JANE COLLINS AT HOME.
“I suppose I must bear your mistrust and displeasure, my lady, as best
I can, since I have no means beyond my simple word, of proving my
assertions,” Philip replied, with an assumption of proud humility, to
Lady Elaine’s warmly-avowed confidence in Arley.
“Perhaps,” he added, “you might not be quite so skeptical regarding
what I have told you if you should write to the woman with whom Arley
lodged, or the lawyer whom she employed; I could give you the addresses
of both. It is a great grief for me, Lady Elaine, to forfeit, in any
degree, your esteem; for--for you must bear in mind that although I
was attracted by Arley’s beauty and vivacity, yet it was not she who
won the firm, warm passion of my heart.”
Lady Elaine made a gesture of displeasure at this artful insinuation,
and the crimson surged hotly over her face.
“But she was your wife. You had promised to love, honor and protect
her as long as you should live, and I cannot--cannot believe she could
have been so false to her vows to you and to herself. Something which
I do not understand must have occurred to work a radical change in her
feelings in order to make her leave you. I believe you are mistaken
regarding what you have told me about her unfaithfulness--a feeling of
jealousy may have blinded you--Arley was so true and noble by nature,”
Lady Elaine argued, very earnestly.
“No, I have not been mistaken,” Philip steadily replied. “She told me,
out and out, that she would not live with me another day, and packed
her trunks and went away to a lodging which she had hired without my
knowledge. Then I witnessed a secret meeting between her and a man
residing in Madrid, and I know that she took money from him; but that
last act--leaving the place with that Englishman--was worst of all.
Can you, even you, who love her so well, find any excuse for such a
proceeding?”
Lady Elaine looked deeply troubled.
Surely Arley’s conduct did appear reprehensible, if things were just as
he had stated them, of which she had grave doubts.
“Who was this Englishman?” she asked.
“I do not know. I never saw him until he suddenly appeared in court and
argued her case for her; and when, after the decision was rendered, I
commissioned her lawyer to go to her and ascertain if there was any
service which I could perform for her, supposing her comparatively
helpless as to the means of returning to England, he was told that she
had left that afternoon with him, taking everything with her.”
“I do not like to do you injustice, Mr. Paxton,” Lady Elaine said,
after a long and thoughtful pause, “but I cannot pass judgment upon her
until I have seen and talked with her.”
“If,” she added to herself, “she did really leave Philip Paxton, I
believe she had some good reason for doing so; my faith in her is
stronger than it is in him, and I do not credit this story about the
young Englishman at all. Arley would never dishonor herself.”
She showed so plainly that she wished the interview to end that Philip
arose to go, feeling, however, that he had not accomplished very much
in this first meeting.
“Do you remain in town long?” he asked.
“About a month, I believe.”
“Then I shall hope to see more of you; I beg to be remembered to Sir
Anthony and Lady Hamilton, and if there is any way in which I can serve
either of you, I hope you will allow me to do so.”
Lady Elaine politely bowed her thanks, but did not promise to avail
herself of his offer; then he bade her “good-night” and took his
departure.
Lady Elaine sat down the moment the door closed after her visitor, and
indulged in a flood of tears for her absent and unhappy friend--she
knew she must be that under any circumstances.
She was greatly distressed, for everything looked very dark regarding
Arley’s strange proceedings, at least as they had been related to her,
and though she could not, and would not, believe all Philip Paxton’s
statements, yet there was very much about the affair that seemed
unaccountable.
She did not mention a word of this to Sir Anthony or his wife--did not
even tell them of Mr. Paxton’s return, as she knew that disagreeable
inquiries regarding his wife would follow; but the next day she went
alone to call upon Miss McAllister and Ina Wentworth, hoping to learn
something of her friend from them.
Both welcomed her very cordially and thought it exceedingly kind of her
to come to them, when they knew of course that she went out so little.
In the course of their conversation, she inquired when they had heard
last from Arley. She asked the question in a general way, for if they
knew nothing of the poor girl’s trouble she had no intention of telling
them what she had learned, believing that Arley herself was the proper
one to do so.
They had received a letter from her only last week, Miss McAllister
said, and she appeared to be in much better spirits than when she had
last written. They had left Madrid, she wrote, and Philip had gone
another way for a time, while she was to travel with some acquaintances
whom she had made--a Lady Herbert and her son, Sir Charles. She spoke
of them both in the highest terms, particularly of the former, who, she
said, had shown her great kindness.
She had closed her letter by saying that they should probably travel
four or five months longer before returning to England.
Miss McAllister remarked that she had felt very much relieved upon
receiving this letter, for she had imagined Arley as being very unhappy
in Madrid, by a word which she now and then dropped; but she seemed to
be enjoying so much now, and was visiting so many delightful places,
of which her letter was full, that she felt quite comfortable about
her, although she “did long to see the dear child more than she could
express.”
