DAWNING LIGHT.
Glynn was true to his promise. He forced himself back to something of
his old routine. He took a deeper interest in business than before, and
found something of relief in the mental effort it obliged him to make.
Men said Glynn was greatly changed since that bad fever he had had.
Women thought him more interesting. The truth was hardly suspected.
It suited the authorities of _la sûreté_ that the _affaire Rue de
L'Evêque_ should not get into the public prints. The English newspapers
had therefore never got hold of the story.
One of the chief interests in this new phase of Glynn's existence was
to watch Deering, whom he frequently met.
That gentleman affected some intimacy with Glynn, and made many visits
to the office of Messrs. Ottley, Hassali and Ince, _apropos_ of his
railway scheme.
Glynn did not reject his advances, though never lapsing into intimacy.
Deering often spoke of Lambert, and volunteered the information that
the New York police had their eye upon him, that he had arrived all
right, landed, and gone away South almost immediately.
Gradually it dawned upon Glynn that Deering was watching _him_, that
he suspected him of knowing more of Elsie's disappearance than any
one else. He was careful not to let Deering see that he perceived
this, and so, under the fair seeming of friendly acquaintanceship,
the two men kept watch over each other with deadly pertinacity and
keenness, Glynn keeping profoundest silence as to his conviction that
he had heard Elsie's voice, a conviction that tormented him in all his
silent, lonely hours. Often he accused himself of stupidity for too
readily believing the stately Mrs. Storrer. But her quiet disavowal
of all likeness in the photograph to her French teacher, coupled
with Lambert's letter stating that he had some faint hope of finding
a clue to his daughter in America, put him off the idea of hunting
Mademoiselle Laroche further. Sometimes he felt that he would give
all he possessed to shake himself clear of the haunting horror which
poisoned his life. Then the memory of Elsie's sweet, grave, holy eyes
would rise before him, and he felt that he could endure all things,
hope all things, could he but find her, and restore her to what she
was. On the whole, evil anticipations predominated. He had been greatly
disappointed by Lambert's avoidance of him. He could not bear to think
that the unhappy, bereaved father had withdrawn his confidence.
Thus battling with the fiends of doubt and fear that lacerated his
heart, Glynn dragged himself on from day to day.
In the last week of February Deering's land-agent came to town,
bringing with him maps, plans, and calculations. To Glynn's great
surprise he proved to be a certain Dick Weldon, formerly one of his
school-fellows. This recognition led to some intercourse. Glynn,
without deliberate questioning, gathered a good deal of information,
which threw a new light on Deering's character in some directions. On
the subject of the quest which engrossed them both Glynn maintained a
profound silence.
His old acquaintance dined with him, and they talked over bygone
days and boyish escapades with zest, at least on Weldon's side.
It was amazing to Glynn how fresh and full the details of past
adventures--even small minutiæ--dwelt in his old acquaintance's mind,
untroubled as it was by a crowd of varied experiences. He had, it
seemed, led a quiet, busy life, humbly useful, but unexciting.
One cold, dry, dark evening Glynn had accepted an invitation to dine
with Weldon at the hotel in Holborn where he usually stayed on his
short visits to town.
Dinner was over, and both men were enjoying a cigar. The host had
put one or two queries, evidently prompted by the curiosity which
the contrast between Glynn's prosperity and his gloomy depression
evoked, but he could draw forth no responsive confidence, and Weldon,
falling back on his own interests, described his home, his wife, and
children, pressing Glynn warmly to pay them a visit, when, to the great
surprise of both, Deering was ushered in. He apologized shortly for his
intrusion, and explained that he had just had private intelligence that
the member for a borough town near Denham was dangerously ill, that
even were he to recover it would be long before he could enter into
public life again, and that he (Deering) wished to win the probably
vacant seat. He therefore wished Weldon, who knew the local population,
and was well able to feel its pulse, to leave town next morning, and
put matters in train for an immediate canvass, as the retirement of the
sitting member would most probably be announced in a day or two.
As soon as he could withdraw without too rude a display of
indifference, Glynn rose to say good-night; when Deering, somewhat to
his annoyance, proposed to go with him.
