ANOTHER PART OF THE TRUTH
A day or so after the scene in the Lincoln's Inn Fields office, a
party of those interested in the circumstances connected with the
amethyst cross assembled in the library of The Court. George was
present with Lesbia by his side--Lesbia, still ignorant of her true
parentage. Mrs. Walker, looking less grim than usual, had a seat near
Mr. Jabez, who had come down to hear Lord Charvington's story and to
witness the righting of the wrong which had been done to Lesbia. But
two people who should have been on the spot were absent--Walter Hale
and Lady Charvington.
On returning from London, where he had admitted the truth, Charvington
had interviewed his wife. What took place between them was never
known, for out of shame for the lady's behaviour Charvington said as
little as he could, when explaining fully. But his wife must have been
dissatisfied with the conversation, for she left The Court and
returned to London. In spite of what her husband said, she absolutely
refused to be present at the rehabilitation of Lesbia, and it must be
confessed that Charvington felt relieved. He knew his wife's fiery
temper and vindictive nature well, and therefore dreaded lest she
should make a scene. Besides he was manifestly in the wrong, and when
given an inch Lady Charvington immediately took an ell with all the
zest of an ungenerous woman. Mrs. Walker having been the lady's
schoolfellow had something to say on the subject: but she reserved her
remarks until she heard Charvington's story. She, for one, was not
astonished at Lady Charvington's failure to put in an appearance at
the conference. She had never credited her with a kindly heart willing
to forgive and forget. And time proved that her estimate was right.
As to Hale, the interview in Jabez's office had more or less done away
with the necessity for his presence.
He admitted the truth of Charvington's statement to Jabez, and after
confessing the whole of his wicked plots to gain possession of Mrs.
Walker's money--or rather the money which now belonged to Lesbia as
her mother's heiress,--he had been permitted to depart. This he did,
knowing that the police were on his track, and that unless he could
get out of the country he would be in danger of arrest. And if he were
arrested he knew well enough that he would suffer a long term of
imprisonment. Destiny, as Mrs. Walker had remarked, had been very kind
to him, but the hour had arrived when she demanded the return of all
the good fortune which she had lent. And Hale lurked in byways,
trembling for the payment of the bill which the police--as Destiny's
agents--were trying to present. He did his best to give the police no
chance of presenting it, and longed--like David--for the wings of a
dove that he might fly away and be at rest.
But enough people were present to give Charvington an opportunity of
confessing his weakness and folly and, to be plain, cowardice, or, to
be generous, want of courage. Only George and Jabez knew what he was
about to say, as they already had heard the confession in the office.
But Mrs. Walker and Lesbia were ignorant, and although they guessed
that they had been brought there to hear how things could be righted,
they little suspected the way in which this would be accomplished.
Lord Charvington glanced round at the attentive faces, and then
abruptly plunged into the middle of his his story. It was not an easy
one for him to tell, and only sincere repentance made him bold enough
to open his mouth. "I have to right a great wrong," he said with
considerable emotion, "a wrong done to you, Lesbia."
"To me!" The girl looked surprised and clutched George's hand tighter.
"Yes! Listen. For you to understand I must go back over twenty years.
You remember that time, Judith?"
"Yes," said Mrs. Walker quietly, "but you should go back nearly thirty
years, Philip. George is now five-and-twenty and I married his father
some seven years previous to the time you speak of."
"I begin some twenty-three years ago," said Charvington, after a
pause, "as it was then that I married your sister Katherine. Lesbia,"
he turned to the girl, "you are now twenty I believe?"
"Yes, but what have I to do with----"
"You have everything to do with it," interrupted Charvington, "for I
am your father, Lesbia--your guilty, cowardly, cruel father."
"What!" Mrs. Walker rose slowly with a pale face and indignant eyes,
"do you mean to say that this girl is my sister's child?"
"Yes, and as such inherits the money."
"I don't want it," said Lesbia, who was as pale as a wintry moon, for
she could scarcely grasp the significance of her father's statement.
Mrs. Walker waved the objection aside. "I don't mind about the money,"
she said harshly, "and if George marries Lesbia the money is well
bestowed. But to think that you, Philip, should know the truth and
conceal it. I always thought that you were more sinned against than
sinning, Philip, as Hale was your evil genius. But if you knew that
Lesbia was your daughter why did you permit her to call that wretch
father?'
"I am about to explain," said Charvington, trying to speak quietly,
"and I remember the time, Judith, when you would not have called Hale
a wretch."
