FATHER AND DAUGHTER
And so they waited in suspense for a few moments until the door opened
and Mr. Leegh entered, as usual, with his head thrown back, his nose in
the air, and his sister on his arm. His head was bowed upon her breast,
and her face was pale and her eyes red and swollen.
John Legg arose and went to meet her with trembling nerves and
outstretched arms. He was but a little over fifty years of age, yet for
the last few hours he looked to be over seventy.
“My dear, dear Lyddy! My own poor child!” he said, drawing her to his
breast and holding her there, while he put out his hand to his son and
said:
“How do you do, Clay?”
“I am well, sir, thank you. How do you do yourself?” inquired the
dutiful son in an offhand, nonchalant manner.
“As you see me, Clay. Not very well,” replied the grieved father, as he
sank into a large cushioned chair that his wife had pushed up to him,
and drew his daughter down upon his lap with her head against his
shoulder, where she lay sobbing her soul forth in pride and anger—not in
love or sorrow. She had not spoken one word as yet since she entered the
room.
Clay Legg, as we must henceforth call him, because it is his only right
name, threw himself into another armchair and said:
“I am told, sir, that you have something to communicate to us.”
“Yes, I have, Clay. Do not cry so. Lyddy, my dear. I will stand by you.
Your father will stand by his daughter, and love her and comfort her,
and shelter and protect her against all the world,” he said, turning
away from his insolent son and bending over his wildly hysterical
daughter.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Clay Legg, “since you have something to
communicate, hadn’t you better communicate it?”
“Yes,” replied his father, with a sigh.
“But first,” exclaimed Clay Legg, “here is a stranger present. Are we to
discuss private family affairs before a stranger? And who is that
person, anyway?” he demanded, jerking his thumb in the direction of Mrs.
Legg, who had retired to a short distance and where she sat down.
“Oh, I ought to beg her pardon! For the moment I forgot. Julia, my love,
will you step this way?”
Mrs. Legg came promptly at her husband’s request, and stood before the
group.
“My dear Julia, this young man here is my son, Clay, whom you have never
seen before. Clay, this is Mrs. Legg, my wife, your new mother. I hope
you will be the best of friends!” pleaded the husband and father.
“Indeed, I hope so, too!” earnestly responded the new wife, as she held
out her hand with hearty good will to her stepson.
He drew himself up stiffly and bowed, ignoring her offered hand.
John Legg noticed his manner and frowned with pain, not anger, and to
cover the awkwardness, said:
“And this weeping girl on my bosom is my daughter, Lydia! She cannot
speak to you yet, my dear. She has not even spoken to me, her father,
whom she has not seen before for the last three years! But she will be
better presently, and then I feel sure that you and she at least will be
good friends.”
“Yes, indeed, John! I know we shall!” heartily responded Julia.
“Now sit down, my dear, and make yourself comfortable. You already know
that I have a painful revelation to make to my son and daughter here;
but as the misfortune to be spoken of was caused by no conscious
complicity of theirs, it should not cause either of them too much grief,
I think.”
“No, indeed! It was not their fault, so they should not mourn over it,”
warmly assented Julia.
“See here, sir! Are you going to discuss private family matters in the
presence of this person?” demanded Clay Legg.
“‘This person,’ sir, is my beloved wife. I have no secrets from her. She
already knows as much as I do myself, and as much as I have to tell
you,” replied John Legg, speaking for the first time with some severity.
“Tell me one thing, if you please, sir.”
“What is that?”
“Am I personally concerned in what you are about to communicate in the
presence of a stranger?”
“No, not personally—not at all interested except through your sister.”
“Then that is her concern. If she choose——” And he turned on his heel
and left his sentence unfinished.
“You had better let me go, John, dear, if the young people object to my
presence during this interview,” said Julia gently.
“My daughter, do you object to my wife’s presence here while I make the
revelation of which she knows the whole nature?” whispered John Legg to
the agonized girl on his bosom.
“Oh! why should I object to anything? I know—before you tell me—that
your dreadful news—concerns some crime of my wretched husband! If not a
murder, that would hang him, then a forgery or some other felony that
will send him to penal servitude, and will, in any case, be known all
over England to-morrow. Let whom you like hear the horrid story,”
replied the woman.
When she first began to speak she gasped and panted, but as she went on
she gained more command over her voice.