"I have no more to say now, Weldon. As soon as the death or retirement
is declared, I will go down to Denham, and we will not let the grass
grow under our feet!"
On reaching the entrance of the hotel, they stopped, intending to
call a cab, and while waiting Glynn's attention was attracted by
two cloaked and veiled women, who were standing close together just
within the doorway. One was tall and stout, the other barely of middle
size, her shoulders, even through the rain-cloak wrapped round her,
showed unmistakable grace,--unmistakable and familiar; a small hat was
entirely enveloped in a thick veil, which was tied over her face, the
ends being brought loosely round the throat to the front. Glynn's eyes
were riveted on this figure, while he seemed to be peering into the
darkness, and felt nervously anxious not to direct Deering's notice to
the object which attracted him.
"If he could only hear her speak!" He listened intently.
"It is useless, we must try an omnibus, it is really safer," he
overheard the taller lady say. The other murmured something, and
turning her head, displayed, in spite of her muffling, a morsel of
white neck, and a glimpse of golden-brown hair. Glynn's heart beat. At
all risks he must keep that girl in view; any mistake was better than
to lose the faintest chance. But Deering must not know his suspicions.
Surely the faint suggestions of a likeness would strike him also? But
Deering made no remark, nor did he seem to see.
At last the taller of the two women said, "Come," and went forth into
the street. At that moment an Islington omnibus drove up. She stepped
forward under the nearest lamp, and tried to stop it by waving her
umbrella. The vehicle was full, and the two cloaked figures walked
slowly away towards Oxford Street.
"Excuse me," said Glynn, abruptly, "I am anxious to get home; I will
walk on and take my chance of a cab."
"Very well," returned Deering, "I'll come with you."
Glynn was dismayed. Did Deering suspect, as he did, that this cloaked
and veiled figure might be Elsie Lambert? If so, what could he do to
save her from his recognition?
His heart thrilled with pain and delight at the bare idea of standing
once more face to face with his lost love. What secrets would that
meeting unveil? Meanwhile he never lost sight of the figures going on
before them, and Deering spoke at intervals.
"There's an empty hansom at last," he cried.
"I am going on a little further," said Glynn. "But don't let me
interfere with you."
"Oh! I don't mind walking with you; I have no engagement I care to
keep," he replied.
"Why does he persist?" thought Glynn. "I am going to look in on an
artist friend near Tottenham Court Road," he said aloud.
"Oh! very well; queer places these fellows put up in. By the way, I
have had another report of our mutual acquaintance, Lambert. He is at
St. Louis, and has changed his name for the third or fourth time."
"Indeed! then you must have had a telegram?"
"Yes, that is, our friends, Claude and Co., have communicated theirs to
me. If Lambert begins to try concealment we'll find out something."
"I trust we shall," said Glynn mechanically, his eyes greedily
following the two figures, lamp after lamp shedding its light upon them
as they passed.
"Will he never go?" he thought, quivering with excitement.
It was an extraordinary situation to be thus dogging the footsteps of
the quarry you wished to preserve from your fellow-hunter, and yet to
be unavoidably leading that hunter on her track.
"I fancy you don't want me," said Deering at last. "If so----"
"Why should you think I do not?" interrupted Glynn, nervously afraid to
betray his burning anxiety to be rid of him.
"I can't exactly tell why," said Deering, laughing, "but I am sure I am
right."
"Well, do whichever you like," said Glynn with well-assumed
indifference,--"come on with me to Tottenham Court Road, where you will
be sure to find plenty of cabs, or pick up the first empty one we fall
in with, and leave me to my fate."
Glynn was almost beside himself with hope, dread, and nervous tension.
Another Islington omnibus drove past and stopped. The two ladies darted
to it, exchanged a hasty hand pressure, and then the shorter of the two
mounted swiftly, and vanished into the interior.
"Good-night!" cried Glynn, abruptly; "the humble 'bus will suit me
admirably."
Before his astonished companion could reply he was beside the vehicle,
which was still standing, as a stout and irritable elderly gentleman
was painfully disentangling himself from among the tightly-packed
passengers.
"If you had only let me out first," he exclaimed angrily as he alighted.
"Trouble you for threepence," interrupted the conductor.
"Threepence! why, I only got in at Leather Lane."
