Ned Chester fulfilled the promise he gave to the Duchess that he would
see Mrs. Lenoir safely to her home. When the exhausted woman recovered
from her fainting condition and was sufficiently strong to lean on his
arm and walk slowly along, he said to her:
"You may thank your stars I was near you when you fell. I am going to
help you home. Where do you live?"
The strange voice and the rough manner of the man--for Ned was not
always on his holiday behaviour, and the worse side of his nature
invariably exhibited itself when there was nothing to be
gained--caused Mrs. Lenoir to shrink from him; but, deprived of his
support, she almost fell to the ground again.
"Don't be a fool!" cried Ned; "you are not strong enough to stand
alone. Where do you live?"
"Who are you?"
"I am a gentleman," he replied, in a boastful tone.
His manner gave the lie to his assertion, and Mrs. Lenoir, with her
fine instinct, knew that the man was a braggart. "Yes, yes--but your
name?"
"Never mind my name--it won't enlighten you. Now, are you coming?"
"No," said Mrs. Lenoir; "leave me."
"What will you do if I take you at your word?" he asked brutally.
"I will wait here--I will creep on till I find _her_--till I see again
the face I saw a little while ago, bending over me. Heaven will give
me strength--Heaven will give me strength!"
"In which case," thought Ned, "I shall get myself into hot water with
the Duchess. That will never do."
He adopted a more conciliatory tone.
"You foolish creature! You've been dreaming, and you'll bring trouble
on yourself."
"Dreaming!" murmured Mrs. Lenoir, pressing her hands to her head. "For
mercy's sake, do not tell me so! Nay, but it is not true. Let me
think--let me think. No--it was not a dream. I followed her and her
companion for miles through the snow, till my strength was gone. But
it has come again," she said, with hysterical sobs, which she
struggled with and checked; "it has come again, and I can go on. As I
lay on the ground I saw her face--the face I have dreamt of for many
weary years--bending over me!"
"It was my face you saw," said Ned, beginning to think that the woman
was mad.
"No, no," said Mrs. Lenoir, with a wan smile, "it was the face of a
lovely girl."
Ned's vanity and triumph in his conquest trapped him.
"She _has_ a lovely face, has she not?"
"It was no dream, then," cried Mrs. Lenoir eagerly.
"No; it was no dream. Now, let me help you home. I promised her I
would do so."
"You did!" sobbed Mrs. Lenoir; "she thought of me--and pitied me! Oh,
my heart!"
"You'll be going off again, if you don't mind. I tell you I promised
her, and I must keep my promise."
"Why must you keep your promise?"
Ned's boastful spirit was entirely beyond his control.
"Isn't the reason plain? We love each other. Is that sufficient? If
you will let me help you home, I promise that you shall see her again,
if you would like to."
"It is what I have lived for. You promise me--solemnly!"
"On the honour of a gentleman," said Ned, laying his hand on his
heart. "Will that content you?"
"It must--it shall. You are right--I cannot walk without assistance.
This is my way, I think. And you love her--and she loves you! I shall
see her again! When? It must be soon! It _must_ be soon!"
"It shall be--in a day or two. We are getting along nicely now. Ah,
there's a cab--that's lucky."
He called the cab, and put Mrs. Lenoir in it.
"What street do you live in?"
She told him, and he mounted the box. In less than a quarter of an
hour the cab stopped at her home. Desiring the driver to wait for him,
Ned opened the street-door with the latch key she gave him.
"Shall I help you to your room?" he asked.
"No; stay here in the passage. I will get a light; I want to see your
face."
She crept slowly upstairs. The passage was narrow, and, cold as the
night was, Ned, a strong and sturdy man, took off his light overcoat
and held it on his arm. Presently Mrs. Lenoir returned, with a lighted
candle in her hand.
She raised the candle, and, shading her eyes with her hand, looked
steadily at him. As she gazed into his face, a troubled expression
stole into her own. It was not the face of a man to whom she would
have cared to entrust the happiness of anyone dear to her.
"Well," he exclaimed, nettled at her intent observance of him, "you
will know me again."
"I shall know you again," she said, as he turned from her. "You can
have no objection now to tell me your name."
"Temple--Arthur Temple."
"Great God!"
He did not hear the words, nor did he see the candlestick drop from
her hand, leaving her in darkness. He slammed the street-door behind
him, and, resuming his seat on the cab, drove westwards.
A few minutes afterwards, a lodger coming home to the house in which
Mrs. Lenoir resided, found her lying senseless in the passage. He was
an old man, and had not strength to raise her. Knowing that she was
more intimate with Lizzie than with any other person in the house, he
knocked at the girl's door, and, waking her, told her of Mrs. Lenoir's
condition. Lizzie hurriedly threw on her clothes, and hastened to the
suffering woman. Assisted by the man, she carried her to her room, and
Mrs. Lenoir was soon in bed, attended by the most willing and cheerful
of nurses. The care Lizzie bestowed on her was not bestowed in vain,
and when Mrs. Lenoir opened her eyes, she saw a bright fire burning in
the room, and the girl standing by her bedside, with a cup of hot tea
in her hands. Mrs. Lenoir drank the tea eagerly, and took the bread
and butter which Lizzie's gentle persuasion induced her to eat. Lizzie
asked no questions; she was learning how to manage the strange woman,
whose secret sorrow had made so deep an impression upon her tender
heart.
"You are feeling better, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"Much better and stronger, thank you, Lizzie. You are very kind to me,
my dear."
"If you will let me, I will sleep with you."
Mrs. Lenoir offered no resistance to the proposal, and presently the
girl and the woman were lying side by side.
"Don't mind waking me, Mrs. Lenoir, if you want me."
"No, my dear. Lizzie, you will not betray the confidence I am going to
place in you. It will relieve me to speak it."
"Oh, I can keep a secret, Mrs. Lenoir."
"I believe," said Mrs. Lenoir very slowly, "that I have this night
seen the face of my daughter."
"Then, you have a daughter!" cried Lizzie in a tone of delight.
"A daughter, my dear, whom I have not seen since she was a little
child--and who they told me was dead. But I have seen her--I have seen
her, if there is truth in nature! After all these years I have seen
her--when she most needs a mother's care and counsel. I am praying now
for the hours to pass quickly that I may fold her to my heart."
"Is she coming to you to-morrow, Mrs. Lenoir?"
"There is my misery. She knows nothing of me, and I am in ignorance
where she lives. But I am promised--I am promised! God will help
me--He will surely help me, after my long years of anguish!"
She said not another word, and Lizzie was soon asleep; but Mrs. Lenoir
lay awake through the greater part of the night, with a prayer in her
heart as fervent as any ever whispered to Heaven from the depths of
tribulation. Towards morning, nature asserted her claim, and slumber
fell upon her troubled soul.
It was almost noon when she awoke; and Lizzie was bustling about the
room.
"I am going to stop with you till you're better," said the girl;
"perhaps I can help you. I'll take care not to be in the way if I'm
not wanted."
