Margaret Dornham knew no peace until she had carried out her intention.
It was but right, she said to herself, that Lord Arleigh should know
that his fair young wife was dying.
"What right had he to marry her?" she asked herself indignantly, "if he
meant to break her heart?"
What could he have left her for? It could not have been because of her
poverty or her father's crime--he knew of both beforehand. What was it?
In vain did she recall all that Madaline had ever said about her
husband--she could see no light in the darkness, find no solution to the
mystery; therefore the only course open to her was to go to Lord
Arleigh, and to tell him that his wife was dying.
"There may possibly have been some slight misunderstanding between them
which one little interview might remove," she thought.
One day she invented some excuse for her absence from Winiston House,
and started on her expedition, strong with the love that makes the
weakest heart brave. She drove the greater part of the distance, and
then dismissed the carriage, resolving to walk the remainder of the
way--she did not wish the servants to know whither she was going. It was
a delightful morning, warm, brilliant, sunny. The hedge-rows were full
of wild roses, there was a faint odor of newly-mown hay, the westerly
wind was soft and sweet.
As Margaret Dornham walked through the woods, she fell deeply into
thought. Almost for the first time a great doubt had seized her, a doubt
that made her tremble and fear. Through many long years she had clung to
Madaline--she had thought her love and tender care of more consequence
to the child than anything else. Knowing nothing of her father's rank or
position, she had flattered herself into believing that she had been
Madaline's best friend in childhood. Now there came to her a terrible
doubt. What if she had stood in Madaline's light, instead of being her
friend? She had not been informed of the arrangements between the doctor
and his patron, but people had said to her, when the doctor died, that
the child had better be sent to the work-house--and that had frightened
her. Now she wondered whether she had done right or wrong. What if she,
who of all the world had been the one to love Madaline best, had been
her greatest foe?
Thinking of this, she walked along the soft greensward. She thought of
the old life in the pretty cottage at Ashwood, where for so short a time
she had been happy with her handsome, ne'er-do-well husband, whom at
first she had loved so blindly; she thought of the lovely, golden-haired
child which she had loved so wildly, and of the kind, clever doctor, who
had been so suddenly called to his account; and then her thoughts
wandered to the stranger who had intrusted his child to her care. Had
she done wrong in leaving him all these years in such utter ignorance of
his child's welfare? Had she wronged him? Ought she to have waited
patiently until he had returned or sent? If she were ever to meet him
again, would he overwhelm her with reproaches? She thought of his tall,
erect figure, of his handsome face, so sorrowful and sad, of his
mournful eyes, which always looked as though his heart lay buried with
his dead wife.
Suddenly her face grew deathly pale, her lips flew apart with a
terrified cry, her whole frame trembled. She raised her hands as one who
would fain ward off a blow, for, standing just before her, looking down
on her with stern, indignant eyes, was the stranger who had intrusted
his child to her.
For some minutes--how many she never knew--they stood looking at each
other--he stern, indignant, haughty, she trembling, frightened, cowed.
"I recognize you again," he said, at length, in a harsh voice.
Cowed, subdued, she fell on her knees at his feet.
"Woman," he cried, "where is my child?"
She made him no answer, but covered her face with her hands.
"Where is my child?" he repeated. "I intrusted her to you--where is
she?"
The white lips opened, and some feeble answer came which he could not
hear.
"Where is my child?" he demanded. "What have you done with her? For
Heaven's sake, answer me!" he implored.
Again she murmured something he could not catch, and he bent over her.
If ever in his life Lord Mountdean lost his temper, he lost it then. He
could almost, in his impatience, have forgotten that it was a woman who
was kneeling at his feet, and could have shaken her until she spoke
intelligibly. His anger was so great he could have struck her. But he
controlled himself.
"I am not the most patient of men, Margaret Dornham," he said; "and you
are trying me terribly. In the name of Heaven, I ask you, what have you
done with my child?"