"All right!--Islington!"
Another instant and Glynn occupied the stout man's place--nearer the
door, but on the opposite side to the lady he was following--and they
were rolling rapidly westward.
At first he would not let himself seem to see her, and by the light of
the omnibus lamp he could hardly make out her features, so thick was
the lace which concealed them. Suddenly he saw her start and draw her
cloak closer together with a nervous movement. Had she recognized him?
Gradually, his eyes growing familiar with the light and the texture
of the veil, the conviction grew upon him that he was not mistaken,
that it _was_ indeed Elsie Lambert. It was by a powerful exertion of
will that he controlled the burning impulse to address her, to take
the place beside her vacated by an old lady. She could not leave the
conveyance without passing him; he would be quiet and careful. But if
her father was seeking her in America, how came she here, alone, and
evidently disguised? What frightful confession of weakness, betrayal,
and duplicity awaited him! for this night he would know everything. He
had her in his grasp, and she should not escape. The minutes were like
drops of lead, and still the commonplace everyday 'bus rolled on, its
occupants little dreaming what elements of tragedy were enclosed within
it.
At last he observed Elsie--yes, it _was_ Elsie--murmur something to her
next neighbor, who immediately called out--
"Conductor, Chapel Street for this lady."
The omnibus stopped. Glynn kept quietly in his place, but sprang out
the moment she had passed him. The omnibus drove rapidly away.
The slight dark figure was but a few paces before him in a quiet street
leading from the omnibus line. The longed-for, dreaded moment had come.
He walked rapidly past her, turned round suddenly, and confronting her,
exclaimed:
"Miss Lambert--Elsie! you cannot wish to avoid me?"
She stopped, and put out both her hands with a repellent gesture of
helpless terror that touched Glynn's heart with immense pity.
"Is it possible you fear me?" he said, catching both her hands in his.
She was silent, motionless; but as he almost unconsciously drew her
nearer to him, he felt that she was trembling so violently that she
could scarcely stand.
"Do not fear, I will not betray you to any one. I will help you if I
can. Will you not speak to me? Is it the Elsie I used to know?"
With a long, quivering sigh she whispered, "It is."
"Let me look at your face once more," said Glynn in a low intense tone.
"Don't you know you may trust me?"
"It is not for myself I fear," she said in the same hushed, frightened
voice, as she yielded to the movement by which he drew her under a
lamp; and loosening her veil, she lifted it, raising her eyes with
their well-remembered expression of thoughtful candor to his. How
lovely they were! With what rapture Glynn read in them the confirmation
of her assurance that she was the same Elsie he had loved and lost.
But she was changed; the sweet eyes were unutterably sad, and the
delicate cheek was less rounded. The soft lips were pale, and quivered
nervously, and the hand he still held was thinner. She seemed unable
to suppress the excessive trembling that had seized her. Glynn's whole
soul went out to her in love and trust; he could hardly resist the
impulse to clasp her to his heart, to shelter her against all ill in
his bosom. But might she not be the wife of another man? Anything might
have happened during the terrible blank; and, above all, he must win
her confidence.
"Ah, yes, you are indeed the same. Why--why have you given us all
this sorrow, this fearful anxiety? Think of what your poor father has
suffered! Do you know that he has gone to America to search for you?"
"My father!" she repeated, "my poor dear father!" Then she paused, as
if resisting the inclination to speak.
"I must not keep you here in the cold, dark street. I cannot let you go
alone. May I not come with you?"
"Oh, no, no, no," she repeated; "you must let me go. I cannot, dare not
let you come with me. I must not tell you anything."
"Now that I have found you, do you think I will lose sight of you
again?"
"You will, I am sure, do what is best for me, and kindest," said Elsie,
trying to be calm, and wrapping the veil round her face again. "Let us
move on; we shall attract attention."
She did not resist when he drew her arm through his own, and they
slowly paced up the street in which he had overtaken her.
"Do you think me capable of betraying you?" asked Glynn.
"No," after a pause, as if to plan her speech; "but I have more than
myself to think of. You must not ask me any questions."
"Can you say nothing? Is there no way in which I can help you?"
