CAN IT BE TRUE?
We left Arley, after her meeting with Wil before the druggist’s store,
in Lady Elaine’s boudoir, whither she had been led by the gentle girl,
agitated and almost unnerved in view of the astonishing news which she
was about to communicate.
But with a resolute effort of her will, she suddenly rallied her
sinking heart and bent herself to her task.
She would not allow Elaine to wait upon her, even though she appeared
anxious to do so.
“I am perfectly able to take care of myself,” she said, gayly, as she
threw aside her wraps and took off her hat; “you must not make yourself
too useful to me, for you know I do not expect I can have you all
the time, now that my liege lord has claimed me. But, dear, I have a
particular request to make of you to-night.”
“A request,” Lady Elaine repeated, smiling, and relieved to see Arley’s
color coming back, “surely you would ask nothing amiss, and I may
safely promise to grant it even before I know what it is.”
“That is a dear--now mind, you have promised, and I shall not allow you
to retreat,” Arley returned, archly.
“Well, I met a very dear friend, a gentleman, to-day, and he said that
he should call at Mordaunt House to-night----”
“Philip?” interrupted Lady Elaine, with a merry glance at Arley’s
cheeks, which were fast becoming crimson with excitement.
“I am not going to tell you who just yet,” Arley answered, with a wise
look; “but I want you to let me turn dressing-maid just for once, and
to array you as I like, then I will go and put on something bright and
pretty to keep you company.”
Lady Elaine grew pale, and a quiver ran through her whole body.
“Arley,” she cried, in a voice of pain, “you are asking something very
hard of me, for--I have worn nothing but this,” with a pathetic glance
down at the black dress, “since--since----”
“Yes, darling, I know; ever since those dreadful tidings of Wil came to
you,” Arley said, tenderly. “But,” she continued, “do you suppose he
would like to see you in such sombre robes all the time?”
“No,” was the low reply, made with tremulous lips, “but----”
Arley would not allow her to go on.
“Neither do I, and as I am going to assume gay attire to-night, in
honor of our visitor, I ask, as an especial favor, that you will do the
same.”
“But will it not appear very strange?” objected Lady Elaine, regarding
Arley wonderingly.
“You will not think so when you know who is coming; and never mind if
it does just for once, and it will please me so much. Do you remember
the ball at Hazelmere, and have you the dress that you wore then?”
“Yes.”
“Where is it?”
“In a trunk in my wardrobe; but, Arley, I cannot wear that,” Lady
Elaine said, looking like a statue of snow, for the thought of it
brought a flood of tender memories surging over her.
“Please, dear,” Arley pleaded, earnestly, “I would not be cruel or
wound you for the world, but I feel as if I must see you in it just
once more--I will never ask you again to do anything of this kind, only
grant me my request to-night.”
Lady Elaine sighed, but she made no further objection, for she was
always ready to sacrifice her own feelings for the sake of others. She
thought it a strange caprice of Arley’s, but she imagined that Philip
must be the visitor whom she expected, and that in her joy at his
home-coming she wished everybody to be gay.
Without further words Arley found and brought the lovely dress, and,
with nervous fingers, helped her sister to put it on. Then she brought
some soft, creamy lace from her own treasures and arranged it just as
she remembered she had worn it about her neck at Hazelmere. She brought
a cluster of small, pure lilies to fasten at her throat, when Lady
Elaine started, and put them from her with a bitter sob.
“Lilies!” she cried, sharply; “Wil’s own flowers, which you know are so
sacred to me! Surely, Arley, this is not kind.”
Arley bent and kissed her with trembling lips--her task was growing
harder every moment; but Wil must not see her in black.
“Dear,” she whispered, “would it not be a joy to you to dress thus
for him, if you could only imagine for once that you are dressing for
Wil----”
“How could that be possible when I know he is dead; how can you have
the heart to ask me to imagine anything like that?” she cried, in a
voice of agony.
“I know that they wrote that he was dead,” Arley returned, with
brilliant eyes, “but, you know, they never found him; and I have
sometimes thought that there was a possibility that they were mistaken,
after all.”
“Oh, Arley! what strange spirit possesses you to-night? Are you so
happy in the prospect of Philip’s arrival that you forget how bruised,
and sore and desolate my poor heart is?” Lady Elaine cried, with
something of passion in her voice.
