We must now return to Lord William Trevelyan, who, in pursuance of the promise made to the Marquis of Delmour, proceeded, the moment after that nobleman had left him, to the villa at Bayswater, which he reached shortly after mid-day; and he was at once conducted into the presence of Mrs. Sefton.

This lady was alone in the parlour; and the young nobleman immediately perceived that she had been weeping—although she endeavoured to conceal the fact beneath a smiling countenance as she rose to welcome him.

“My dear friend,” she said, in a voice rendered tremulous by deep emotions; “how can I ever sufficiently thank you for your generosity—your unparalleled goodness, in adopting such measures to procure the liberation of Sir Gilbert Heathcote?”

“You have, then, seen him?” observed Trevelyan.

“He has but this moment left me,” was the slow and mournful response: and, after a short pause, Mrs. Sefton said, as she sank back into her chair, “Our interview was at first a most joyous one—but at the end most melancholy.”

“I cannot understand you,” exclaimed Trevelyan, seating himself near her.

“Nevertheless, it is not my intention to affect any farther mystery, with regard to myself or my affairs, towards you,” said Mrs. Sefton, hastily wiping away the tears that had started to her eyes, and composing her features with the sudden resolution of one who has determined upon the particular course which duty suggests. “Your conduct—the generosity of your disposition—and the attachment which you experience for my beloved daughter, are all inducements and reasons wherefore I should at once communicate to you all my plans.”

She again paused for a few moments, and then continued in the following manner:—

“The dearest hope of my life was accomplished on that day when my darling Agnes was restored to me: and since we have together occupied this secluded but delightful spot, I have had leisure to reflect upon those duties which I owe to my daughter. Moreover, I have well weighed all the circumstances of her position and my own; and I cannot blind my eyes to the fact that a great sacrifice must be made on my part to her reputation—her welfare—her purity of soul.”

“I begin to understand you now, my dear friend,” said Lord William Trevelyan, his countenance lighting up with the animation of joy: for he felt assured that he had not formed a wrong estimate of Mrs. Sefton’s character, when he attributed to her the most amiable qualifications and excellent principles, in spite of her connexion with Sir Gilbert Heathcote.

“Oh! could you suspect even for an instant that I should permit my own selfish passion to triumph over my affection for that dear daughter who has been so miraculously restored to me?” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “No, my lord—no, my esteemed friend—I am not a woman of such a despicable description! Not an hour has elapsed since, in this very room, I said to Sir Gilbert Heathcote, ‘We must separate, my well-beloved—and perhaps for a long, long time—if not for ever!’ He understood me—he appreciated my motives; and he scarcely sought to reason against my resolution—But, oh! this yielding—this assent on his part, was all the more generous—all the more praiseworthy—all the more noble!” cried Mrs. Sefton, in enthusiastic admiration of the absent baronet’s character: “for I must no longer keep the fact a secret from you, my dear friend—although I blush to acknowledge it——But you will not think the worse of Agnes on account of her mother’s crime——”

“Heaven forbid that I should be so unjust!” ejaculated Trevelyan, in an impassioned tone of profound sincerity.

“Thanks for that assurance—a thousand thanks!” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton. “Yes—she indeed is pure and virtuous; and I would sooner perish by my own hand than present to her an example of demoralisation in my own conduct. And it is this same sentiment that animates Sir Gilbert Heathcote—that has induced him to sacrifice all his own happiness to her welfare—so that she may never have to think ill of her mother! And now, my dear friend, you can probably conjecture the truth which my lips scarcely dare frame?—you can perhaps divine wherefore Sir Gilbert Heathcote is so deeply—so profoundly interested in the welfare of Agnes?”

“Yes—I comprehend it all!” cried Trevelyan.

“And now you must look upon me with loathing—with abhorrence,” murmured Mrs. Sefton, burying her countenance in her hands: “you must despise and contemn the adulterous woman who allowed her husband to exist in the belief that another’s child was his own!”

“No—no, my dear madam,” exclaimed the young nobleman; “I entertain no such feelings towards you. I am acquainted with all your history—yes, all——”

“All!” she repeated, in a tone of surprise: then, suddenly recollecting herself, she said, “Oh! true—Sir Gilbert told me that my husband was to call upon you this morning; and his lordship has therefore given you his version of our marriage-history.”

“Indeed, my dear friend,” returned Trevelyan, “he not only corroborated every thing you had already made known to me, but gave me so many additional details, all speaking in your favour—or at least in extenuation——”

“I am glad that the Marquis does me so much justice,” interrupted Mrs. Sefton: “heaven knows that I wish him all possible happiness! And that he has endeavoured to obliterate all recollection of me from his mind, I am well aware; and in the arms of his mistresses he has sought relief from any sense of injury or wrong that he may have experienced. I do not mention this fact for the base and unworthy purpose of disparaging the man whom I know that I have injured: but it is in justice to myself——”

“Ah! my dear lady, let us turn away from this topic as soon as possible,” interrupted Trevelyan.