Julia Legg was full of pity for this ungracious creature, and she came
and knelt down beside her husband’s chair, and took his daughter’s hand
in hers and kissed it, murmuring softly:
“Believe me, oh! believe me! I will do all in my power to lighten any
trouble you may have, and to make you comfortable and contented, if not
happy.”
Lamia—as we must continue to call her because that is the name by which
the reader has known her from the first—Lamia drew her hand away from
the kindly hands that clasped it, and Julia Legg, with a sigh, arose and
resumed her seat.
“My own dear daughter, before I tell you anything more I must remind you
again that in my heart and in my home you have a haven of peace and
love, of rest and safety from all the storms of life. Do you not know
and feel this, my daughter?”
“Oh, yes; you are my father, and that is understood,” she answered
coldly, as if a parent’s boundless love, pity and forgiveness were such
mere matters of course that they needed no recognition. “But I wish you
would tell me at once, and be done with it. What has my miserable
husband, Randolph Hay, done?” she demanded.
John Legg sighed deeply. He did not think “how sharper than a serpent’s
tooth it is to have a thankless child,” because he had never seen the
lines, but he sighed more than once as he answered:
“In the first place, my daughter, your miserable husband, as you call
him, is not Randolph Hay, and has not a shadow of a right to that name
or to the estate of Haymore.”
Lamia started up and looked her father in the face.
“Who and what is he, then?” she fiercely demanded.
“An adventurer with many aliases; a fraudulent claimant of the Haymore
estates, who has sustained his false position by robbery, forgery and
perjury, but who has been recently detected, and who is about to be
exposed and punished.”
“I am not surprised! I am not surprised! I expected something like this!
I did! I did! Tell me, does Mr. Will Walling know anything about it?”
“He knows all about it. His business in England is to bring that man to
justice.”
Lamia sprang from her father’s arms, throwing him suddenly back by the
violence of her motion, and began to walk wildly up and down the floor,
exclaiming and gesticulating like a maniac, and thinking only of herself
and of her own interests, and of no one and nothing else under the sun.
“To bring me to this! Oh, the villain! the villain! But I will have
nothing more to do with him! I will never speak to him again! I will
never look on his face again! Do you hear me, papa?” she cried, suddenly
pausing, with flashing eyes, before her father’s chair. “Do you hear me,
I say? I will never live with that felon again—never speak to him—never
look at him!”
“My child, you are quite right in your resolution. It would be wrong and
even criminal in you to do otherwise,” said John Legg, gently drawing
his daughter into his arms again and adding sorrowfully, “for I have
something more to tell you.”
“You could not tell me anything more shameful than you have already told
me! Even if you should prove that that villain had been a murderer, as
well as a robber, forger and perjurer, it would not be worse, since
hanging is no more disgraceful than penal servitude. To be the wife of a
felon—the wife of a convict! But I will not be! I will be separated by
law! I will be divorced!”
This she repeated over so often and with so much excitement that at last
her father said to her:
“My poor child, you will not need to appeal to the law.”
“What do you mean?” she demanded, impressed by the solemnity of his
manner.
“You will not require a divorce,” he replied.
“That is just, in effect, what you said before. Why will I not require a
divorce? The man is not dead, nor going to die! He will not commit
suicide. No, indeed, trust him for that! He is too great a coward! And
he is in no danger of being hanged. How, then, should you say that I
will not require a divorce, since death is not likely to relieve me of
my felon husband—ugh!” she exclaimed in strong disgust.
“My dear, the man has never been your husband,” he said slowly and
distinctly.
“What?” she cried, aghast.
“The man has never been your husband!” he repeated firmly and solemnly.
“You are mad! We are all mad together, I think! What—under—heaven—do you
mean?” she cried, staring at him with starting eyes.
“This man, under his true name of Kightly Montgomery, married Jennie
Campbell, the daughter of the curate of Medge, in Hantz, more than two
years before he ever saw your face. His wife is living now. She is in
the drawing-room across the hall. My wife Julia here knows all about
this first marriage.”
While John Legg spoke his daughter stared as if her eyes would have
started from out their sockets. Then suddenly she sprang up and rushed
across the room to the side where her brother sat with one leg crossed
over the other, his head thrown back, and his hands clasped above it,
his face wearing a cynical expression.
She paused before him, her eyes flaming.