Mrs. Lenoir accepted the service, feeling the need of it at this
crisis. She was up and dressed, and breakfast was over, when Lizzie's
quick ears took her out of the room. She returned immediately.
"A gentleman is asking for a woman he saw home last night to this
house. It must be you by his description."
"Let him come in, Lizzie."
Lizzie looked at Ned Chester with admiration. In her eyes he was every
inch a gentleman, with his fine clothes, and gold chain, and diamond
ring on his ungloved hand.
"This is Mrs. Lenoir," she said.
"Mrs. Lenoir!" he repeated. "Ah, well, I didn't know the name. Are you
better?"
He had commenced speaking in a free and familiar tone, such as a man
adopts who is addressing one for whom he has no great feeling of
respect, but before he had uttered even these few words his tone
altered. Mrs. Lenoir had taken unusual pains with her dress, and she
presented so different an appearance from that which he expected--she
looked so gentle and lady-like--that he was compelled into a more
deferential and respectful manner.
"I am glad you are come," said Mrs. Lenoir; "I was afraid you might
forget your promise, or that it had been given lightly."
"What promise?" he asked.
"That I should see her again--the young lady who was with you last
night."
"Oh, the Duchess!" he exclaimed involuntarily, and the next moment
biting his lips at the betrayal.
"The Duchess!" echoed Mrs. Lenoir, in amazement.
"A pet name," he said quickly. "You shall see her again, as I
promised. But I have come on a different matter. I lost a silver
cigar-case last night. Have you got it?"
Mrs. Lenoir rose, and gazed at him in perplexity and fear.
"I will swear I had it about me as I assisted you home. When you left
me in the passage I took off my overcoat, and it dropped out of my
pocket perhaps. I don't mean anything worse than that. Did you find
it?"
"I don't understand you; I have not seen it. Lizzie, did you see
anything in the passage when you came down to me last night?"
"No," replied Lizzie, who had listened to the conversation with
intense curiosity.
Ned Chester considered in silence, uncertain for a moment how to act.
The cigar-case, which had been a gift to his master, Arthur Temple,
bore on it an inscription which might betray him, and he thought it
not unlikely that Mrs. Lenoir intended to retain it, so that she might
compel the fulfilment of his promise. There were obvious reasons why
he could not run the risk of making the theft public, for he
entertained no doubt that Mrs. Lenoir had robbed him. Since the
previous night he had had reason to suspect that his position was
growing perilous. His young master's manner had suddenly changed
towards him, and he had almost determined not to return to Mr.
Temple's house. With this partially-formed resolve in view, he had
seen the Duchess a short time before his visit to Mrs. Lenoir, and
proposed flight to her. He had taken good care of himself with respect
to money, and he had about him between five and six hundred pounds.
His scheme was to go to Paris with the Duchess, and thence to America,
where he would be safe, and where he believed his peculiar talents
might prove of service to him. At all events, with ready money at his
command, a few months of enjoyment were before him, and that prospect
was sufficiently alluring. But he had found the Duchess strangely
reluctant to agree to the flight, and he had to use all the
blandishments at his command to prevail upon her. At length she had
yielded, on one condition. She would not accompany him alone, nor
would she go without the society of one of her own sex. An instinct of
affection for Sally had stolen into the Duchess's breast on her
lover's sudden and startling proposition, and she suggested that Sally
should accompany her in her flight. To this he gave a vehement
refusal, and the Duchess fell back on another expedient. In his
boastful moments he had told her that he had confided to some of his
lady relations the secret of his attachment to a poor girl, and that,
charmed with "the romance of the thing," they had promised to assist
in reconciling him with his father, should any discovery take place.
The Duchess, to his annoyance, remembered this, as she remembered
every word he had spoken with reference to himself and his fine
friends; and she stipulated that, as he objected to Sally, one of
these ladies should accompany her. Seeing no way to the accomplishment
of this end, he had argued with her and endeavoured to talk away her
resolution. But the more he argued, the more obstinate the Duchess had
become, and he was compelled to promise that her whim should be
complied with.
"And mind," she said to him before they parted, "your lady friend and
I must go away from London by ourselves. You can meet us in the
country if you like, but when you come we must be together."
With this understanding they had parted an hour before his visit to
Mrs. Lenoir.
As he stood considering these matters in the presence of Mrs. Lenoir,
who, uneasy at the turn the conversation had taken, was waiting
anxiously for him to speak, a happy idea, as he believed it to be,
flashed across his mind. Why should he not come to an understanding
with this woman, whose appearance was so lady-like and whose manners
were so gentle, and palm her off upon the Duchess as one of his lady
friends who had consented to accompany her in her flight? It was not
at all likely that the Duchess, supposing Mrs. Lenoir were well and
fashionably dressed, would recognise in her the woman whose face she
had seen but once, and that but for a moment or two, and in a dim,
uncertain light. Once away from England, and free from the fears of
detection which were beginning to oppress him, he would experience no
difficulty in getting rid of the encumbrance, and pursuing his journey
to America with the Duchess alone. His eyes brightened as he looked
into Mrs. Lenoir's troubled face, and said, with just a glance at
Lizzie:
"I should like to have a few words with you in private."
"Leave us, Lizzie," said Mrs. Lenoir.
With a little toss of her head, indicative of a grudge against the
stranger for depriving her of the means of gratifying her curiosity,
Lizzie left the room.
"Mrs. Lenoir," said Ned, casting about in his mind for the proper
words to use, and quite unconscious that he was the object of a deeper
scrutiny than he had bestowed upon the woman before him; "Mrs.
Lenoir--by the bye, that _is_ your name?"
"Have you reason to doubt it?" enquired Mrs. Lenoir, with quickened
breath.
"No; I only asked out of idle curiosity," adding, with familiar
assurance, "Mrs. Lenoir, you are a poor woman."
Mrs. Lenoir made a motion with her hand, which denoted that the
appearance of her room afforded a sufficient answer to the question.
Her eyes never left his face, as though they were seeking to see the
workings of his mind.
"You need give yourself no uneasiness," proceeded Ned, "about the
cigar-case."
"I know nothing whatever of it."
"I am not implying that you do."
"Of course you are not--as a gentleman speaking to a lady."
"By Jove! that is the way to put it," cried Ned, gratified at this
apparent recognition of his quality. "As a gentleman speaking to a
lady! It is reasonable that I should wish to find it--not for its
value; that is not of the slightest consequence, but because it was a
gift, from my--my----"
"From your----"
"From my father. One wishes to keep such presents as those."
"Naturally."
"You don't speak like a common woman--you don't look like one--and you
are just the woman I want."
"Has what you are saying anything to do with the young lady I saw last
night?"
"You have hit it again. It has to do with her. Shall I go on?"
Mrs. Lenoir was keeping a stern control over her feelings. She saw
that the man was acting a part; she saw that he was no gentleman, and
that it behoved her to be careful if she wished to serve the girl who,
without any reason but that born of an almost despairing hope, she
believed to be her child.
"Yes; go on."
"I am going to give you my confidence," he said grandiloquently.
