Richards, a secret silent man, had been in Mr. Temple's service for a great number of years. Long before Mr. Temple had achieved distinction, he had observed in this man certain qualities which he deemed might be useful to him; and he took Richards into his service. He found the man invaluable, and had entrusted to him many delicate commissions, all of which had been carried out to his satisfaction. The men were necessary to each other. As the possessor of secrets the revelation of which, in former years, might have proved awkward, the master was bound to his servant by a strong, albeit somewhat dangerous tie. Richards made use of his power without showing his hand, by asking from time to time for additions to his salary, which were freely accorded. Richards had saved money, and the service was an easy and, to a great extent, an independent one.
He had a knack of keeping his opinions to himself, and of devoting himself, all appearance, entirely to the business entrusted to him--which he invariably contrived should add to the weight of his purse. Mr. Temple had a high opinion of Richards; so high that he had said to his son,
Arthur, if at any time you want any business of a delicate nature transacted, which you would rather not appear in yourself, employ Richards.
Arthur thought the suggestion strange, as he could not conceive what delicate business he should require attended to, which he should be ashamed to appear in; but a very short time was sufficient to convince him that his father was wiser than he. Certain circumstances occurred which caused him, a fortnight since, to call in the help of Richards; and it thus happened that, at one and the same time, Richards was employed on confidential commissions for the father and the son. A singular, but not unusual phase in these commissions was the absolute silence imposed upon Richards.
Not a word of this to my father, Arthur Temple said.
The stipulation was not needed. Richards was the soul of secrecy.
On the same day Richards presented two written reports--one to the father, the other to the son. The report presented to Mr. Temple ran thus:
"In accordance with instructions, I have to report-- The name of the man is Seth Dumbrick. He is a cobbler, and lives in Rosemary Lane.
" "Rosemary Lane is in one of the poorest quarters of London. All the people who live there are poor. Seth Dumbrick is a single man, and has never been married--either directly or indirectly.
" "He has two persons living with him--both young women, whom he has brought up from childhood. They are not his children. One is Sally Chester. Her parents, when she was a child, lived in Rosemary Lane; they fell into misfortune; the father died in the hospital; the mother took service in the country. They had another child, a son. His name is Edward, or, as he was familiarly called, Ned. This son was a thief; he went, or was sent away, to Australia. Upon the precise manner of his going my information is not clear. The other person living with Seth Dumbrick goes by the title of the Duchess of Rosemary Lane; she has no Christian or surname. Nothing is known of her parentage.
" "Sally Chester is a plain person. The Duchess of Rosemary Lane is a beautiful woman. It is whispered about in the neighbourhood that the Duchess of Rosemary Lane will one day marry a gentleman, and that she will become a fine lady. She herself has this anticipation; I had it from her own lips.
" "Seth Dumbrick is very poor, and Sally Chester takes in work to help to support them. The Duchess of Rosemary Lane does not work. I have nothing further to report at present.""
"The report presented to Arthur Temple ran thus:
"To a certain point my report is now complete, and I present it, being prepared to prosecute the inquiry, and carry it on from day to day, if I am instructed so to do. So that there may be no mistake about my understanding of the instructions given to me, I recapitulate them.
" "On the 17th of last month you sent for me, and informed me that you were being robbed. You had missed at various times articles of jewelry, the particulars and description of which I wrote down from your dictation, for the purpose of identification. The principal of the articles were a diamond breastpin, a ring with sunk diamonds and emeralds, a silver cigar-case. I inquired if you were being robbed of anything but articles of jewelry. You replied, not to your knowledge. I inquired if you were careful in looking over your banking account. You replied that you were not in the habit of doing so. I requested that you should look into the matter before I commenced to prosecute my investigations. On the following day, the 18th, you sent for me, and informed me that you had looked into your banking account, and that you had been robbed of money by means of forged cheques. It was what I expected.
