VERY slowly and wearily the days went on at the High Elms. Lord
Hardcastle, now become an acknowledged inmate of the house, scarcely
recognised himself in the life he was leading, so completely were his
occupations and surroundings reversed. Habituated to the quiet monotony
of a life of study, broken only by a yearly visit to London to attend
the meetings of the various scientific societies of which he was a
member, it was not the solitude of the house which jarred upon his
nerves and feelings. He had from his earliest youth been
accustomed to keep his impulses and passions well under control, and
his highly nervous temperament had ever been perfectly balanced by his
well cultivated reasoning powers. Under the trying circumstances
through which he had passed, his health had not suffered in the
slightest degree, and yet here was he, reasonable and self-contained as
ever, in a state of nervous irritability for which he could not
account. “It is an atmosphere of mystery that I am breathing,” he would
say to himself, “at every turn something confronts me for which I am
totally unprepared. Why, for instance, the inscription on Amy’s grave?
and why is it that I, who loved her so truly and who held her cold and
lifeless in my arms, have as yet no feeling of utter blank despair in
my heart, but only some strong undefinable impulse which is for ever
urging me on, on, on, in the search for the truth?” And the more he
thought the more he wondered, until his brain became as it were sick
and giddy with revolving so constantly round one centre.
Mr. Warden, on his part, seemed to have settled down into the absolute
quietude of a hopeless, aimless life. He had become altogether an old
man in his ways and habits, and was leading the life of one who knows
the future will have no good thing in store for him, and who therefore
lives entirely in the memory of the past. About Mrs. Warden, and her
illness and death, he would talk freely, but when once or twice Lord
Hardcastle had purposely mentioned Amy’s name to him, he had either
abruptly quitted the room or else so pointedly turned the conversation
that another remark on the subject would have been impossible.
“It cuts him to the heart even to hear me speak of her, and he must
know she is never out of my mind,” thought Lord Hardcastle, as he
looked across the library to where Mr. Warden was sitting with an open
volume before him, but his eyes dreamily fixed on the window pane—his
thoughts evidently far away.
“See here, Mr. Warden,” he said suddenly, crossing the room to him, “I
may seem impertinent to you in what I am about to ask, but I have a
real reason for asking the question. I loved your daughter living (God
knows how truly) and I love her dead. If she had lived she might never
have been my wife—who can tell—but her good name, dead as she is,
is as dear to me as though she had been. Will you tell me—I ask it as a
great favour—why you had inscribed on her tomb a name so different to
the one we were accustomed to know her by?”
“It was her right name, the one she was christened,” said Mr. Warden
dreamily, his thoughts still far away and his eyes looking beyond his
book.
Then Lord Hardcastle summoned together all his courage, and making a
great effort asked the one question which had occupied his mind through
so many sorrowful days, and to which, indeed, his former question was
but intended to lead the way.
“Mr. Warden, tell me one thing else, I beg of you; indeed it is not
from idle curiosity I ask it, was Aimée the name of Miss Warden’s
mother?”
At these words Mr. Warden visibly started, and his face grew ashy pale;
then controlling himself with an effort, he replied “Mrs. Warden’s name
was Helen, I thought you knew.”
“Yes, I knew that; forgive me, Mr. Warden, if my conduct seem grossly
impertinent to you. I know I have not the slightest right to ask these
questions, but if you think I have in any way been to you as a son
through these long sorrowful days, as a son I beg for the confidence of
my father.”
“A son! ah, you have indeed been to me as a son in my affliction! But
you are probing old wounds now, my young friend, and asking for a story
sadder than the one you know already, because there is sin and crime
mixed up in it.”
There was a pause, neither spoke for some minutes. Mr. Warden shaded
his face with both hands, and his thoughts wandered back to his bright
young days when sorrow seemed a far-away thing and death a hideous
impossibility. The long sorrowful years that had since come and gone,
faded from his memory; he no longer saw the room where he sat, nor even
his companion, and rushing back upon him in full force came the
recollection of young, strong passions, early hopes and fears, bright
sunshiny hours when life was better worth having than it now was.