"I am waiting to receive it."
"Well, you know, we are in love with each other."
"You told me so last night."
"But our positions are different. I am a gentleman, and she is----"
"A lady."
"In one way, a lady; but you see she has been brought up in a common
way, and among common people that it wouldn't do for me to mix with.
My family will be mad enough with me as it is, but I dare say I can
smooth them over after a bit, if I can show them that the girl has
entirely thrown off her old companions and friends."
"What is it you propose to do, then?"
"To run away with her."
Mrs. Lenoir pressed her hand to her heart to still its wild beating;
to her comprehension, quickened as it was by love, the villainy of
this man was clearly unfolding itself; his tone, his words, his
manner, were all betraying him.
"Gentlemen have run away with poor girls before to-day," he said, with
an airy contemplation of the ring on his finger.
"Oh, yes."
"But the little witch refuses to elope unless I provide her with a
lady-companion." A grateful light was in Mrs. Lenoir's eyes, and a
feeling of devout thankfulness in her heart. "Well, now, if you'll
agree to one thing, you shall be that lady-companion."
"I will agree to anything."
"You're a sensible woman. It isn't much to do. You must let the girl
understand that you're a relation of mine--an aunt, say. She has set
her foolish little mind upon it, and it won't do any harm to humour
her. Do you agree?"
"Yes; when shall I see her?"
"The sooner the thing's done the better. I hate shilly-shallying. I'll
send you a message this afternoon, perhaps."
"Had you not better write or come to me?"
"I mayn't be able to come; I'll write. My plan is this: that you and
the young lady shall meet at a railway station, and take a train to
the place I fix upon; I will follow by an after train, and pick you up
in the country."
"That is a good plan," said Mrs. Lenoir, with secret joy at the
opportunity he was affording her of rescuing the girl from the snare
he had laid for her. "I will prepare myself."
"Make yourself presentable; dress like a lady, that's it. Here's some
money--buy what you think you'll want--a fashionable dress and a spicy
bonnet--it will help you to play your part; you've got good taste, I
see." He placed two five-pound notes on the table. "Now I'm off."
"You will not mind my asking you a question," said Mrs. Lenoir, with
lips that quivered, in spite of herself.
"Ask away."
"Has the young lady no mother?"
The words were uttered very slowly. It seemed to her that her life
hung upon his answer.
"Oh, make your mind easy about that! She has no mother--never had
one," with a coarse laugh. "She might be a princess for all that's
known about her. But that's no business of yours."
"No. You will be sure to write to me?"
"Do you think," said Ned, with a significant look at the bank-notes,
"that I'd be such a fool with my money if I didn't mean what I've
said? Not likely! Take care and act the character well--tell her any
stories you like about swell ladies and fine people--she likes to hear
'em. Goodbye, aunty."
With a familiar nod and swagger he passed out of the room.
Almost before Mrs. Lenoir had time to recover her composure, she was
rejoined by Lizzie, whose appearance betokened a state of great
excitement.
"Oh, Mrs. Lenoir," she cried, "Charlie knows him--Charlie knows him!"
"Knows whom?"
"The gentleman who has just gone out. Charlie ran round in his dinner
hour to see me, and we were talking together in the passage when the
gentleman passed. Charlie knew him directly, although it's years since
he saw him, and although Charlie was only a boy at the time. His
name's Chester--Ned Chester."
"Lizzie, you are lifting a great weight from my heart. He gave me
another name. Are you sure Charlie is right?"
"Am I sure?" repeated Lizzie, with a saucy toss of her head. "Charlie
is never wrong."
"Is Charlie downstairs?"
"No, he has gone back to work."
"Lizzie, will you help me if it is in your power?"
"Ah, that I will--gladly!"
"I have a presentiment that a great crisis in my life is approaching.
I must not stir out of the house; I am waiting for a letter." She took
her purse from her pocket, and counted the money in it; there were
altogether but a very few shillings. "I want money, Lizzie," she said,
casting her eyes rapidly around, and collecting all the small articles
in the room upon which money could be raised. She retained but one
article of value--a miniature of herself, set in a slender framework
of gold. "Run and see what you can get upon these things, Lizzie; the
desk was a valuable one in years gone by. I want every shilling I can
raise."
"I can lend you a little, Mrs. Lenoir."
".God reward you, my dear! I Will take it. You shall be repaid, if I
live."
"I know that. Why, Mrs. Lenoir!" she had caught sight of the
bank-notes on the table.
"It is traitor's money, Lizzie, left by the man who was here a few
minutes since. A curse, instead of a blessing might fall upon me if I
used one penny of it."
At five o'clock in the afternoon, Mrs. Lenoir received the following
note:
"Meet the young lady at Ludgate Hill Station at half-past six o'clock.
You will find her waiting for you in the ladies' room. I have decided
upon Sevenoaks as a good starting-place. I will see you there
to-night.
"A.T."
CHAPTER XXVII
A fortunate chance revealed to Seth Dumbrick the knowledge of the
Duchess's flight many hours before she intended him to become
acquainted with it. Both he and Sally had observed a strange and
unaccountable excitement in the Duchess's manner, and had spoken of it
in confidence to each other. She had been absent twice during the day,
and when on the second occasion she returned, her restlessness was so
marked that it communicated itself to her friends. It was not without
fear, nor without some sense of the ingratitude of the act, that the
Duchess prepared secretly for flight, and more than once her courage
almost failed her; but she fortified herself with the reflection that
she could return at the last moment if she wished, and that she had
time before her to retract.
She had no real love for Ned Chester. She liked him, and had been led
away by his attentions and flatteries, by the handsome presents he had
given her, and by the belief that he was rich and a gentleman. All the
sentiment that the future contained for her was that she would be able
to live like a lady. In all other respects the page was blank, and her
history would be written from experiences to come.
Early in the afternoon there was a heavy fall of snow, which, from
appearance, bid fair to continue through the night. In the midst of
the storm, the Duchess stole away from Rosemary Lane.
Within half a mile from home she entered a cab, as she believed
unobserved. But Sally, who was at that moment returning from the
establishment which supplied her with needlework, saw the Duchess's
face, as the cab drove swiftly off. The truth flashed upon her
instantly; the Duchess had gone away from them for ever. Wringing her
hands in despair, she ran after the cab, but it was soon out of sight,
and seeing the hopelessness of pursuit she retraced her steps, and ran
swiftly to Rosemary Lane to acquaint Seth Dumbrick with the
circumstance.
Mention has frequently been made of Mrs. Preedy. To this woman the
Duchess had entrusted a letter accompanied with a bribe, and the
instruction that it was not to be delivered to Seth until the
following morning. In the course of the few anxious minutes which Seth
(after hearing what Sally had to tell him) devoted to the endeavour to
discover a clue in Rosemary Lane, he came across Mrs. Preedy. It
needed no great shrewdness on his part to suspect, from the woman's
important manner, that she had something to impart, and with a small
exercise of cunning he extracted the letter from her.
The mere receipt of it filled him with alarm. He hurried to his
cellar, with Sally at his heels.