"I fear not--I do not know--I--" she stopped and drew a long, sobbing
breath--"I dare not speak. Any word might betray more than I ought."
"For your father's sake!--think of all he must endure. Have you any
duty to come before what you owe him?"
He waited for her reply as for a sentence of life or death.
"Think of him! do I _not_ think of him? My love and duty are his only.
But"--she tried to withdraw her arm--"you must let me go; I dare not
stay."
"I cannot let you go unless you promise to meet me again, or tell me
where I may see you. No, I will not release your arm. Elsie--Miss
Lambert, I have been seeking you for seven months; my brain has reeled
at the horror of its own picture of your fate; I cannot let you go now.
Why do you distrust me? Let me take you home. How could I leave you
here in the dark alone?"
"Oh, do not torment me!" she exclaimed, and her voice expressed such
pain that Glynn almost hesitated to persevere in his efforts to detain
her. "In truth I long to take you with me; I am sure you are kind
and true, and I fear to be alone; but I will brave anything, endure
anything rather than say whence I came and whither I go. Do not be
angry with me."
She burst into an agony of tears, leaning against him as if from sheer
inability to stand alone.
"Good God! Elsie, what _can_ I do to comfort and help you? I implore
you to trust me. If I let you go now without retaining some clue by
which I can find you, I can never forgive myself."
"I long to tell you much, all, but I must not. Yet I might get leave; I
might write. Give me your address; I _may_ write to you."
"Will you promise this, solemnly, faithfully?"
"If I do, will you let me go? I am late already. He will be so
anxious."
"_He!_ who?" a throb of fierce jealousy vibrated through Glynn's heart.
"If you promise to see me once more, when and where you will, I will
trust you and let you go. You see, I have more faith in you than you
have in me."
"No; _you_ are free, I am not. I have faith in you, but--Well, promise
for promise. I will promise to write to you before Friday night, if you
will promise not to make any attempt to discover me until after I have
written."
"Good; then promise for promise."
"I promise to write to you, and--and if possible to see you."
"There must be nothing about possibility," said Glynn, sternly. "Give
me an unconditional promise, or I shall not leave you!"
She hesitated, and then said solemnly, "I promise."
"And I trust your promise," returned Glynn. "On my part I promise not
to make any attempt to track you until I have received your letter, or
rather until I have seen you."
There was a moment's silence, then Elsie, who seemed to recover herself
a little, said softly, "Then, good-night!"
"I cannot part with you yet," cried Glynn, passionately; "I cannot bear
to let you go alone. Tell me, did you recognize me in the omnibus?"
"Not all at once; a little while after I had got in. At first, for some
time, I thought you did not know me--I hoped you did not."
"I knew you at the door of the hotel, and followed you."
She started. "I _must_ go now, I have stayed too long. Call a cab for
me, and tell the driver to go to the Great Northern Station. I will
direct him after."
"I cannot bear to let you go alone."
"You must!" impressively. "I am braver than I used to be."
"At least hold my arm till we find a cab," said Glynn, pressing hers to
his side, as they turned back to the thoroughfare from which the street
led. Elsie submitted to his guidance silently. Glynn's heart beat
strongly with mixed emotions. The rapture of meeting her was great--the
fear of losing her still greater. His promise forbade his following
her, and he seemed as far from solving the mystery of her disappearance
as ever. She was moved at the mention of her father, yet not in the
way he expected; she had evidently suffered. Was he culpably weak in
letting her go? But he had no choice. He could not resist her tears,
her distress.
Soon, too soon, they found a cab. Glynn scrutinized the driver; he did
not look like a ruffian. With an effort he subdued his reluctance to
part with her, and assisted her into the conveyance, remembering with
a pang how he had handed her into the carriage after the ball and sent
her forth to--he could not tell what wretchedness and wrong.
"You will be true to your word," he said, pressing her hand as he gave
her his card.
"I will," she whispered. "Perhaps it may prove fortunate that I have
met you."
"God grant it," he returned; then drawing back, said aloud, for
the benefit of the driver, "You will let me know if you arrive all
right;" and waited till the man had ascended the box, when he asked
and obtained his ticket. That at least was something to have and to
hold. Elsie drew up the window and leaned back well out of sight.
