Well, that's the little romance I promised you, respected
Madam Parkins!” he said. “Now, do you like it? Is it gay,
cheerful, lively; the sort of thing that makes an evening pass
delightfully, and puts one to bed in a mood that brings on pleasant
dreams? The recollection of these little occurrences is the
chief happiness of my existence. You see, I am landless now,
and though I manage to scrape together a very respectable income,
and have many powerful friends—although they never
acknowledge my acquintance in public—I cannot be said to have
many sources of happiness except this. It is enough. The
thought of Mordaunt wretched and broken-hearted suffices me;
and if my little affair with that gentleman has amused my
dearest Parkins, I am more than happy!”
With these ironical words Fenwick rose and yawned.
“I am tired with my long ride,” he added, “and shall now,
madam, bid you, most respectfully, good-night. I must cross
the river before daylight at the old place, and be with my friend
General Pope by sunrise, if possible. I have intelligence he will
be glad to get.”
“From Richmond?”
“Yes, we have many more friends, you know, down there, than
people think; and even among the employés of the War Department—but
I am blabbing secrets. Where are my arms,
most excellent Mrs. Parkins?”
“On the mantel-piece.”
“I will take them to my room with me, for fear of accidents.”
And he made a step toward the mantel-piece.
Before he reached it I had burst open the door with one blow
of my heel, and was standing in the apartment, with a cocked
pistol pointed at his heart.
“You are my prisoner!” I said. “Move a step, and you are
dead.”
