AN APPEAL FOR FORGIVENESS.
The same wind that wailed so mournfully round the farm made sad music
round the Castle walls. Lady Estelle shuddered as she listened to it; it
seemed so full of prophecy, and the prophecy was so full of evil. It
moaned and sobbed, then went off into wild cries, then into fitful
wails.
A scene was passing just then in the drawing-room of the Castle, such as
the dead and gone Herefords had never seen. A group of four people were
assembled there, the duke looking older by twenty years than when we saw
him last, his head bent, his stately figure drooping, as a man droops
who has just met the most terrible blow of his lifetime. All the pride
and the dignity seemed to have died away from the face of the duchess,
his wife; her eyes were swollen with weeping.
"I shall never feel myself again," she said to her husband; "it is my
death-blow."
Two others were in that group--Lady Estelle, whose face was ghastly
pale; and standing near her, a tall, handsome man, fair of face, frank,
careless and debonair. He was evidently trying to look sorry for
something, but had not been able to succeed.
"It is so long since," he was saying, in a tone of apology; "but really
I fear there can be no excuse offered."
"No," replied the duke, in a stern voice, "that is certain--none."
Two days before this two events had happened at the Castle. One was that
Lady Estelle received a note from Earle, brief enough in itself, but
full of import to her. It simply said:
"I have found her. She is now at home, awaiting your summons. I am
thankful not to have failed."
Lady Estelle grew white to the lips as she read those lines. Then she
wrote a second letter. It was just as brief, and was addressed to the
Earl of Linleigh. It said:
"There is no use in further delay; come to the Castle whenever you like,
only give me twelve hour's notice."
Then came a letter which sorely puzzled the duke. It was from the Earl
of Linleigh, saying that he should be happy to pay the duke a visit if
it were quite convenient, and that he would be at the Castle on
Wednesday, when he would have something particular to say to him. The
duke read the letter, then passed it over to his wife with a very
anxious look.
"He follows his letter, you see; he gives me no time to refuse him. I
suppose we can both guess what he wants to see me about."
"I am afraid so," said the duchess, with a sigh. "I am afraid she likes
him. If she does, we must look upon the brightest side. Perhaps time has
steadied him. Certainly, to be Countess of Linleigh is a great thing,
after all."
"The title is right enough," said the duke; "it is the bearer of it whom
I neither like nor trust."
Neither of them were prepared to hear the story that Ulric, Earl of
Linleigh, had to tell them. Even to the duchess, who honestly believed
her daughter was in love with the earl, her conduct seemed strange. She
was nervous, she talked but little, yet it was the look of happy, dreamy
content that sat on her face.
It struck the duchess at last--there was no mistake about it--Lady
Estelle looked exceedingly ill. She had expected to see her daughter
manifest some little sign of delight at the coming of her lover; she
had expected some little attention to dress, some of the many hundred
pretty ways of showing delight, but she saw none.
Then the day dawned which was to bring the earl, and the duchess felt
sure, from her daughter's face, that she had spent the greater part of
the night in tears.
Through some mistake in the time of his arrival, Lady Estelle was alone;
the duke had not returned from his drive, and the duchess had driven
over to the neighboring presbytery. The earl was not expected until six,
but he arrived at four. It was perhaps well for Lady Estelle that she
had not more time for anticipation; it was a terrible time for her--a
trying ordeal.
She was alone in the library when she heard the sound of
carriage-wheels; she never dreamed it was he till the sudden opening of
the library door, and the footman announced:
"The Earl of Linleigh!"
She often wondered in after years that she had not died in that moment.
But the pride and self-control of long years came to her aid; she rose,
pale as marble, cold, dignified, ready to die rather than yield to
emotion; and without one word, she held out her hand in greeting to her
husband. He was looking at her with eyes that seemed to devour her.
"Estelle," he murmured; then, ready, eloquent, debonair as he was, he
could say no more. Was it possible--gracious Heaven!--was it possible
that this pale, proud, beautiful woman, so haughty that she looked as
though nothing could touch her--was it possible that she was the fair
young Estelle who had sacrificed everything for him, and been so cruelly
rewarded? Was this magnificent woman really his wife?
"Estelle," he repeated. He drew nearer, as though he would caress her.
She shrunk from him.
"No," she said, "do not touch me."
But the earl, so handsome and debonair, was not to be daunted.
"Why, Estelle, my darling, my wife, surely you are going to forgive
me--I shall never forgive myself. No man ever did behave so vilely, I
believe; but, my darling, you will forgive me, and let us be happy now."
"After twenty years!" she answered--"after twenty long, sad years."