“It is not like you,” she went on, reproachfully. “I know that they
never found his body,” and an icy chill seemed to seize her here as she
remembered how they had explained that; “but, do you suppose, if he had
been living, he would have remained away from me so long, without one
word to relieve my suspense?”
“Not if he could have helped it, dear,” said Arley, gently.
“What would have hindered him?”
“I can imagine several things.”
“Such as what?”
“He might have been ill.”
“He would have written then; illness might have kept him from me, but
it would never have kept him silent so long,” muttered Lady Elaine,
with unwavering faith.
“No, it would not if he could have got a letter to you, but I can
imagine circumstances which might render that impossible. I can
imagine--shall I tell you what?” Arley asked, with a strangely earnest
face.
“Yes, tell me if you wish; but get through with your freak as soon as
possible for my sake; you are in a very unaccountable mood to-night,
Arley,” was the weary reply.
Arley began, determined now to finish her story.
“Well, then, I can imagine that when Wil fell over that horrible
precipice, he might not have been killed--that a tree or something
might have broken his fall, and that instead of being dragged by some
wild beast to his lair, some Indians--for we have read that portions of
the United States are still inhabited by Indians--might have seen him
fall, and, picking him up in their stealthy way, carried him away to
their camp, where he might have been retained as a captive, in the hope
of securing a reward or ransom for him----”
“Arley, Arley!” the sweet voice rang out very sharply. “You have heard
something--you are trying to prepare me for something----”
She gasped for breath and could not go on, for the suddenness of the
thought almost paralyzed her.
Arley gathered her close in her trembling arms, drew the golden head
down upon her bosom, and, with her lips against her cheek, whispered:
“And if I were, could you bear it? Could you bear to have me tell you
that good news has come to us from over the sea to-night and that some
one is coming here to tell us all about it, and--and----
“Arley,” Lady Elaine said, a strange calm settling upon her, and
lifting her white face to look at her sister. “You are going to tell me
that Wil himself is here! That is why you have dressed me as you knew
he would like to see me; that is why you wanted to put those lilies on
my breast.”
“And if it were all true, could you bear it?” Arley interrupted, with
shining eyes, yet trembling like a leaf; and the beautiful “Lily of
Mordaunt” knew that it was true.
Without a word she fell back in her sister’s arms, limp and white, and
Arley was dismayed.
She put out her hand toward the bellrope to summon aid, but Lady Elaine
stopped her with a gesture.
“I shall not faint,” she whispered. “I shall be stronger soon, but, oh!
tell me, can it be true?”
“That Wil was not killed; that he had a dreadful fall, but a blessed
tree saved him; that Indians, instead of a wild beast, picked him up,
bruised and broken, and carried him far away into the wilderness, where
they have held him as a captive ever since? Yes, dear, it is all true,
only I cannot stop to tell you half, for he is waiting to do that. But
I am so glad that I was chosen to bring you these blessed tidings, for
you have given me back so much of happiness, and I am nearly wild with
joy to think that the shadows are about to be lifted from your life.”
“Wil here! my own noble-hearted Wil, safe, and waiting to see me! Oh,
Arley, I feel almost as if earth and sense were slipping away from me!
Hold me close, dear; let me feel your arms clasped tight about me, to
assure me that it is not a vision of my imagination. Oh, thank Heaven!”
The gentle girl was utterly helpless for the time being; she could
not move, she could scarcely think; yet she was conscious of the one
transporting fact that her dear one was not dead, that he lived and
loved her still, that he had returned, and was even then waiting to
clasp her to his fond heart once more.
Arley was very much disturbed by her helplessness, and, laying her
gently down upon the couch where they had been sitting, she brought a
flask of eau de cologne and bathed her face and hands, after which she
went for a glass of wine, and made her drink it.
This treatment seemed to have the desired effect, for Lady Elaine began
immediately to recover her dormant energies. A realizing sense of the
great joy that had come to her began to assert itself; impatience to
see the returned loved one seized her; the pathetic look which had
overwhelmed her beautiful face began to fade away; the light of a great
happiness came back to her eyes, and her lips, though still tremulous,
regained something of their usual brightness.
“I am better,” she said, sitting up; but she seized the flask of
cologne which Arley still held, and, drenching her handkerchief, bathed
her face and head, and eagerly inhaled its pleasant perfume; but she
was still trembling in every limb.