"I have not injured her," she sobbed.
"Is she living or dead?" asked the earl, with terrible calmness.
"She is living," replied the weeping woman.
Lord Mountdean raised his face reverently to the summer sky.
"Thank Heaven!" he said, devoutly; and then added, turning to the
woman--"Living and well?"
"No, not well; but she will be in time. Oh, sir, forgive me! I did
wrong, perhaps, but I thought I was acting for the best."
"It was a strange 'best,'" he said, "to place a child beyond its
parent's reach."
"Oh, sir," cried Margaret Dornham, "I never thought of that! She came to
me in my dead child's place--it was to me as though my own child had
come back again. You could not tell how I loved her. Her little head lay
on my breast, her little fingers caressed me, her little voice murmured
sweet words to me. She was my own child--I loved her so, sir!" and the
poor woman's voice was broken with sobs. "All the world was hard and
cruel and cold to me--the child never was; all the world disappointed
me--the child never did. My heart soul clung to her. And then, sir,
when she was able to run about, a pretty, graceful, loving child, the
very joy of my heart and sunshine of my life, the doctor died, and I was
left alone with her."
She paused for some few minutes, her whole frame shaken with sobs. The
earl, bending down, spoke kindly to her.
"I am quite sure," he said, "that if you erred it has been through love
for my child. Tell me all--have no fear."
"I was in the house, sir," she continued, "when the poor doctor was
carried home dead--in his sitting-room with my--with little
Madaline--and when I saw the confusion that followed upon his death, I
thought of the papers in the oaken box; and, without saying a word to
any one, I took it and hid it under my shawl."
"But, tell me," said the earl, kindly, "why did you do that?"
"I can hardly remember now," she replied--"it is so long since. I think
my chief motive was dread lest my darling should be taken from me. I
thought that, if strangers opened the box and found out who she was,
they would take her away from me, and I should never see her again. I
knew that the box held all the papers relating to her, so I took it
deliberately."
"Then, of course," said the earl, "you know her history?"
"No," she replied, quickly; "I have never opened the box."
"Never opened it!" he exclaimed, wonderingly.
"No, sir--I have never even touched it; it is wrapped in my old shawl
just as I brought it away."
"But why have you never opened it?" he asked, still wondering.
"Because, sir, I did not wish to know who the little child really was,
lest, in discovering that, I should discover something also which would
compel me to give her up."
Lord Mountdean looked at her in astonishment. How woman-like she was!
How full of contradictions! What strength and weakness, what honor and
dishonor, what love and selfishness did not her conduct reveal!
"Then," continued Margaret Dornham, "when the doctor died, people
frightened me. They said that the child must go to the work-house. My
husband soon afterward got into dreadful trouble, and I determined to
leave the village. I tell the truth, sir. I was afraid, too, that you
would return and claim the child; so I took her away with me to London.
My husband was quite indifferent--I could do as I liked, he said. I took
her and left no trace behind. After we reached London, my husband got
into trouble again; but I always did my best for the darling child.
She was well dressed, well fed, well cared for, well educated--she has
had the training of a lady."
"But," put in Lord Mountdean, "did you never read my advertisments?"
"No, sir," she replied; "I have not been in the habit of reading
newspapers."
"It was strange that you should remain hidden in London while people
were looking for you," he said. "What was your husband's trouble, Mrs.
Dornham?"
"He committed a burglary, sir; and, as he had been convicted before, his
sentence was a heavy one."
"And my daughter, you say, is living, but not well? Where is she?"
"I will take you to her, sir," was the reply--"at once, if you will go."
"I will not lose a minute," said the earl, hastily. "It is time, Mrs.
Dornham, that you knew my name, and my daughter's also. I am the Earl of
Mountdean, and she is Lady Madaline Charlewood."
On hearing this, Margaret Dornham was more frightened than ever. She
rose from her knees and stood before him.
