The suddenness of the tragedy which had taken place postponed all
further discussion.
The sunlight, streaming through the latticed windows of one of the rooms
in the Castle, shed its rays on the still form of the young girl, who
had given her life for the man she loved so well.
Beside the bed knelt Adrien Leroy, his face buried in one hand, the
other resting upon the still one that lay, white as marble, on the
silken coverlet. He had come, overwhelmed with pain, from the scene on
the terrace, to pour forth a passionate grief and remorse over this
young life that had been so generously given up to save his.
It mattered nothing to him that the dead girl was the daughter of the
man whom he had befriended, and who had used his generosity only as a
means by which to betray him; it mattered nothing that his grief might
even now be misconstrued by the tongues of the uncharitable. He knelt in
the deepest humility by the dead girl's side, deeming his life all
unworthy to have been saved at such a cost; and while he implored the
pardon of the great Creator for the follies of his past life he called
on the Almighty to hear the vows which he now made--that for the future
his steps would be in wiser paths.
When he arose from his knees his face had lost all its old languid
self-possession; there was a graver, more earnest light in his eyes, and
as his lips pressed the hand of the dead girl they muttered a farewell
vow, which was never to be forgotten from that hour till his last.
Lady Constance, bravely overcoming her own pain and horror at the double
tragedy--for Jasper's body had been recovered and brought back to the
house an hour after the death of Jessica--had retired with poor,
remorseful Ada to her own rooms, where she did her best to soothe and
comfort the unhappy woman. Overwhelmed with remorse at her previous
neglect of the girl, Ada blamed herself bitterly for not watching her
enemy more closely, and thus protecting all concerned from danger.
Meanwhile, the last painful duty had to be done. In the Blue Room were
seated in expectant silence Lord Barminster, Mortimer Shelton, and Mr.
Harker. On the table lay the papers which Mr. Harker had brought with
him, amongst them the all-important roll which Jessica had rescued from
the streets. The three men were waiting now for Adrien, with patient
respect, knowing the cause of his absence.
Presently the door opened, and the young man entered. Lord Barminster
held out his hand without a word, and his son, as silently, grasped it;
then, with a sigh, he seated himself at the table, prepared to learn to
what extent he had been robbed by the man he trusted so fully.
Without comment, Shelton passed him paper after paper, all drawn up in
the clear writing of Mr. Harker; Adrien, with deep humiliation,
examining them all. With another sigh he dropped the last one upon the
table and looked up.
"It is like some hideous dream," he said in a low, shocked voice.
"Jasper Vermont, then, was not a traitor to me, but a forger and thief.
I can scarcely believe it--though, of course, it is impossible to get
away from these proofs. He must have even bribed that jockey to lose the
race, as the man hinted. That he could so have used my trust and
confidence to gain money, and by crime, when he could have had it for
the asking, seems past belief."
His father looked pityingly at him; he knew only too well what a blow
this was to the young man.
"I believed in him to the last," continued Adrien, in the same low
tones. "I believed him true, in spite of all your warnings."
He turned to his friend.
"Shelton," he said, "I cannot thank you as I should like, nor indeed you
either, Mr. Harker. I am deeply grateful to you all for what you have
done for me. Truly a man should take heed of his self-conceit, lest he
fall, as I have done."
He dropped his head on his hands, and his father turned to him
affectionately.
"You do not ask if the evil this man has worked can be remedied,
Adrien," he said, in a softer tone than he had ever been known to use.
"You do not ask whether anything can be regained?"
"I am willing to pay the penalty of my folly," said Adrien, in a low
tone; "and if only it can be arranged that you, too, do not suffer, I
shall not mind."
"Not even if it should leave you penniless?" asked his father.
Adrien raised his head with a mournful smile.
"But for one reason, I am indifferent," he said.
His father's face lit up.
"Yes," he said, "I think I know that reason. Mr. Harker, will you be so
good as to place Mr. Leroy in possession of the facts which you have
already given me. I am almost too tired to speak, after the strain of
these last few hours."
