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Updated: June 7, 2025
Westwick, suppose I tell you what my business is. You are manager of a theatre. Do you want a new play? 'I always want a new play provided it's a good one. 'And you pay, if it's a good one? 'I pay liberally in my own interests. 'If I write the play, will you read it? Francis hesitated. 'What has put writing a play into your head? he asked. 'Mere accident, she answered.
Go in, and see for yourself! I shall resign my situation, Mr. Westwick: I can't contend with the fatalities that pursue me here! Henry entered the room. The Countess was stretched on her bed. The doctor on one side, and the chambermaid on the other, were standing looking at her. From time to time, she drew a heavy stertorous breath, like a person oppressed in sleeping.
Westwick, tell me truly, and don't be afraid of turning my head: Am I not capable of writing a good play? Henry paused between the First and Second Acts; reflecting, not on the merits of the play, but on the strange resemblance which the incidents so far presented to the incidents that had attended the disastrous marriage of the first Lord Montbarry.
Immediately on her departure, the Countess, oppressed by the confined air in the wardrobe, ventured on stepping out of her hiding place into the empty room. Entering the dressing-room, she listened at the door, until the silence outside informed her that the corridor was empty. While the Montbarrys were still at dinner, Henry Westwick joined them, arriving from Milan.
I remembered how devotedly Lady Westwick had soothed her sister-in-law's death-bed sufferings, and how tenderly she had afterward watched over the welfare of the little motherless child I remembered the innumerable claims she had established in this way on her brother's confidence in her affection for his orphan daughter, and I was, therefore, naturally amazed at the appearance of a condition in his will which seemed to show a positive distrust of Lady Westwick's undivided influence over the character and conduct of her niece.
His lordship could not conveniently spare time enough for the journey to Venice, but he and Lady Montbarry arranged to accompany Mrs. Norbury and Mr. Francis Westwick as far on their way to Italy as Paris. Five days since, they took their departure to meet their travelling companions in London; leaving me here in charge of the three dear children.
'She will never forget Montbarry, he thought to himself as he took up his hat to go. 'Not one of us feels his death as she feels it. Miserable, miserable wretch how she loved him! In the street, as Henry closed the house-door, he was stopped by a passing acquaintance a wearisome inquisitive man doubly unwelcome to him, at that moment. 'Sad news, Westwick, this about your brother.
Westwick. How do you suppose the criminal feels on the scaffold, while the hangman is putting the rope around his neck? Cold and faint, too, I should think. Excuse my grim fancy. You see, Destiny has got the rope round my neck and I feel it. She looked about her.
'The room is as fresh and sweet as a room can be, he answered. As he spoke, he looked back with astonishment at Francis Westwick, standing outside in the corridor, and eyeing the interior of the bedchamber with an expression of undisguised disgust. The Parisian director approached his English colleague, and looked at him with grave and anxious scrutiny.
A faint tinge of colour stole over her face. There had been a long past time when Henry Westwick had owned that he loved her. She had made her confession to him, acknowledging that her heart was given to his eldest brother. He had submitted to his disappointment; and they had met thenceforth as cousins and friends. Never before had she associated the idea of him with embarrassing recollections.
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