" "I went with you to the bank, and made certain inquiries and took possession of the forged cheques which had been cashed, and of five genuine cheques which had also been cashed, and which I required for my own purposes. In accordance with my wish the bank was not made acquainted with these forgeries. I inquired whether you had a suspicion of any person. You replied that you had no suspicion. On the following day, the 19th, I requested that you should send by your valet, James Kingsford, a letter addressed to the manager of the bank, stating that for the next two months you did not intend to draw any one cheque for a larger sum than ￡20. I desired that this letter should, as though by accident, be given unsealed into the hands of your valet, James Kingsford. This was done, and the result justified my anticipation. From the 19th to the 26th, two forged cheques were presented, each for a sum under ￡20. They were paid. The total amount of the forged cheques reached ￡674.
" "On the 26th, I desired you to send another letter, imperfectly fastened, to the bank manager, by your valet, stating that, pending certain arrangements you had in contemplation, you did not intend to draw any further cheques upon your account without due notice being given. From that day no forged cheques were presented for payment. During the whole of the time I was proceeding with my secret investigation, and have continued it until this date, with this result.
" "A person of the name of Ned, or Edward Chester, has lately returned from Australia, where he resided for ten or twelve years. Of his career there I have no information; the time employed by me in this investigation not having been long enough to obtain it. He is an Englishman, born in London, and living during his boyhood, and afterwards at intervals, in Rosemary Lane a common street, in a common locality, in the east of London. Since his return he has not made himself known to any of his former associates, with the exception of one, whom I will presently mention, and who can scarcely be called an associate. Ned Chester, before he left for Australia, was a thief, but at the same time a person whose manners were superior to those of his associates. He took a strange fancy, as a young man, to a child, a little girl, living in Rosemary Lane, of whose parentage nothing was known. When he left for Australia, this little girl was probably not more than five or six years of age, but I do not pledge myself to a year or two. While he was in Australia he sent her money, which the man who has brought her up received and spent. Returning home, after an absence of ten or twelve years, he renewed his acquaintance with her. She is now a very beautiful young woman.
" "It was his intention to introduce himself in his proper name, having an idea that she must have been thinking of him during his absence as much as he had been thinking of her; but he amused himself at first by conversing with her as a stranger. He soon discovered that the young woman had no recollection of him, and that she had never bestowed a thought upon him; he discovered, also, that she was dissatisfied with her position in life, and that she had a fancy in her head that, because her parents were not known, she must certainly be a lady. He told her he was a gentleman, and when she asked for his name, he gave the name of Arthur Temple. He pledged her to secrecy upon this point, on the grounds that he did not wish to have anything to do with her friends and neighbours, and that family reasons required that their intimacy should for a time be kept from the knowledge of his father. He represented that, upon his father's death, who, he said, was an old man, he would come into possession of a large fortune. Under the name of Arthur Temple, he meets the young woman regularly. He has given her presents, and has frequently written to her upon paper bearing your father's crest.
" "The name by which the young woman is known is The Duchess of Rosemary Lane. The man who is passing himself upon her as Arthur Temple is your valet, James Kingsford. You will thus perceive that Ned Chester, James Kingsford, and the fictitious Arthur Temple, are one and the same person.
" "It is this person, also, who has uttered the forged cheques, and who has stolen the missing jewelry. This report is longer than I desired, but to place you in possession of all the particulars, I have found it impossible to abbreviate it.""
"The receipt of this communication caused Arthur Temple great excitement. It appeared to him that it was the real commencement of his life's experience. The loss of the money, and the discovery of the man who had robbed him, did not so much affect him as that portion of the narrative which related to the beautiful girl whom Ned Chester was deceiving. His imagination was stirred, and his chivalrous heart prompted him to defend and save her. He went at once in search of Richards, with the man's statement in his hand, and plunged immediately into the subject.
I have no reason to doubt the truth of your report, Richards.
You need have none, sir.
It is true?
Every word of it.
How have you obtained so much information in as short a time?
My method--if you will excuse my saying so much--is my own.