At length he uncovered his face and began speaking slowly as one in a
dream. “I can see her now, see her as she stood the first day I saw
her, in the lonely mountain country. Her feet on the black-red lava,
the glowing sunset behind her head, her rich dark beauty flashing back
every gold and crimson ray. I can see yet, her long white dress with
its bright coloured ribbons and the dark-faced nurse by her side who
scowled and frowned at me as my eyes expressed the wonder and
admiration I felt. There and then I could have knelt at her feet and
worshipped her as a goddess. Young and passionate, I poured out my all
of love and devotion at her shrine; she vowed she loved me as I loved
her; she took my heart into her keeping—played with it—broke it—and
threw it on one side for ever.”
He paused, overcome by his recollections. Lord Hardcastle leaned
forward breathlessly. Here was Mr. Warden voluntarily according the
confidence he was so eager to obtain.
Presently Mr. Warden recommenced. “I married her according to the rites
of her own Church. I can see her now in her royal beauty (she had the
blood of Spanish kings in her veins) as she swept down the aisle, the
small head thrown back, the dark eyes sometimes flashing, sometimes
drooping, the full-parted lips and the delicate nostril. Lord
Hardcastle,” he said suddenly turning to the young man, “You thought my
daughter lovely, I suppose, but compared with her mother, my first
Aimée, she was but as the wild white daisy to the queenly lily.”
Again he paused, then once more recommenced—
“For four short years we lived together, in perfect love but not in
peace, for her wilful, passionate temper raised many storms between
us. At last I felt it my duty to endeavour to curb, if I could not
conquer, her waywardness; but I found the task altogether beyond me—I
had so indulged her every whim and fancy that she would not brook the
slightest control at my hands. Her nurse, Isola, added not a little to
our difficulties; she worshipped her young mistress as a being of a
superior order, and was continually representing to her that I had
become harsh and tyrannical of late, whereas I was simply endeavouring
to teach my wife how to acquire a little self-control. Seeing this, I
contrived one morning to have a long quiet talk with Isola on the
matter. I assured her my one object was to secure the peace and
happiness of her young mistress, and begged her to aid me in my efforts
as far as possible.
“But it was useless. Isola was loud and stubborn in her _Cevenol
patois_. Mademoiselle (so she still called my wife) was perfect. What
would I? Did I wish to freeze the warm southern blood in her veins, and
teach her the cunning and caution of the cold-hearted northerners? Had
not Aimée’s father and mother, each in dying, committed their darling
to her care, and no power in heaven or earth would induce her to betray
the trust. ‘I love those who love her,’ the poor ignorant faithful
creature concluded, ‘and those who hate her, I hate also with an
undying hatred.’ These last words she almost hissed in my face, then
abruptly turned and left me, taking my little girl by the hand, telling
her to come and gather lilies to make a crown for her dear mamma.
“Then I went to Aimée herself, and asked if she were ready to give me
some real proof of her love, for I had come to ask her a great favour—
“‘What is it?’ said Aimée, petulantly, ‘I have not loved you so well
lately, for you have been cross and cruel to me.’
“How lovely she looked that morning, angry and scornful though she was.
I remember she was threading some bright Andalusian beads, one of our
little girl’s lily crowns, half-faded, drooped over her forehead, and
an Indian scarf, draped round her waist, fell in folds over her white
dress. Poor, poor Aimée! My girl-wife! then scarcely nineteen years of
age—till I die, your image will remain in my mind fresh and glowing, as
on that last morning I looked on your sweet face!
“The favour I had to ask was a very simple one. I merely wished to take
my wife and daughter to England, and introduce both to my friends and
relations, from whom I had been, to a certain extent, alienated during
my long residence in France. But the one thing which I begged with
great earnestness was, that Isola should be left behind with her own
people. I explained to her that my motive in asking this was a kind
one. Isola should be well cared for during our absence, and, as I loved
my wife well, I wished to have her all to myself, for a short time at
any rate.
“Then the storm burst. It was terrible to see my wife’s anger—
“‘Did I wish to kill her in some secret place,’ she asked, ‘that I
should thus take her away from her own bright land, and the one, the
only one who loved her truly?’