Adrien looked at him remorsefully; for the old man had indeed undergone
much suffering during the last eventful weeks.
Mr. Harker laid a small book upon the table.
"This will do so better than I can, gentlemen," he said. "It is a list
of the various investments in which Mr. Jasper Vermont placed the wealth
he had so fraudulently amassed. His expenses were small; and the
investments which were made with Mr. Leroy's money, and which he had
hoped, of course, to put to his own use, amount to a large sum. When
realised, they will cover the enormous embezzlements, when the forged
bills are destroyed."
Adrien took up the book and glanced through it.
"Is this true?" he said, with an earnestness that all present
understood. "Am I still a rich man?"
"The statement is correct, sir," returned Mr. Harker respectfully. "You
will find that you have in reality benefited by his cunning and
astuteness, even after the racing debts are fully paid."
Adrien laid the book on the table.
"I am grateful," he said gravely. "But I would leave this room
penniless, and gladly, if by so doing I could bring one life back to
us." Then, almost overcome by his emotion, he abruptly left the room.
On the morrow, despite all efforts to hush the matter up, the news went
flying through the land. Adrien Leroy, the well-beloved of Vanity Fair,
had been betrayed by his friend and confidant. Great was the sensation
when all the facts came out into the full light, and it was known that
Adrien had been saved by the traitor's own daughter, who had given her
life that his might be spared.
Mr. Harker was well rewarded for the part he had taken in exposing
Jasper Vermont, and preserving the Leroys from the pitfalls and ruin he
had dug for them. All the forged bills were promptly burnt, and there
remained only those real amounts that Adrien had signed, and which, all
put together, only amounted to but a minute fraction of the supposed
sums owing by the young man.
Jessica was buried in Windleham churchyard; the funeral was attended by
all the Leroys, as well as by many of the countryfolk, for her sad
little story had become known. Ada Lester was also present; she paid her
last visit to the neighbourhood of Barminster on that day, and, with a
tact most unusual to her, refrained from attracting any attention so far
as the Leroys were concerned.
Well placed now in money matters, and proprietress of the Casket
Theatre, she settled down to learn the art of acting as well as dancing,
and eventually married her business manager. She also undertook to look
after her sister, who, however, died shortly afterwards, without ever
regaining her memory, or learning of the fate which had befallen the man
whom she had once loved, or the daughter of whose existence she had
forgotten since the day of her birth.
It took some time to settle up all the details of "Harker's Ltd." Jasper
Vermont had died intestate; and although advertisements were inserted in
various papers, seeking his next-of-kin, no answers were received. The
money, therefore, reverted to the Crown; and Mr. Harker, taking up his
real name of Goodwin, settled in Kingston with his daughter and her
husband, who now, thanks to Lord Barminster, owned a flourishing
business.
Lady Merivale never visited Barminster Castle again. She had succeeded
in convincing her husband of the harmless nature of her flirtation with
Adrien, and patiently bore the brunt of his very natural resentment at
the publicity accorded to his name at the trial; though he acknowledged
that under the circumstances she could have done nothing else but come
forward to exonerate Leroy. Then her ladyship retired into the country
with her husband, who was greatly gratified in the dutiful interest she
showed in him and his farm. All love of intrigue seemed to have died out
when her flirtation with Adrien ended, nor was it ever revived.
Society also lost its fashionable monarch, as far as Leroy was
concerned. The vow that he had registered beside the dead body of the
girl who had so loved him, was religiously kept. He disappeared from his
former place in the world of amusement, and the devotees of pleasure
knew him no more.
After the funeral, he stayed on at Barminster Castle for a time, with
his father and Lady Constance; but, with the consent of both, he
departed a few months later for Africa, on a big-game shooting
expedition. Living the simple but arduous life of the hunters and
trappers, he sought to bury the folly of the past, and restore his hopes
of a brighter and better future.
One day, about six months after the death of Vermont, Lord Barminster
sat in the dining-room of Barminster Castle. His eyes, their expression
no less keen, but far more gentle than in former years, were bent,
sometimes on the cheerful fire, sometimes on the calm face of his ward,
where she stood in the deep embrasure of the window, gazing out over the
snow.