Undoubtedly. Perhaps you have had some conversation with the rogue who robbed me.
I have; he is not aware of the position I hold with respect to your father and yourself.
The means in this case, said Arthur Temple, in a tone of slight dissatisfaction, "possibly justified the end."
You must judge of that for yourself, sir. I have no doubt in my mind.
You have seen the person who has brought up this girl?
I have; and have had some talk with him. His name is Seth Dumbrick; he lives in Rosemary Lane.
That accounts, then, for the whimsical title of the girl.
Possibly, sir.
You have seen her?
I have.
And, she is, as you say, pretty?
I have not used the word pretty. She is beautiful.
Richards, said Arthur Temple, with excitement, "the girl must be saved!"
Richards did not reply. He was a practical man, and was not given to sentimental action on the spur of the moment.
It is my duty, continued Arthur, "to save her. Will you assist me?"
Richards hesitated. The reports he had written to Mr. Temple and Arthur were straightforward and to the point. In so far, he had done his duty. But there was a matter he had not touched upon in those reports--a discovery he had made which had astonished and perplexed him.
That he himself was culpable in the matter did not affect him; sufficient that he was not punishable; and if it came to the value of one man's word against another's, he knew full well that, in this instance, he held the winning card. He was an old man, and he was tired of servitude. He had saved sufficient money to pass the remainder of his days in comfort; and perhaps, for the peculiar service he was enabled to render Arthur Temple--a service the nature of which held no place in Arthur's mind--the young man would generously remember him. Then, again, it was an act of justice which chance had placed in his hands the power to perform; such an act, brought about by himself, might condone for many a piece of dirty work in the past. It is not necessary to pause and inquire by what process of reasoning these thoughts, leading to a definite and startling course of action, formed themselves in his mind. They came at a time when most men in shackles, having the power to free themselves, would gladly have availed themselves of the power. There were reasons which, in the conclusion he was arriving at, undoubtedly played an important part. One of these was that it was possible, if he did not make himself the principal instrument of rendering atonement for a great wrong, the discovery might be made in a manner disadvantageous to himself. Another reason, although he was scarcely conscious of it, was that he had been deeply touched by the beauty of the Duchess, and it is not unlikely that, if Arthur Temple had not stepped forward, he would have taken upon himself the task of rescuing her from the clutches of an unscrupulous villain.
While he was engaged in these reflections, Arthur Temple paced the room excitedly.
She must be saved, Richards. There is a mystery here which it has fallen to my lot to clear up. Your story being true, this man has imposed upon me as well as robbed me. He told me, before I engaged him to accompany me to England, that there was a woman at home whom he had loved for years, and to see whom would complete the happiness of his life. The trickster! As for the money, let it go. But his villainy to an innocent girl shall not escape punishment. Once again, will you assist me, or must I work alone?
Richards adopted the chivalrous course; partly for the reasons already given, and partly because of the excitement it would afford.
I will assist you, sir, he said.
Ned Chester fulfilled the promise he gave to the Duchess that he would see Mrs. Lenoir safely to her home. When the exhausted woman recovered from her fainting condition and was sufficiently strong to lean on his arm and walk slowly along, he said to her:
You may thank your stars I was near you when you fell. I am going to help you home. Where do you live?
The strange voice and the rough manner of the man--for Ned was not always on his holiday behaviour, and the worse side of his nature invariably exhibited itself when there was nothing to be gained--caused Mrs. Lenoir to shrink from him; but, deprived of his support, she almost fell to the ground again.
Don't be a fool! cried Ned; "you are not strong enough to stand alone. Where do you live?"
Who are you?
I am a gentleman, he replied, in a boastful tone.
His manner gave the lie to his assertion, and Mrs. Lenoir, with her fine instinct, knew that the man was a braggart. "Yes, yes--but your name?"
Never mind my name--it won't enlighten you. Now, are you coming?
No, said Mrs. Lenoir; "leave me."