"If I have done wrong, my lord," she said, "I beg of you to pardon
me--it was all, as I thought, for the best. So the child whom I have
loved and cherished was a grand lady after all?"
"Do not let us lose a moment," he said. "Where is my daughter?"
"She lives not far from here; but we cannot walk--the distance is too
great," replied Margaret.
"Well, we are near to the town of Lynton--it is not twenty minutes walk;
we will go to an hotel, and get a carriage. I--I can hardly endure this
suspense."
He never thought to ask her how she had come thither; it never occurred
to him. His whole soul was wrapped in the one idea--that he was to see
his child again--Madaline's child--the little babe he had held in his
arms, whose little face he had bedewed with tears--his own child--the
daughter he had lost for long years and had tried so hard to find. He
never noticed the summer woods through which he was passing; he never
heard the wild birds' song; of sunshine or shade he took no note. The
heart within him was on fire, for he was going to see his only
child--his lost child--the daughter whose voice he had never heard.
"Tell me," he said, stopping abruptly, and looking at Margaret "you saw
my poor wife when she lay dead--is my child like her?"
Margaret answered quickly.
"She is like her; but, to my mind, she is a thousand times fairer."
They reached the principal hotel at Lynton, and Lord Mountdean called
hastily for a carriage. Not a moment was to be lost--time pressed.
"You know the way," he said to Margaret, "will you direct the driver?"
He did not think to ask where his daughter lived, if she was married or
single, what she was doing or anything else; his one thought was that he
had found her--found her, never to lose her again.
He sat with his face shaded by his hand during the whole of the drive,
thanking Heaven that he had found Madaline's child. He never noticed the
woods, the high-road bordered with trees, the carriage-drive with its
avenue of chestnuts; he did not even recognize the picturesque, quaint
old Dower House that he had admired so greatly some little time before.
He saw a large mansion, but it never occurred to him to ask whether his
daughter was mistress or servant; he only knew that the carriage had
stopped, and that very shortly he should see his child.
Presently he found himself in a large hall gay with flowers and covered
with Indian matting, and Margaret Dornham was trembling before him.
"My lord," she said, "your daughter is ill, and I am afraid the
agitation may prove too much for her. Tell me, what shall I do?"
He collected his scattered thoughts.
"Do you mean to tell me," he asked, "that she has been kept In complete
ignorance of her history all these years?"
"She has been brought up in the belief that she is my daughter," said
Margaret--"she knows nothing else."
A dark frown came over the earl's face.
"It was wickedly unjust," he said--"cruelly unjust. Let me go to her at
once,"
Pale, trembling, and frightened, Margaret led the way. It seemed to the
earl that his heart had stopped beating, and a thick mist was spread
before his eyes, that the surging of a deep sea filled his ears. Oh,
Heaven, could it be that after all these years he was really going to
see Madaline's child, his own lost daughter? Very soon he found himself
looking on a fair face framed in golden hair, with dark blue eyes, full
of passion, poetry, and sorrow, sweet crimson lips, sensitive, and
delicate, a face so lovely that its pure, saint-like expression almost
frightened him. He looked at it in a passion of wonder and grief of love
and longing; and then he saw a shadow of fear gradually darken the
beautiful eyes.
"Madaline," he said gently; and she looked at him in wonder "Madaline,"
he repeated.
"I--I--do not know you," she replied, surprised.
She was lying, when he entered the room, on a little couch drawn close
to the window, the sunlight, which fell full upon her, lighting up the
golden hair and refined face with unearthly beauty. When he uttered her
name, she stood up, and so like her mother did she appear that it was
with difficulty he could refrain from clasping her in his arms. But he
must not startle her, he reflected--he saw how fragile she was.
"You call me Madaline," she said again--"but I do not know you."
Before answering her, Lord Mountdean turned to Margaret.
"Will you leave us alone?" he requested, but Lady Arleigh stretched out
her hand.
"That is my mother," she said--"she must not be sent away from me."