The cab rolled away into the darkness, and Glynn was left standing
alone. Collecting himself, he walked briskly away in a southwesterly
direction. Lady Gethin was right, a mere accident brought him the
fulfilment of his passionate desire--that which he had sought for with
such agonizing eagerness. How strange that Deering should have been
with him when he caught sight of something familiar in the neck and
shoulders of the cloaked figure! He would not soon forget the torment
of that walk along the dusky street, the dread of drawing Deering's
attention to the object of his own intense observation, the difficulty
of getting rid of him. Surely the stars in their courses fought for him
(Glynn). Good must come out of so strange a turn of fortune's wheel.
At least he had found Elsie safe--safe apparently from any pressing
danger, and though looking ill and worn, comparatively well. He had
therefore room for hope.
But she was evidently under the influence of some strong will, the
pressure of some great necessity. Would she be true to her promise?
Yes, a thousand times yes! With the sight of her fair, sad face, the
sound of the tremulous voice, all his faith in her returned. It was
marvellous the sort of tender reverence she inspired in him--this
inexperienced creature, who was almost young enough to be his daughter,
and utterly unlearned in the world's lore which was so familiar to
himself! She was not even a highly-accomplished, deeply-read young
lady. There was an old-fashioned charm of sincerity and earnestness
about her infinitely attractive. But she must have undergone some
severe shock, or trial. Her nerves seemed shattered. When should he
know all? Would any blame attach to her? And Glynn answered his own
question with a resolute "No." Then giving himself up to the first real
intense passion he had ever felt, he resolved to win her, to wed her,
to know even a few months' entire happiness--if she would share that
happiness--unless the secret to be revealed hid some insurmountable
barrier.
So far sure of his own consent, Glynn felt more composed; but the hours
dragged fearfully.
The next day he had a visit in his private room from Deering, who was
at the office on business, and said he was going to Denham for a few
days. He then added that Vincent had presumed to call on him, to his
great surprise, his excuse being, that he had heard from St. Louis
that Lambert was there under another name, and had a wife and daughter
with him; that the police were following him close, but could find no
pretext at present for arresting him.
Glynn said very little in reply. He watched Deering keenly as he spoke,
and came to the conclusion that he had no suspicion that Elsie was so
near.
"I don't suppose we shall ever get to the bottom of the affair 'Rue de
L'Evêque,' as the French detectives call it, till the law has got its
grip on that scoundrel Lambert."
"I think he is more an adventurer than a scoundrel," said Glynn coldly;
"and I confess I see no reason for supposing he is in the secret of his
daughter's disappearance; but perhaps you know more than I do."
Deering looked at him with a quick, keen glance--a glance of dislike
and distrust. "On the contrary, _you_ were the intimate friend, the
favored guest of Lambert, and of his charming daughter, of whom I
suspect he made a profitable investment."
"It is blasphemy to say so," exclaimed Glynn indignantly. "Lambert may
have a queer history, but no irreproachable member of the best society
could be a better guardian of his daughter than he was! Do not let him
hear you utter such an insinuation, should you ever meet again, or you
might not like his reply!"
Deering elevated his eyebrows contemptuously. "You are remarkably
loyal," he said. "Well, good-morning; I shall probably see you next
week."
Thursday passed and no letter; well, there were twenty-four hours yet
to spare. Glynn dined that day with Lady Gethin, and as usual outstayed
the other guests.
"I haven't seen you for an age, Hugh," she said, settling herself in
her favorite chair. "You are looking better, as if some life was waking
up within you; but you are very restless and _distrait_; at dinner you
did not seem able to attend to any one or anything for more than five
minutes. Have you found any trace of the lost one?"
"I am too uncertain to talk about it--wait for a few days."
"Ah! then you have," cried her ladyship triumphantly. "I protest I
would give my Louis Quatorze watch, diamonds and all, to know the truth
of that extraordinary story, and to see the girl who has fascinated
you--for she has--you know she has!"
"I will confess nothing, and discuss nothing with you, Lady Gethin," he
returned laughing, and pulling his long dark moustaches. "I know the
power of _your_ fascination sufficiently to be aware that if I once
began there is not a corner of my mind I would not turn inside-out for
your inspection."
