WIL HAMILTON.
Sir Charles Herbert and Ina Wentworth rode nearly an hour in Rotten
Row among the _elite_, who gathered there to display their elegant
costumes and thoroughbreds, when they turned their horses’ heads for a
smart canter out on the ride to Windsor, where, far from the noise and
confusion of the city, with only the birds and whispering boughs of the
over-arching trees for witnesses, Sir Charles told the gentle girl of
his love for her, and won her promise to be his wife.
“I have been a doomed man,” he said, with a fond smile, when at length
they turned their faces homeward, “ever since that day when I made
my first call upon Mrs. Paxton, after her return. It is strange how
much has hinged upon the mere chance of my being in that court-room in
Madrid, and espousing her cause.”
“Chance?” Ina repeated, lifting her beautiful eyes to his face with a
look of inquiry. “Do you think that anything in the world happens by
‘chance’?”
“What else would you call it, dear? The fact of my having wandered
aimlessly into that court just at that particular time? I had not the
least object, beyond idle curiosity to see how they conducted legal
affairs in Spain.”
“I believe that you were sent to save Arley, just as you did save
her. I think people are too apt to attribute many events of life to
‘chance,’ simply because they do not realize what power it is that
impels and governs them--they imagine them to be merely ‘happenings,’
but nothing ‘happens.’ God rules,” Ina concluded, reverently.
“And always for the best, I suppose you would say, since you seem to
trust Him so implicitly,” Sir Charles returned, regarding her gravely.
“Yes, always for the best,” she answered, with sweet seriousness.
“Then, according to your theory, God has given you to me. I bless Him
for his gift,” Sir Charles said, drawing nearer to look down into those
wonderful blue-gray eyes, and speaking with thrilling earnestness.
“Yes, he has given us to each other,” Ina replied, with a slight
trembling of her red lips. “How happy I am!” she added, naively, a
moment after. “Who would ever have believed when I was a poor little
waif in that fisherman’s hut, that so much blessedness was laid up for
me in the future!”
Sir Charles reached out and took possession of the small,
prettily-gloved hand that rested upon the pommel of the saddle.
“My darling, what blessedness I have secured for the remainder of my
life, since I am to have so sweet and gentle a monitor ever by my side.
But,” with a searching glance into her blushing face, “how will your
theory hold good in connection with Mrs. Paxton’s sad experience, and
the cruel bereavement which has fallen upon Lady Elaine Warburton?”
“It is not ‘my theory,’ it is not a ‘theory,’ at all,” Ina returned,
earnestly. “It is a living truth. God’s ways are always right and best.
He can see beyond and over all. He is like an experienced gardener who
knows just how to prune, and graft, and train the plants under his
care; He sometimes cuts off the most brilliant buds, the most promising
shoots, in a way which, to those not understanding his motive, would
seem like the most wanton destruction, when in reality the future life
and beauty of the plant depended upon just that kind of treatment.”
“But Arley Paxton would tell you that her life was ruined. Lady Elaine
would say that she does not expect any real happiness this side of
heaven,” Sir Charles said, thoughtfully.
“I hardly think that either of them would say just that,” Ina returned,
smiling, “although they both believe that much of sorrow will be
mingled with all their future; but Arley is a better, a stronger woman
already, for the trouble which she has had to bear, and she may live
to see the wisdom of it; if she does not she will surely realize it
hereafter; while Lady Elaine carries nothing but blessing with her
wherever she goes. I have been told that some one has named her the
‘Lily of Mordaunt,’ and most fittingly, I think, for her life is as
full of beauty and fragrance as a lily.”
“But it is very sad that her prospects should have been so destroyed.”
“Yes, it is sad,” Ina said, with a wistful look up into the handsome
face by her side. “I fear I could not bear such a trial with the
patience and sweetness which she has manifested.”
“We will not allow such a fear to mar this day,” Sir Charles said, with
a fond pressure of the hand which he still held. “And now, with your
permission, I am going home with you to tell Miss McAllister that I
have won her treasure. Will she be very severe upon me, do you think?”
Ina broke into a low, musical laugh, though the beautiful color swept
over her whole face at the words.
“Auntie would never do or say anything to make any one unhappy,” she
said.
“Would she not?” returned Sir Charles, with a mischievous glance; “then
I shall tell her that two months is all the time I shall allow my
bride-elect for necessary preparations.”
“Oh, Sir Charles----” Ina began, in a startled tone.
“Why should I not have you, my darling, just as soon as possible?”
asked the fond lover, and she could not tell “why not.”
Miss McAllister did not say him nay, either; she most heartily approved
of Sir Charles Herbert in every way, and would oppose no obstacles to
his wishes.
“I am old, my dear,” she said to Ina, when the young girl said that
“two months” seemed “so soon,” and “we cannot tell what the coming
winter may have in store for us, so I should like to see you a happy
wife while I can enjoy and share in your happiness.”
So the day was set, and preparations immediately begun for the
approaching wedding, though Ina, after learning of Philip’s serious
accident and subsequent illness, and that Arley had gone to him,
stipulated that if additional sorrow came to the girl whom she had
learned to love so fondly, the marriage should be delayed a while out
of sympathy for her.
