Madaline slept in her grave--her child was safe and happy with the
kindly, tender woman who was to supply its mother's place. Then Lord
Charlewood prepared to leave the place where he had suffered so
bitterly. The secret of his title had been well kept. No one dreamed
that the stranger whose visit to the little town had been such a sad one
was the son of one of England's earls. Charlewood did not strike any one
as being a very uncommon name. There was not the least suspicion as to
his real identity. People thought he must be rich; but that he was noble
also no one ever imagined.
Mary Galbraith, the doctor's housekeeper, thought a golden shower had
fallen over the house. Where there had been absolute poverty there was
now abundance. There were no more shabby curtains and threadbare
carpets--everything was new and comfortable. The doctor seemed to have
grown younger--relieved as he was from a killing weight of anxiety and
care.
The day came when Lord Charlewood was to say good-by to his little
daughter, and the friends who had been friends indeed. Margaret Dornham
was sent for. When she arrived the two gentlemen were in the parlor, and
she was shown in to them. Every detail of that interview was impressed
on Margaret's mind. The table was strewn with papers, and Lord
Charlewood taking some in his hand, said:
"You should have a safe place for those doctor. Strange events happen in
life. They might possibly be required some day as evidences of
identification."
"Not much fear of that," returned the doctor, with a smile. "Still, as
you say, it is best to be cautious."
"Here is the first--you may as well keep it with the rest," said Lord
Charlewood; "it is a copy of my marriage certificate. Then you have here
the certificates of my little daughter's birth and of my poor wife's
death. Now we will add to these a signed agreement between you and
myself for the sum I have spoken about."
Rapidly enough Lord Charlewood filled up another paper, which was signed
by the doctor and himself; then Stephen Letsom gathered them all
together. Margaret Dornham saw him take from the sideboard a plain oaken
box bound in brass, and lock the papers in it.
"There will be no difficulty about the little lady's identification
while this lasts," he said, "and the papers remain undestroyed."
She could not account for the impulse that led her to watch him so
closely, while she wondered what the papers could be worth.
Then both gentlemen turned their attention from the box to the child.
Lord Charlewood would be leaving directly, and it would be the last time
that he, at least, could see the little one. There was all a woman's
love in his heart and in his face, as he bent down to kiss it and say
farewell.
"In three years' time, when I come back again," he said, "she will be
three years old--she will walk and talk. You must teach her to say my
name, Mrs. Dornham, and teach her to love me."
Then he bade farewell to the doctor who had been so kind a friend to
him, leaving something in his hand which made his heart light for many a
long day afterward.
"I am a bad correspondent, Dr. Letsom," he said; "I never write many
letters--but you may rely upon hearing from me every six months. I shall
send you half-yearly checks--and you may expect me in three years from
this at latest; then my little Madaline will be of a manageable age, and
I can take her to Wood Lynton."
So they parted, the two who had been so strangely brought
together--parted with a sense of liking and trust common among
Englishmen who feel more than they express. Lord Charlewood looked round
him as he left the town.
"How little I thought," he said, "that I should leave my dead wife and
living child here! It was a town so strange to me that I hardly even
knew its name."
On arriving at his destination, to his great joy, and somewhat to his
surprise, Lord Charlewood found that his father was better; he had been
afraid of finding him dead. The old man's joy on seeing his son again
was almost pitiful in its excess--he held his hands in his.
"My son--my only son! why did you not come sooner?" he asked. "I have
longed so for you. You have brought life and healing with you; I shall
live years longer now that I have you again."
And in the first excitement of such happiness Lord Charlewood did not
dare to tell his father the mournful story of his marriage and of his
young wife's untimely death. Then the doctors told him that the old earl
might live for some few years longer, but that he would require the
greatest care; he had certainly heart-disease, and any sudden
excitement, any great anxiety, any cause of trouble might kill him at
once. Knowing this Lord Charlewood did not dare to tell his secret; it
would have been plunging his father into danger uselessly; besides which
the telling of it was useless now--his beautiful wife was dead, and the
child too young to be recognized or made of consequence. So he devoted
himself to the earl, having decided in his own mind what steps to take.
If the earl lived until little Madaline reached her third year, then he
would tell him his secret; the child would be pretty and graceful--she
would, in all probability, win his love. He could not let it go on
longer than that. Madaline could not remain unknown and uncared for in
that little county town; it was not to be thought of. Therefore, if his
father lived, and all went well, he would tell his story then; if, on
the contrary, his health failed, then he would keep his secret
altogether, and his father would never know that he had disobeyed him.