"Ah! that is all very fine," exclaimed Lady Gethin in high glee; "but
you will not say a word more than you choose. If you ever find this
young lady, you really must manage to let me see her."
"Would you come and see her?" asked Glynn, as delightful intoxicating
possibilities floated before his eyes.
"Find me a decent excuse, and I'll come fast enough! Hugh, I suspect
you know where she is?"
"I do not, indeed--I wish I did."
"Well, for Heaven's sake, do nothing foolish when she does appear, for
you will find her, if she is above ground."
Friday, and no letter. Glynn kept indoors nearly the whole day, sent an
excuse to the house where he was engaged to dine, and sat, trying to
read, and watching for the last delivery. It came, but brought him no
letter from Elsie.
Then he called himself a drivelling fool, a weak-minded idiot. Why had
he allowed the tears and terror of that unhappy girl to delude him? He
ought to have kept her in his grasp once he had found her. But he had
been so sure of her keeping faith. Now his very faith was shaken. What
might not be revealed if Elsie had deceived him?
He could not sleep. He spent the night in planning schemes of
detection. He found in the depths of his present depression the measure
of the height of hope to which he had risen yesterday.
Next morning he rose, fevered by want of sleep, and eager to begin his
search. He was dressed before the eight o'clock post came in, and was
already writing, when several letters were brought to him, one directed
in a stiff, careful, unknown hand, bearing the postmark of "Clapham."
He tore it open and read--"Come on Saturday at two. 30, Garston
Terrace, Towers Road, Islington." These lines were unsigned, and might
be meant for any one, as there was no address, yet Glynn never doubted
that the lines were meant for him, and were written by Elsie Lambert.
At two o'clock! How near and yet how far! little over six hours. How
should he get through them? He had work at his office, and must arrange
for a free afternoon; that was not difficult; he had not been regularly
in harness since his severe illness. Then he must supply himself with
money. It was impossible to say what steps might be necessary. He was
glad Deering had gone out of town. There seemed a fatality about his
connection with Lambert. He always came to the front when there was any
stir in the Lambert affair.
At last it was time to go citywards. First, however, he drove to
Deering's house and ascertained that he had gone out of town. The
morning hours fled away swifter than he had hoped, though he had a hard
struggle to attend to the business before him. But he had acquired a
good deal of self-mastery in the course of his varied experience, and
few of those with whom he came in contact would have guessed that his
heart was perpetually repeating the words, "What disclosures await me?"
After a vain attempt to eat, he took the train to King's Cross, and
then hailed a cab, desiring the driver to put him down in Towers
Road. This proved a long, dusty thoroughfare. Nor did he find Garston
Terrace till after many inquiries and walking some distance. It was
a little crooked lane, where some exceedingly new houses looked over
a field and a few trees. The door was opened by a fresh-colored,
countrified-looking old woman, in a beautifully white cap. Glynn was
utterly at a loss, he did not know for whom he should inquire. He
feared to mention a young lady; he thought of asking if there were
rooms to let in the house--of a dozen things for the instant or two,
during which they stood gazing at each other. At last the servant or
owner of the house said, in a broad accent--
"You'll be the gentleman to see Mr. Smith?"
"I am," returned Glynn, infinitely relieved.
"Walk in, please." When he obeyed she opened the door of a tolerably
large room at the back of the house, which looked into a small garden,
behind which was a high dead wall, separating it from a manufactory of
some humble sort.
It was very simply furnished--simple to plainness--yet neither ugly
nor uncomfortable. Here his conductress left him, and disregarding her
invitation to take a "cheer," he stood by the fire, his eyes fixed
on the door in a state of painful expectancy. The sound of footsteps
overhead, the murmur of voices made themselves heard, then the door
slowly opened, and Elsie herself came in softly. She was dressed in
black, but not in mourning, and looked deadly pale; her eyes seemed
larger and darker than they used. She made a step or two into the room,
and then stopped, holding out both hands, a smile curving her lip,
which yet trembled, as if on the verge of tears.
Glynn seized the hands she offered, and, in the rapture of seeing her
again, kissed them more than once. "I have imagined such horrors that I
cannot restrain my joy at finding you," he exclaimed, his voice broken
with intense feeling. "Why have you caused us this cruel anxiety?"