“The scene was indescribable; in vain I attempted to reason with, or
calm her. In a perfect whirlwind of fury, she swept out of the room.
“I would not trust myself to follow her, so much had my temper been
aroused. So calling to my little girl, who was playing in the garden,
we went together for a long ramble among the mountains; I thought that
perhaps alone with my little one in the sweet air I might somewhat
recover my calmness, and would better arrange my plan of action for the
future. We did not return until nearly evening, Amy singing and
scattering flowers as we went. At the door of my house I was met by one
of the servants, who handed to me a letter from my wife, and in answer
to my enquiry, informed me that she and Isola had gone out immediately
after I had, and not since returned.
“With a foreboding of calamity, I opened the letter and read these
words, they are burnt into my memory, ‘You no longer love me. Your
every look and action prove it. For many months I have seen your love
slipping away from me, and I have not cared to stretch out my hand to
keep it. I go to one who has worshipped me from my earliest childhood,
to my cousin in Arragon. In his house, and in his presence, I will see
you if you wish, but never seek to win me back to your home again, for
I have torn your image out of my heart.
“‘AIMÉE.’
“I staggered like a man who had received a heavy blow; the room swam
round and round before my eyes; then all was darkness, and I fell
heavily to the ground. Lord Hardcastle, do I weary you? When you asked
for my confidence just now, did you expect to hear such a story as this
of Amy’s mother?”
“No, I did not, Mr. Warden; and may I ask you, did Amy ever know of her
mother’s guilt, or did she imagine that your second wife was her real
mother?”
“No, to both your questions. Amy was told her mother was dead, as far
as she could be made to understand what that was; but her fascinating
image was so deeply rooted in the child’s mind, that I do not believe
she ever forgot her. Later on—but no, I will not anticipate, but will
tell you in proper order each successive event.
“When I came to my senses, I fully realized the depth of my misery, and
at once took measures to ascertain if my wife had really done as she
threatened. Alas! it was only too easily ascertained—the shamelessness
of her conduct was absolutely appalling. Stricken to the heart, though
I was, I made no effort to win her back; ‘she has ceased to love me,
let her go,’ was the one thought in my mind, and henceforth my little
Amy would have all my love and care.
“I hastened to take her to a place where her mother’s name and sin
would be unknown. So I left the Haute Loire province, and settled at
St. Sauveur, near Bordeaux. There I engaged an excellent English
governess for her (the lady who afterwards became my wife) and by study
and incessant occupation endeavoured to divert my thoughts.
“About a year after we had been at St. Sauveur, I was startled one
morning by the appearance of Isola standing at the gate. My first
thought was that she had come to me with a message of penitence from my
wife. Then, however, noticing she was clad in deep mourning, I guessed
she had far different tidings to bring.
“‘Your mistress is dead,’ I asked, at once anticipating the worst. She
bowed her head.
“‘Tell me everything, Isola,’ I gasped, hoping still there might be
some message of love or repentance for me.
“‘There is nothing to tell,’ she replied coldly, ‘she is dead, that is
all.’
“‘But where, when, how?’ I insisted, my soul thirsting and hungering
after my wife.
“‘She took cold, she would not take care, and so she died, that is
all,’ was the reply.
“‘And not a word or message for me, or for her daughter?’
“Then the woman laughed a harsh scornful laugh.
“‘What would Monsieur have? Don Josef took care of her, and gave her
all she wanted. He was by her side when she died, and held her in his
arms.’
“I had no heart to ask more; and when Isola turned her back on me
without another word or salutation of any sort, I did not seek to
detain her. The least sign of penitence would have brought back my old
love for my wife, but to die thus, as she had lived, in sin, was the
bitterest blow of all.
“My great fear at this time was lest Amy should know, by some means,
any part of this terrible story. I endeavoured, and successfully, to
confuse her infant mind, by constantly speaking of her mother as her
governess, and the thought soon suggested itself to me, that if she had
another mother given to her, the recollection of the first would be
completely obliterated. Accordingly, some short time after Aimée’s
death, I married my second wife. The result you know, a life of peace
and comparative happiness until now.”