"I remember it also," said Mrs. Walker, sitting down, "a time when I
loved the man. But you know, Philip, how he deceived me and left me
and threw me into the arms of George's father. I can neither forgive
nor forget the cruelty with which he treated me. And you allowed your
own child--my poor Kate's daughter--to call him father. How could you?
how could you?"
"I was wrong, Judith----"
"Wrong," she repeated strongly, "you were wicked and cruel. What
induced you to arrange matters so? Why was not Lesbia given into my
charge? I was her aunt; I had the right to look after her. But I
expect you and Mr. Jabez made up the matter between you and----"
"Pardon me," said the lawyer politely, "but I knew nothing for ever so
long, and if I had known, I should have given the money which I held
in trust to Miss Lesbia Hale."
"Is my name Lesbia Hale?" asked the girl, who looked pale and scared.
"Yes," said her father, "Hale is my family name. You are Lesbia Hale,
as your half-sisters are Agatha and Lena Hale."
"My half-sisters?" muttered Lesbia bewildered.
"Of course. Your mother was my first wife, and you are her child;
Helen Harrowby is my second wife, the mother of Agatha and Lena."
"Helen Harrowby," said Mrs. Walker with scorn. "Oh, I know her well,
better than you know her, Charvington, or you would never have married
her."
"Heaven knows that I have learned to know her," said the man bitterly,
"but allow me to explain myself, and----"
"One moment," put in Jabez, "I wish to explain on my part to Mrs.
Walker, that I knew nothing of the truth for years. It was only when
you, madam," he addressed himself directly to Mrs. Walker, "told me
of the theft of the amethyst cross, and how your son had obtained it
from Miss Hale, that I got an idea. I fancied--on account of the
cross--that Miss Hale might be your sister's child, but Hale swore, if
you remember, that there was no child."
"Yes," said George caustically, "and then tried to pass off Maud Ellis
as the child so as to get the money."
"That plot was doomed to fail from the first," said Jabez waving his
hand, "as by then, I knew too much. I did not like to declare my
belief that Miss Hale was the missing child, until I had further
proof. In one way and another the proofs came to hand. When Lord
Charvington appeared in my office at my request, immediately before
Hale called with Miss Ellis, I was then pretty well convinced that he
was Miss Hale's father. I was right."
"But you knew for years that he had been my sister's husband," said
Mrs. Walker, "and knowing that, you should have asked him about the
child."
"You knew also. Why did not _you_ ask?"
"Because from Kate's letter to me saying that the child was
dangerously ill, I believed that it had died."
"You told me that," said Jabez, "and I thought so also. Perhaps I have
been blind and have not done justice to my legal training. However,
the case is a very peculiar one. Let us hear what Lord Charvington has
to say, and then, if necessary, I can exonerate myself further."
Mrs. Walker moved her chair and caught Lesbia's disengaged hand. "I am
quite ready," she said calmly, "and before Charvington speaks, I must
thank him for giving me back Kate's child."
Lesbia was too overcome to speak coherently, but muttering something
unintelligible, she sat between mother and son, her aunt and her
cousin, allowing them to hold her hands, and feeling, poor child, that
at last she had someone to love her, and cherish her, and take care of
her. Lord Charvington cast a longing glance at the trio. He would have
liked to take Lesbia in his arms, but it was part of his punishment to
see her cling to others, while he detailed the folly that had led to
his isolation.
"When I was young," he said in a steady voice, and speaking slowly,
"there were two people between myself and the title I hold. I was then
merely Philip Hale."
"The Honourable Philip Hale," said Mrs. Walker promptly.
"No," he contradicted, "no, Judith, my father was only a younger son.
I had no title whatsoever until the death of my cousins by drowning
placed me here as head of the family. And I had no expectation then of
becoming rich and titled. I was simply a briefless barrister."
"And Walter's closest companion," muttered Mrs. Walker.
"Yes. But Walter was not so wicked in those days as he has since
proved to be."
"He was always wicked," snapped the woman, "he was your evil genius."
Charvington passed his hand through his white hair. "I fear he was.
However, we can talk of that later. Walter and I were the best of
friends, and it was Walter who introduced me to Mr. Samuel Morse, a
City merchant. He had two daughters. Judith----"
"That was me," murmured Mrs. Walker, "and the other daughter was my
sister Kate. You loved Kate, and I thought that Walter loved me."
"Walter behaved very badly," said Charvington promptly. "He was poor
while pretending to be rich, and so, when your father, not approving
of his scampish ways, learned that you loved him, Judith, he
threatened to disinherit you."
"Quite so, and learning that, Walter threw me over. Later, I married
George's father, who was quite as scampish, but kind-hearted and
honourable."
