TWO weeks later the organ loft of St Blank’s Church was occupied by a
stranger. For a few hours the Baroness felt a wild hope in her heart
that Miss Irving had been sent away.
But inquiry elicited the information that the young musician had merely
employed a substitute because her mother was lying seriously ill at home.
It was then that the Baroness put into execution a desire she had to make
the personal acquaintance of Joy Irving.
The desire had sprung into life with the knowledge of the rector’s
interest in the girl. No one knew better than the Baroness how to sow
the seeds of doubt, distrust and discord between two people whom she
wished to alienate. Many a sweetheart, many a wife, had she separated
from lover and husband, scarcely leaving a sign by which the trouble
could be traced to her, so adroit and subtle were her methods.
She felt that she could insert an invisible wedge between these two
hearts, which would eventually separate them, if only she might make the
acquaintance of Miss Irving. And now chance had opened the way for her.
She made her resolve known to the rector.
“I am deeply interested in the young organist whom I had the pleasure of
meeting some weeks ago,” she said, and she noted with a sinking heart the
light which flashed into the man’s face at the mere mention of the girl.
“I understand her mother is seriously ill, and I think I will go around
and call. Perhaps I can be of use. I understand Mrs Irving is not a
churchwoman, and she may be in real need, as the family is in straitened
circumstances. May I mention your name when I call, in order that Miss
Irving may not think I intrude?”
“Why, certainly,” the rector replied with warmth. “Indeed, I will give
you a card of introduction. That will open the way for you, and at the
same time I know you will use your delicate tact to avoid wounding Miss
Irving’s pride in any way. She is very sensitive about their straitened
circumstances; you may have heard that they were quite well-to-do until
the stroke of paralysis rendered her father helpless. All their means
were exhausted in efforts to restore his health, and in the employment of
nurses and physicians. I think they have found life a difficult problem
since his death, as Mrs Irving has been under medical care constantly,
and the whole burden falls on Miss Joy’s young shoulders, and she is but
twenty-one.”
“Just the age of Alice,” mused the Baroness. “How differently people’s
lives are ordered in this world! But then we must have the hewers of
wood and the drawers of water, and we must have the delicate human
flowers. Our Alice is one of the latter, a frail blossom to look upon,
but she is one of the kind which will bloom out in great splendour under
the sunshine of love and happiness. Very few people realise what
wonderful reserve force that delicate child possesses. And such a tender
heart! She was determined to come with me when she heard of Miss
Irving’s trouble, but I thought it unwise to take her until I had seen
the place. She is so sensitive to her surroundings, and it might be too
painful for her. I am for ever holding her back from overtaxing herself
for others. No one dreams of the amount of good that girl does in a
secret, quiet way; and at the same time she assumes an indifferent air
and talks as if she were quite heartless, just to hinder people from
suspecting her charitable work. She is such a strange, complicated
character.”
Armed with her card of introduction, the Baroness set forth on her
“errand of mercy.” She had not mentioned Miss Irving’s name to Mabel or
Alice. The secret of the rector’s interest in the girl was locked in her
own breast. She knew that Mabel was wholly incapable of coping with such
a situation, and she dreaded the effect of the news on Alice, who was
absorbed in her love dream. The girl had never been denied a wish in her
life, and no thought came to her that she could be thwarted in this, her
most cherished hope of all.
The Baroness was determined to use every gun in her battery of defence
before she allowed Mabel or Alice to know that defence was needed.
The rector’s card admitted her to the parlour of a small flat. The
portières of an adjoining room were thrown open presently, and a vision
of radiant beauty entered the room.
The Baroness could not explain it, but as the girl emerged from the
curtains, a strange, confused memory of something and somebody she had
known in the past came over her. But when the girl spoke, a more
inexplicable sensation took possession of the listener, for her voice was
the feminine of Preston Cheney’s masculine tones, and then as she looked
at the girl again the haunting memories of the first glance were
explained, for she was very like Preston Cheney as the Baroness
remembered him when he came to the Palace to engage rooms more than a
score of years ago. “What a strange thing these resemblances are!” she
thought. “This girl is more like Senator Cheney, far more like him, than
Alice is. Ah, if Alice only had her face and form!”
Miss Irving gave a slight start, and took a step back as her eyes fell
upon the Baroness. The rector’s card had read, “Introducing Mrs
Sylvester Lawrence.” She had known this lad by sight ever since her
first Sunday as organist at St Blank’s, and for some unaccountable reason
she had conceived a most intense dislike for her. Joy was drawn toward
humanity in general, as naturally as the sunlight falls on the earth’s
foliage. Her heart radiated love and sympathy toward the whole world.
But when she did feel a sentiment of distrust or repulsion she had
learned to respect it.
Our guardian angels sometimes send these feelings as danger signals to
our souls.
It therefore required a strong effort of her will to go forward and
extend a hand in greeting to the lady whom her rector and friend had
introduced.
“I must beg pardon for this intrusion,” the Baroness said with her
sweetest smile; “but our rector urged me to come and so I felt emboldened
to carry out the wish I have long entertained to make your acquaintance.
Your wonderful music inspires all who hear you to know you personally;
the service lacked half its charm on Sunday because you were absent.
When I learnt that your absence was occasioned by your mother’s illness,
I asked the rector if he thought a call from me would be an intrusion,
and he assured me to the contrary. I used to be considered an excellent
nurse; I am very strong, and full of vitality, and if you would permit me
to sit by your mother some Sunday when you are needed at church, I should
be most happy to do so. I should like to make the acquaintance of your
mother, and compliment her on the happiness of possessing such a gifted
and dutiful daughter.”