What will you do if I take you at your word? he asked brutally.
I will wait here--I will creep on till I find her--till I see again the face I saw a little while ago, bending over me. Heaven will give me strength--Heaven will give me strength!
In which case, thought Ned, "I shall get myself into hot water with the Duchess. That will never do."
He adopted a more conciliatory tone.
You foolish creature! You've been dreaming, and you'll bring trouble on yourself.
Dreaming! murmured Mrs. Lenoir, pressing her hands to her head. "For mercy's sake, do not tell me so! Nay, but it is not true. Let me think--let me think. No--it was not a dream. I followed her and her companion for miles through the snow, till my strength was gone. But it has come again," she said, with hysterical sobs, which she struggled with and checked; "it has come again, and I can go on. As I lay on the ground I saw her face--the face I have dreamt of for many weary years--bending over me!"
It was my face you saw, said Ned, beginning to think that the woman was mad.
No, no, said Mrs. Lenoir, with a wan smile, "it was the face of a lovely girl."
Ned's vanity and triumph in his conquest trapped him.
She has a lovely face, has she not?
It was no dream, then, cried Mrs. Lenoir eagerly.
No; it was no dream. Now, let me help you home. I promised her I would do so.
You did! sobbed Mrs. Lenoir; "she thought of me--and pitied me! Oh, my heart!"
You'll be going off again, if you don't mind. I tell you I promised her, and I must keep my promise.
Why must you keep your promise?
Ned's boastful spirit was entirely beyond his control.
Isn't the reason plain? We love each other. Is that sufficient? If you will let me help you home, I promise that you shall see her again, if you would like to.
It is what I have lived for. You promise me--solemnly!
On the honour of a gentleman, said Ned, laying his hand on his heart. "Will that content you?"
It must--it shall. You are right--I cannot walk without assistance. This is my way, I think. And you love her--and she loves you! I shall see her again! When? It must be soon! It must be soon!
It shall be--in a day or two. We are getting along nicely now. Ah, there's a cab--that's lucky.
He called the cab, and put Mrs. Lenoir in it.
What street do you live in?
She told him, and he mounted the box. In less than a quarter of an hour the cab stopped at her home. Desiring the driver to wait for him, Ned opened the street-door with the latch key she gave him.
Shall I help you to your room? he asked.
No; stay here in the passage. I will get a light; I want to see your face.
She crept slowly upstairs. The passage was narrow, and, cold as the night was, Ned, a strong and sturdy man, took off his light overcoat and held it on his arm. Presently Mrs. Lenoir returned, with a lighted candle in her hand.
She raised the candle, and, shading her eyes with her hand, looked steadily at him. As she gazed into his face, a troubled expression stole into her own. It was not the face of a man to whom she would have cared to entrust the happiness of anyone dear to her.
Well, he exclaimed, nettled at her intent observance of him, "you will know me again."
I shall know you again, she said, as he turned from her. "You can have no objection now to tell me your name."
Temple--Arthur Temple.
Great God!
He did not hear the words, nor did he see the candlestick drop from her hand, leaving her in darkness. He slammed the street-door behind him, and, resuming his seat on the cab, drove westwards.
A few minutes afterwards, a lodger coming home to the house in which Mrs. Lenoir resided, found her lying senseless in the passage. He was an old man, and had not strength to raise her. Knowing that she was more intimate with Lizzie than with any other person in the house, he knocked at the girl's door, and, waking her, told her of Mrs. Lenoir's condition. Lizzie hurriedly threw on her clothes, and hastened to the suffering woman. Assisted by the man, she carried her to her room, and Mrs. Lenoir was soon in bed, attended by the most willing and cheerful of nurses. The care Lizzie bestowed on her was not bestowed in vain, and when Mrs. Lenoir opened her eyes, she saw a bright fire burning in the room, and the girl standing by her bedside, with a cup of hot tea in her hands. Mrs. Lenoir drank the tea eagerly, and took the bread and butter which Lizzie's gentle persuasion induced her to eat. Lizzie asked no questions; she was learning how to manage the strange woman, whose secret sorrow had made so deep an impression upon her tender heart.