But it was to be happiness, instead of sorrow for her, as we have
already learned, and as soon as Philip left the hospital and went away
to transact his “important business,” she threw herself into all Ina’s
plans in the heartiest manner.
“You have won a treasure,” she said to her, the first time she saw her
after the engagement; “Sir Charles is one of the best men the world
ever contained, and I believe he is going to have one of the sweetest
wives, too.”
One day after Philip’s departure, she went to see Miss McAllister,
and found Ina surrounded by a host of dainty things pertaining to her
trousseau, and her face lighted with interest.
“You must let me help you about everything,” she said. “Philip will
probably be away some time, and I must have something to occupy my time
to keep me from feeling my loneliness.”
“There is plenty of work to be done,” Miss McAllister answered, fondly
regarding the smiling, happy face, while a little song of thanksgiving
thrilled her heart for the joy that had returned to her, “and we will
engage you to keep you just as busy as you desire to be; so you may
pull off your gloves and begin at once.”
Laughing softly, she wheeled up before her a table which was covered
with piles of invitations waiting to be folded and put into their
envelopes and directed; and Arley, throwing aside her hat and mantle,
sat down and copied names until her fingers ached.
Every day after that she was there at her post to help, sometimes
bringing Lady Elaine with her though not very often, for the duties
which she had assumed since coming to London, such as looking up and
befriending the poor and sick, interfered with her spending much time
upon wedding finery, although she was often tempted to spend the day
with those two eager, happy girls.
It often caused her a pang as she looked upon them and thought how
bright the future looked to them; but it was only momentary, for every
day the sweet spirit seemed to become more sweet and pure, like fine
gold from the refiner’s fire, until she was able to reflect and partake
of the happiness of those around her.
One day, as the wedding drew near, Arley stayed a little later than
usual at Miss McAllister’s.
She did not realize in the bright, cheerful rooms, while her busy
fingers helped to fashion “pretty nothings” for the fair bride-elect,
that it could be so dark and dismal outside; but it was quite
unpleasant, and as she stepped into her carriage to return to Mordaunt
House she shivered with a sudden chill.
She would have been glad to go straight home, but she had promised to
do an errand for Lady Hamilton at a drug store, and so she gave her
orders to the driver and was whirled away to Oxford street.
Here, instead of getting out herself, she gave her prescription to
the coachman, asking him to get it put up for her, which he was
very willing to do, and she sat in the carriage, waiting somewhat
impatiently, while he was gone.
During this time a gentleman passed the carriage, and, looking
up, saw the beautiful face at the window looking forth into the
brilliantly-lighted store.
Arley, however, had not heeded him; she had not heard the low
exclamation which he had uttered upon seeing her, or noticed that after
passing he had turned again and came up close to the carriage, where he
stood somewhat in the shadow of it.
Her thoughts were full of Philip, from whom she had received a long
letter that day, and she was wondering what the nature of his business
could be to detain him from her so long.
Suddenly a voice attested her attention--a voice which sent her heart
leaping into her throat, and strange prickling pains flying over her
whole body; turning her face as white as death itself could have made
it, and making her head reel dizzily.
“Arley--Mrs. Paxton,” it said out of the chill darkness. “I do not wish
to startle you, for I know what you believe; but I thought if I could
speak to you and you should recognize my voice, it might prepare you
for the rest.”
Arley clutched at the side of the carriage; she felt as if ten thousand
thunders were crashing in her ears, her voice refused to come at her
bidding, her tongue seemed paralyzed and powerless to speak.
Apparently the man outside could see her face, and realized how greatly
she was agitated, for he continued gently:
“Don’t be frightened. I would not have startled you for anything; but I
long for the sound of a familiar voice; speak, Arley, and tell me that
you recognize me--that you are glad to see me.”
Then, indeed, Arley found voice and sense.
Leaning forward from the carriage window, she extended both her hands
and cried in trembling tones:
“Where are you? Come here and let me look into your face. Oh, Wil! can
it be possible, or am I asleep and dreaming that you have come back?”
Before she had half completed her eager sentence, she felt her hands
grasped in a strong, warm clasp--a figure tall and manly stood at the
window, and the face of Wil Hamilton, brave, noble Wil, was looking
down into hers, yet quivering in every muscle with mingled gladness and
emotion.
“No, you are not dreaming, Arley, though I do not wonder that you
should fear it, after believing me dead for so long; but I am really
and truly Wil--no myth, no spirit, but present in the body, though it
is almost a miracle that I am. I have just arrived from Glasgow via the
Grand Midland, and as it was too late to go down to Hazelmere, I was
on my way to the Langham--walking, for I was too nervous and excited
to be cooped up in a carriage--when, passing you, the light from the
store struck full upon your face, and I recognized you instantly. I did
not dare to present myself to you too suddenly, for I feared to startle
you, and it seems that I frightened you sufficiently as it was.”