"How good you are to care so much," she said, looking at him with a
wondering expression. "You will find I am not to blame. Oh! I feared
I should never get leave to write to you, that you would think I had
broken my promise! I wished to send for you long ago. I know we can
trust you."
"_We!_" Good heavens! was she married, then? "We!" he repeated
hoarsely,--"who--who do you mean?--your husband and yourself?"
"My husband!" a smile gleaming over her face. "I am not married! No--my
father."
"Your father!" letting her withdraw her hands. "He is in America, is he
not?"
"He is here--here in this house."
"I feel bewildered," said Glynn, taking the seat she pointed to and
drawing it near her. "Will you not enlighten me?"
"I know so little, and my father wishes to tell you everything himself.
Ah! you will see him so changed." A quick sob caught her breath, but
she went on calmly: "He was changed enough when he first came, but he
has been seriously ill. He caught a bad cold when travelling here, and
has had inflammation of the lungs. He is so weak; will you come to him?
Now he has agreed to let you come, he is quite anxious to see you."
"In a moment. Tell me, how are you yourself? You look weary, as if you
had suffered."
"I have. It has been such a wretched, miserable time, almost
unbearable, until my father came--always hiding, always a mystery."
"And how did Lambert--how did your father find you?"
"My father find _me_?" with an air of astonishment. "Ah! he will tell
you everything. Come up-stairs to him."
Glynn rose to follow her with a faint feeling of disappointment. She
was evidently delighted to see him, full of faith in him, but utterly
devoid of that delicious consciousness which no woman in love can quite
conceal; and grief for the supposed loss of this girl had almost cost
him his life!--while for the present the mystery was more mysterious
than ever.
Elsie led the way up a narrow stair to the upper story, the same look
of neat simplicity characterizing the rest of the house, and opening
the door of a good-sized bedroom, she said, "Here is Mr. Glynn, dear."
In a large arm-chair, his feet on a footstool, and covered with a
warm plaid, propped by pillows, and close to a good fire, sat, or
rather reclined, Lambert, a small table near him, on which stood a
medicine-bottle and glass. A door leading into another room stood open.
Elsie was right. Her father was wofully changed. His cheeks were
hollow; his skin yellow and wrinkled; his once half-humorous,
half-defiant expression was gone, and replaced by a watchful, pitiful
look, like a creature always expecting a blow, pathetic too in its
wistfulness. One thin, claw-like hand grasped the arm of the chair. As
he turned to gaze eagerly towards the door, a smile of pleasure, a sort
of relieved look beamed over his face as Glynn advanced. "Ah! this is
kind--this is like a good fellow, as I always thought you were," he
whispered in a weak, tremulous voice. "I have just been wearying to see
you, but afraid, afraid!" He sank back on his cushions, still holding
Glynn's hand, and gazing at him imploringly.
"You know, Lambert, I am worthy of some trust, and desire nothing more
than to be of service to you," said Glynn, suppressing all tokens of
his immense surprise, and speaking with studied calmness. "You must not
fatigue or excite yourself. Now that you have allowed me to know your
address, I can come often to see you, and do anything you want in the
way of commissions."
"Ah! but we must take care--we must take care." He sighed deeply,
raising and letting fall his poor wasted hand with a despairing gesture.
While he spoke Elsie had measured out his medicine, and now gave it to
him, saying, "Try not to speak too much, dear father. I will leave you
to have a nice visit from Mr. Glynn all to yourself," with a sweet,
kind smile and thankful look. "I shall see you before you go." She
closed the door between the two rooms.
"Lock the other one, lock it, Elsie," said Lambert eagerly.
"Yes, I will." She disappeared.
"Come near me, nearer; we must speak low," said the invalid.
Glynn brought a chair close to his.
"Tell me," said Lambert, more calmly than he had yet spoken, "do you
think your old comrade a malefactor? do you think I am dodging the
police because I hide away from every one?"
"No! There is something wrong, of course,--concealment always implies
that; but I suspect you are more sinned against than sinning; at any
rate, I repeat, if I can serve you----"
"Ay!" interrupted Lambert; "but to serve me you must know all, and that
is more than I can tell to-day; but I have broken no law--I don't know
that I ever did, though I have done queer things--not for thirteen
years though, for all that time I have led a decent life; and now it's
for the good as well as the evil I have done that I am persecuted!