You are feeling better, Mrs. Lenoir?
Much better and stronger, thank you, Lizzie. You are very kind to me, my dear.
If you will let me, I will sleep with you.
Mrs. Lenoir offered no resistance to the proposal, and presently the girl and the woman were lying side by side.
Don't mind waking me, Mrs. Lenoir, if you want me.
No, my dear. Lizzie, you will not betray the confidence I am going to place in you. It will relieve me to speak it.
Oh, I can keep a secret, Mrs. Lenoir.
I believe, said Mrs. Lenoir very slowly, "that I have this night seen the face of my daughter."
Then, you have a daughter! cried Lizzie in a tone of delight.
A daughter, my dear, whom I have not seen since she was a little child--and who they told me was dead. But I have seen her--I have seen her, if there is truth in nature! After all these years I have seen her--when she most needs a mother's care and counsel. I am praying now for the hours to pass quickly that I may fold her to my heart.
Is she coming to you to-morrow, Mrs. Lenoir?
There is my misery. She knows nothing of me, and I am in ignorance where she lives. But I am promised--I am promised! God will help me--He will surely help me, after my long years of anguish!
She said not another word, and Lizzie was soon asleep; but Mrs. Lenoir lay awake through the greater part of the night, with a prayer in her heart as fervent as any ever whispered to Heaven from the depths of tribulation. Towards morning, nature asserted her claim, and slumber fell upon her troubled soul.
It was almost noon when she awoke; and Lizzie was bustling about the room.
I am going to stop with you till you're better, said the girl; "perhaps I can help you. I'll take care not to be in the way if I'm not wanted."
Mrs. Lenoir accepted the service, feeling the need of it at this crisis. She was up and dressed, and breakfast was over, when Lizzie's quick ears took her out of the room. She returned immediately.
A gentleman is asking for a woman he saw home last night to this house. It must be you by his description.
Let him come in, Lizzie.
Lizzie looked at Ned Chester with admiration. In her eyes he was every inch a gentleman, with his fine clothes, and gold chain, and diamond ring on his ungloved hand.
This is Mrs. Lenoir, she said.
Mrs. Lenoir! he repeated. "Ah, well, I didn't know the name. Are you better?"
He had commenced speaking in a free and familiar tone, such as a man adopts who is addressing one for whom he has no great feeling of respect, but before he had uttered even these few words his tone altered. Mrs. Lenoir had taken unusual pains with her dress, and she presented so different an appearance from that which he expected--she looked so gentle and lady-like--that he was compelled into a more deferential and respectful manner.
I am glad you are come, said Mrs. Lenoir; "I was afraid you might forget your promise, or that it had been given lightly."
What promise? he asked.
That I should see her again--the young lady who was with you last night.
Oh, the Duchess! he exclaimed involuntarily, and the next moment biting his lips at the betrayal.
The Duchess! echoed Mrs. Lenoir, in amazement.
A pet name, he said quickly. "You shall see her again, as I promised. But I have come on a different matter. I lost a silver cigar-case last night. Have you got it?"
Mrs. Lenoir rose, and gazed at him in perplexity and fear.
I will swear I had it about me as I assisted you home. When you left me in the passage I took off my overcoat, and it dropped out of my pocket perhaps. I don't mean anything worse than that. Did you find it?
I don't understand you; I have not seen it. Lizzie, did you see anything in the passage when you came down to me last night?
No, replied Lizzie, who had listened to the conversation with intense curiosity.