“Cassius!” she said in a voice half choked with raging hatred and
longing revenge. “Cassius, do you hear what papa has said? Do you hear
that your sister has been deceived, betrayed by the basest of dastards
and criminals! Cassius, kill that man! kill him! kill him! kill him!”
Clay Legg burst into a low, cynical laugh.
“Don’t let us be tragic, whatever we are, Lyddy. It is a pity you have
been such a fool as to be so easily taken in. A greater pity that you
should have brought discredit on your family. But you are not the first
woman who has ever been fooled and laughed at. But as for me getting
into a broil with the fellow on your account—no, thank you! It would be
unbecoming to the cloth, and get me into trouble with the bishop. And as
to killing him! Do you really think I propose to do murder and get
myself hanged for your folly? No, thank you, I say again! You had better
go and hide yourself down in the greengrocer’s shop at Medge along with
papa and stepmamma, while I shall leave the country where my sister’s
conduct has made it impossible for me to hold up my head and look
honorable men in the face.”
While this brutal brother spoke his sister stood before him pallid,
staring and biting her lip until the blood flowed.
“Shame on you, dastard, to speak to the unhappy girl in such a manner!
Leave the room, sir!” said John Legg, rising and opening the library
door.
“I did not want to come in here at first, and I am very glad to get
out,” retorted Clay Legg, with an insulting laugh, as he walked off.
John Legg shut the door after him and then turned to his miserable
daughter. She had thrown herself down on a sofa, where she lay with her
face in her hands.
He kneeled beside her and laid his hand on her head, murmuring softly:
“You must content yourself with our love and our poor home. These are
yours forever. You have tried other love and found it fail you. Paternal
love never fails,” he continued, and while he spoke he did not cease to
smooth and caress her head with his hand.
“And to think,” she moaned in a muffled voice, with her face downward
and hidden with her hands; “to think it was his deserted wife that I
shopped for in the last days before my marriage with him—that it was his
deserted wife with her child—his child—that came over in the same
steamer with him and myself on our bridal trip! Ah! now I know why he
got off the ship at Queenstown! It was to get out of her sight and to
avoid encountering her father who was to meet her at Liverpool. She was
his lawful wife, and knew it, and she knew then that I was—what was
I?—what am I? Oh! I shall go mad! mad! mad!” she shrieked, flinging off
her fathers hand, springing from the sofa, clasping her head between her
palms and walking wildly up and down the floor.
“My dear, dear child, don’t go on like this! Come and sit down. Try to
compose yourself,” pleaded poor John Legg, walking after his daughter.
“Oh, hold your tongue! Let me alone! Don’t I know what you are thinking
in your heart all this time? You are saying to yourself that this is
just what you always expected! Just what I deserved! You are glad of it
in your heart! Glad to see me punished! Glad to see me mortified!” she
cried fiercely, angry with her father because she was angry with
herself, her betrayer and all the world.
“My dear Lyddy! My darling girl! I know you are not accountable for what
you say now. I blame you for nothing, child, not even for your words. I
could not have the cruelty to do it. But try to compose yourself and
believe that we love you and will serve you and comfort you! Lyddy, my
daughter, we cannot offer you the wealth and grandeur and luxuries that
you have been lately used to, but, my dear, a safe home and solid
comforts, and peaceful days and family affection you shall not lack, my
girl—you shall never lack,” pleaded her father; and while he spoke he
followed her up and down with outstretched arms ready to infold her, up
and down, pleading with her, turning when she turned until at length she
whirled around upon him and hissed at him through her set teeth, her
hard words dropping like leaden bullets from the mold:
“Will—you—mind—your—own—business? I am of age! I thought I was Mrs.
Randolph Hay, of Haymore! Lady of the manor here! I entered this house
as its lawful mistress! For what? To find myself deceived, betrayed,
entrapped! Now what am I! Something that must not even be named to
respectable ears like yours!”
“Oh, my dear child! To me you are my wronged and blameless daughter!
Well, rave on! I cannot help it, though it cuts my heart like a sword!
Maybe it relieves you to talk like this. But presently I hope you will
take thought and come home with me to be comforted,” pleaded John Legg.
Lamia burst into a cruel, sarcastic laugh.
