"I must have my child. You know that as it is a girl the mother can dispute this right with me, for by the laws of this land in case of divorce, the daughters are left to their mother."
"You should endeavor to obtain her by kindness."
"And suppose that Camilla, not out of love to the child, but to wound and torture me, should refuse me my daughter, what then? Ah! you are silent, doctor; you see I cannot act otherwise."
"I fear, my lord, you will have some trouble in getting the child. Lady Elliot has lately changed all the servants engaged by you, not one of them was allowed to remain. It is most likely that none of the present servants know you, and therefore you will not be obeyed."
"My plans are all arranged, they shall not prevent me from fulfilling them."
"But if they refuse to let you enter?"
"Ah, but I shall not ask them, for I have the keys necessary to enter my own house. When I left home, Camilla threw them laughing and jesting into my trunk--I now have them with me. All your objections are confuted. Again, farewell. If you wish to give me another token of your friendship, meet me at the depot in an hour. I will be there with my child."
He pressed the doctor's hand tightly, and then hurried into the house.
Noiselessly he mounted the steps. He now stood in front of the large glass door leading to his dwelling; he leaned for a moment against the door gasping for breath--for a moment a shuddering doubt overcame him; he seemed to see the lovely countenance of Camilla, bedewed with tears, imploring his mercy, his pity. "No, no! no pity, no mercy," he murmured; "onward, onward!"
He drew forth a key, opened the door and closed it noiselessly behind him. A bright lamp burned in the hall; sounds of laughing and merry-making could be heard from the servants' hall; the cries of a child, and the soft lullaby of a nurse from above. No one saw or heard the dark form of their returned master pass slowly through the hall. No one saw him enter his former sleeping apartments. He was so conversant with the room that he found his way in the dark without difficulty to his secretary. Taking from it a candle and some matches, he soon had a bright light. He then glanced sternly around the room. All was as usual, not a chair had been moved since he left. Beneath the secretary were the scraps of letters and papers he had torn up the day of his journey. Even the book he had been reading that morning lay upon the table in front of the sofa; beside it stood the same silver candlesticks, with the same half-burnt candles. It had all been untouched; only he, the master of the apartment, had been touched by the burning hand of misfortune--he alone was changed, transformed. He smiled bitterly as his eye glanced at every object that formerly contributed to his happiness. Then taking up the light, he approached the table upon which stood the two silver candlesticks; lighting one after the other, the large, deserted-looking chamber became illuminated, bringing the pictures on the walls, the heavy satin curtains, the handsome furniture, the tables covered with costly knick-knacks, the large Japan vases, and a huge clock upon the mantel-piece, into view. All bore a gay and festive appearance, much at variance with the unfortunate man's feelings.
His glance had wandered everywhere. Not once, however, had his eye strayed to two large pictures hanging on the left side of the room. The one was of himself--gay, smiling features, a bright glance such as was never now seen upon his countenance. The other was Camilla--Camilla in her bridal robes, as beautiful and lovely as a dream, with her glorious, child-like smile in which he had so long believed--for which, seeing in it the reflection of her pure, innocent soul, she was so unspeakably dear to him. To these two pictures he had completely turned his back, and was walking sadly up and down the room. He now raised his head proudly, and his countenance, which but a moment before had been sad and dejected, was now daring and energetic.
"It is time," murmured he.
With a firm hand he grasped a bell lying upon the table. Its loud, resounding ring disturbed the deep stillness that reigned throughout the apartments, causing Lord Elliot's heart to tremble with woe. But there was no noise--all remained quiet. Lord Elliot waited awhile, then opening the door passed into the hall. Returning, he again rang the bell long and loudly. "They cannot fail to hear me now," said he.
Several doors were now opened by some of the servants, but their terror was such that they retreated in haste, slamming the doors behind them.
Lord Elliot rang again. A servant now hastened forward; another soon followed; a third door was opened from which sprang a lively, trim-looking lady's maid. She was followed by the house girl. Even the cook rushed up the steps. All hurried forward to a room which was generally kept locked, but which now stood wide open. All gazed at the man standing there scanning them with an earnest, commanding glance.
They stood thus lost in wonder for a moment, then Lord Elliot approached the door.
"Do you know me--you, there?" said he.
"No, we do not know you," said the waiter, with some hesitation. "We do not know you, and would like to know by what right--"
"There is no question here of your likes or dislikes, but of the orders you will receive from me. Do you know the picture next to the one of your mistress?"
"We have been told that it is our master, Lord Elliot."
Lord Elliot advanced nearer the picture, and stood beneath it. "Do you know me now?" said he.
The servants examined him critically for a time, then whispered and consulted together.
"Now do you know me?" repeated Lord Elliot.
"We think we have the honor of seeing his excellency, Lord Elliot," said the waiter.
"Yes, Lord Elliot," repeated the lady's-maid, the house-girl, and the cook, bowing respectfully.
He ordered them to enter the room. Tremblingly they obeyed him.
"Are these all the servants, or are there any more of you?" said he.
"No one but the nurse, who is with the little lady, and the coach-man who is in the stable."
"That is right. Come nearer, all of you."
As they obeyed, he closed and locked the door, dropping the key in his pocket. The servants looked at him in wonder and terror, hardly daring to breathe. Though they had never seen their master, they knew by his stern, expressive countenance that something remarkable was about to transpire. Like all other servants, they were well acquainted with the secrets, the behavior of their employer. They were, therefore, convinced that their mistress was the cause of their master's strange conduct.