Again Mr. Warden paused, his calmness was evidently failing him, and it
was with increased effort and difficulty that he finished his
narration.
“Soon after my second marriage,” he continued, “I left St. Sauveur,
hoping still farther to blot the recollection of her early days from
Amy’s young mind. To a certain extent I believe I succeeded; I imagined
I had quite done so, when one day, some two years ago, to my great
surprise, she suddenly asked me—
“‘Papa, dear, tell me about that beautiful lady who used to play with
me when I was a child; wasn’t she my very own mamma?’
“Then it was I told my little daughter the first and only lie I ever
uttered, and assured her that that beautiful lady was her governess,
and that Mrs. Warden was her very own mamma.
“‘Is that the truth, papa?’ asked Amy, looking up into my face; and
again I assured her that was the truth. ‘Then,’ said the child,
persistently, ‘I love the governess better than my own mamma, for she
used to kiss and play with me, and hold me in her arms, but this mamma
only does embroidery, and receives visitors all day.’ The words cut me
to the heart; there never was much affection between Amy and her
step-mother, their characters were so opposite, and every year the want
of sympathy between them became more and more apparent. Not one of my
friends and relatives knew of my second marriage; they imagined Mrs.
Warden to be my first and only wife, and Mrs. Warden, without any near
relatives, found no difficulty in concealing the fact that she had
married a widower. We had lived such a completely isolated life among
the French peasantry, that there was no fear of Amy ever hearing her
mother spoken of in England; and yet, after all these precautions, here
was nature asserting herself in this extraordinary manner.” Then Mr.
Warden broke off abruptly. “Lord Hardcastle, I can tell you no more of
this sad story. What it has cost me to talk to you thus, you will never
know; let us not speak on the subject again.”
“How can I thank you, Mr. Warden?” exclaimed Hardcastle earnestly,
springing forward, and clasping Mr. Warden’s hand, “how can I ever
thank you for this proof of your confidence in me? For weeks past as I
have thought and thought over this matter, like a man in a dream
almost, my thoughts have ever led me back to you, as holding in your
hands the solution of the mystery. I feel nearer the truth to-night
than I have ever felt before. One ray of light breaks through the
darkness, and we will follow where it leads. Mr. Warden, will you leave
your home here for a time—it is dreary enough, Heaven knows—and with me
visit the scenes of your first love and sorrow? Do you feel equal to
it? Who knows but what the truth may lie hidden somewhere there. I
cannot explain to you the workings of my own mind just now; I must try
to think the matter out. At present I can only see Isola’s hatred of
you, and Amy’s strong resemblance to her dead mother in impetuosity and
vehemence of character. But there are other lights and shadows in the
picture which must fall into their own place before it can be complete.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Warden, sadly, “Amy was a pale likeness (if I may use
the expression) of her mother in mind and body. She resembled her in
form and outline, so to speak, but lacked the full, brilliant colouring
which made her mother so dangerously fascinating. Strange to say, the
likeness was never so apparent to me as when she was lying cold and
lifeless in her coffin; then I felt tempted to ask myself, is this Amy,
or is it her mother?”
“And I, too,” said Lord Hardcastle, quietly, “saw a look in Amy’s face
then I had never seen before. Mr. Warden, I have now but one object in
life, to rescue Amy dead, as I would have rescued her living, from
scorn or dishonour. I want to write the name she has a right to bear,
on her now nameless tomb. I want to be able to hold up the picture of
the girl I love so truly, in all her innocence, and purity, and beauty,
and to say to all the world, ‘this is the one I have loved in life,
whom I love in death, and whom I shall love after death, through
eternity!’”
Mr. Warden looked up at the flushed, earnest face of the speaker, then
he said very quietly—
“Lord Hardcastle, I thought I knew you intimately; I find I have never
really known you until to-day. Yes, I will go with you to Le Puy or
anywhere else you may choose. I feel equal to it, and after all, for an
old man like me it doesn’t much matter in what corner of the world he
may lay his bones!”