Lady Elaine went away both relieved and disturbed--relieved to know
where she was, her letter had been written at Turin, on the way to
the southern part of Italy, where they were to remain during the cold
months--and disturbed to find a portion, at least, of Philip Paxton’s
story confirmed.
Although the Anthonys did not go into company at all, on account of
their bereavement, yet Philip Paxton contrived to meet them a great
many times during the next few weeks.
While Sir Anthony was occupied with business, his wife and Lady Elaine
spent the time driving and visiting points of interest. Thus Philip,
always on the watch, often ran across them, as if by chance, and
managed to render them some little attention, which made them remember
him.
The first time Lady Hamilton met him she had, after greeting him most
cordially--for had he not been the friend of her dear son?--inquired
most kindly after Arley.
Philip shot a quick glance at Lady Elaine, and knew that she had said
nothing regarding their interview to her friends, and so he replied
in an offhand manner that she was well the last he knew, but was
still traveling with friends, and he was home again to look after his
business interests.
“It does not do for a man to play all the time,” he concluded, with a
genial smile which he knew so well how to assume; “he must look after
the stern realities of life somewhat.”
“True,” Lady Hamilton returned, unsuspectingly; “but it must be quite
lonely for you. When will Arley return?”
“Her return is indefinite; it will depend somewhat upon circumstances,
I suppose,” he said, and then turned the subject, while Lady Elaine
regarded him with more respect than she had ever entertained for him;
for, as she believed, trying thus to shield Arley’s good name until she
should return and be able to defend herself.
It became a thing of frequent occurrence after that for him to spend
the evening at the Langham, in Sir Anthony’s handsome parlors, and he
was thus thrown much into Lady Elaine’s society.
He conducted himself with the greatest decorum, however, and though
Lady Elaine still retained much of her former prejudice against him,
yet she could find no fault with his manner and bearing whenever he was
in her presence.
Thus three months slipped rapidly away, and Philip fondly imagined
himself to be gaining ground, slowly but surely, with the beautiful
heiress.
Sir Anthony had been detained in London far beyond the time he had
expected by his business, which had proved more complicated and
troublesome than he had anticipated; but being very comfortable at
the Langham, and seeing that his wife appeared to brood less over her
sorrow there in the busy city with so much to interest and entertain
her, he thought it much better to be there than at Hazelmere, where
during the cold weather they were shut indoors with little to occupy
them.
One day Lady Elaine went out into the park for a quiet walk by herself.
Suddenly a shrill cry startled her, and, glancing back, she saw that a
woman had been thrown down in the street by a passing wagon.
A crowd of curious men and boys immediately gathered around the
unfortunate creature, but not one of her sex went near to speak a word
of cheer or sympathy for her.
Lady Elaine looked in dismay at the rough crowd; she shrank from coming
in contact with them, but her kind heart prompted her to at least
manifest something of her compassion, and with a resolute air she
went straight to the side of the sufferer, who proved to be a large,
ruddy-faced woman, plainly but neatly clad.
The uncouth mob drew back somewhat at the appearance of a “real lady,”
and, bending over the prostrate woman, Lady Elaine asked, in a gentle
tone:
“Are you very badly hurt, my poor woman?”
The sufferer looked up gratefully at the sound of that sweet voice.
“Ah, leddy, I’m afraid my leg is broken,” she said, trying to speak
bravely; but her white lips and the distressed look upon her face told
that she was suffering extremely.
“Is it so bad as that?” Lady Elaine asked, regretfully. “What can I
do for you?--do you live in the city, and would you like to be taken
directly home, or sent to some good hospital?”
“No, not to the hospital,” was the quick, shrinking reply. “I live in
Warwick street--number one forty-eight, leddy, and if you would kindly
order a cab for me----”
“Go and get the roomiest carriage that you can find,” commanded Lady
Elaine, turning promptly to a man behind her, and not waiting to have
the sentence finished.
“Yes, mum,” was the respectful reply, while the man pulled at the
straggling forelock which stuck through the brim of his ragged hat, and
then darted away to do her bidding.
Then our fair Lily of Mordaunt turned again to the sufferer, and with
her own soft, perfumed handkerchief, wiped away the cold drops that
stood on her forehead and about her mouth, showing something of the
agony which she endured.
They had not long to wait for a carriage, and when it drew up beside
them, Lady Elaine gave directions about the arrangement of the cushions
to make her comfortable, and ordered that she be carefully lifted and
laid upon them.
Then she entered the carriage and seated herself opposite the woman.
“I am going home with you,” she said, in reply to the look of inquiry
which she turned upon her, and the satisfied expression which settled
over the anxious face more than repaid her for the bold step which she
was taking.
Before starting, however, Lady Elaine turned again to the man who had
procured the carriage for her, and asked:
“Do you know where Sir John Seymour lives?”
“The great surgeon, yer leddyship?” he questioned.
