THE LAST APPEAL.
“I am very glad to know you, Sir Charles,” Arley said, her eyes
lingering on the pleasant-sounding English name, while her heart
quickened its pulsations as she thought perhaps he might assist her
about going home, “and,” with a wistful look into his kind face, “I
should like to trespass upon your goodness still further, and ask if
you will help me to find some one who is about returning to England,
and who would be willing to grant me a little protection.”
Sir Charles’ face lighted with pleasure at this request. “Would you
go with me?--with us, I should say, for my mother and I are traveling
together.”
Arley’s heart bounded within her at this.
Nothing could be better than for her to be under the protection of an
elderly lady, and this kind, noble young man who was her son.
“If you would not mind being troubled with me, I should be very
grateful,” she returned, with quivering lips and tear-laden eyes.
She tried to be brave through all that dreadful trial, but now the
prospect of going home, under safe protection, bade fair to unnerve her
completely.
“Do not call it trouble,” he returned, gently, “it would give us great
pleasure to have you with us. We shall travel for three or four months
longer, and then return.”
Arley’s face fell, and the fond hope which had animated her but a
moment before died within her.
“I am afraid I cannot go with you, then,” she said, a vivid blush
dyeing all her face; “for I am obliged to be frank with you--I have not
the means to travel. I have barely enough to--to take me home.”
Sir Charles looked embarrassed, even distressed at this acknowledgment.
He would gladly have offered to defray all her expenses, but, being
such a stranger to her, he dare not; and he could see that she was very
proud--a lady through and through, who would be offended by such a
proposal.
He thought a moment, then asked:
“Would you object to the delay I have mentioned, if--if there were no
other obstacles?”
“No,” Arley answered, with a sigh; “it does not matter much where
I am now. I have friends in London who would welcome me with open
arms, and though I long for them, yet I dread to meet them under the
circumstances. But necessity compels me to go somewhere--to get away
from this dreadful place, where I cannot understand anything that
is said to me; for--in the future I shall be obliged to earn my own
living.”
She said it frankly, and yet with a little air of pride, as if, despite
her poverty, she was not ashamed to have him know it.
“I am very glad that you have told me this, Mrs. Paxton,” her companion
said, eagerly, “for now I feel free to say that perhaps my mother can
help you, and you can also help her out of a serious difficulty. Her
companion--a fine young lady who accompanied us from England--was taken
violently ill at Lille, France, and the physicians who attended her
said that it would not do for her to resume travel with us--that just
as soon as she was sufficiently recovered she must be sent home and
have complete rest and freedom from excitement. It was a great trial to
my mother to be obliged to part with her, and, having been unable to
supply her place, she has been very lonely ever since. If--pardon me, I
mean it with all respect to you, and with the desire to contribute to
my mother’s comfort--if you could be persuaded to--to accept the vacant
position----”
Poor Sir Charles! he knew he was talking to a refined and cultivated
lady; it was very hard to offer her a paid position, and he stammered
and stumbled dreadfully in his embarrassment.
But Arley came quickly to his aid, her face flushing with gladness, her
eyes all alight with new hope, for here was a haven of refuge for her
at last.
“Thank you, I should be only too glad to do so,” she said, eagerly;
“that is, if madam, your mother, would be satisfied with the
arrangement and my poor accomplishments.”
“There will be no trouble about that, I assure you,” Sir Charles
replied, much relieved to find how sensibly she had received his
proposition. “Now, if you will please give me your address, I will
bring her to see you this afternoon, and you can arrange about our
departure from Madrid to suit yourselves.”
Arley drew from her pocket a beautiful little card case of filigree
gold, and, taking a card from it, wrote the street and number of her
residence upon it, and gave it to him.
“Thanks,” he said, thinking that she wrote the prettiest and most
delicate hand he ever saw. “Now will you allow me to see you safely
home?--for,” with a smile and a suspicious glance around, “I do not
like to leave you go alone, while you have so many enemies around you.”
Arley gave him a quick, inquiring look.
“I did not mean to alarm you,” he added, quickly; “but I suppose you
have heard that the Spaniards are exceedingly revengeful in their
disposition.”
“Yes, I have heard it, but I had forgotten it,” Arley replied, looking
a trifle anxious.
“I wish to make sure,” Sir Charles continued, “that you are not annoyed
by any one, so by your leave, I will go with you.”
She was very glad to have him; but as they were passing out of the now
almost deserted court-room she saw Philip sitting in a dim corner,
looking moody and miserable.
A feeling of pity for him stole into her heart.
It seemed as if she could not leave him so--as if she must make one
last appeal to him. She might never see him again--it was very probable
that she would not--surely she might speak one word of entreaty and
farewell before she went out of his life forever.