"I will not be long away, Madaline. You must listen to what this
gentleman says--and, my dear, do not let it upset you."
Mrs. Dornham retired, closing the door carefully behind her, and Lady
Arleigh and the earl stood looking at each Other.
"You call we Madaline," she said, "and you send my mother from me. What
can you have to say?" A sudden thought occurred to her. "Has Lord
Arleigh sent you to me?" she asked.
"Lord Arleigh!" he repeated, in wonder. "No, he has nothing to do with
what I have to say. Sit down--you do not look strong--and I will tell
you why I am here."
It never occurred to him to ask why she had named Lord Arleigh. He saw
her sink, half exhausted, half frightened, upon the couch, and he sat
down by her side.
"Madaline," he began, "will you look at me, and see if my face brings
back no dream, no memory to you? Yet how foolish I am to think of such a
thing! How can you remember me when your baby-eyes rested on me for only
a few minutes?"
"I do not remember you," she said, gently--"I have never seen you
before."
"My poor child," he returned, in a tone so full of tenderness and pain
that she was startled by it, "this is hard!"
"You cannot be the gentleman I used to see sometimes in the early home
that I only just remember, who used to amuse me by showing me his watch
and take me out for drives?"
"No. I never saw you. Madeline as a child--I left you when you were
three or four days old. I have never seen you since, although I have
spent a fortune almost in searching for you."
"You have?" she said, wonderingly. "Who then are yon?"
"That is what I want to tell you without startling you, Madaline--dear
Heaven, how strange it seems to utter that name again! You have always
believed that good woman who has just quitted the room to be your
mother?"
"Yes, always," she repeated, wonderingly.
"And that wretched man, the convict, you have always believed to be your
father?"
"Always," she repeated.
"Will it pain or startle you very much to hear that they are not even
distantly related to you--that the woman was simply chosen as your
foster mother because she had just lost her own child?"
"I cannot believe it," she cried, trembling violently. "Who are you who
tells me this?"
"I am Hubert, Earl of Mountdean," he replied, "and, if you will allow
me, I will tell you what else I am."
"Tell me," she said, gently.
"I am your father, Madaline--and the best part of my life has been spent
in looking for you."
"My father," she said, faintly. "Then I am not the daughter of a
convict--my father is an earl?"
"I am your father," he repeated, "and you, child, have you, child, have
your mother's face."
"And she--who has just left us--is nothing to me?"
"Nothing. Do not tremble, my dear child. Listen--try to be brave. Let me
hold your hands in mine while I tell you a true story."
He held her trembling hands while he told her the story of his life, of
his marriage, of the sudden and fatal journey, and her mother's
death--told it in brief, clear words that left no shadow of doubt on her
mind as to its perfect truth.
"Of your nurse's conduct," he said, "I forbear to speak--it was cruel,
wicked; but, as love for you dictated it, I will say no more. My dear
child, you must try to forget this unhappy past, and let me atone to you
for it. I cannot endure to think that my daughter and heiress, Lady
Madaline Charlewood, should have spent her youth under so terrible a
cloud."
There came no answer, and, looking at her, he saw that the color had
left her face, that the white eyelids had fallen over the blue eyes,
that the white lips were parted and cold--she had fainted, fallen into a
dead swoon.
He knelt by her side and called to her with passionate cries, he kissed
the white face and tried to 'recall the wandering senses, and then he
rang the bell with a heavy peal. Mrs. Dornham came hurrying in.
"Look!" said Lord Mountdean. "I have been as careful as I could, but
that is your work."
Margaret Dornham knelt by the side of the senseless girl.
"I would give my life to undo my past folly," she said. "Oh, my lord,
can you ever forgive me?"
He saw the passionate love that she had for her foster-child; he saw
that it was a mother's love, tender, true, devoted and self-sacrificing,
though mistaken. He could not be angry, for he saw that her sorrow even
exceeded his own.