"Yes!" Charvington nodded, "I always wondered why Mr. Morse permitted
that marriage as he knew that Walker was quite as wild as Hale."
"But he knew also that Aylmer was honourable, which Walter never was.
Let that pass, I was jilted by Walter and married Aylmer. I lost my
money and my husband, and was left with George to live on nothing.
That's my story, I want to hear yours."
"You know most of it," said Lord Charvington, now speaking rapidly as
though anxious to end a disagreeable task. "I loved Kate; she was the
only woman I ever loved, but your father, thinking me as dissipated as
Walter, refused to permit the match. Kate eloped with me, and your
father would have altered his will but that he died before he could
send for his lawyer."
"And that was me," said Jabez, "however, the will was very fair. You,
Mrs. Walker, got your fifty thousand when you married your husband,
and he soon got rid of it. The other fifty thousand pounds belonged to
Kate, but she never appeared to get it. Why not?" he asked
Charvington.
"Walter Hale again," said that gentleman quickly. "Kate and I were
married and went on the Continent. I was poor and we lived quietly,
hoping that some day Mr. Morse would relent. Then we heard that he had
died. Walter undertook to find out about the will, and told us that
Kate inherited nothing, that all had been left to you, Judith."
"And you believed him," said Jabez. "Why didn't you communicate with
me?"
"I had no reason then to doubt Walter," said Charvington stiffly.
"Augh," groaned Mrs. Walker softly, "you were always an honourable
fool."
"I was, in believing Walter," said Charvington, "and not until lately
have I learned how I was deceived. Walter was always plausible and
clever. Besides, I kept the fact of my marriage secret from my father
lest he should disinherit me. Walter made capital out of that also.
Then there was Helen----"
"Helen," cried Mrs. Walker, rising, much agitated. "She always hated
me and hated Kate because Kate was pretty and you loved her. Helen and
Walter caused all the trouble."
"I know that now; I did not know it then," said Charvington sadly. "I
was always foolish as you remarked just now. I was living in Paris
with my wife. Lesbia was a baby then. We met Helen, who pretended to
be our friend."
"A friend such as Walter was," muttered Mrs. Walker.
"I fear so, but let us say nothing since Helen is now my wife."
"You let her off too easily."
"She is now my wife," said Charvington determinedly, "so that puts an
end to all discussion. Besides, Walter was to blame, as my wife
informed me in a conversation we had when she refused to be present at
this meeting. He worked on Kate's feelings and made her believe that I
was in love with Helen. I was wrong also, for then I went about much
with Helen, while my wife was ill, so that in the end Kate grew
jealous."
"You treated her worse than I thought," said Mrs. Walker darkly.
Charvington threw out his hands. "I never was a hero," he said
entreatingly, "but surely I have suffered for my weakness--the
weakness of a pleasure-loving man. I was wrong; I here admit publicly
that I was wrong. Surely you will believe that my repentance is
sincere."
Mrs. Walker looked at his drawn face and admitted that it was. After
all, few men would have had the courage to stand up and speak as
Charvington was now speaking--to lay bare the secrets of their
weakness and strive, even at the eleventh hour, to make amends.
Charvington had sinned through weakness; he confessed through strength
gained from the lessons of a hard life, hard in spite of his outward
show of prosperity. "I forgive you," said Mrs. Walker in softer tones,
"go on."
"I come to the cruellest part," said Charvington in a thick voice.
"Kate was so jealous that she fled with the child. I searched for her
but could not find her. It was in winter. Then Walter sent for me. I
came to England and he told me that Kate had come to him weak and ill
and almost starving. She had sold what jewels she possessed to feed
herself and her child, and only retained the amethyst cross which her
father had given her. Then she went to Walter at Wimbledon, and there
died in the arms of Bridget Burke."
"Was Mr. Hale married then?" asked George anxiously.
"No. He never married in his life. But when I arrived my wife was
buried and had left the child to the care of Bridget, and also had
given her the cross saying it was to be handed to Lesbia when she grew
up."
"Bridget gave it to me on her death-bed," sighed Lesbia, who wept
bitterly.
"Yes, I learned that," said Charvington with a heavy sigh. "But to go
back to my story. I repented deeply of the way in which I had behaved.
I meant no harm, and would have explained to my wife had she not left
me secretly. I never had an opportunity of explaining. Kate simply
disappeared and died. Owing to my conduct I did not dare to go near
you, Judith, or I might have placed the child in your care. As it was
Hale proposed that Lesbia should be nursed by Bridget and that I
should allow him money. I agreed to this, as at the time it seemed the
best way out of the difficulty. Then my cousins were lost at sea in
their yacht. I came in for a large income and for the title. My
relatives urged me to marry again. Chance threw me once more into
Helen's company----"
"Chance!" snorted Mrs. Walker. "Chance! I know the minx."