There was a wonderful affection between this father and son. The earl
was the first to notice the change that had come over his bright,
handsome boy; the music had all gone from his voice, the ring from his
laughter, the light from his face. Presently he observed the deep
mourning dress.
"Hubert," he asked, suddenly, "for whom are you in mourning?"
Lord Charlewood's face flushed. For one moment he felt tempted to
answer--
"For my beloved wife whom Heaven has taken from me."
But he remembered the probable consequence of such a shock to his
father, and replied, quietly:
"For one of my friends, father--one whom you did not know." And Lord
Mountdean did not suspect.
Another time the old earl placed his arm round his son's neck.
"How I wish, Hubert," he said, "that your mother had lived to see you a
grown man! I think--do not laugh at me, my son--I think yours is perfect
manhood; you please me infinitely."
Lord Charlewood smiled at the simple, loving praise.
"I have a woman's pride in your handsome face and tall, stately figure.
How glad I am, my son, that no cloud has ever come between us! You have
been the best of sons to me. When I die you can say to yourself that you
have never once in all your life given me one moment's pain. How pleased
I am that you gave up that foolish marriage for my sake! You would not
have been happy. Heaven never blesses such marriages."
He little knew that each word was as a dagger to his son's heart.
"After you had left me and had gone back to England," he continued, "I
used to wonder if I had done wisely or well in refusing you your heart's
desire; now I know that I did well, for unequal marriages never prosper.
She, the girl you loved, may have been very beautiful, but you would
never have been happy with her."
"Hush, father!" said Lord Charlewood, gently. "We will not speak of
this again."
"Does it still pain you? tell me, my son," cried the earl.
"Not in the way you think," he replied.
"I would not pain you for the world--you know that, Hubert. But you must
not let that one unfortunate love affair prejudice you against marriage.
I should like to see you married, my son. I should like you to love some
noble, gentle lady whom I could call daughter; I should like to hold
your children in my arms, to hear the music of children's voices before
I go."
"Should you love my children so much, father?" he asked.
"Yes, more than I can tell you. You must marry, Hubert, and then, as far
as you are concerned, I shall not have a wish left unfulfilled."
There was hope then for his little Madaline--hope that in time she would
win the old earl's heart, and prevent his grieving over the unfortunate
marriage. For two years and a half the Earl of Mountdean lingered; the
fair Italian clime, the warmth, the sunshine, the flowers, all seemed to
join in giving him new life. For two years and a half he improved, so
that his son had begun to hope that he might return to England, and once
more see the home he loved so dearly--Wood Lynton; and, though during
this time his secret preyed upon him through every hour of every day,
causing him to long to tell his father, yet he controlled the longing,
because he would do nothing that might in the least degree retard his
recovery. Then, when the two years and a half had passed, and he began
to take counsel with himself how he could best break the intelligence,
the earl's health suddenly failed him, and he could not accomplish his
purpose.
During this time he had every six months sent regular remittances to
England, and had received in return most encouraging letters about
little Madaline. She was growing strong and beautiful; she was healthy,
fair, and happy. She could say his name; she could sing little
baby-songs. Once, the doctor cut a long golden-brown curl from her
little head and sent it to him; but when he received it the earl lay
dying, and the son could not show his father his little child's hair. He
died as he had lived, loving and trusting his son, clasping his hand to
the last, and murmuring sweet and tender words to him. Lord Charlewood's
heart smote him as he listened, he had not merited such implicit faith
and trust.
"Father," he said, "listen for one moment! Can you hear me? I did marry
Madaline--I loved her so dearly, I could not help it--I married her; and
she died one year afterward. But she left me a little daughter. Can you
hear me, father?"
No gleam of light came into the dying eyes, no consciousness into the
quiet face; the earl did not hear. When, at last, his son had made up
his mind to reveal his secret, it was too late for his father to
hear--and he died without knowing it. He died, and was brought back to
England, and buried with great pomp and magnificence; and then his son
reigned in his stead, and became Earl of Mountdean. The first thing that
he did after his father's funeral was to go down to Castledene; he had
made all arrangements for bringing his daughter and heiress home. He was
longing most impatiently to see her; but when he reached the little town
a shock of surprise awaited him that almost cost him his life.