“Will you please excuse me one moment?” she asked, withdrawing her hand
from Sir Charles’ arm just as they reached the door, “I do not like to
go without one last word to Mr. Paxton--I will not keep you waiting
long.”
“Certainly I will excuse you, and I shall not mind waiting as long as
you like,” he returned, kindly, and wondering, from the wistful sadness
of those lovely dark eyes, if she could still love the man who had that
day shown himself such a traitor and wretch.
Philip had not seen her movements, he was so absorbed in his
disagreeable musings that he was not aware of her approach until a
gentle voice at his side said:
“Philip!”
Her lips had seldom spoken that name since their marriage, and the
sound of it smote him with a keen pain.
But it was only for an instant--the next he turned upon her with a
malignant scowl.
She shivered and shrank from him slightly, yet looking so gentle and
lovely that his features involuntarily relaxed.
“Well?” he questioned briefly.
“I just wished to say to you,” Arley said, in a hesitating tone, “that
I cannot understand why you should have taken this action against
me--if you wish to be free I am sorry that you cannot be, but I could
not remain silent and allow my character to be defamed, else I should
never have appeared against you. I am going away--back to England.”
He started, and flashed a strange look at her as she said this, but she
did not appear to notice it.
“I shall go back to Aunt Angeline, and I shall have to tell her why I
came back; but further than that I shall say nothing. I shall never
seek to see you--I shall never meet you if I can help it, and then in
time, if you wish, the law will free you and there need be no publicity
about it. But,” and her sweet lips quivered painfully, “I wish our life
could have been different--I would have been glad to share almost any
lot with you, if you had met your reverses bravely and honorably--I
would have been a faithful wife to you--you know that, for I told you
so before--for, I did love you very dearly, Philip.
“I do not believe,” Arley went on, eagerly, “that you are acting your
true nature. I do not believe that my heart would have been drawn
toward you as it was at Hazelmere if there had not been something
lovable and honorable in you to call forth my affection. I know you
have been bitterly disappointed, and I have grieved more on your
account than my own that I was obliged to come to you penniless; but
the loss of money is such a little thing compared to that of one’s
honor and self-respect. Oh, if I could only make you see how much
nobler and better it would be to begin again ever so low socially,
with the determination to rise--and with health and ability any one
can rise, if he will--than to live as you have been living since our
marriage! Do not waste your life thus; be the true-hearted man that I
believed you when I first knew you, Philip, will you? Will you go back
to England with me?”
How could he resist such a gentle, earnest pleading? How could he help
yielding to that sweet-voiced entreaty?
Who can tell how he longed to do so--how, perhaps, he had all but
surrendered, when the devil in his heart whispered: “The Lily of
Mordaunt has twenty thousand pounds a year, and Wil Hamilton is dead?”
“No,” he said, briefly and sullenly, and turned restlessly away from
those tenderly inviting eyes.
A deep sigh fell upon his ear, and it smote him like a blow; but he
stubbornly crushed down every better feeling, though afterward he
remembered that he was very near yielding as the hopeless sound struck
him, and then, with bitter remorse, he cried out:
“Oh, why--why was I so blind and hardened that I would not heed her?”
“Good-by, then, Philip,” and there was a wistful sadness in the sweet
voice. “I suppose our paths will widely diverge after this, and we
shall never meet again, save, perhaps as strangers meet. But I pray
you--I beseech you,” she added, with passionate earnestness, “do
not live out your whole life as you are living now; do not let your
existence prove a failure; do not wreck the mind, do not ruin the
soul which has been given you; for, some day, you know, they will be
required of you again. I am a woman; I have lost everything--name and
fortune--and now this added blight which you have cast upon me presses
me down still more heavily; but”--and now the lovely girl lifted
her head with an air of pride and resolution--“I am going to battle
against these adverse circumstances with all my might. I am going to
make the most and very best of myself. I will not be crushed--I do not
believe God means me to be crushed; so, with His help, I shall rise
above my troubles; and if, in the future, we should chance to meet
again, Philip, I will show you what a woman, preserving her truth and
self-respect, can accomplish.”
This was uttered with nothing of arrogance or self-assertion, but
with a sort of earnest faith, as if a glimpse had been granted to her
through the present darkness of a more hopeful beyond.
She paused a moment and drew off her glove; then added:
“I wish to return this to you. I do not feel that I can wear it
any longer; but whenever you chance to look at it, I trust it will
remind you that it once bound you to one who would have been glad to
prove loyal to the vows to which it was a seal, had you not made it
impossible.”
She had drawn off her wedding ring while she was speaking, and now laid
it down upon the table by which he sat; then turning, she went slowly
back to where Sir Charles Herbert stood waiting for her.