"I wouldn't open it before the neighbours," he said to Sally, "for the
Duchess's sake. They're only too ready to talk, and take away a girl's
character."
With this he opened the letter. The words were few:
"I have gone away, and perhaps shall never come back. I will try and
pay you and Sally for all your kindness to me. Don't blame me; I
cannot help what I am doing. When you see me again, I shall be a lady.
Goodbye."
They looked at each other with white faces.
"It has come," said Seth, in a pathetic voice, "What we dreaded has
come. Our child has deserted us. God send that she is not being
deceived; but I fear--I fear!" He paced the cellar for some moments in
anxious thought, and Sally, with all her soul in her eyes, followed
his movements. Presently he straightened himself with the air of a man
who has a serious task before him. "I am going straight to my duty,"
he said. "Kiss me, my dear. Whatever a man can do, I intend to do,
without fear of consequences."
"Let me go with you, Daddy," implored Sally.
"Come along, then; it will be as well, perhaps."
No further words passed between them, and as quickly as it could be
accomplished, the shutters were put up to Seth's stall, and he and
Sally were riding to Mr. Temple's house. On his arrival there Seth
demanded to see Mr. Temple.
The servant conveyed the message to Mr. Temple, coupling it with the
information that the visitor was the person who had lately been turned
from the house by Mr. Temple's orders. Mr. Temple ordered the servant
again to expel him; but the man returned, saying that Seth Dumbrick
declared he must have an interview, and promised that he would not
detain Mr. Temple. The secret of this lay in the servant having been
bribed by Seth.
"The person is not alone, sir," said the servant; "he has a woman with
him."
"Let him come in," said Mr. Temple; "and you yourself will remain
within call."
"Now," said Mr. Temple haughtily, the moment Seth and Sally entered,
"without a word of preamble, the reason of this intrusion. You are,
perhaps, aware that I could have you locked up for forcing your way
into my house."
"In that case," said Seth firmly, "I should be compelled, in the
magistrate's court to make certain matters public. The press is open
to a man's wrongs."
"Clap-trap," exclaimed Mr. Temple. "Come at once to your business with
me."
Seth handed to Mr. Temple the note left by the Duchess with Mrs.
Preedy. Mr. Temple read it in silence, and returned it with the words,
"How does this affect me?"
"My child has fled," said Seth.
"How does _that_ affect me?"
"Your son is with her."
"Twill satisfy you," said Mr. Temple, with a frown, "that you are
labouring under a gross error." He touched the bell; the servant
answered it. "Go to Mr. Arthur Temple, and tell him I desire to see
him."
"He is not in the house, sir."
"Has he been long absent?"
"Not long, sir," replied the man who, through a fellow-servant, was
enabled to give the information. "He left in great haste for the
railway station to catch a train, I heard."
"For what place?"
"For Sevenoaks, sir."
Mr. Temple was aware that Seth's lynx eyes were upon him, and that it
would give the common man an advantage if he exhibited surprise.
"Send Richards to me."
"Richards left the house with your son, sir."
Throughout his life Mr. Temple had proved himself equal to
emergencies.
"You have nothing further to say to me, I presume," he said,
addressing himself to Seth.
"Nothing that your own sense of honour and justice does not dictate,"
was the reply.
"It dictates nothing that you can have a claim to hear. There is the
door."
Seth had his reasons now for not wishing to prolong the interview.
"I will not trouble you any longer, sir. I know what kind of justice I
might expect from you in such a matter as this. From this moment it is
for me to act, not to talk. I have but this to say before I leave. If
my child comes to grief through your son--if he inflicts a wrong upon
her--I will devote my life to exposing both him and you."
He quitted the room upon this, and, giving instructions to the
cab-driver, bade Sally jump in.
"Where are you going now, Daddy?" asked Sally.
"To Sevenoaks. We may yet be in time."
The same train which conveyed him and Sally to Sevenoaks, conveyed
Mr. Temple also. The men did not see each other. Mr. Temple rode
first-class, Seth and Sally third.
The snowstorm showed no sign of abatement; steadily and heavily the
white flakes fell.
The links which fate weaves around human lives were drawing closer and
closer around the lives of the actors in this story; every yard that
was traversed by the train, conveying Seth and Mr. Temple,
strengthened the threads which for years had been so far distant from
one another, that nothing but the strangest circumstance could have
prevented them from eventually breaking. As Seth gazed from the window
upon the falling snow, he prayed that he might be in time to save the
child of his love, or to assure himself that she was on the right
track. To Mr. Temple the heavy snowfall brought the memory of a night
long buried in the past, when he had stood hidden near a quaint old
church, while strangers' hands were saving from death the woman he had
betrayed. And an uneasy feeling crept into his mind at the thought
that the church was within a mile of the place towards which he was
wending his way.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
The thoughts which occupied the mind of Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess
when they met at the railway-station were of too disturbing a nature
to allow of conversation. Only a few words were exchanged. Mrs.
Lenoir, who was the first to arrive, accosted the Duchess immediately
she entered the waiting-room.
"You are the young lady I am to accompany to Sevenoaks?"
The uttermost power of her will could not prevent her voice from
trembling.
The Duchess glanced at the speaker, but her agitation prevented her
from closely observing Mrs. Lenoir. She saw, however, that Mrs.
Lenoir's dress and manner were those of a lady.
"Mr. Temple told me I should meet a lady here," said the Duchess.
"I saw him to-day," returned Mrs. Lenoir, "and it was arranged that I
should come to you."
The gentle voice acted soothingly upon the Duchess.
"I have the tickets; the train starts at a quarter to seven. What a
dreadful night it is! We must be quick, or we shall miss the train."
"We have ample time," said Mrs. Lenoir, looking at the clock; "it is
not half-past six. You look faint and weary, my dear; have you had
tea?"
"No."
"Come into the refreshment-room, and, drink a cup. It will do you
good."
Every nerve in Mrs. Lenoir's body quivered as the girl placed her hand
in hers; they went together to the refreshment-room, where they drank
their tea, and then, hurrying to the train, they entered a first-class
carriage. The journey was made in silence; the carriage was full, and
such converse as they could hold could not take place in the presence
of strangers. The Duchess leant back upon the soft cushions and closed
her eyes, and Mrs. Lenoir watched her with silent love. She saw in the
Duchess's face so startling a likeness to her own when she herself was
a girl, that words were scarcely needed to prove to her that her child
was sitting by her side. But that she knew that all her physical and
mental strength was required to compass the end she had in view, she
could not have restrained her feelings.
In due time they arrived at Sevenoaks, and Mrs. Lenoir inquired
whether they were to wait at the station.
"Oh, no," said the Duchess, handing a paper to Mrs. Lenoir. "Mr.
Temple has written what we are to do."
Mrs. Lenoir read the instructions, to the effect that when they
reached Sevenoaks they were to take a fly and drive to an hotel, the
"Empire," where, in accordance with a telegram he had sent to the
proprietor, they would find rooms prepared for them.
