Seth Dumbrick, sitting in the old cellar in which it seemed likely he
would end his days, was the subject of Sally's anxious observance, as
she sat opposite to him, busy with her needle. Sally, in addition to
the performance of her household duties, played no unimportant part in
providing for the domestic necessities of the establishment, and the
seven or eight shillings a week she contrived by hard labour to earn
was an important item to Seth, whose trade had fallen off considerably
during the past few years.
Sally was a full-grown woman now, looking older than her years; but
her nature was unchanged, and her devotion to the Duchess was as
perfect as on the day when the girl was brought, almost an infant, to
her mother's house. That was a happy time in her remembrance of it,
far different from the present, which was full of trouble.
Seth Dumbrick's thoughts, to judge from his manner, were harassing and
perplexing, and the cloud in his face was reflected on Sally's, as now
and again she raised her eyes from her work to observe him. She knew
the groove in which his thoughts were running; it was a familiar one
to both of them, and they could not see a clear way through it. Any
time during the last five or six years it would have been a safe
venture to guess, when they were sitting together, as they were
sitting now, that their thoughts were fixed upon the theme which now
occupied their minds.
Silence had reigned in the cellar for fully half-an-hour, and even
then it was not broken until Seth, rising from his seat, stood for a
few moments before the fire, with his hands clasped at the back of his
neck.
"There is but one way out of it, Sally," said Seth.
Sally instantly gave him her whole attention, and by a sharp glance
indicated that all her wits were at his service.
"There is but one way out of it," he repeated, "and there's danger in
that way. But it's a matter of duty, and it's got to be done.
Supposing there was no duty in it, and no love, it's the only course,
as it seems to me, left open to us."
He spoke slowly and with deliberation, as though, after long inward
communing, he had settled upon a plan, and was determined to carry it
out.
"It's now--ah, how many years ago is it, Sally, since you came into my
cellar and fell into a trance?"
"I can't count 'em, Daddy. It seems a lifetime."
"Sixteen years it is. You were a little brown berry, then, with not an
ounce of flesh on your bones, sharp as a needle, and with a mind ten
times as old as your body." He bent over and kissed her, and tears
glistened in her eyes. "And our Duchess was as like a bright angel in
a dream as man's imagination can compass. I was a strong man then, a
strong lonely man, with nothing much to look forward to, and with
nothing outside my grisly self to love. Sixteen years ago it was. It
seems a lifetime to you, you say, Sally. And it was only yesterday
that I was a boy!"
He brushed the sentiment away with a light wave of his hand.
"As we grow older, Sally, things that were far apart come nearer; that
is, when we get to a certain age--my age. Then the young days, that
appeared so far away, begin to creep towards us, nearer and nearer,
until the man of seventy and the boy of ten are very close together.
With some old men, I don't doubt, it might be said that they die in
their cradles. Is that beyond you, Sally?"
"A little, Daddy. I can't understand it; but you're right, of course,"
"Not to wander too far away," continued Seth, with a faint laugh, "it
is sixteen years since you and the Duchess came to me, and that I
undertook a responsibility. Keep a tight hold of that word, Sally; I'm
coming back to it presently. You haven't much more flesh on your bones
now than you had then, but you're grown pretty considerable, and
you're a woman. Sally, if I had a son, I shouldn't mind your marrying
him."
"Thank you, Daddy."
"But you can't marry a shadow; it wouldn't be satisfactory. Well,
you're a woman grown up. I'm a man, growing down; my hair's nearly
white, and that's the last colour, my girl. It seems to me that I'm
pretty well as strong as I was; but I know that's a delusion. Nature
has set lines, and the man that snaps his fingers at 'em, or
disregards 'em, is a fool. And I'm not one, eh, Sally?"
He laughed faintly again; but there was a notable lack of heartiness
in the small flashes of humour which occasionally lighted up his
speech. It would have been more in accordance with his serious mood
had they not been introduced; but habit is a master, not a servant.