“Oh, Wil, I cannot believe it even yet,” Arley said, in scarcely
articulate tones, and still clinging to his hands. “Get in here,”
she continued, excitedly, while she moved to make room for him, “and
I will take you home with me. Your father and mother are here in
London--Elaine, too; how shall we ever break this glad news to them?
and, oh! we have so much to tell you, too.”
The excited girl hardly knew what she was saying, and laughed
nervously, almost hysterically, as she concluded.
Wil Hamilton, scarcely less agitated, availed himself of her invitation
and entered the carriage, seating himself opposite her.
“My father and mother here! Elaine, too!” he repeated, in trembling
tones. “Are they well? Oh! shall I see them to-night?”
“Yes, all well, and you shall see them in less than an hour; but oh!
Wil, they have been heartbroken for you,” and Arley here broke down,
sobbing for very joy.
“I know,” he answered, huskily; “but I am very thankful that they are
here--it seemed an age to wait until to-morrow. I am afraid, however,
that it will never do for me to go in upon them suddenly; I have upset
you completely, and I fear it would be even worse with them. Arley, you
must go home to them first, and break the news to them as gently as
possible, then I will come later,” Wil concluded, anxiously.
“It is said that joy never kills,” Arley replied, smiling through her
tears; “but if you could give me such a shock, I should really fear for
them, especially for your mother.”
“Yes--yes, they must be prepared first; but where are they?”
“At Mordaunt House.”
“At Mordaunt House!” he repeated, astonished; “how is that?”
“Elaine thought it would be pleasanter to be there by themselves in
London than to be in a hotel.”
Arley thought this explanation would be sufficient for the present.
“Have they grieved for me very sorely?” he asked, brokenly.
“Oh, it has been too sad for anything, Wil,” Arley replied, weeping
afresh; “it has nearly killed Sir Anthony and Lady Hamilton, and Elaine
was crushed at first, but at the sight of their grief she seemed to lay
away herself entirely, and has been like a pale, sweet saint whose
mission it was to comfort them.”
“Oh, it has been hard--hard!” Wil groaned, as the vision of their grief
and the remembrance of his own experience rose up before him.
“Yes, I do not know how any of them have borne it; but I am nearly wild
to learn all that has happened to you, Wil. I will not question you
now, though; I will restrain my curiosity until you have seen them,”
Arley said; then she added: “I have some strange news for you, too. You
remember the discoveries that were made upon my wedding day?”
“Yes.”
“You know I was bereft of name and fortune at one fell blow; but
wonderful things have happened since. Elaine obtained a clew, and,
following it up, has unraveled all the tangled skein of my life by her
perseverance and patience; and just think, Wil, I have turned out to be
a ‘lady of high degree.’”
“Indeed! That is a discovery worth making,” he said, greatly interested.
“Yes; and--you would never guess it, so I may as well tell you--she has
proved that I am her own sister--the poor little Alice who was supposed
to have been lost at sea.”
“Arley! It cannot be possible!” Wil exclaimed, in astonishment.
“Oh, but it is, my dear brother that is to be; and,” she added, with
something of her old sauciness--“and your fair bride-elect has lost
half her fortune by the means.”
“Only give me my bride, and I care nothing for the fortune,” he
returned, eagerly; then continued: “But really, Arley, though
astonished, I am delighted. No arrangement could have suited me better.
But shall you assume, or have you assumed, the name of Lady Alice?”
“No; every one knows me by the name of Arley, and it would be very
awkward to change; besides, the name is not essential. But here comes
Robert,” she added, as the coachman made his appearance.
As he handed her the parcel which he had purchased, he apologized for
having kept her waiting so long, saying there were several to be waited
upon before him; but Arley replied pleasantly:
“Never mind. I have met a friend who will go home with me, and I want
you to drive us there as quickly as possible.”
“Oh,” she continued to Wil, as Robert sprang to his seat to obey, “if
Philip was only here to-night, what a happy party we should make! He is
out of town upon business.”
On their way to Mordaunt House they planned that Arley should enter as
if nothing unusual had occurred, while Robert should drive Wil around
to the stable, where he should remain in the coachman’s room until she
should ring his bell, which was connected with the house and was used
to summon him when wanted, when he was to come to a side door, where
she would admit him and conduct him to his loved ones.
But when the carriage stopped and she alighted and went up the steps
her heart beat so rapidly and she trembled so she feared that she would
break down and frighten everybody nearly to death by her weakness
before she could prepare them to receive the wanderer.
Lady Elaine was just coming downstairs as she entered, and cried out
when she saw her:
“How pale you are, Arley! Are you ill? And what made you so late?”
Arley was so glad of that last question as a loophole.
“Oh, you know, there is no end to bridal finery,” she said, with a
nervous laugh, and trying hard to conquer her trembling; “and it was
later than usual when I started to come home.”
“Yes, I know; and you have worked over said bridal finery until you are
tired out. That is why you are so pale. Come up to my room, and let me
help you off with your things, and brush your hair for you. You are
damp, and shivering, and cold, and I fear you will be ill.”
Lady Elaine regarded her anxiously, and, winding an arm about her,
gently forced her upstairs, and led her into her own bright boudoir.