Charvington passed over this remark. "I married Helen and took up the
station I now hold. I arranged to allow Walter an annuity if he looked
after Lesbia. He did so, and gradually she began to look on him as her
father."
"And you permitted that--you permitted that," cried Mrs. Walker
furiously.
"Yes," said Charvington with an effort. "Weakness again. My wife knew
the truth and I did not dare to bring my child into the house. I
provided that Lesbia should have a good education, and saw that she
had everything she desired. Walter was kind to her in his own way.
Gradually I came to accept the situation. Then the cross passed into
Walker's possession, and--" he threw out his hand--"you know the rest."
George nodded. "But how did Lady Charvington learn the truth, and why
did she want the cross?"
Charvington sighed again and hung his head. "I do not wish to speak
ill of my wife," he said in a low voice; "but in justice to Lesbia I
must be frank. Hale learned about the money waiting for Lesbia, and
knew that it could be obtained if the cross was shown to you, Jabez,
But Hale could not find the cross."
"I know why," said Lesbia quickly, "Bridget kept it secretly
beside her, as my mother thought that Mr. Hale."--she did not say
father--"might take it away. My mother told Bridget that the cross
would prove that I was her child should any money be waiting for her.
Bridget gave the cross to me and made me promise to say nothing to Mr.
Hale, but to give it to the man I loved. While I was giving it to
George, Mr. Hale came and then----"
"Then," said Lord Charvington, "he went to Cookham and told Sargent
that you, Walker, had the cross. My wife had already learned through
Sargent, who obtained the information from Hale, that if Lesbia
produced the cross she would inherit a fortune. Then--she--" he
hesitated.
Mrs. Walker took up the explanation. "I can see it all," she said
scornfully, "Helen hated Kate so that she was determined that Lesbia
should not get the money and hired Sargent to get the cross. He did
through his brother. We know all about that. But did Helen know that
Sargent was a thief?"
"No," said Charvington sharply. "Helen is not altogether bad. She did
not know of that, nor did she ever suspect that Walter was such a
rascal. I was amazed myself when I heard the truth. I only learned it
during the last few weeks. But you can see how the cross came into my
wife's possession."
"Yes," said George, "but why did she tell the lie about its being in
the library?"
"To conceal the fact of how she came to get it, as she knew perfectly
well that Sargent had obtained it in some underhand way. She guessed
that if she swore I had given her the cross, that no inquiry would be
made and, of course," he added apologetically, "as my wife, I should
have been obliged to support her."
"Philip," cried Mrs. Walker, rising, "you are as weak as ever."
"No," denied the man, "I am strong. Things being as they are, I must
make the best of them. Helen is my wife, and to save the honour of my
name all that I have told you must be kept silent."
Mrs. Walker shrugged her stately shoulders. "I shall say nothing," she
observed, "neither will anyone else. As to Walter, he can be left to
the punishment of the law. But I am certain," she added, with
emphasis, "that as he knows everything, he will speak if only out of
revenge."
Charvington winced. "As I have sown, so must I reap," he murmured.
"Let us hope that out of shame Walter will be silent and not add to my
burden, which is already sufficiently heavy. If I have sinned through
weakness, I have repented and I have been punished."
Mrs. Walker offered her hand. "You shall not be punished further by
me," she said generously, "you were always good and kind, Philip, but
very weak. I held my tongue about you, and I shall hold it still. As
to Walter----"
"Oh," said Jabez, rising, "I daresay I shall find some means to square
him. In the interests of all parties, it will be best to give him a
sum of money and assist him to escape. Once abroad he will say
nothing, besides which he will not dare to venture back to England.
You forget, Lord Charvington, that although he has a hold on you by
knowing so much, you have a hold on him by what you know. Now if
I----"
"Do what you think best," said Charvington, whose hungry, bloodshot
eyes were fixed on Lesbia, "I give you full permission. But my
child--" he held out his arms to Lesbia, who rose pale and
trembling--"will you not forgive me?" said the man in a thick voice.
"I have done you wrong, but I have suffered and I will make amends and
I--I----"
Lesbia ran forward and threw her arms round his neck. "I forgive you,"
she whispered, "and I will learn to love you, and--and--father!"
Her voice rose in a scream. Unable to bear the joy of this
forgiveness, a long-threatened attack of apoplexy seized on the man's
weakened frame. He tried to speak, choked, grew purple in the face and
fell full length on the floor from the arms of the daughter he had not
acknowledged for so many years.