"So much for you and me, Sally. There's another of more consequence
than both of us--our Duchess. When I first set my eyes on her, I
thought I'd never in all my life seen so beautiful a picture. We had
plenty of happy days then; and we must never forget how much we owe
her. We should have been a dull couple, you and me, without her. She
was like light in our dark little room, and when I had troublesome
thoughts about me, the sight of her was like the sun breaking through
dark clouds. Do you remember, Sally, when she was ill, and you watched
over her day and night?"
"You too, Daddy."
"I could do nothing; I had the bread to earn. Dr. Lyon said your
nursing, not his medicine, pulled her through; and he was right. Do
you remember our holiday in the country--the rides in the wagon, and
the rambles by the sea-shore? What pleasure and happiness we enjoyed,
Sally, was all through her. I can hardly think of her as anything but
a child; but, as I've said, Nature has set her lines; and our Duchess
is a woman--the brightest and most beautiful the world contains; and
whether that beauty and brightness is going to be a curse or a
blessing to her, time alone can tell."
"Not a curse, Daddy!" cried Sally, dropping her face in her hands.
"No, no; not a curse!"
"God knows," said Seth, with his hand resting lightly on Sally's
shoulder. "If you or me could do anything to make it a blessing we'd
do it, if it brought upon us the hardest sacrifice that ever fell upon
human beings. I say that of myself, and I know it of you. But I'm a
man, with a wider experience than yours, and I can see further.
Feeling is one thing, fact is another. To put feeling aside when we
talk of our Duchess is out of the question; but let us see how far
fact goes, and what it will lead us to." He looked down upon his
garments with a curious smile; they were old and patched and patched
again. Sally, with apprehension in her glance, followed his observance
of himself. Then, with an expression of pity and reverence, he turned
to Sally, and touched her frock, which was worn and faded. "Your only
frock, Sally," he said.
"What of that?" she exclaimed, with a rebellious ring in her voice.
"It's good enough for me."
"We've got to see this through," he returned, taking her hand in his,
and patting it so gently that her head drooped before him. "You
wouldn't fetch much at Rag Fair, my girl. All that belongs to you, on
and off, would fetch, perhaps--three farthings. Now let us look at
something else."
"Daddy, Daddy!" she cried, as she walked to the dark end of the
cellar; "what are you going to do?"
He replied by dragging forward a trunk, which he placed between Sally
and himself. It was locked, and he could not raise the lid. Taking
from his pocket a large bunch of keys, he tried them until he found
one that fitted the lock.
"I borrowed these keys of the locksmith round the corner," said Seth,
as he opened the trunk; "I told him what sort of a trunk it was, and
he said I'd be sure to find a key in this lot to fit it."
The trunk was filled with clothes. Before laying his hand upon them,
Seth, with a steady look at Sally, said:
"I doubt, Sally, whether there's anybody in the world you know better
than you know me."
"There _is_ no one, Daddy."
"It has been a pleasure to me to believe that you love me."
"There's only one I love better than you, Daddy.'
"Our Duchess."
"Yes."
"But in addition to love, you have some other feeling with respect to
me. Shall I try to put it in words?"
"If you please, Daddy."
"From what you know of me, you know I would not be guilty of a mean or
dirty action. You know that I would sooner have my hands cut off than
give anyone the power to say, 'Seth Dumbrick, you are a scoundrel and
a sneak.'"
"I am certain of it, Daddy."
"Well, then. Don't you think anything like that of me because of what
I'm doing now. Sally, I'm doing my duty. I'm doing what will perhaps
save our Duchess from what both you and me are frightened to speak of
to each other. If this man that she's keeping company with--this
gentleman, as she's spoken of at odd times, when I've tried to coax
her to confide in me--this gentleman that meets her secretly, and is
ashamed or afraid to show his face to me that stands in the light of a
father to the girl he's following--if this gentleman _is_ a gentleman
(though his conduct don't say that much for him), and means fairly and
honourably by our girl, then all's well. But I've got to satisfy
myself of that. I should deserve the hardest things that could be said
of me if I let our child walk blindly into a pit--if I, by holding
back, assisted to make her beauty a curse instead of a blessing to
her. Do you understand me?"