“Yes.”
“Yes, leddy, I knows.”
“Very well; I want you to take this card to him from me.”
She wrote rapidly upon the back of one of her visiting cards the name
and number of the street where she was going, asking the great man to
come there immediately; then giving it to the man, with a piece of
gold, told him to make all possible haste about his errand.
Then she bade the coachman drive to No. 148 Warwick street. It
was a hard ride for that poor creature over the rough stones; but
Warwick street was reached at last, and No. 148 proved to be a very
respectable, though unpretentious abode.
A rough, though kind-visaged man made his appearance at the door as
the grand carriage stopped before it, while his mouth--a capacious
one, too--and eyes were extended wide with wonder and curiosity at the
unusual circumstance.
“Is this your home?” Lady Elaine asked him, putting her head out of the
window.
“Yes, mum; and if ’tis John Collins ye want, I’m yer man,” was the
hearty, good-natured response.
“Yes, John, it’s you we want, and ye’ll have to lend a hand to help
me out of this,” said Jane Collins--for it is our old friend--with an
attempt at cheeriness, though there was a ring of pain beneath it,
which her husband’s quick ear detected at once.
“Jane!” he cried, in a startled voice, and, springing forward to the
coach, into which he peered with a blanched and anxious face.
“Your wife has met with an accident,” Lady Elaine said, gently. “I
hope, however, that it is nothing so serious but that time and patience
will mend it.”
“Jane, what has happened to ye, my lass?” he demanded, never heeding
the young countess in his anxiety, but speaking in a tone as tender and
tremulous as a woman’s.
“I got run down by a team, John, and my leg is hurt; but”--as she saw
his lips quiver--“never ye fear, man; time and patience will mend it,
as the leddy says.”
She spoke bravely, but was obliged to clench her hands to keep back the
groans that were almost forcing their way from her lips.
“Now help me in the best way ye can, and we’ll get ready for the
doctor,” she added, after a moment, and drawing herself up as well as
she could, though a cry burst from her in spite of her efforts to make
no sign of pain.
“Oh, lass, lass! it’s a bad day when anything happens to ye,”
pathetically cried her husband, as, assisted by the coachman, he lifted
her from the carriage and bore her into the house and laid her upon
her own bed in a room as daintily clean and as neatly arranged as any
high-born lady’s could be.
Lady Elaine was surprised at the evidence of refinement in that little
home, which contrasted so strangely with the rough exterior of its
owners.
She assisted Jane in the removal of her clothing and the necessary
preparations for the surgeon, and told her that she would remain until
he came, since he was a friend of hers, while, besides, she could not
think of leaving her with no woman to care for her comfort.
Jane was very grateful for this kindness, but her sufferings appeared
to increase with every moment, while her injured limb was found to be
frightfully bruised and swollen, as well as broken.
In less than half an hour after their own arrival Sir John Seymour made
his appearance, and then there followed a season of terrible agony,
during which strong, stout-hearted Jane Collins fainted for the first
time in her life, while her husband, hanging over her in torturing
suspense, was as helpless as a child.
Lady Elaine, her face like marble, alone rendered the surgeon what
assistance he needed, waiting upon him quickly, calmly, and quietly,
uttering never a word, but with her keen perception often anticipating
his wants.
But it was all over at last, the broken limb was nicely splintered and
bandaged, and Jane (exhausted, but so thankful that it was over), made
as comfortable as possible under the circumstances.
“Do you know of an efficient person who could be procured to take care
of you while you are obliged to lie here?” Lady Elaine asked of Jane,
as she was preparing to return to her hotel.
The surgeon had been gone some time, but she was reluctant to leave the
patient until she was satisfied that she was perfectly comfortable.
“Yes, there’s a woman across the way--Maria Stevens, she’s called. She
goes out nursin’, but I reckon John’ll do well enough--he’s ’mazin’
handy about the house,” Jane replied, with an affectionate glance at
her burly husband.
“I’m ready to do the best I can, but p’raps that ain’t the best ye
oughter have, Jane,” honest John answered, as he tenderly smoothed his
wife’s hair with an unsteady hand.
The sight of her suffering had “taken more stock out of him than the
stiffest gale that ever blowed around Cape Horn,” as he afterward said.
“I think it would be better to have a regular nurse,” Lady Elaine said,
with quiet decision.
“That settles it, yer leddyship; I’ll hev Maria here inside half an
hour,” was John’s quick rejoinder.
“I shall come and see you again to-morrow, and shall hope to find you
at least as comfortable as you are now,” the young countess said,
kindly, as she took her leave, and, with many thanks for her kindness,
both Jane and John bade her good-night, wondering how a “great leddy
could stop to show such favors to them.”
Their experience with the nobility, as a class, had been such as to
lead them to regard them as selfish and devoid of all feeling for every
one outside the pale of their own hallowed circle.