On the day after Dr. Letsom's death, Margaret Dornham's husband was
apprehended on a charge of poaching and aiding in a dangerous assault on
Lord Turton's gamekeepers. Bail was refused for him, but at the trial he
was acquitted for want of evidence. Every one knew he was guilty. He
made no great effort to conceal it. But he defied the whole legal power
of England to prove him guilty. He employed clever counsel, and the
result was his acquittal. He was free; but the prison brand was on him,
and his wife felt that she could not endure the disgrace.
"I shall go from bad to worse now, Maggie," he said to her. "I do not
find prison so bad, nor yet difficult to bear; if ever I Bee by any
lucky hit I can make myself a rich man, I shall not mind a few years in
jail as the price. A forgery, or something of that kind, or the robbery
of a well-stocked bank, will be henceforward my highest aim in life."
She placed her hand on his lips and prayed him for Heaven's sake to be
silent. He only laughed.
"Nature never intended me to work--she did not indeed, Maggie. My
fellow-men must keep me; they keep others far less deserving."
From that moment she knew no peace or rest. He would keep his word; he
would look upon crime as a source of profit; he would watch his
opportunity of wrong-doing, and seize it When it came.
In the anguish of her heart she cried aloud that it must not be at Ash
wood; anywhere else, in any other spot, but not there, where she had
been known in the pride of her fair young life--not there, where people
had warned her not to marry the handsome reckless, ne'er-do-well, and
had prophesied such terrible evil for her if she did marry him--not
there, where earth was so fair, where all nature told of innocence and
purity. If he must sin, let it be far away in large cities where the
ways of men were evil.
She decided on leaving Ashwood. Another and perhaps even stronger motive
that influenced her was her passionate love for the child; that was her
one hope in life, her one sheet-anchor, the one thing that preserved her
from the utter madness of desolation.
The three years had almost elapsed; the doctor was dead, and had left
nothing behind him that could give any clew to Madaline's identity, and
in a short time--she trembled to think how short--the father would come
to claim his child, and she would lose her. When she thought of that,
Margaret Dornham clung to the little one in a passion of despair. She
would go away and take Madaline with her--keep her where she could love
her--where she could bring her up as her own child, and lavish all the
warmth and devotion of her nature upon her. She never once thought that
in acting thus she was doing a selfish, a cruel deed--that she was
taking the child from her father, who of all people living had the
greatest claim upon her.
"He may have more money than I have," thought poor, mistaken Margaret,
"but he cannot love her so much; and after all love is better than
money."
It was easy to manage her husband. She had said but little to him at the
time she undertook the charge of little Madaline, and he had been too
indifferent to make inquiries. She told him now, what was in some
measure quite true, that with the doctor's death her income had ceased,
and that she herself not only was perfectly ignorant of the child's real
name, but did not even know to whom to write. It was true, but she knew
at the same time that, if she would only open the box of papers, she
would not be ignorant of any one point; for those papers she had firmly
resolved never to touch, so that in saying she knew nothing of the
child's identity she would be speaking the bare truth.
At first Henry Dornham was indignant. The child should not be left a
burden and drag on his hands, he declared--it must go to the work-house.
But patient Margaret clasped her arms round his neck, and whispered to
him that the child was so clever, so pretty, she would be a gold-mine to
them in the future--only let them get away from Ashwood, and go to
London, where she could be well trained and taught. He laughed a
sneering laugh, for which, had he been any other than her husband, she
would have hated him.
"Not a bad plan, Maggie," he said; "then she can work to keep us. I,
myself, do not care where we go or what we do, so that no one asks me to
work."
He was easily persuaded to say nothing about their removal, to go to
London without saying anything to his old friends and neighbors of their
intentions. Margaret knew well that so many were interested in the child
that she would not be allowed to take her away if her wish became known.
How long the little cottage at Ashwood had been empty no one knows. It
stood so entirely alone that for weeks together nothing was seen or
known of its inhabitants. Henry Dornham was missed from his haunts. His
friends and comrades wondered for a few days, and then forgot him; they
thought that in all probability he was engaged in some not very
reputable pursuit.