"Better late than never, my love. You must forgive me, Estelle. I did
you a most cruel wrong, but the most cruel of all was to quarrel with
you and leave you."
"No," she said, firmly, "the most cruel wrong you did was to marry me;
and the next, to leave me all these years without one word. No woman
could ever forgive such a wrong."
"But you are not a woman, you are an angel, Estelle--so it has always
seemed to me. Will you believe me in this one instance--I am full of
faults; I have behaved shamefully; my conduct to you disgraces the name
I bear, the name of a gentleman--but will you believe this, Estelle, my
wife, my silence during all those years has not been because I would
not write, but because I dare not? I never dreamed that you could
forgive me; I held myself unworthy of all pardon. I knew that I had
wronged you so greatly, I deserved no compassion."
"If you felt so sure that I could never forgive you, why do you come
here now?" she asked, haughtily.
The least possible gleam of amusement came into his eyes, the least
possible curl to his lip.
"You see, my darling Estelle, it is in this way: As Ulric Studleigh it
mattered little what became of me--whether I went to the bad altogether
or not, whether I was married or not; but as Earl of Linleigh it is
quite another thing. I must have a wife to reign in my ancestral home; I
must have children to succeed me; therefore, from the depth of my heart,
I say forgive the fault of erring, passionate youth, and be my wife in
reality as you are in name. I promise you, Estelle, I will atone to you
for the evil I have done; that I will make you happy beyond the power of
words to tell; that I will spend my life in your service. Do you believe
me?"
She looked at him. His face was earnest and agitated, the eloquent eyes
seemed to rain love into her own. It was hard to resist him, and yet he
had been so cruel.
"Why have you never written to me all these years, Ulric?" she asked,
and he knew that the faltering voice meant good for him.
"My darling, I tell you I dared not. No man ever so sinned against a
woman as I sinned against you. I took advantage of your youth, your
simplicity, your love for me, to induce you to contract a private
marriage with me. Then my horrible pride got ahead of me, I quarreled
with you and left you for twenty--may Heaven forgive me--twenty years. I
can hardly expect that you will pardon me. How can you?"
She drew a little nearer to him when she saw how unhappy he looked.
"Ah, Ulric," she said, "your race are all alike faithless and debonair;
even the little one is the same."
The words seemed to cost her violent effort; her face grew crimson.
He looked at her with brightening eyes.
"The little one--our child? Oh, Estelle, you have never told me anything
of our child."
"You have never asked," she retorted.
"No, I am to blame. What dull, stupid apathy has come over me? What have
I been doing or thinking about? My wife and child to drift through all
these years. Well, from the depths of my heart I say Heaven pardon me,
for I am a great sinner. Estelle, tell me something about our child."
The expression of his face was so pitiful that she could not help
replying.
"I cannot tell you much," she said. "I have been, like yourself,
careless over the child. I could not keep my secret and keep her, so she
went."
"Yes, Lady Delapain told me; but have you never seen her? Do you know
nothing of her?"
"I have seen her twice."
And then Lady Estelle gave him the whole history of Doris.
"She is very beautiful," she said, in conclusion, "but she resembles you
more than me. She is a Studleigh in face and in character. She is
faithless and debonair, Ulric, as you are."
"Perhaps you judge her rather harshly," he said, with great tenderness
in his voice. "Why do you call her faithless, Estelle?"
"Because she was engaged to marry some one who loved her with a true and
tender love. She ran away from him, and almost broke his heart."
"Who was the some one?" asked the earl.
"Earle Moray, a poet and a gentleman--one whom a princess might marry,
if she loved him."
"Why did the little one run away from him? What was her reason?"
"She wanted to see something of the world, so she went abroad as
governess to some little children."
"That was not so very bad," he said. "She might have done much worse
than that. It is quite natural for a girl to want to see something of
life. Where did she go to, dear?"
"To Florence, with some English people, I believe."
"Well, I cannot really be very angry with her for it; of course her
position will be changed now. We shall have to think twice before she
fulfills this engagement."
"I shall never be willing for her to marry any one but Earle," said Lady
Estelle.
"We have plenty of time to think of that," he said. "I feel rather
inclined to be jealous of this Earle Moray. Estelle, my darling, you
have not said that you forgive me." He drew nearer to her, he clasped
her in his arms, and kissed the pale, beautiful face. He might be
faithless, he had been cruel, but in all the wide world he was the only
love for her. She did not avert her face from the passionate kisses that
he showered upon it. "You forgive me, Estelle, my wife?"
"Yes," she replied, "I forgive you; I cannot help it; but I know quite
well that I ought not."