THE time passed slowly and heavily to Mr. Warden during Lord
Hardcastle’s absence. The Docteur Lemoine arrived in due course, the
ribbon of the Legion of Honour fastened in his button-hole, and a
general air of got-up-for-the-occasion about him. It was not often,
indeed, that he had a patient of Mr. Warden’s standing to attend. His
experiences, as a rule, were limited to the dying beds of the simple
peasantry about him, for it is not often that a Cevenol mountaineer
calls in the aid of a doctor—rarely, indeed, until the patient is
beyond the hope of recovery.
He looked inquiringly at Mr. Warden, and was proceeding to ask him a
multitude of questions, when the latter stopped him. “My friend,” he
said, “I shall be your patient for such a very short time that it is
really not worth while for you to take a great deal of trouble about
me. My disease is mental, not bodily, and what I most require is rest
and quiet. What you want to know you must find out from your own
observation, and I will promise to take any remedy you may prescribe.”
“But,” expostulated the doctor, “I have been called in to attend
M’sieur, who I am told is suffering. What will you? There are questions
I must ask. My profession”—
“Doctor Lemoine,” again interrupted Mr. Warden, “what I wish is that
you should stay in the house in case of need till my friend returns.
The people here will make you very comfortable, and you can come into
my room and look at me as often as you like; only, I beg, do not
trouble me with any questions.”
Then the doctor bowed and withdrew, and was compelled to content
himself with questioning the landlord and his wife of their strange
guest, and in his broad mountain _patois_ declared again and again that
such treatment was unheard of, incredible; that if he had not seen
death itself written on the stranger’s features he could not have
supported such an insult.
So the time wore slowly away; the afternoon faded into evening, and Mr.
Warden retired early to rest, carefully attended by the kind-hearted
innkeeper.
The next morning rose grey and misty, and Mr. Warden could not repress
a feeling of anxiety for his young friend traversing the (to him)
unfamiliar mountain paths. What if he had missed his way and had been
benighted in some lonely, unfrequented road. What if Isola’s people had
proved treacherous, and looking upon him as his (Mr. Warden’s)
emissary, had maltreated or perhaps murdered him! A hundred such
suppositions rushed through his brain, as weak and feverish he lay on
his couch in his sitting-room.
The Docteur Lemoine came in from time to time, entreating him to calm
himself, and prescribing tonics or light stimulants.
Towards noon the mist began to lift, but still no sign of Lord
Hardcastle. Two, three, four, five o’clock passed, and Mr. Warden
started to his feet in a state of feverish excitement. “I can bear this
no longer,” he said, ringing the bell violently. “We must at once
organize a searching party. Doctor, don’t stand there gazing at me; we
may want your help now; we have delayed too long as it is!”
As he spoke the door opened, and Lord Hardcastle slowly and quietly
entered the room. His face was very pale, but a look had come into his
eyes, a quiet triumphant sort of look, which seemed to say plainly “we
have fought a good fight and have conquered at last.”
“Thank Heaven, Hardcastle, you are safe! What has happened? Tell me
quickly, for I can see you have something to tell me,” said Mr. Warden,
sinking back once more on to his couch.
“Yes, much has happened, Mr. Warden, and I have a great deal to tell
you. But you must nerve yourself to bear the news, and prepare to
receive a great surprise. Doctor, where are your tonics? we shall want
them just now, and then, I hope and trust, get rid of them all for
ever!”
“Hardcastle, Hardcastle! speak out I implore you; this is simply
torture; you speak as if you had some good news to tell. Great Heavens,
what good news can there be for me, with wife and daughter both dead
and buried in darkness and disgrace!”
“Yes, Mr. Warden, I will speak out plainly,” replied Lord Hardcastle
calmly. “Are you sure both wife and daughter are dead and buried?
Listen to me. When Isola came to you and told you your wife was dead,
she told you a lie. This she was ordered to do by your wife, who had
soon wearied of her life of sin and returned with her to these
mountains. Thoroughly repentant, and anxious to repair the wrong she
had done you, she framed this lie in order that you might forget her,
and in a second marriage lose the recollection of the misery of the
first. Isola, only too glad once more to have her young charge in her
own care, faithfully fulfilled her mission. This I have heard from
Isola’s own lips, and I must say truer or more passionate devotion than
her’s to her mistress, I have never seen.”