"Stay here a moment, my dear," said Mrs. Lenoir.
She went to a porter, and asked him whether the "Empire" was a
respectable hotel.
"It's one of the best in Sevenoaks," was the reply. "Shall I get you a
fly?"
"If you please."
She quickly decided that the best course to pursue was to go at once
to the hotel, where she could unravel the plot to the Duchess; events
would determine what was to follow. Before she rejoined the Duchess
she walked to a young man and woman, who were standing on the platform
a little apart from the throng, and spoke to them. This couple had
travelled third-class from London by the same train; Mrs. Lenoir had
seen them at Ludgate Hill Station, but it had been understood between
them that they should not appear to know each other.
"You have proved yourselves good friends to me," she said to them
hurriedly; "we are going to an hotel called the 'Empire.' Follow us at
once, and be ready to come to me if I want you there."
They signified by a gesture that they understood and would obey her,
and then Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess walked to the fly, and drove to
the "Empire."
They found the rooms ready, and the landlady herself led them up the
stairs. A bright fire was burning, and everything presented a cheerful
appearance. The Duchess took off her gloves, and Mrs. Lenoir assisted
her to remove her hat and cloak, and removed her own hat and veil.
Then, for the first time on that night, the girl saw Mrs. Lenoir's
face in full, clear light. She started back, with an exclamation of
alarm.
"I have seen you before!"
"Yes, my dear--but do not avoid me; I implore you to listen to me! It
is not I who am deceiving you--indeed, indeed, it is not! I am here
for your good."
"I do not understand," said the Duchess, looking vaguely around. "Mr.
Temple said that a lady-relative would meet me at the station. Are you
not a relative of his?"
"I am not in any way related to the man who has been paying his
addresses to you----"
"Of the gentleman, you mean," interrupted the Duchess, with a pride
that was made pitiable by the doubt and suspicion that was mingled
with it.
"As you will, my child. I will speak of him presently. There is
something nearer to my heart, which will break if you do not listen to
what I have to say."
"I cannot listen," said the Duchess, "until you prove in some way that
you are not deceiving me."
"Thank God, I have the proof with me. On the night you saw me lying
senseless in the snow, this gentleman you call Mr. Temple was with
you."
"Yes, and when I left you he promised to help you home."
"He kept his promise, and learned where I live. I had never seen him
before, nor had he ever seen me; we were utter strangers to each
other. Yet to-day, this very morning, he came to me, and proposed that
I should enter into a plot to betray you! He proposed that I should
present myself to you as his aunt, as a lady who was favourable to his
elopement with you, and that in this capacity I should accompany you
here. For your good I consented--to save you I am here. Say that you
believe me."
"Part of what you say must be true; but you said you have the proof
with you--what proof, and what are you going to prove?"
"That this man is no gentleman--that he is a villain--and that his
name is not Temple. On my knees--on my knees!--I thank God that it is
in my power to save you from the fatal precipice upon which you are
standing! Trust me--believe in me; I am a woman like yourself, and my
life has been a life of bitter, bitter sorrow!"
She was on her knees before the Duchess, clasping the girl's hands,
and gazing imploringly into her face. Her strange passion, the
earnestness of her words, her suffering gentle face, were not without
their effect upon the frightened girl; but some kind of stubbornness
to believe that her hopes of becoming a lady were on the point of
being overturned rendered her deaf to the appeal in any other way than
it affected herself. The threatened discovery was so overwhelming as
to leave no room for pity or sympathy for the woman kneeling before
her.
"Where is your proof?" asked the Duchess.
Mrs. Lenoir started to her feet, and ringing the bell, gave a
whispered instruction to the maid who answered it. In a few moments
Lizzie and Charlie entered the room. They were the persons who came
third-class from London, by the same train which conveyed Mrs. Lenoir
and the Duchess to Sevenoaks; with some vague idea that she might need
Charlie's testimony, Mrs. Lenoir had begged Lizzie to ask him to come.
"Lizzie," said Mrs. Lenoir, "will you tell this young lady what you
know of me?"
"I know nothing but good, Mrs. Lenoir," replied Lizzie, taking her
hand, and kissing it; "there isn't a man or woman in our neighbourhood
who hasn't a kind word for you."
"My dear," said Mrs. Lenoir, addressing the Duchess, "this is a girl
who lives in the same house as I do, and who has known me for years.
What is the matter with you, Lizzie?" For the girl was gazing at the
Duchess with a look of wild admiration and interest.
"I beg your pardon," said Lizzie, "but is the young lady your daughter
that you spoke to me of last night----"
Lizzie was stopped in her speech by a sob from Mrs. Lenoir, who hid
her face in her hands, and turned from them, hearing as she turned, a
whisper from the Duchess:
"What does she mean? Your daughter! Oh, my God! Let me look at you
again."
But Mrs. Lenoir kept her face hidden from the girl, and said, with
broken sobs:
"Let me have my way a little, my dear. I will speak more plainly
presently, when we are alone. Give me your hand----"
She held the pretty fingers which the Duchess gave her, with a
clinging loving pressure which caused the girl's heart to thrill with
hope and fear.
"Hear what Lizzie has to say first. Lizzie, you were in my room this
morning when a gentleman called to see me?"
"Yes, Mrs. Lenoir."
"You heard him inquiring for me?"
"Yes."
"Did he give any name?"
"After he left, I heard that he called himself Mr. Temple."
While these words were spoken, Mrs. Lenoir, finding herself unable to
stand, sank into a chair, and the Duchess, sinking to her knees, hid
her face in her lap, holding Mrs. Lenoir's hand.
"Describe the man, Lizzie," said Mrs. Lenoir.
Lizzie did so in a graphic manner; the portrait she presented was
truthful and unmistakable. Every word that was being uttered was
carrying conviction to the Duchess's soul.
"When he left the house," said Mrs. Lenoir, "Charlie and you--Charlie
and Lizzie are engaged, my dear, and will soon be married,"--this to
the Duchess--"Charlie and you were in the passage, and he passed you."
"Yes."
"Charlie, you saw his face?"
"I did, ma'am."
"And recognised it?"
"As sure as anything's sure, though a good many years have gone by
since I saw it last."
"Was his name Temple?"
"Not by a long way."
"Tell me his name again, Charlie."
"Ned Chester his name was, and is," added Charlie positively.
At the mention of the name a shudder passed through the Duchess's
frame.
"What character did he bear when you knew him?"
"A precious bad one; not to put too fine a point upon it, he was a
thief."
"That will do, Charlie. Good night; good night, Lizzie."
"Good night, Mrs. Lenoir, God bless you."
"Thank you, my dears."
In another moment Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess were again alone.
The questions had been asked by Mrs. Lenoir with the distinct purpose
of convincing the Duchess that she was acting in good faith and for
the girl's good. She felt that she was on her trial, as it were, and
out of the teachings of her own sad experience she gathered wisdom to
act in such a way as to win confidence. On the Duchess the effect
produced was convincing, so far as the man whose attention she had
accepted was concerned; but a dual process of thought was working in
her mind--one associated with the lover who would have betrayed her,
the other associated with the woman who had stepped between her and
her peril.