"Do not dare to move from this spot--do not make a sound," said Lord Elliot, taking a light and advancing to a second door. "Remain here.
If I need you I will call." Throwing a last look at the servants, Lord Elliot entered the adjoining room, drawing the bolt quickly behind him.
"All is right now." said he, softly. "None of them can fly to warn Camilla to return." Candle in hand, he passed through the chamber, looking neither to right nor left. He wished to ignore that he was now in Camilla's room, which was associated with so many painfully sweet remembrances to him. He entered another room--he hurried through it. As he passed by the large bedstead surrounded by heavy silk curtains, the candle in his hand shook, and a deep groan escaped his breast. He now stood at the door of the next chamber. He stopped for a moment to gain breath and courage. With a hasty movement he threw open the door and entered. His heart failed him when he beheld the peaceful scene before him. A dark shady carpet covered the floor, simple green blinds hung at the windows. There were no handsome paintings on the wall, no glittering chandelier, no bright furniture, and still the apartment contained a wondrous tenement, a great treasure. For in the middle of the room stood a cradle, in the cradle lay his child, his first-born--the child of his love, of his lost happiness. He knew by the great joy that overcame him, by the loud beating of his heart, by the tears that welled to his eyes, that this was his child. He prayed God to bless it--he swore to love it faithfully to all eternity. He at last found the strength to approach the little sleeping being whose presence rilled him with such wild joy.
The nurse sat by the cradle fast asleep. She did not see Lord Elliot kneel beside the cradle and look tenderly at the sleeping face of her nursling--she did not see him kiss the child, then lay its little hands upon his own bowed head as if he needed his little daughter's blessing to strengthen him. But all at once she was shaken by a strong hand, and a loud, commanding voice ordered her to wake up, to open her eyes. She sprang from her chair in terror--she had had a bad dream. But there still stood the strange man, saying in a stern voice, "Get up and prepare to leave here at once with me."
She wished to cry for help, but as she opened her mouth, he threw his strong arm around her. "If you make a sound, I take the child and leave you here alone. I have the right to command here--I am the father of this child."
"Lord Elliot!" cried the nurse, in amazement.
Lord Elliot smiled. This involuntary recognition of his right did him good and softened him.
"Fear nothing," said he, kindly, "no harm shall happen to you. I take you and the child. If you love and are kind to it, you shall receive from me a pension for life; from to-day your wages are doubled. For this I demand nothing, but that you should collect at once the necessary articles of clothing of this child, and put them together. If you are ready in fifteen minutes, I will give you this gold piece."
He looked at his watch, and took from his purse a gold piece, which lent wings to the stout feet of the nurse.
"Is all you need in here?" said he.
Receiving an answer in the affirmative, he took his light and left the chamber. Before leaving, however, he locked another door leading into the hall, so as to prevent the possible escape of the nurse.
As he entered Camilla's boudoir his countenance became dark and stern; every gentle and tender feeling that his child had aroused now fled from his heart. He was now the insulted husband, the man whose honor was wounded in its most sensitive point--who came to punish, to revenge, to seek the proofs of the guilt he suspected. He placed the light upon the table, and opened his wife's portfolio to seek for the key of her drawer, which was generally kept there. It was in its usual place. Lord Elliot shuddered as he touched it; it felt like burning fire in his hand.
"It is the key to my grave," murmured he.
With a firm hand he put the key in the lock, opened the drawer, and drew out the letters and papers it contained. There were his own letters, the letters of love and tenderness he had sent her from Copenhagen; among them he found others full of passionate proofs of the criminal and unholy love he had come to punish. Camilla had not had the delicacy to separate her husband's from her lover's letters; she had carelessly thrown them in the same drawer. As Lord Elliot saw this he laughed aloud, a feeling of inexpressible contempt overpowered his soul and deadened his pain. He could not continue to love one who had not only been faithless to him, but wanting in delicacy to the partner of her sin.
Lord Elliot read but one of the beau cousin's letters, then threw it carelessly aside. He did not care to read more of the silly speeches, the guilty protestations of constancy of her insipid lover. He searched but for one letter; he wished to find the original of the last one Camilla had written to him, for he knew her too well to give her credit for the composition of that cold, sneering, determined letter. He wished, therefore, to find the author, whose every word had pierced his soul like a dagger, driving him at first almost to madness.
A wild, triumphant cry now escaped from him, resounding fearfully in the solitary chambers. He had found it! The letter was clutched tightly in his trembling hands as he read the first lines. It was in the same hand as the others, it was the writing of his rival, Von Kindar, her beau cousin.
Lord Elliot folded the paper carefully and hid it in his bosom; then throwing the others into the drawer, he locked it, placing the key in the portfolio.
"It is well," said he, "I have now all I need. This letter is his death-warrant."
He took the light and left the room. Fifteen minutes had just elapsed when he entered his daughter's chamber. The nurse advanced to meet him, the child and a bundle of clothes in her arms, and received the promised gold piece.
"Now, we must hasten," said he, stepping into the hall.
They passed silently through the house, down the steps, and into the court-yard. Lord Elliot walked hastily on, followed by the wondering nurse. He stopped at the stable door, calling loudly upon the coachman to get up and prepare the horses. At twelve o'clock the coachman was to go for his mistress; he was therefore dressed, and had only laid down for a short nap.