“Cheerfully—most cheerfully!” ejaculated Mrs. Sefton. “We will speak of Agnes—and of the resolutions which a sense of duty towards her has engendered on the part of Sir Gilbert and myself. Thus stand all our relative positions:—Should Sir Gilbert Heathcote become a frequent visitor at this house, the tongue of scandal would soon find food for its morbid appetite in this neighbourhood; and the discredit into which I should fall—the opprobrium heaped upon me, would be reflected upon my innocent daughter. That is one grave and important consideration. Another is that, even if the former did not exist, or if Sir Gilbert merely called occasionally in the light of a friend, it would be impossible, situated as we are, to avoid little familiarities or marks of affection, which would inevitably appear strange and extraordinary to Agnes, and by degrees shock her pure mind. Lastly, your lordship has honoured her with your attachment—you have demanded of me her hand in marriage when the suitable time shall arrive;—and in the interval the guardianship of the treasure which is to become your own, rests with me. I must fulfil that trust in a manner that will give you no cause to blush for the wife whom you will have to introduce to the world. It is known in some few quarters already—it may become generally known eventually, that the Marquis and Marchioness of Delmour have long ceased to dwell together: but the actual cause of this separation has never transpired, and need not. Thus, hitherto, nothing has occurred to reflect dishonour upon the name of Lady Agnes; and it behoves alike her mother, and him who is her real father, to pursue such a line of conduct as may be most suitable to the welfare, happiness, and peace of that beloved child.”

“I thank you—most cordially, most sincerely do I thank you,” exclaimed Lord William Trevelyan, “for all the resolutions you have adopted, and all the assurances you have now given me! Yes—I am indeed interested in the welfare of your charming daughter; and the generous sacrifices which yourself and Sir Gilbert have decided upon making, for her benefit, prove how noble are your hearts!”

“Nay—now you compliment us too highly,” said Mrs. Sefton, with a smile. “We have determined upon performing our duty;—and if, by so doing,” she continued, in a more serious strain, “I can convince you that the equivocal position in which I have so many years been placed, has not destroyed the sense of rectitude and the true feelings of a mother in my breast, I shall yet be able to receive the assurances of your friendship without a blush, and without experiencing a sense of shame in your presence.”

“Look upon me as your intended son-in-law, my excellent friend!” exclaimed Lord William. “My opinion of you is as high as if I were ignorant altogether of that equivocal position to which you allude; and my sentiments towards Sir Gilbert Heathcote are of the warmest description. For the sake of that daughter whom he dares not acknowledge as such, he renounces your society—he tears himself away from you—he abjures the companionship of her whom he has loved so faithfully for many, many years! This is a self-sacrifice—a generous devotion which cannot be too deeply appreciated. And now, my dear friend,” continued the young nobleman, “it is my turn to give certain explanations. In a word, I have this morning seen your husband, as you are already aware—and he implored me to become instrumental in restoring his daughter to his care. To speak candidly, I came hither for the purpose of reasoning with you on the propriety of yielding to that desire on his part——”

“Oh! you would not separate me from my Agnes?” exclaimed Mrs. Sefton, clasping her hands in an appealing manner, while her countenance suddenly became pale and expressive of the acute anguish which the bare idea caused her to experience.

“No—not after all you have now told me!” cried Trevelyan, in a tone so emphatic as to be completely re-assuring. “I have such illimitable confidence in you that it would be an insult,—nay, more—a flagrant wrong,—to entertain the notion under existing circumstances. I shall call upon the Marquis of Delmour this evening or to-morrow, and candidly inform him that I can no longer recommend the separation of Lady Agnes from her mother.”

“I return you my sincerest thanks for this proof of confidence which you give me,” said Mrs. Sefton. “You had not, however, heard all the resolutions upon which Sir Gilbert and myself have this morning agreed; and now I have to make known to you a step that is about to be taken, and which is rendered necessary by the perseverance that the Marquis of Delmour is certain to exert with a view to regain possession of Agnes. I propose to take her to France, where we may dwell in some peaceful seclusion, until the two remaining years of her minority be passed.”

“And during those two years,” demanded Trevelyan, in a mournful tone, “am I to be debarred from the pleasure of beholding her whom I love so well?”

“I do not attempt to establish any interdiction of the kind,” said Mrs. Sefton, with a smile. “You will of course be made acquainted with the place of our abode; and your correspondence or your visits—or both—will be received with delight.”

“In this case, I must not offer a single objection to your plan,” exclaimed Trevelyan, his countenance lighting up again.

“And had I recommended you neither to visit nor correspond,” said Mrs. Sefton, in an arch tone of semi-reproach, “should you have opposed our departure?”

“Oh! no—no: do not think that I am so selfish!” he cried. “I should have considered this to be the day of self-devotion for all who are interested in the welfare of your beautiful—your amiable Agnes. But I behold her in the garden!” he exclaimed, as he looked towards the window opening on the lawn at the back of the villa. “Have I your permission to join her there for a few minutes?”

Mrs. Sefton signified her assent with a smile and a graceful gesture; and in a few moments Trevelyan was by the side of the beauteous Agnes in the garden.

The young lady was mournful at first—because her mother had already communicated to her their intended departure for the continent: but when Trevelyan, turning the discourse upon that topic, gave her to understand that he had received permission to visit them wheresoever they might fix their abode, and correspond with them frequently,—when he even ventured so far as to hint how it was more than probable that he would follow them to the same place, and establish his own temporary dwelling there, so as to be able to see them every day,—then was it that the young maiden’s countenance brightened up, and Trevelyan gathered therefrom the silent but eloquent assurance that he was not indifferent to her.

The few minutes which he had obtained permission to pass with Agnes grew into hours; and when, between four and five o’clock in the evening, Mrs. Sefton came herself to announce to the youthful pair in the garden that dinner was already served up, he uttered an ejaculation of surprise that it could be so late! Agnes said nothing—but cast down her eyes, and blushed deeply; and her mother, who knew what love was and all its symptoms, was now fully convinced that her daughter’s gentle heart was well disposed towards the noble suitor for her hand.