“The greengrocer’s house on Market Street, Medge, of course, would be a
perfect paradise to me! I can imagine the back parlor full of the
fragrance of onions, leeks and other garden stuff from the shop, and
enlivened with the music of the bell every time a customer opened the
door! Not any for me, please! I may go on the stage, or on the
street—why should I care where I go, what I do, or how I end—after
this—so that I enjoy the pride of life in my prime?” she demanded,
looking at the plain, good man before her with a cruel, sarcastic sneer.
He held out his arm to her, with a prayer in every look and gesture. He
even ventured to lay his hand on her in tender compassion, but she broke
away from him and resumed her wild walk.
Then he sank into an armchair beside him—he could follow her no
further—and dropped his head upon his hands.
His wife Julia came to his side.
She has longed to go to him while he was following and pleading with his
daughter, and getting nothing from her but insult for love. She had
longed to lead him away from the ungracious and unseemly strife with
evil and to say to him: “Leave the thankless and reckless woman to
herself to recover her senses, if she ever had any, and come with me and
rest.” But—she was a stepmother only to the willful girl, and she must
not interfere between father and daughter.
But now that he sat alone in the collapse of despair after fruitless
effort, bowed down, down with sorrow and wounded affection, she came to
him, put her hand on his shoulder, laid her cheek lightly on his gray
head and murmured words of comfort.
“You have been very, very patient with her, dear, and you were so right!
She has had a terrible blow to her pride, such as even the best of women
could not bear with patience. How then should she?”
“Cruel words from one’s child, my dear! Cruel words!” said the suffering
father, shaking his head without lifting it.
“She was crazed by grief and shame. She did not mean what she said. She
did not even know what she said—did not know it rightly, I mean! When
she comes to her senses, John, she will be more sorry and ashamed of her
conduct to you than she is now of her downfall, and she will be grateful
for your love and Christ-like patience with her. Her present mood is
hysteria—frenzy! Give her time!”
“She threatened to go on the stage or on the street!” exclaimed John,
uttering the last three words with a deep groan.
“She does rave worse than any other hysterical woman I ever heard, to be
sure, for, as a rule, they only threaten to ‘go mad’ or to ‘kill’; but
it is all raving! there’s nothing in it! You have been very patient and
forbearing with your willful and provoking girl in this time of her
suffering and excitement. Continue to be so, and you will have your
reward in her penitence and affection. Believe it, dear.”
“‘Blessed are the peacemakers,’” quoted John Legg. “Come and draw a
chair and sit by me, Julia, my dear. Your presence alone is very
calming, even when you do not speak, though your words are always good
and comforting and your voice sweet and pleasant.”
Julia Legg seated herself beside her husband and took his hand in hers.
Lamia, having exhausted herself by her fury, fell down again upon the
sofa and buried her face in the cushions.
And now in the silence that ensued John Legg became conscious of a
growing disturbance in the drawing-room.
This might have been going on some time unnoticed by the three persons
in the library, who were absorbed in their own trouble; but now the
disturbance on the opposite side of the hall was too evident to be
ignored.
The sound of angry voices, hurrying steps and struggling forms reached
their ears.
Lamia started up from her sofa and sat with her head bent forward,
staring in the direction of the noise and listening intently, with a
look of demoniacal satisfaction and expectancy on her face.
Julia cowered and clung for protection to the husband whom she herself
had just been comforting.
He patted her head to reassure her, and then said:
“There, let me go, dear, and see what is the matter in there,” gently
trying to release himself from her clasp.
“Oh, no, no!” cried Julia, clinging closer than before. “Pray, don’t
leave us, John! Don’t go into that room! Something dreadful is going on
there.”
At that moment a piercing shriek rang through the air, followed by a
heavy fall that shook the house.
“I cannot stand this! Julia, I cannot stand it! I tell you I must run
and prevent mischief if I can!” he urged earnestly, trying to free
himself from her strong arms, but finding that he could not do so
without using force and violence that must hurt her.
The confusion arose to uproar. A loud crash shivered on the floor, and a
peal of fiendish laughter resounded through the building, and a woman’s
agonized cry went up to heaven for help!
Lamia, sitting on the sofa, leaning forward, listening intently, now
broke into a low, demoniacal chuckle.
“Julia!” exclaimed John Legg, breathing hard through excitement. “I hate
to hurt you, but I must prevent murder.”
And he wrenched her arms from around his neck, threw her back in the
armchair and rushed from the library to the drawing-room.