To his infinite joy, Madaline presently opened her dark eyes and looked
up at him. She stretched out her hands to him.
"My father," she said--"you are really my father?"
He kissed her face.
"Madaline," he replied, "my heart is too full for words. I have spent
seventeen years in looking for you, and have found you at last. My dear
child, we have seventeen years of love and happiness to make up."
"It seems like an exquisite dream," she said. "Can it be true?"
He saw her lovely face grow crimson, and bending her fair, shapely head,
she whispered:
"Papa, does Lord Arleigh know?"
"Lord Arleigh!" he repeated. "My dear child, this is the second time you
have mentioned him. What has he to do with you?"
She looked up at him in wonder.
"Do you not know?" she asked. "Have they not told you I am Lord
Arleigh's wife?"
* * * * *
Lord Arleigh felt very disconsolate that June morning. The world was so
beautiful, so bright, so fair, it seemed hard that he should have no
pleasure in it. If fate had but been kinder to him! To increase his
dullness, Lord Mountdean, who had been staying with him some days, had
suddenly disappeared. He had gone out early in the morning, saying that
he would have a long ramble in the woods, and would probably not return
until noon for luncheon. Noon had come and passed, luncheon was served,
yet there was no sign of the earl, Lord Arleigh was not uneasy, but he
longed for his friend's society.
At last he decided upon going in search of him. He had perhaps lost his
way in the woods, or he had mistaken some road. It was high time that
they looked after him--he had been so many hours absent without apparent
cause. Lord Arleigh whistled for his two favorite dogs, Nero and Venus,
and started out in search of his friend.
He went through the woods and down the high-road, but there was no sign
of the earl. "He must have walked home by another route," thought Lord
Arleigh; and he went back to Beechgrove. He did not find the earl there,
but the groom, who had evidently been riding fast, was waiting for him
in the hall.
"My lord," he said, "I was directed to give you this at once, and beg of
you not to lose a moment's time."
Wondering what had happened, Lord Arleigh opened the note and read:
"My Dear Lord Arleigh: Something too wonderful for me to set down
in words has happened. I am at the Dower House, Winiston. Come at
once, and lose no time.
Mountdean."
"At the Dower House?" mused Lord Arleigh. "What can it mean?"
"Did the Earl of Mountdean send this himself?" he said to the man.
"Yes, my lord. He bade me ride as though for life, and ask your lordship
to hurry in the same way."
"Is he hurt? Has there been any accident?"
"I have heard of no accident, my lord; but, when the earl came to give
me the note, he looked wild and unsettled."
Lord Arleigh gave orders that his fleetest horse should be saddled at
once, and then he rode away.
He was so absorbed in thought that more than once he had a narrow
escape, almost striking his head against the overhanging boughs of the
trees. What could it possibly mean? Lord Mountdean at the Dower House!
He fancied some accident must have happened to him.
He had never been to the Dower House since the night when he took his
young wife thither, and as he rode along his thoughts recurred to that
terrible evening. Would he see her now, he wondered, and would she, in
her shy, pretty way, advance to meet him? It could not surely be that
she was ill, and that the earl, having heard of it, had sent for him.
No, that could not be--for the note said that something wonderful had
occurred.
Speculation was evidently useless--the only thing to be done was to
hasten as quickly as he could, and learn for himself what it all meant.
He rode perhaps faster than he had ever ridden in his life before. When
he reached the Dower House the horse was bathed in foam. He thought to
himself, as he rang the bell at the outer gate, how strange it was that
he--the husband--should be standing there ringing for admittance.
A servant opened the gate, and Lord Arleigh asked if the Earl of
Mountdean was within, and was told that he was.
"There is nothing the matter, I hope," said Lord Arleigh--"nothing
wrong?"
The servant replied that something strange had happened, but he could
not tell what it was. He did not think there was anything seriously
wrong. And then Lord Arleigh entered the house where the years of his
young wife's life had drifted away so sadly.