Like all who sat for any time under the spell of the second Mrs Lawrence,
Joy felt the charm of her voice, words and manner, and it began to seem
as if she had been very unreasonable in entertaining unfounded
prejudices.
That the rector had introduced her was alone proof of her worthiness; and
the gracious offer of the distinguished-looking lady to watch by the
bedside of a stranger was certainly evidence of her good heart. The
frost disappeared from her smile, and she warmed toward the Baroness.
The call lengthened into a visit, and as the Baroness finally rose to go,
Joy said:
“I will take you in and introduce you to mamma now. I think it will do
her good to meet you,” and the Baroness followed the graceful girl
through a narrow hall, and into a room which had evidently been intended
for a dining-room, but which, owing to its size and its windows opening
to the south, had been utilised as a sick chamber.
The invalid lay with her face turned away from the door. But by the
movement of the delicate hand on the counterpane, Joy knew that her
mother was awake.
“Mamma, I have brought a lady, a friend of Dr Stuart’s, to see you,” Joy
said gently. The invalid turned her head upon the pillow, and the
Baroness looked upon the face of—Berene Dumont.
“Berene!”
“Madam!”
The two spoke simultaneously, and the invalid had started upright in bed.
“Mamma, what is the matter? Oh, please lie down, or you will bring on
another hæmorrhage,” cried the startled girl; but her mother lifted her
hand.
“Joy,” she said in a firm, clear voice, “this lady is an old acquaintance
of mine. Please go out, dear, and shut the door. I wish to see her
alone.”
Joy passed out with drooping head and a sinking heart. As the door
closed behind her the Baroness spoke.
“So that is Preston Cheney’s daughter,” she said. “I always had my
suspicions of the cause which led you to leave my house so suddenly.
Does the girl know who her father is? And does Senator Cheney know of
her existence, may I ask?”
A crimson flush suffused the invalid’s face. Then a flame of fire shot
into the dark eyes, and a small red spot only glowed on either pale
cheek.
“I do not know by what right you ask these questions, Baroness Brown,”
she answered slowly; and her listener cringed under the old appellation
which recalled the miserable days when she had kept a lodging-house—days
she had almost forgotten during the last decade of life.
“But I can assure you, madam,” continued the speaker, “that my daughter
knows no father save the good man, my husband, who is dead. I have never
by word or line made my existence known to anyone I ever knew since I
left Beryngford. I do not know why you should come here to insult me,
madam; I have never harmed you or yours, and you have no proof of the
accusation you just made, save your own evil suspicions.”
The Baroness gave an unpleasant laugh.
“It is an easy matter for me to find proof of my suspicions if I choose
to take the trouble,” she said. “There are detectives enough to hunt up
your trail, and I have money enough to pay them for their trouble. But
Joy is the living evidence of the assertion. She is the image of Preston
Cheney, as he was twenty-three years ago. I am ready, however, to let
the matter drop on one condition; and that condition is, that you extract
a promise from your daughter that she will not encourage the attentions
of Arthur Emerson Stuart, the rector of St Blank’s; that she will never
under any circumstances be his wife.”
The red spots faded to a sickly yellow in the invalid’s cheeks. “Why
should you ask this of me?” she cried. “Why should you wish to destroy
the happiness of my child’s life? She loves Arthur Stuart, and I know
that he loves her! It is the one thought which resigns me to death; the
thought that I may leave her the beloved wife of this good man.”
The Baroness leaned lower over the pillow of the invalid as she answered:
“I will tell you why I ask this sacrifice of you.”
“Perhaps you do not know that I married Judge Lawrence after the death of
his first wife. Perhaps you do not know that Preston Cheney’s legitimate
daughter is as precious to me as his illegitimate child is to you. Alice
is only six months younger than Joy; she is frail, delicate, sensitive.
A severe disappointment would kill her. She, too, loves Arthur Stuart.
If your daughter will let him alone, he will marry Alice. Surely the
illegitimate child should give way to the legitimate.
“If you are selfish in this matter, I shall be obliged to tell your
daughter the true story of her life, and let her be the judge of what is
right and what is wrong. I fancy she might have a finer perception of
duty than you have—she is so much like her father.”
The tortured invalid fell back panting on her pillow. She put out her
hands with a distracted, imploring gesture.
“Leave me to think,” she gasped. “I never knew that Preston Cheney had a
daughter; I did not know he lived here. My life has been so quiet, so
secluded these many years. Leave me to think. I will give you my answer
in a few days; I will write you after I reflect and pray.”
The Baroness passed out, and Joy, hastening into the room, found her
mother in a wild paroxysm of tears. Late that night Mrs Irving called
for writing materials; and for many hours she sat propped up in bed
writing rapidly.
When she had completed her task she called Joy to her side.
“Darling,” she said, placing a sealed manuscript in her hands, “I want
you to keep this seal unbroken so long as you are happy. I know in spite
of your deep sorrow at my death, which must come ere long, you will find
much happiness in life. You came smiling into existence, and no common
sorrow can deprive you of the joy which is your birthright. But there
are numerous people in the world who may strive to wound you after I am
gone. If slanderous tales or cruel reports reach your ears, and render
you unhappy, break this seal, and read the story I have written here.
There are some things which will deeply pain you, I know. Do not force
yourself to read them until a necessity arises. I leave you this
manuscript as I might leave you a weapon for self-defence. Use it only
when you are in need of that defence.”
The next morning Mrs Irving was weakened by another and most serious
hæmorrhage of the lungs. Her physician was grave, and urged the daughter
to be prepared for the worst.
“I fear your mother’s life is a matter of days only,” he said.