"My dear," said Mrs. Lenoir, after an interval of silence, during
which the Duchess had not raised her head, and Mrs. Lenoir was
strengthening herself for the coming trial, "will you give me what
information you can concerning yourself which will help to guide us
both in this sad hour?"
A pressure of her fingers answered her in the affirmative.
"Keep your eyes from me till I bid you rise," continued Mrs. Lenoir,
with heaving bosom. "Where do you live?"
"In Rosemary Lane."
"Have you lived all your life there?"
"Since I was a very little child."
"You were not born there?"
"Oh, no; I do not know where I was born----" Mrs. Lenoir's eyes
wandered to the window which shut out the night. She could not see it,
but she felt that the snow was falling; "and," said the Duchess in a
faltering voice, "I cannot remember seeing the face of my mother."
"Tell me all you know, my dear; conceal nothing from me."
In broken tones the girl told every particular of her history, from
her introduction into Rosemary Lane, as the incident had been related
to her by Seth Dumbrick, to the present and first great trial in life.
"Look up, my dear."
The Duchess raised her eyes, almost blinded with tears. Mrs. Lenoir
tenderly wiped them away, and placed in the girl's hand the miniature
portrait of herself, painted in her younger and happier days.
"It is like me," murmured the girl.
"It is my picture when I was your age." She sank to her knees by the
side of the Duchess. "At this time and in this place my story is too
long to tell. You shall learn all by-and-by, when we are safe. I had a
child--a daughter, born on such a night as this, in sorrow and
tribulation. My memory is too treacherous, and the long and severe
illness I passed through was too terrible in its effects upon me, to
enable me to recall the circumstances of that period of my life. But I
had my child, and she drew life from my breast, and brought gleams of
happiness to my troubled soul. I have no recollection how long a time
passed, till a deep darkness fell upon me; but when I recovered, and
my reason was restored to me, I was told that my child was dead. I had
no power to prove that it was false; I was weak, friendless,
penniless, and I wandered into the world solitary and alone. But
throughout all my weary and sorrowful life, a voice--God's
voice--never ceased whispering to me that my child was alive, and that
I should one day meet her, and clasp her to my heart! In this hope
alone I have lived; but for this hope I should have died long years
ago. Heaven has fulfilled its promise, and has brought you to my arms.
I look into your face, and I see the face of my child; I listen to
your voice, and I hear the voice of my child! God would not deceive
me! In time to come, when you have heard my story, we will, if you
decide that it shall be so, seek for worldly proof. I think I see the
way to it, and if it is possible it shall be found."
She rose from her knees, and standing apart from the wondering weeping
girl, said, in a low voice, between her sobs:
"In my youth I was wronged. I was innocent, as God is my judge! My
fault was, that I trusted and believed; that I, a young girl
inexperienced in the world's hard ways, listened to the vows of a man,
whom I loved with all my soul's strength; whom I believed in as I
believe in Eternal justice! That was my sin. I have been bitterly
punished; no kiss of love, no word of affection that I could receive
as truly my right, has been bestowed upon me since I was robbed of my
child. I have been in darkness for years; I am in darkness now,
waiting for the light to shine upon my soul!"
It came. Tender arms stole about her neck, loving lips were pressed to
hers. In an agony of joy she clasped the girl to her bosom, and wept
over her. For only a few moments did she allow herself the bliss of
this reunion. She looked, affrighted, to a clock on the mantelpiece.
"At what time did that man say he would be here to meet us?" she asked
in a hurried whisper.
"At eleven o'clock," was the whispered reply.
"It wants but five minutes to the hour. We must go, child; we must fly
from this place. No breath of suspicion must attach itself to my
child's good name. Come--quickly, quickly!"
The Duchess allowed Mrs. Lenoir to put on her hat and cloak, and
before the hour struck they were in the street, hastening through the
snow.
Whither? She knew not. But fate was directing her steps.
CHAPTER XXIX.
They did not escape unobserved, and within a short time of their
departure from the hotel, were being tracked by friend and foe. The
ostler attached to the hotel saw the woman stealing away, and noted
the direction they took; and when Ned Chester drove to the "Empire"
and heard with dismay of the flight, the ostler turned an honest penny
by directing him on their road. He turned more than one honest penny
on this--to him--fortunate night. Richards, who had made himself fully
acquainted with Ned's movements, arrived at the hotel, in company with
Arthur Temple, a few minutes after the runaway thief left it, and had
no difficulty in obtaining the information he required.
"Two birds with one stone, sir," he said to Arthur; "we shall catch
the thief and save the girl."
"We may be too late if we go afoot," said Arthur; "every moment is
precious. Now, my man," to the ostler, "your fastest horse and your
lightest trap. A guinea for yourself if they are ready without delay;
another guinea if we overtake the persons we are after."
"I'll earn them both, sir," cried the ostler, running to the stable
door. "You go into the hotel and speak to the missis."
No sooner said than done. Before the horse was harnessed, the landlady
had been satisfied.
"My name is Temple," said Arthur to her in a heat, after the first
words of explanation. "Here is my card, and here is some money as a
guarantee. It is a matter of life and death, and the safety of an
innocent girl hangs upon the moments."
His excitement communicated itself to the landlady, who was won by his
good looks and his enthusiasm, and she herself ran out to expedite the
matter. They were soon on the road, but not soon enough to prevent Ned
Chester from having more than a fair start of them.
Richards, who held the reins, needed no such incentive to put on the
best speed as his young master's impatience unremittingly provided. As
rapidly as possible the horse ploughed its way through the heavy snow.
Their course lay beyond the railway station, and as they passed it the
few passengers by a train which had just arrived were emerging from
the door. To Arthur Temple's surprise Richards, whose lynx eyes were
watching every object, suddenly pulled up in the middle of the road.
"Hold the reins a moment, sir," he said jumping from the conveyance;
"here's somebody may be useful."
He had caught sight of two faces he recognised, those of Sally and
Seth Dumbrick.
"Have you come here after the Duchess?" he asked, arresting his steps.
"Yes. Oh! yes," answered Sally, in amazement. Richards pulled her
towards the conveyance, and Seth followed close at her heels.
"Jump in," said Richards, who by this time was fully enjoying the
adventure. "I'll take you to her. Don't stop to ask questions; there's
no time to answer them."
Seth hesitated, but a glance at Arthur's truthful, ingenuous face
dispelled his doubts, and he mounted the conveyance with Sally, and
entered into earnest conversation with the young man.
Mrs. Lenoir, when she stole with the Duchess through the streets of
Sevenoaks, had but one object in view--to escape from the town into
the country, where she believed they would be safe from pursuit.
Blindly she led the way until she came to the country. Fortunately at
about this time the snow ceased to fall, and the exciting events of
the night rendered her and the Duchess oblivious to the difficulties
which attended their steps. So unnerved was the Duchess by what had
occurred that she was bereft of all power over her will, and she
allowed herself unresistingly, and without question, to be led by Mrs.