Ned Chester considered in silence, uncertain for a moment how to act. The cigar-case, which had been a gift to his master, Arthur Temple, bore on it an inscription which might betray him, and he thought it not unlikely that Mrs. Lenoir intended to retain it, so that she might compel the fulfilment of his promise. There were obvious reasons why he could not run the risk of making the theft public, for he entertained no doubt that Mrs. Lenoir had robbed him. Since the previous night he had had reason to suspect that his position was growing perilous. His young master's manner had suddenly changed towards him, and he had almost determined not to return to Mr. Temple's house. With this partially-formed resolve in view, he had seen the Duchess a short time before his visit to Mrs. Lenoir, and proposed flight to her. He had taken good care of himself with respect to money, and he had about him between five and six hundred pounds. His scheme was to go to Paris with the Duchess, and thence to America, where he would be safe, and where he believed his peculiar talents might prove of service to him. At all events, with ready money at his command, a few months of enjoyment were before him, and that prospect was sufficiently alluring. But he had found the Duchess strangely reluctant to agree to the flight, and he had to use all the blandishments at his command to prevail upon her. At length she had yielded, on one condition. She would not accompany him alone, nor would she go without the society of one of her own sex. An instinct of affection for Sally had stolen into the Duchess's breast on her lover's sudden and startling proposition, and she suggested that Sally should accompany her in her flight. To this he gave a vehement refusal, and the Duchess fell back on another expedient. In his boastful moments he had told her that he had confided to some of his lady relations the secret of his attachment to a poor girl, and that, charmed with "the romance of the thing," they had promised to assist in reconciling him with his father, should any discovery take place. The Duchess, to his annoyance, remembered this, as she remembered every word he had spoken with reference to himself and his fine friends; and she stipulated that, as he objected to Sally, one of these ladies should accompany her. Seeing no way to the accomplishment of this end, he had argued with her and endeavoured to talk away her resolution. But the more he argued, the more obstinate the Duchess had become, and he was compelled to promise that her whim should be complied with.
And mind, she said to him before they parted, "your lady friend and I must go away from London by ourselves. You can meet us in the country if you like, but when you come we must be together."
With this understanding they had parted an hour before his visit to Mrs. Lenoir.
As he stood considering these matters in the presence of Mrs. Lenoir, who, uneasy at the turn the conversation had taken, was waiting anxiously for him to speak, a happy idea, as he believed it to be, flashed across his mind. Why should he not come to an understanding with this woman, whose appearance was so lady-like and whose manners were so gentle, and palm her off upon the Duchess as one of his lady friends who had consented to accompany her in her flight? It was not at all likely that the Duchess, supposing Mrs. Lenoir were well and fashionably dressed, would recognise in her the woman whose face she had seen but once, and that but for a moment or two, and in a dim, uncertain light. Once away from England, and free from the fears of detection which were beginning to oppress him, he would experience no difficulty in getting rid of the encumbrance, and pursuing his journey to America with the Duchess alone. His eyes brightened as he looked into Mrs. Lenoir's troubled face, and said, with just a glance at Lizzie:
I should like to have a few words with you in private.
Leave us, Lizzie, said Mrs. Lenoir.
With a little toss of her head, indicative of a grudge against the stranger for depriving her of the means of gratifying her curiosity, Lizzie left the room.
Mrs. Lenoir, said Ned, casting about in his mind for the proper words to use, and quite unconscious that he was the object of a deeper scrutiny than he had bestowed upon the woman before him; "Mrs. Lenoir--by the bye, that is your name?"
Have you reason to doubt it? enquired Mrs. Lenoir, with quickened breath.
No; I only asked out of idle curiosity, adding, with familiar assurance, "Mrs. Lenoir, you are a poor woman."
Mrs. Lenoir made a motion with her hand, which denoted that the appearance of her room afforded a sufficient answer to the question. Her eyes never left his face, as though they were seeking to see the workings of his mind.
You need give yourself no uneasiness, proceeded Ned, "about the cigar-case."
I know nothing whatever of it.
I am not implying that you do.
Of course you are not--as a gentleman speaking to a lady.