"I think I do."
"If," said Seth, with a tender animation in his voice, "this gentleman
wants to marry her, and sets it down as a hard and fast consideration,
that she should tear herself away from those who love her, and who
have cared for her all these years--if he says to her, 'I am a
gentleman, and when we are married you will be a lady; and as such you
must never speak another word to the low people you've lived and
associated with from a child;' if he says this to our Duchess, and we
happen to know it, and that it's for her good it should be so, neither
you nor me would step in her way. However sorry we should be, and
lonely without her, we should say, 'Goodbye, Duchess, and God bless
you! We'll never trouble you or your husband with a sight of our faces
again.' Would that be in your mind as well as in mine, my girl?"
"Yes," replied Sally, with a sob.
"But we've got to make sure of that--and there's only one way to come
to it, as our girl keeps her tongue still, and her thoughts shut from
us. When I accepted the charge of her, I accepted a responsibility,
and I'm not going to run away from it like a coward, because the
proper carrying of it out will bring a sorrow to my heart that will
remain there to my dying day. Do you think now I may look over what's
in this trunk?"
"I am certain you'll do what's right, Daddy."
He gave her another tender glance, and proceeded to examine the trunk.
It was filled with a girl's finery, of a better quality than that
which belonged to a person in the Duchess's position of life. Lace
collars and cuffs, feathers for hats, gloves, and underclothing of a
fine texture. Sally's face grew paler as the articles were carefully
lifted from the trunk by Seth, and placed upon the table.
"There are things here you've never seen before, Sally?"
Sally nodded, with lips compressed.
Seth took from the trunk a long soft package, containing a piece of
bright blue silk, sufficient for a dress.
"Did she ever show you this?" asked Seth.
"No," said Sally, with trembling fingers on the silk. "How beautiful
she will look in it!"
In a corner of the trunk was a small box made of cedar wood. Opening
it, Seth took out various articles of jewelry, and gazed at them with
sad eyes.
"These should be the belongings of a lady, Sally. Our girl is being
prepared for the change. Is it to be one of joy or sorrow?"
At the bottom of the cedar-wood box was a small packet of letters
addressed to the Duchess. Seth hesitated. The receipt of these letters
had been hidden from him. They were addressed to the Duchess at a
post-office a mile distant from Rosemary Lane. He debated within
himself whether he had a right to read them. "If I were her father,"
he thought, "the right would be clearly mine. As it is, the right is
mine. I am her guardian and protector."
He read them in silence; they were love letters, expressing the most
passionate adoration for the Duchess, and filled with vows and
promises enough to distract the mind of any girl in her position.
Apart from the expressions of love they contained, there were other
disturbing elements--such as the circumstance of the letters being
written on paper bearing a crest with Latin words around it. Sally
followed Seth's movements with wistful eagerness, but he did not
enlighten her as to the contents of the letters. He returned them and
the trinkets to the scented box, and replaced in the trunk with
studied care all the articles he had taken from it. Then he locked and
carried the trunk to the corner of the cellar again.
"It may be," he said, after a short contemplative pause, "that our
Duchess has really attracted the love of a gentleman. Such things have
occurred, produced by faces and figures less beautiful than those of
our Duchess."
"Then the change will be one of joy!" cried Sally, with a brighter
look.
"You know what that means, Sally. It means separation from us. You
have a good memory, my girl?"
"Oh, yes."
"Carry your mind back to the holiday we had in the country. Do you
think you can recall all that occurred in those few happy days?"
"Shall I try?"
"Yes--just run them over."
"Our packing up the night before; getting up early in the morning and
meeting the wagon; trotting out of the dull streets into the beautiful
country--I can hear the jingle of the bells on the horses' necks--the
gardens, the lanes, the lovely flowers, and the waving corn; the names
of the horses, Daisy and Cornflower--is that right, Daddy?"
"Go on, Sally. You have a capital memory."
