’A woman of my rank, sir, can fear nothing from the hatred of an adventurer like yourself,’ replied the lady, drawing up stately.

’Look at your Poynings—­was he of your rank?  You are the cause of that young man’s wound, madam; and, but that the instrument of your savage cruelty relented, would have been the author of his murder—­ yes, of his murder; for, if a wife is faithless, does not she arm the husband who punishes the seducer!  And I look upon you, Honoria Lyndon, as my wife.’

‘Husband? wife, sir!’ cried the widow, quite astonished.

’Yes, wife! husband!  I am not one of those poor souls with whom coquettes can play, and who may afterwards throw them aside.  You would forget what passed between us at Spa:  Calista would forget Eugenio; but I will not let you forget me.  You thought to trifle with my heart, did you?  When once moved, Honoria, it is moved for ever.  I love you—­love as passionately now as I did when my passion was hopeless; and, now that I can win you, do you think I will forego you?  Cruel cruel Calista! you little know the power of your own charms if you think their effect is so easily obliterated—­you little know the constancy of this pure and noble heart if you think that, having once loved, it can ever cease to adore you.  No!  I swear by your cruelty that I will revenge it; by your wonderful beauty that I will win it, and be worthy to win it.  Lovely, fascinating, fickle, cruel woman! you shall be mine—­I swear it!  Your wealth may be great; but am I not of a generous nature enough to use it worthily?  Your rank is lofty; but not so lofty as my ambition.  You threw yourself away once on a cold and spiritless debauchee:  give yourself now, Honoria, to a man; and one who, however lofty your rank may be, will enhance it and become it!’

As I poured words to this effect out on the astonished widow, I stood over her, and fascinated her with the glance of my eye; saw her turn red and pale with fear and wonder; saw that my praise of her charms and the exposition of my passion were not unwelcome to her, and witnessed with triumphant composure the mastery I was gaining over her.  Terror, be sure of that, is not a bad ingredient of love.  A man who wills fiercely to win the heart of a weak and vapourish woman must succeed, if he have opportunity enough.

‘Terrible man!’ said Lady Lyndon, shrinking from me as soon as I had done speaking (indeed, I was at a loss for words, and thinking of another speech to make to her)—­’terrible man! leave me.’

I saw that I had made an impression on her, from those very words.  ‘If she lets me into the house to-morrow,’ said I, ‘she is mine.’

As I went downstairs I put ten guineas into the hand of the hall-porter, who looked quite astonished at such a gift.

‘It is to repay you for the trouble of opening the door to me,’ said I; ‘you will have to do so often.’

CHAPTER XVI