Lenoir to a place of safety and refuge. They encouraged each other by
tender words and caresses, and Mrs. Lenoir looked anxiously before her
for a cottage or farmhouse, where they could obtain shelter and a bed.
But no such haven was in sight until they were at some distance from
the town, when the devoted woman saw a building which she hoped might
prove what she was in search of. As they approached closer to the
building she was undeceived; before her stood a quaint old church,
with a hooded porch, and a graveyard by its side. A sudden faintness
came upon her as she recognised the familiar outlines of the sacred
refuge in which her child was born; but before the full force of this
recognition had time to make itself felt, her thoughts were wrested
from contemplation of the strange coincidence by sounds of pursuing
shouts.
Her mother's fears, her mother's love, interpreted the sounds aright,
and she knew that they proceeded from the man from whom they were
endeavouring to escape. Seizing the Duchess's arm, she flew towards
the porch, and reaching it at the moment Ned Chester overtook them,
thrust the girl into the deeper shadows, and stood before her child
with flashing eyes with her arms spread out as a shield.
"So!" cried Ned Chester, panting and furious; "a pretty trick you have
played me! Serve me right for trusting to such a woman!"
He strove to push her aside, so that he might have speech with the
Duchess, and Mrs. Lenoir struck him in the face. He laughed at the
feeble blow--not lightly, but mockingly. The savage nature of the man
was roused. He raised his hand to return the blow, when the Duchess
stepped forward and confronted him. His arm dropped to his side.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked, endeavouring to convey some
tenderness in his tone. "What has this creature been telling you? She
has been poisoning your mind against me, if I'm a judge of things.
Come, be reasonable; take my arm, and let us return to the hotel."
But his power over the girl was gone; the brutality of his manner was
a confirmation of the story she had heard of his treachery towards
her.
"Mr. Chester," she said--and paused, frightened at the change which
came over him at the utterance of his name. His face grew white, and
an ugly twitching played about his lips.
"What have you heard?" he demanded hoarsely.
She mustered sufficient strength to reply faintly.
"The truth."
His savage nature mastered him. With a cruel sweep of his arm, he
dashed Mrs. Lenoir to the ground, and clasped the Duchess in a fierce
embrace. Her shrieks pierced the air.
"Help! Help!"
Her appeal was answered, almost on the instant. An iron grasp upon his
neck compelled him to relinquish his hold of the terrified girl. Seth
Dumbrick held him as in a vice and he had no power to free himself.
The warning voice of Richards was needed to put a limit to the strong
man's just resentment:
"Don't hurt him any more than is necessary, Mr. Seth Dumbrick. There's
a rod in pickle for him worse than anything you can do to him."
"Lie there, you dog!" exclaimed Seth, forcing Ned Chester to the
ground, and placing his foot upon his breast. "Stir an inch, and I
will kill you!"
While this episode in the drama was being enacted, another of a
different kind was working itself out. When the Duchess was released
by Ned Chester, Arthur Temple threw his arm around her, to prevent her
from falling.
"Do not be frightened," he said, in a soothing tone, "you are safe
now. I am glad we are in time. My name is Arthur Temple."
They gazed at each other in rapt admiration. To Arthur, the beauty of
the Duchess was a revelation. In the struggle with Ned Chester, her
hat had fallen from her head, and her hair lay upon her shoulders in
heavy golden folds. Her lovely eyes, suffused with tears, were raised
to his face in gratitude. For a moment she was blind to everything but
the appearance of this hero, who, as it seemed to her fevered fancy,
had descended from Heaven to rescue her. But a cry of compassion from
Sally brought her back to earth, and, turning, she saw her faithful
nurse and companion kneeling in the snow, with Mrs. Lenoir's head in
her lap. She flew to her side, and tremblingly assisted Sally in her
endeavour to restore the insensible woman to life. But the blow which
Ned Chester had dealt Mrs. Lenoir was a fierce one; she lay as one
dead, and when, after some time, she showed signs of life, she feebly
waved her hands, in the effort to beat away a shadowed horror, and
moaned:
"Will he never come? Will he never come?"
She was living the past over again. Her mind had gone back to the time
when, assisted by John, the gardener of Springfield, she had travelled
in agony through the heavy snow, to implore the man who had betrayed
and deserted her to take pity on her hapless state, and to render her
some kind of human justice, if not for her sake, for the sake of his
child, then unborn. And the thought which oppressed her and filled her
with dread at that awful epoch of her life, now found expression on
her lips:
"Will he never come? Oh, my God! will he never come?"
"Do you think," whispered Arthur Temple to Seth Dumbrick, who had
given Ned Chester into Richards' charge, "that we might raise her into
the trap, and drive her slowly to the town?"
The tender arms about her desisted from their effort as she moaned:
"If you raise me in your arms, I shall die! If you attempt to carry me
into the town, I shall die!"
The very words she had spoken to John on that night of agony. And then
again:
"Will he never come? If he saw me, he would take pity on me! Send him
to me, kind Heaven!"
Another actor appeared upon the scene,--Mr. Temple, who, accompanied
by the ostler, had found his way to the spot.
"Arthur!" he cried.
The young man rose at once to his feet, and went to his father.
Mr. Temple, in the brief glance he threw around him, saw faces he
recognised; saw Richards guarding Ned Chester, saw Seth Dumbrick and
Sally, saw, without observing her face, Mrs. Lenoir lying with her
head on the Duchess's bosom. He did not look at them a second time.
His only thought was of Arthur, the pride and hope of his life, the
one being he loved on earth.
"What has brought you here, sir?" asked Arthur. "Anxiety for you,"
replied Mr. Temple. "Why do I see you in this company? How much is
true of the story that man told me?"--pointing to Seth Dumbrick. "If
you have got yourself into any trouble----"
The look of pained surprise in Arthur's face prevented the completion
of the sentence. The father and son had moved a few paces from the
group, and the words they exchanged were heard only by themselves.
"If I have got myself into any trouble!" echoed Arthur, struggling
with the belief his father's words carried to his mind. "What trouble
do you refer to?"
"We must not play with words, Arthur. My meaning is plain. If that
man's story is true, and you have entangled yourself with a
woman--such things commonly happen----"
"For both our sakes," said Arthur, drawing himself up, "say not
another word. I came here to save an innocent girl from a villain's
snare. When you find me guilty of any such wickedness as your words
imply, renounce me as your son--as I would renounce a son of mine if
unhappily he should prove himself capable of an act so base and cruel!
The name of Temple is not to be sullied by such dishonour!"
Mr. Temple shuddered involuntarily, remembering that it was on this
very spot he, a mature and worldly-wise man, had been guilty of an act
immeasurably more base and dishonourable than that in the mind of his
generous-hearted son.
"Come, sir," said Arthur, taking his father's hand, and leading him to
the group, "do justice to others as well as to myself. This is the
young lady whom, happily, we have saved. Confess that you have never
looked upon a fairer face, nor one more innocent."