Glynn, all I can find strength to say is, will you help me to save my
Elsie? Will you be her guardian, and take care of her little fortune?"
"I will," said Glynn; "but I trust and see every reason to hope that
you will be her guardian yourself for many a year!"
"That has nothing to do with it," impatiently. "I want you to take
charge of her money, without deeds or papers, or lawyers, for I can see
no one. Just give me a written acknowledgment. Her money stands in the
name of the good woman who was my darling's foster-mother, and she is
not fit to manage it, and is afraid to keep it. But I trust you, Glynn!
O God! I _must_ trust you! and when the money is transferred to you,
then _you_ must settle it on her, and appoint trustees." He paused,
much exhausted.
"I will do exactly what you wish in the matter," said Glynn, anxious to
soothe him, "and do my best to deserve the high confidence you place in
me."
"Thank you, God bless you!" with a sigh of relief, laying his hand
on Glynn's; "and you will lose no time about it. Mrs. Kellett shall
call on you on Monday, and go with you to the brokers. The money is in
Spanish bonds and Australian railways; it can be handed over to you
with the stroke of a pen; but you know all that better than I do--ha,
ha!" He laughed feebly. "I didn't know what a big boss you were when I
wanted to make a match between my dear little girl and you."
"Miss Lambert deserves a better man than I am," said Glynn.
Lambert looked at him sharply. "There's one thing more, important
enough, but not so pressing as the money. Do you know any lady that
would be kind to Elsie, and look after her? she hasn't a lady friend in
the world--those French women are no use. But mind, she must be strong,
with either money or rank, and a resolute woman, who knows the world.
Lord! it can't be easy to find a clever, well-placed, kindly woman."
"Far from it, yet not impossible. I will undertake to search for this
rarity; but before I do I must know more. I cannot ask another to put
the faith in you that I do."
"Fair enough, fair enough! Well, I'll tell you a lot in a few days; I
daren't begin now, it would kill me."
"You must keep up your heart, Lambert, you must live for your daughter."
"Live for her! I'd serve her best by dying for her!"
"She would not think so."
"No," cried the sick man with a burst of emotion, sobs that shook his
frame, and tears for which when stronger he would have blushed; "_she_
loves me! she believes in me! and come what may, here or hereafter,
nothing can rob me of the fourteen years of happiness and redemption
she has given me. May God reward her."
"Amen," said Glynn, softly. "I think you have talked enough; I will be
ready for your friend on Monday. How shall I know her?"
"She shall bring a word, a line. Settle it with Elsie."
"May I come to-morrow?"
"Yes, if you can manage it safely! The one man that must _not_ find me
is Deering, and he is spending a fortune tracking me."
"This is most extraordinary."
"I dare say it seems so."
"May I put any question to Miss Lambert?"
"As many as you like; but she knows very little."
Here there was a tap at the door, and Elsie entered. "I think I must
ask you to come away," she said.
"I fear I have stayed too long," returned Glynn.
"Will you come to-morrow?"
"Yes, without fail; at the same time."
Then followed a delightful half-hour with Elsie, who gave him a cup of
tea in the sitting-room below.
"I can tell you nothing of my father's reasons," she said in reply to
his queries. "I have simply obeyed him, for I am sure there is some
great necessity, and he promises to explain all to me later. I cannot
describe the state of despair my father gets into occasionally; his
terror at the idea of our being discovered! but now, perhaps, he will
tell you! You will come again, will you not?"
"I shall come to-morrow."
"I am so glad, so glad." Her voice trembled; she strove to keep her
self-control; then resting her elbows on the table, she covered her
face in her hands and burst into irrepressible tears.
"It has been all so terrible," she sobbed; "this concealment, this fear
of I know not what; this shameful changing from one home to another.
Shall we never be free and happy again?"
"You shall, you must," whispered Glynn. "Your father exaggerates his
troubles, I am sure; he has promised to tell me everything, and I will
never leave him till he is reinstated. You can _not_ live on under such
horrible conditions."