Dr. Letsom had prospered; one gleam of good fortune had brought with it
a sudden outburst of sunshine. The doctor had left his little house in
Castle street, and had taken a pretty villa just outside Castledene. He
had furnished it nicely--white lace curtains were no longer an
unattainable luxury; no house in the town looked so clean, so bright, or
so pretty as the doctor's People began to look up to him; it was rumored
that he had had money left to him--a fortune that rendered him
independent of his practice. No sooner was that quite understood than
people began to find out that after all he was a very clever man. No
sooner did they feel quite convinced that he was indifferent about his
practice than they at once appreciated his services; what had been
called abruptness now became truth and sincerity He was declared to be
like Dr. Abernethy--wonderfully clever, though slightly brusque in
manner. Patients began to admire him; one or two instances of wonderful
cures were noted in his favor; the world, true to itself, true to its
own maxims, began to respect him when it was believed that he had good
fortune for his friend. In one year's time he had the best practice in
the town, the ladies found his manner so much improved.
He bore his good-fortune as he had borne his ill-fortune, with great
equanimity; it had come too late. If but a tithe of it had fallen to his
share twelve years earlier, he might have made the woman he loved so
dearly his wife. She might have been living--- loving happy, by his
side. Nothing could bring her back--the good-fortune had come all too
late; still he was grateful for it. It was pleasant to be able to pay
his bills when they became due, to be able to help his poorer neighbors,
to be able to afford for himself little luxuries such as he had long
been without. The greatest happiness he had now in life was his love for
little Madeline. The hold she had taken of him was marvelous from the
first moment she held out her baby-hands until the last in which he saw
her she was his one dream of delight. At first he had visited Ashwood as
a matter of duty; but, as time passed on those visits became his dearest
pleasures. The child began to know him, her lovely little face to
brighten for him; she had no fear of him, but would sit on his knee and
lisp her pretty stories and sing her pretty songs until he was fairly
enchanted.
Madaline was a lovely child. She had a beautiful head and face, and a
figure exquisitely molded. Her smiles were like sunshine; her hair had
in it threads of gold; her eyes were of the deep blue that one sees in
summer. It was not only her great loveliness, but there was about her a
wonderful charm, a fascination, that no one could resist.
Dr. Letsom loved the child. She sat on his knee and talked to him, until
the whole face of the earth seemed changed to him. Besides his great
love for the little Madaline, he became interested in the story of
Margaret Dornham's life--in her love for the handsome, reckless
ne'er-do-well who had given up work as a failure--in her wonderful
patience, for she never complained--in her sublime heroism, for she bore
all as a martyr. He heard how Henry Dornham was often seen
intoxicated--heard that he was abusive, violent. He went afterward to
the cottage, and saw bruises on his wife's delicate arms and hands--dark
cruel marks on her face; but by neither word nor look did she ever
betray her husband. Watching that silent, heroic life, he became
interested in her. More than once he tried to speak to her about her
husband--to see if anything could be done to reclaim him. She knew that
all efforts were in vain--there was no good in him; still more she knew
now that there never had been such good as she had hoped and believed.
Another thing pleased and interested the doctor--it was Margaret
Dornham's passionate love for her foster child. All the love that she
would have lavished on her husband, all the love that she would have
given to her own child, all the repressed affection and buried
tenderness of heart were given to this little one. It was touching
pitiful, sad, to see how she worshiped her.
"What shall I do when the three years are over, and her father comes to
claim her?" she would say to the doctor. "I shall never be able to part
with her. Sometimes I think I shall run away with her and hide her."
How little she dreamed that there was a prophecy in the words!
"Her father has the first claim," said Dr. Letsom. "It may be hard for
us to lose her, but she belongs to him."
"He will never love her as I do," observed Margaret Dornham.
Of the real rank and position of that father she had not the faintest
suspicion. He had money, she knew; but that was all she knew--and money
to a woman whose heart hungers for love seems very little.
"There is something almost terrible in the love of that woman for that
child," thought the doctor. "She is good, earnest, tender, true, by
nature; but she is capable of anything for the little one's sake."
So the two years and a half passed, and the child, with her delicate,
marvelous grace, had become the very light of those two lonely lives. In
another six months they would have to lose her. Dr. Letsom knew very
well that if the earl were still living at the end of the three years
his son would tell him of his marriage.
On a bright, sunshiny day in June the doctor walked over to Ashwood. He
had a little packet of fruit and cakes with him, and a wonderful doll,
dressed most royally.
"Madaline!" he cried, as he entered the cottage, and she came running to
him, "should you like a drive with me to-morrow?" he asked. "I am going
to Corfell, and I will promise to take you if you will be a good girl."
She promised--for a drive with the doctor was her greatest earthly
delight.
"Bring her to my house about three to-morrow afternoon, Mrs. Dornham,"
said Dr. Letsom, "and she shall have her drive."
Margaret promised. When the time came she took the little one, dressed
in her pretty white frock; and as they sat in the drawing-room, the
doctor was brought home to his house--dead.
It was such a simple yet terrible accident that had killed him. A poor
man had been injured by a kick from a horse. For want of better
accommodation, he had been carried up into a loft over a stable, where
the doctor attended him. In the loft was an open trap-door, through
which trusses of hay and straw were raised and lowered. No one warned
Dr. Letsom about it. The aperture was covered with straw, and he,
walking quickly across, fell through. There was but one comfort--he did
not suffer long. His death was instantaneous; and on the bright June
afternoon when he was to have taken little Madaline for a drive, he was
carried home, through the sunlit streets, dead.
Margaret Dornham and the little child sat waiting for him when the sad
procession stopped at the door.
"The doctor is dead!" was the cry from one to another.
A terrible pain shot through Margaret's head. Dead! The kindly man, who
had been her only friend, dead! Then perhaps the child would be taken
from her, and she should see it no more!
An impulse, for which she could hardly account, and for which she was
hardly responsible, seized her. She must have the box that contained the
papers, lest, finding the papers, people should rob her of the child.
Quick as thought, she seized the box--which always stood on a bracket in
the drawing-room--and hid it under her shawl. To the end of her life she
was puzzled as to why she had done this. It would not be missed, she
knew, in the confusion that was likely to ensue. She felt sure, also,
that no one, save herself and the child's father, knew of its contents.
She did not wait long in that scene of confusion and sorrow. Clasping
the child in her arms, lest she should see the dead face, Margaret
Dornham hurried back to the cottage, bearing with her the proofs of the
child's identity.
The doctor was buried, and with him all trace of the child seemed lost.
Careful search was made in his house for any letters that might concern
her, that might give her father's address; but Stephen Letsom had been
faithful to his promise--he had kept the secret. There was nothing that
could give the least clew. There were no letters, no memoranda; and,
after a time, people came to the conclusion that it would be better to
let the child remain where she was, for her father would be sure in time
to hear of the doctor's death and to claim her.
So September came, with its glory of autumn leaves. Just three years had
elapsed since Lady Charlewood had died; and then the great trouble of
her life came to Margaret Dornham.