The rector of Castledene--the Rev. John Darnley--was the first really to
miss them. He had always been interested in little Madaline. When he
heard from the shop keepers that Margaret had not been seen in the town
lately, he feared she was ill, and resolved to go and see her. His
astonishment was great when he found the cottage closed and the Dornhams
gone--the place had evidently been empty for some weeks. On inquiry he
found that the time of their departure and the place of their
destination was equally unknown. No one knew whither they had gone or
anything about them. Mr. Darnley was puzzled; it seemed to him very
strange that, after having lived in the place so long, Margaret Dornham
should have left without saying one word to any human being.
"There is a mystery in it," thought the rector. He never dreamed that
the cause of the mystery was the woman's passionate love for the child.
All Castledene wondered with him--indeed, for some days the little town
was all excitement. Margaret Dornham had disappeared with the child who
had been left in their midst. Every one seemed to be more or less
responsible for her; but neither wonder nor anything else gave them the
least clew as to whither or why she had gone. After a few day's earnest
discussion and inquiry the excitement died away, when a wonderful event
revived it. It was no other than the arrival of the new Earl of
Mountdean in search of his little girl.
This time the visitor did not take any pains to conceal his title. He
drove to the "Castle Arms," and from there went at once to the doctor's
house. He found it closed and empty. The first person he asked told him
that the doctor had been for some weeks dead and buried.
The young earl was terribly shocked. Dead and buried--the kindly man who
had befriended him in the hour of need! It seemed almost incredible. And
why had no one written to him? Still he remembered the address of his
child's foster-mother. It was Ashwood Cottage; and he went thither at
once. When he found that too closed and deserted, it seemed to him that
fortune was playing him a trick.
He was disconcerted; and then, believing that this at least was but a
case of removal, he decided upon going to the rector of the parish, whom
he well remembered. He surely would be able to give him all information.
Mr. Darnley looked up in wonder at the announcement of his visitor's
name--the Earl of Mountdean. What could the earl possibly want of him?
His wonder deepened as he recognized in the earl the stranger at the
burial of whose fair young wife he had assisted three years before. The
earl held out his hand.
"You are surprised to see me, Dr. Darnley? You recognize me, I
perceive."
The rector contrived to say something about his surprise, but Lord
Mountdean interrupted him hastily:
"Yes, I understand. I was traveling as Mr. Charlewood when my terrible
misfortune overtook me here. I have returned from Italy, where I have
been spending the last three years. My father has just died, and I am
here in search of my child. My child," continued the earl, seeing the
rector's blank face--"where is she? I find my poor friend the doctor is
dead, and the house where my little one's foster-mother lived is empty.
Can you tell me what it means?"
He tried to speak calmly, but his handsome face had grown quite white,
his lips were dry and hot, his voice, even to himself, had a strange,
harsh sound.
"Where is she?" he repeated. "The little one--my Madaline's child? I
have a strange feeling that all is not well. Where is my child?"
He saw the shadow deepen on the rector's face, and he clasped his arm.
"Where is she?" he cried. "You cannot mean that she is dead? Not dead,
surely? I have not seen her since I left her, a little, feeble baby; but
she has lived in my heart through all these weary years of exile. My
whole soul has hungered and thirsted for her. By night and by day I have
dreamed of her, always with Madaline's face. She has spoken sweet words
to me in my dreams, always in Madaline's voice. I must see her. I cannot
bear this suspense. You do not answer me. Can it be that she too is
dead?"
"No, she is not dead," replied the rector. "I saw her two months since,
and she was then living--well, beautiful, and happy. No, the little one
is not dead."
"Then tell me, for pity's sake, where she is!" cried the earl, in an
agony of impatience.
"I cannot. Two months since I was at Ashwood Cottage Margaret Dornham's
worthless husband was in some great trouble. I went to console his wife;
and then I saw the little one. I held her in my arms, and thought, as I
looked at her, that I had never seen such a lovely face. Then I saw no
more of her; and my wonder was aroused on hearing some of the
tradespeople say that Mrs. Dornham had not been in town for some weeks.
I believed she was ill, and went to see. My wonder was as great as your
own at finding the house closed. Husband, wife, and child had
disappeared as though by magic from the place, leaving no clew or trace
behind them."
The rector was almost alarmed at the effect of his words. The young earl
fell back in his chair, looking as though the shadow of death had fallen
over him.