Mr. Temple's breath came and went quickly as the Duchess raised her
tear-stained face to his. At this moment, Mrs. Lenoir, with a deep
sigh, opened her eyes and saw Mr. Temple bending over her. With a
shriek that struck terror to the hearts of those who surrounded her,
she struggled from the arms of the Duchess, and embraced the knees of
Mr. Temple.
"You have come, then--you have come! Heaven has heard my prayers! I
knew you would not desert me! Oh, God! my joy will kill me!"
And looking down upon the kneeling woman, clasping his knees in a
delirium of false happiness, Mr. Temple, with a face that rivalled in
whiteness the snow-covered plains around him, gazed into the face of
Nelly Marston!
A suspicion of the possible truth struggled to the mind of the
Duchess.
"Mother!" she said, in a voice of much tenderness, raising the
prostrate woman from her knees, and supporting her, "why should you
kneel to him?"
The tender voice, the tender embrace, the sudden flashing upon her
senses of the forms standing about her, recalled Mrs. Lenoir from her
dream, and she clung to her daughter with a fierce and passionate
clinging.
"My child! my child! They shall not take you from me! Say that you
will not desert me--promise me, my child! I will work for you--I will
be your servant--anything----"
"Hush, mother!" said the girl. "Be comforted. I will never leave you.
No power can part us."
With a supreme effort of will, Mr. Temple tore himself from the
contemplation of the shameful discovery, and the likely consequences
of the exposure.
"Come, Arthur," he said, holding out his trembling hand to his son;
"this is no place for us."
His voice was weak and wandering, and he seemed to have suddenly grown
ten years older.
Arthur did not stir from the side of Mrs. Lenoir.
"Come, I say!" cried Mr. Temple petulantly; "have you no consideration
for me? It can all be explained; we will talk over the matter when we
are alone."
"We must talk of it now," said Arthur solemnly, "with God's light
shining upon us, and before His House of Prayer."
A high purpose shone in the young man's face, and his manner was sad
and earnest. He took Mrs. Lenoir's hand with infinite tenderness and
respect:
"Will you answer, with truth, what I shall ask you?"
"As truthfully as I would speak in presence of my Maker!" replied Mrs.
Lenoir, with downcast head.
"This gentleman is my father. What is he to you?"
"He is the father of my dear child, torn from me by a cruel fraud, and
now, thank God, Oh, thank God! restored to me by a miracle. He should
have been my husband. When he prevailed upon me to fly with him--I
loved him, and was true to him in thought and deed, as God is my
Judge!--he promised solemnly to marry me."
"And then----"
"I can say no more," murmured Mrs. Lenoir with sobs that shook the
souls of all who heard; "he deserted me, and left me to shame and
poverty. O, my child!" she cried, turning her streaming eyes to the
Duchess, "tell me that you forgive me!"
"It is not you who need forgiveness, mother," sobbed the Duchess,
falling into her mother's arms.
A terrible silence ensued, broken by the querulous voice of Mr.
Temple:
"This woman's story is false. Arthur, will you take her word against
mine? Remember what I have done for you--think of the love I bear you!
Do nothing rash, I implore you! Say, if you like, that she has not
lied. I will be kind to her, and will see that her life is passed in
comfort. Will that content you?" He paused between every sentence for
his son to speak, but no sound passed Arthur's lips. From the depths
of his soul, whose leading principles were honour and justice, the
young man was seeking for the right path. Exasperated by his silence,
Mr. Temple continued, and in a rash moment said: "What can she adduce
but her bare word? What evidence that the girl is my child?"
A voice from the rear of the group supplied the proof he asked for. It
was Richards who spoke.
"I can give the evidence. The girl is your child."
Mr. Temple turned upon him with a look of fear, and the eyes of all
were directed to Richards' face.
The scene had produced so profound an effect upon the man that,
holding the last link required to complete the chain, he was impressed
with a superstitious dread that a judgment would fall upon him if he
held back at this supreme moment.
"The child is yours. Before you instructed me to ascertain the
particulars concerning Seth Dumbrick's life, I had made the discovery.
It was I who took the child to Rosemary Lane, and left her there."
"You traitor!" cried Mr. Temple, almost frenzied; "you have deceived
and betrayed me!"
"You told me," said Richards, in a dogged voice, "that you wished the
child placed in such a position in life that she should never be able
to suspect who was her father, and I did the best I could. You
employed me to do your dirty work, and I did it, and was paid for it.
And when, to try you, I told you that your child had died, you
expressed in your manner so little pity, that, having learned to know
you, I thought it as well not to undeceive you."
The last link was supplied, and the chain was complete. This
disclosure effected a startling change in Mr. Temple's demeanour. He
drew himself up haughtily. "Arthur, I command you to come with me."
"I cannot obey you, sir," said Arthur sadly and firmly. "You have
broken the tie which bound us. I will never enter your house again;
nor will I share your dishonour. Justice shows me the road where duty
lies, and I will follow it."
He held out his hand to the Duchess; she accepted it, and clasped it
in love and wonder; and passing his disengaged arm around Mrs.
Lenoir's waist, he turned his back upon his father, and took the road
which justice pointed out to him.
* * * * * *
But a short distance from the country place in which Seth Dumbrick and
the children of his adoption spent their holiday, is a pretty and
comfortable residence standing in its own grounds. Here lives Nelly
Marston and her daughter, no longer bearing the name of the Duchess of
Rosemary Lane, but the more simple and natural one of Kate. Happily
the faults of our young heroine are not uneradicable, and under the
loving ministration of her devoted mother she is gradually developing
a sweetness and simplicity of nature which will bear good fruit in the
future. The long-suffering mother is happy beyond her wildest hopes,
and night and morning she bends her knees in gratitude, and offers up
prayers of thankfulness for the life of love she is enjoying. That she
is enabled to live this life in ease and comfort is due to Arthur
Temple, who, having some private fortune of his own through a legacy
left to him in childhood, is able in this way to make some
compensation to the trusting woman whom his father betrayed. He comes
to the happy home at intervals, and calls Kate his sister, and pays to
Kates' mother a respect in which something of reverence finds a place.
To this home, also, every fortnight, come Seth Dumbrick and Sally,
from Saturday afternoon to Monday morning, and at rarer intervals
Nelly Marston and her daughter pay visits to Rosemary Lane, and pass
happy hours in Seth's cellar.
So much for the present. What lies in the future?
It may be that Arthur Temple and his father may become reconciled, but
the old ties are broken, and in the son's future the father shall play
no part. The father's head is no longer erect and proud: his sin has
found him out, and his dearest hopes are crushed. It is just.
It may be that our heroine may meet with a man who will woo her
honourably, and that when she has children of her own, the better
lessons which her mother is imparting will prove to be indeed the best
blessing which could fall to her lot.
But it cannot be that Nelly Marston's happiness shall be greater than
it is at present. It is full and perfect, and the past is atoned for.
Despite the verdict which too censorious people might pass upon her,
Nelly Marston's home is a home of innocence and virtue.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's The Duchess of Rosemary Lane, by B. L. Farjeon