"Our stopping at the public-house, and having dinner in the garden;
our getting into the wagon again, with a lot of fresh hay to sit on;
our trotting on and on till we came to another public-house, called
The World's End--I thought it a strange name, and that we were really
getting to the end of the world----"
"One moment, Sally. Before we came to The World's End, we saw a great
park with splendid iron gates at the entrance. I asked what place it
was----"
"And the wagoner said it was called Springfield."
"That's right, Sally; go on. What a memory you've got."
"Getting down at The World's End, and of its being quite early. Then
you took us for a walk, and on the way we met a gipsy woman----"
Sally paused. She remembered perfectly well that the gipsy had
predicted that a great trouble would fall upon her through her love
for a woman younger than herself, more beautiful than herself, that
she loved, and loved dearly; and that then the gipsy had said to the
Duchess, "Show yourself, my beauty." Sally did not wish--for the
reason that it might be of disadvantage to the Duchess--to recall
these details to Seth, who might have forgotten them; as indeed he
had, his mind being fixed on a particular point which Sally's memory
had not yet reached; but not the less startling to her was the
conviction that the gipsy's words were coming true. _Coming_ true! Had
they not been already verified by the altered relations between
herself and the Duchess? It smote her keenly to reflect that for a
long, long time past the Duchess had hidden from her knowledge the
secret of a love which might tear them asunder for ever. But Sally was
not prone to selfish musings; her generous nature was always ready to
find excuses for the girl-friend to whom she had been sister and
mother; and although her heart was aching sorely, and yearning for
confidence and sympathy, she laid no blame on the cause of her sorrow.
What more could she desire than that the Duchess should become a lady,
and enjoy the life she sighed for? "I dare say," thought Sally, "that
she will let me see her now and again, when no one is near to make her
ashamed of me." To her own future Sally gave no thought; love of
another kind had not yet stirred her soul with its enthralling
influence.
"And while we were talking to the gipsy," said Seth, "a lady and
gentleman came up to us."
"Yes, yes; I remember."
"Do you remember what kind of a gentleman?"
"I didn't like him, Daddy."
"Nor I. Now as to his name."
Sally pondered, but could not call it to mind.
"If I mention it, you will know, perhaps. Was it Temple?"
"Yes, oh, yes; I remember now."
"Sally, would you like to know who has written all those letters to
our girl, and who is her gentleman lover?"
"Of course I should, Daddy."
"His name is Arthur Temple."
"Not the Mr. Temple we met in the country!" exclaimed Sally, clasping
her hands in a kind of despair. "He must be an old man by this time."
Seth could not help smiling sympathetically. This dismay at the
thought of an old lover for their Duchess was very intelligible to
him.
"No, it cannot certainly be that Mr. Temple. But it would be a strange
thing if Arthur Temple should turn out to be his son. However, that
has to be discovered. Sally, I have made up my mind what to do; and
you may depend that it will be for the good of the Duchess."
"You mustn't interfere with her, Daddy. She won't put up with it."
"She will not know what I am about; what I do shall be done secretly.
It is my duty not to allow this to go on any further without an
understanding of some sort. To arrive at this I must set a watch upon
her."
"Oh, Daddy if she should see you!"
"She shall not see me; I will take care of that. Sally, another thing
has to be done; we're to enter into a compact. Not a word of all this
to the Duchess."
"I'll be as mum as a mouse."
"And if things turn out right for the Duchess, we must twist our minds
into thinking that they have turned out right for us. It will be dull
here without her, but if the love of an old man can make it brighter
for you, Sally----"
A little choking in his voice compelled him to pause, and turn his
head. The contemplation of this change in his life, now that he was an
old man and worse off in a worldly way than he ever remembered himself
to be, brought deep sadness upon him. All the dreams he had indulged
in of a bright future for the Duchess, some warmth from which would
shine upon herself, had faded quite away. But warmth and light came to
him from another quarter. A thin arm stole around his neck, and a
dark, loving face was pressed close to his. He drew the grateful woman
on his knee, and the few minutes of silence which ensued were not the
unhappiest that had been passed in the dingy old cellar.
"And now, Sally," he said, kissing her, "what we've got to do is our
duty--straight, my girl, as we can do it--and to hope for the best."