“I am afraid that I have told you too suddenly,” Arley said, regarding
her anxiously. “I know I made a bungle of it, and it was the hardest
thing I ever did in my life; but Wil is waiting, and I was so eager for
you to know. Darling, now you will forgive me for being so cruel as to
ask you to dress so gayly; but I could not bear that Wil should see you
in mourning for him.”
Lady Elaine caught her about the neck and gave her a little hug; then
she laughed aloud--such a happy, though somewhat nervous laugh, as had
not escaped her lips for many a long month.
“Bring me a glass, please,” she said, a beautiful color coming into her
cheeks, “for I cannot trust to even your perfect taste now; no, indeed,
I would not have had him see me in those dismal robes for anything.
Ah!” she continued, looking into the hand-mirror which Arley had
brought her. “I cannot improve upon your work, and I might have known
it, for your taste is faultless.”
“My taste faultless?” Arley cried, gayly. “I have but made you look as
nearly as possible like the ‘Lily of Mordaunt,’ who was the cynosure of
all eyes at the ball at Hazelmere. Now, dear,” she added, more gently,
“are you ready? Shall I go and bring Wil here to you, and then go to
break the news to Sir Anthony and Lady Hamilton?”
“Yes; but--oh, Arley, can it be true?” Lady Elaine cried, brokenly,
growing white again as the lilies upon her bosom.
“You must be calm or I shall not go for him,” Arley returned, almost
sternly; “and just think of the suspense that he is enduring all this
time.”
“True,” was the more composed response; “I was selfish not to think of
that myself.”
Arley bent to kiss her sister, and then went to call the waiting lover.
Swiftly along the corridor, she ran down a side staircase to an
entrance facing the stables.
Here she rang the coachmen’s bell, and then, opening the door, stood
waiting for Wil.
Presently she saw him coming, but he staggered almost like a man
intoxicated. He was deathly pale, and she saw that he was almost as
unnerved as Lady Elaine had been in prospect of this reunion.
“Stop!” she said, firmly, as he would have rushed past her without even
asking where he should find his loved one. “You must not go to her like
this--it has been a fearful shock to her already, and if you are not
calm she will be ill.”
“I know, but I thought you would never come,” Wil answered, putting his
hand to his head in a dazed way; “and I can hardly believe that I am
home after all--I am almost afraid that I am asleep and dreaming, and
shall wake up to find myself in that wretched wigwam in that Western
wilderness. But I will not be so weak,” he added, straightening himself
resolutely; and Arley turned without another word and noiselessly led
him up the stairs and toward her sister’s boudoir.
She softly turned the silver handle and opened the door, and there,
standing in the middle of the floor in an eager, listening attitude,
her scarlet lips parted, her blue eyes shining like stars, her spotless
dress trailing about her, and the lilies on her breast quivering with
every pulsation of her heart, was the loveliest vision that she had
ever seen.
Pushing Wil gently within the room, she closed the door, the happy
tears raining over her face and her heart full of wondrous joy.
She went to her own room, and, while dressing herself in festal robes
for this glad occasion, gathered something of more composure, and then
went to break the news to Sir Anthony and Lady Hamilton, which she
succeeded in doing with less excitement and abruptness than when she
had told her sister.
Who can describe the joy that reigned at Mordaunt House that night? No
one could do justice to it, for the reunion was one of those blessed
and perfect events which weak words are far too feeble to portray
effectually.
When all had grown somewhat composed after the exciting meeting, Sir
Anthony, in a broken and trembling voice, said:
“My boy, you know I used to say that I did not believe in a God--a
personal being, who loved and cared for human beings as His children.
I said and believed, or at least tried to satisfy myself that I
believed, that the laws of nature were all the God there was, and that
religion and the worship of a Supreme Being was but a mere sentiment.
But the life of this dear girl,” taking the hand of Lady Elaine, who
was sitting beside him, “during the past year, and now your wonderful
preservation, with all the attending circumstances, and your return
to us, have convinced me to the contrary. Henceforth,” he continued,
reverently, “I shall confess my belief and trust in an All-Wise Ruler,
and my future shall be spent in His service, to prove my gratitude for
this supreme hour of my life.”
Lady Elaine lifted his trembling hand to her lips.
“Dear Sir Anthony,” she said, while grateful tears stood in her lovely
eyes, for he had often grieved and wounded her by this skepticism,
“this is the crowning joy of all!”