“My wife not dead,” repeated Mr. Warden slowly, as though scarcely able
to grasp the fact. “Where is she Hardcastle? Take me to her or bring
her to me! my poor, poor Aimée! Is she waiting for my forgiveness
before she will come?”
“I did not say that your wife was living now, Mr. Warden; she died
about two months since. It is a sad, sad story,” he spoke very slowly
now, pausing long between each sentence. “In England, one stormy night
in September, we will pray that she lost her footing in the dark, and
fell into the swollen stream; she lies buried in Harleyford
churchyard.”
Then Mr. Warden sprang to his feet and threw up his arms with an
exceeding bitter cry.
“My Aimée, my poor Aimée! I see it all now, it was she who stood
outside the window in the rain and tempest. No, no, Hardcastle, you
cannot blind my eyes. There was no accidental slipping into the
dark river, she could not bear the sight of my love and devotion to
another woman, and in her madness and jealousy threw away her life.”
“Let us rather hope, Mr. Warden,” said Lord Hardcastle gravely, “that
the same feeling of penitence and self-sacrifice which induced her long
years since to send you a fictitious message of her death, led her to
render the fiction a reality in order to save you from the disgrace of
an exposure of your sorrows, and that you might live in peace with the
one whom you had chosen.”
Mr. Warden made no reply, he sunk back in a chair and covered his face
with both hands.
Then the doctor interposed; he had been gazing in amazement from one to
the other, totally unable to understand their English, yet thoroughly
comprehending that something startling and wonderful, and of great
importance to Mr. Warden, had occurred.
“See how M’sieur suffers,” he said angrily, addressing Lord Hardcastle,
“he cannot sustain any more such news. Cannot Milord wait until
to-morrow for the rest which must be said?” Then he handed to Mr.
Warden a glass of wine.
“There is no reason why I should wait until to-morrow,” replied
Hardcastle, speaking loudly to attract Mr. Warden’s attention, “he has
heard the worst now, all that remains to be told is good news.”
“Good news!” exclaimed Mr. Warden, “what good news can there be for me?
My wife, my daughter!—Ah! my other Amy, have you heard of her,
Hardcastle? Tell me quickly what you know, where is she, living or
dead?”
“I have heard of her, I have seen her, I have even spoken with her. Mr.
Warden! can you bear good news, the best of news? Your daughter Amy is
in this house now, and waiting only for a word from you—” He paused,
for Mr. Warden once more risen to his feet, had suddenly staggered and
fallen back senseless in his chair.
Now the little doctor took the lead—
“I have obeyed Milord too long, in resting here so tranquilly. You must
follow my orders now,” he said, severely and dictatorially.
“Willingly,” replied Lord Hardcastle, as he assisted to remove Mr.
Warden to a couch. “I only stipulate one thing, and that is, that
when my friend opens his eyes they shall rest first on the being he
loves best in the world, his only daughter.”
And they did so rest. Amy crept noiselessly into the room, paler,
thinner, graver than in the old days, and kneeling by her father’s
side, took his hand in hers.
The movement aroused him. He opened his eyes, and they rested full on
her face. Amy controlled herself admirably.
“Papa, dear,” she said, “you must not speak till I give you permission;
I am going to turn both doctor and nurse (with a smile at Hardcastle)
out of office, and endeavour to cure you myself.”
“I am cured already,” replied Mr. Warden, as he held his daughter
tightly clasped in his arms, “you are only just in time, Amy; a few
more days’ delay, and you would have been indeed an orphan,” then he
checked himself. How much did his daughter know? How should he tell her
what she must be told?
“Miss Warden knows all she need know,” said Lord Hardcastle, rightly
interpreting his thoughts. “She has also, on her part, very much to
tell you, but I do implore you wait at least for a day before you talk
over the sad events of the past few months.”
He spoke earnestly, and as he did so laid his hand entreatingly on Mr.
Warden’s arm, which still encircled Amy’s waist. Then, for the first
time, Amy saw glittering on his little finger her own ruby ring.
“Papa, dear,” she exclaimed in her old, quick, imperious manner, “will
you ask Lord Hardcastle what right he has to wear a ring of mine?”
“I have no right whatever to do so, Miss Warden,” said Hardcastle
gravely. Then he drew the ring from his finger, and handing it to her
with a low bow, left the room.