A book was in her hand, but it was closed; and the wistful look in her
sweet eyes showed that her thoughts had flown from the pages of fiction
to the realities of the past and the future.
Suddenly Lord Barminster raised his head.
"Constance, what does Lady Ankerton say in her letter?"
The girl took it from the rack on the writing-desk.
"She says," replied the sweet, musical voice, "that the Ashfords are
well and thriving. She has taken quite an interest in them. Mr. Harker
is rather weak, but cheerful, and so happy in the love of his
grandchildren."
"Ah!" said Lord Barminster, "I am glad they are happy, they deserve all
the pleasure they can get."
He sighed. "When does the African mail come in, my dear?" he asked as
Lady Constance put away the letter she had been reading.
"To-night, usually," she returned with a sigh. A sudden flush rose to
her cheek, rendering her face still more lovely while it lasted, but
leaving her paler than ever when it had gone.
"Still wandering," said her uncle sadly; "surely, by now, Adrien ought
to have forgotten the past."
"He'll never come back until he does," said Lady Constance softly.
"No," said her uncle, with a touch of pride. "He will not come back
until he can take up a worthier life with a worthy love, Constance. Ring
the bell, my dear, and inquire for the mail."
She obeyed him and returned to the fire again, placing her hand upon the
old man's shoulder. Very beautiful she looked, as the bright gleam of
the firelight illumined her face, more lovely now because of its tender,
womanly expression; and the old man's gaze rested lovingly on her.
"When he comes back," he said musingly, "Adrien will find a sweet prize.
He loves you, and his love will increase and endure."
Almost before he had finished speaking there came the sound of
footsteps, and the door opened. The girl barely turned.
"Has the mail come in?" she asked, thinking it was a servant.
But there was no answer. The footsteps came nearer, and some one bent
down over the old man's chair.
"Father!" exclaimed a manly voice.
Lady Constance uttered a low cry, and Lord Barminster sprang to his feet
exclaiming.
"Adrien, my boy!"
"Yes, father, it is I," said Leroy, his voice hoarse with emotion. Then
he turned to Constance, who was gazing at him with tears of joy in her
eyes.
"Constance, my darling," he said gently. "Will you forgive me my long
neglect of you? My eyes have seen you through all the darkness of these
weary months. I have hungered for you all the time, and now I have come
into the light, I want you for my own."
As he spoke he drew her unresistingly within his arms, and the old man,
with one loving backward look, stole silently away to apprise Miss
Penelope of the joyful news.
A month later the church of Windleham was all ablaze with winter
flowers, while crowds of happy, rosy-cheeked children thronged the steps
and porch, for it was the marriage day of Lady Constance Tremaine and
Adrien Leroy.
There were no fashionable silk and satin-clad guests, or a body of
mighty ecclesiastics to perform the ceremony. The old rector, who had
known them both from childhood, made them man and wife, while Lord
Barminster gave the bride away. She had chosen to be but simply dressed,
and followed only by two bridesmaids--sisters of Mortimer Shelton, who
acted as best man. Among the few guests there, were also Lord Standon
and Lady Muriel Branton, soon now to be wedded themselves.
Adrien had explained the reason for his anger long ago, and Lord Standon
too fully understood to continue the coldness which had nearly spoilt
their life-long friendship.
Happy was the bride, that bright winter morning, and Adrien, as he felt
her loved arm against his side, was filled gratitude and love.
"My darling," he murmured as they emerged from the church, "we do not
need the world, you and I. We have each other, that shall be world
enough for us."
"Not to the world do I owe you, Adrien," said Lady Constance gravely,
"but to another woman." Drawing him to the marble slab, which stood
close to the porch, she bent down and placed her bridal bouquet of white
roses on the grave of Jessica. "But for her, life would have ended for
both of us that summer day."
Adrien was deeply moved by her remembrance of the child.
"My darling," he said tenderly, "we have passed together through the
dark shadows. Let us enter now into the sunlight of our love."
THE END
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