The Young Duchess; or, Memoirs of a Lady of Quality — page 120: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

ee | THE YOUNG DUCHESS; OR, MEMOIRS OF A LADY OF QUALITY. 106 now began to think that his bailiff’s brain was “This language, sir, so strange—this turned. manner on your part so little respectful ” ‘‘Do you know who I am, Mr. Ponsford ?” ex- claimed Stephen, abruptly stopping short: “ can you conjecture? Is there anything in my looks which reminds you of one who years ago suffered cruelly ad ‘What do you mean ? who are you?” inquired Ponsford, whose aspect began to grow troubled as he surveyed the cduiitenance of Stephen Ashborne. ‘“Yes!—there is something in that look—those large blue eyes!——-But surely, surely, you are not———” “T will prove to you who I am!” interrupted Ashborne: “I will tell you a tale to which you shall listen !—a tale of bitter suffering and per- secutiona history wherein a woman was the suf- ferer, and you, Mr. Ponsford, were the persecutor!” The Squite seemed amazed and staggered for a few mothents; and then recovering his self- possessiofi, he said, “‘ There is fio tale that you can tell nie, Mr. Ashborne, to which I need listen: and as for the species of accusation you have dated to make against me ” “Dared, sir? I dare tell the truth! This truth is that you are a villain—and your guilt is about to experience a terrible punishment !” . “What! would you murdet me?” exclaimed Ponsford, flinging 4 momentary glance of afftight at his bailiff: and then again recovering his self- possession, hé said, “Come here, Pompey ! come here, good fellow!”-—~and the fierce bull-mastiff was at once by his side. Stephen Ashborne smiled contemptuously, and said, ““I do not seek your life. On the contrary, it is my wish that you should live long—Oh! -very longi, to appreciate my vengeance ‘in all its keenest intensity !” ‘Your Vengeance ?”—and how the Squire flung a glarice of defiance at Ashborne; for the dog was at his side, and feeling himself safe against per- sonal violence, there was nothing else that he thought he need apprehend on the part of his bailiff. ‘We are wasting a great deal of time,” said Ashborne ; “and that is a pity. I told you just now that when a vengeance is to be wreaked, it were better that it should be accomplished off- hand.” ‘‘ Mr. Ashborne, I have listened with more patience than any other man in England would bestow si ; ‘And you will listen a little longer,” was the bailiff’s cool reply. ‘* This insolence, sir ! this unpardonable imper- tinence !” ejaculated the Squire, becoming red in the face. ‘‘ Believe me, you have got something terrible to hear !” interrupted the young man, with a look and tone so impressive that Mr. Ponsford was staggered, half frightened and bewildered. “ But first I must make you listen to the recital of your own misdeeds, in order that I may prove to you how thoroughly I know you, and how completely justified I am in availing myself of the oppor- tunity to wreak the most terrible vengeance upon your head.” The Squire was now very pale: he knew not what to think ; and yet he endeavoured to pre- vent himself from seeming to be afraid. rer ee repre ep | Clarke attracted your notice. “Many long years have elapsed,” proceeded Stephen Ashborne, ‘ since the beautiful Adelaide You know where she dwelt—in the pretty little farm-house on the other side of yonder hill—and she was the pride and solace of her widowed mother. And you wooed her ; but she listened not to your suit, be- cause it was not an honourable one. Nay, do not interrupt me! You know that I am speaking the truth—and there are many other facts which have yet to flow from my lips, and to which you shall listen. Well then, you, John Ponsford, not being enabled to seduce the beautiful Adelaide Clarke from the path of virtue — finding your dazzling overtures to be vain, and that her prin- ciples were proof against all the golden tempta- tions which you held out,—you, John Ponsford, played the part of a treacherous villain—you waylaid her—and by violence you deprived her of her honour !” . Stephen Ashborne paused; and his blue eyes literally flamed with living fires as he fixed their fierce regards upon Mr. Ponsford, who stood before him pale as death, not daring to deny the accusa- tion which was thus levelled against him. “YT am not going to dwell at unnecessary length upon any details,” tesumed Stephen: “ but let me proceed to remind you how the poor widowed mother’s heart was broken by the disgrace which you brought upon her beloved datighter—and how poverty then coinpelled the hapless Adelaide to continue in that pathway of dishonour in which your atu pencils turpitude had placed her. Yes! —she then became your mistress; and you triumphed fully in your successful iniquity !” “T loved her!—heaven knows that I loved her !” murmiiited, or rather moaned the unhappy man, now clasping his hands together as the tide of recollection swept in upon his mind with an almost overwhelming force. ‘‘ Loved her ?” exclaimed Ashborne scornfully : “loved her?” he repeated, with a terrible increase of bitterness in his accents: “ you never loved her ! you never could have loved her! The asser- tion is outrageous! What? to trample under foot the being whom you say you loved !—to tear her down from the pedestal of her purity into the vortex of degradation and disgrace! Oh, talk not to me of love in association with such foul iniquity! But then think of all that happened afterwards, and of which I am about to speak !” _ ‘Enough, Mr. Ashborne!” interrupted the Squire. ‘ We two can no longer remain to- gether °? “T tell you, sir,” replied the bailiff, with a strange and sinister significancy of voice and look, ‘that you ought to be inspired by a terrible and awful curiosity to learn what is to be the end of all that I am now telling you.” The Squire was riveted to the spot by these words so darkly ominous, so terribly mysterious; and it was with a sense of poignant agony that he mentally asked himself, “In what manner could he wreak such a dread vengeance ? how can he deal a blow that shall overwhelm me?” ‘When you dishonoured Adelaide Clarke,” proceeded Stephen Ashborne, “you made her in- famous in her own estimation—you destroyed all that excellence of principle which had previously rendered her virtuous. She had lost her good name—and she grew reckless, careless, indifferent Connicloooks oO Colin