By Jove! that is the way to put it, cried Ned, gratified at this apparent recognition of his quality. "As a gentleman speaking to a lady! It is reasonable that I should wish to find it--not for its value; that is not of the slightest consequence, but because it was a gift, from my--my----"
From your----
From my father. One wishes to keep such presents as those.
Naturally.
You don't speak like a common woman--you don't look like one--and you are just the woman I want.
Has what you are saying anything to do with the young lady I saw last night?
You have hit it again. It has to do with her. Shall I go on?
Mrs. Lenoir was keeping a stern control over her feelings. She saw that the man was acting a part; she saw that he was no gentleman, and that it behoved her to be careful if she wished to serve the girl who, without any reason but that born of an almost despairing hope, she believed to be her child.
Yes; go on.
I am going to give you my confidence, he said grandiloquently.
I am waiting to receive it.
Well, you know, we are in love with each other.
You told me so last night.
But our positions are different. I am a gentleman, and she is----
A lady.
In one way, a lady; but you see she has been brought up in a common way, and among common people that it wouldn't do for me to mix with. My family will be mad enough with me as it is, but I dare say I can smooth them over after a bit, if I can show them that the girl has entirely thrown off her old companions and friends.
What is it you propose to do, then?
To run away with her.
Mrs. Lenoir pressed her hand to her heart to still its wild beating; to her comprehension, quickened as it was by love, the villainy of this man was clearly unfolding itself; his tone, his words, his manner, were all betraying him.
Gentlemen have run away with poor girls before to-day, he said, with an airy contemplation of the ring on his finger.
Oh, yes.
But the little witch refuses to elope unless I provide her with a lady-companion. A grateful light was in Mrs. Lenoir's eyes, and a feeling of devout thankfulness in her heart. "Well, now, if you'll agree to one thing, you shall be that lady-companion."
I will agree to anything.
You're a sensible woman. It isn't much to do. You must let the girl understand that you're a relation of mine--an aunt, say. She has set her foolish little mind upon it, and it won't do any harm to humour her. Do you agree?
Yes; when shall I see her?
The sooner the thing's done the better. I hate shilly-shallying. I'll send you a message this afternoon, perhaps.
Had you not better write or come to me?
I mayn't be able to come; I'll write. My plan is this: that you and the young lady shall meet at a railway station, and take a train to the place I fix upon; I will follow by an after train, and pick you up in the country.
That is a good plan, said Mrs. Lenoir, with secret joy at the opportunity he was affording her of rescuing the girl from the snare he had laid for her. "I will prepare myself."
Make yourself presentable; dress like a lady, that's it. Here's some money--buy what you think you'll want--a fashionable dress and a spicy bonnet--it will help you to play your part; you've got good taste, I see. He placed two five-pound notes on the table. "Now I'm off."
You will not mind my asking you a question, said Mrs. Lenoir, with lips that quivered, in spite of herself.
Ask away.
Has the young lady no mother?
The words were uttered very slowly. It seemed to her that her life hung upon his answer.
Oh, make your mind easy about that! She has no mother--never had one, with a coarse laugh. "She might be a princess for all that's known about her. But that's no business of yours."
No. You will be sure to write to me?
Do you think, said Ned, with a significant look at the bank-notes, "that I'd be such a fool with my money if I didn't mean what I've said? Not likely! Take care and act the character well--tell her any stories you like about swell ladies and fine people--she likes to hear 'em. Goodbye, aunty."
With a familiar nod and swagger he passed out of the room.
Almost before Mrs. Lenoir had time to recover her composure, she was rejoined by Lizzie, whose appearance betokened a state of great excitement.
Oh, Mrs. Lenoir, she cried, "Charlie knows him--Charlie knows him!"
Knows whom?
The gentleman who has just gone out. Charlie ran round in his dinner hour to see me, and we were talking together in the passage when the gentleman passed. Charlie knew him directly, although it's years since he saw him, and although Charlie was only a boy at the time. His name's Chester--Ned Chester.
Lizzie, you are lifting a great weight from my heart. He gave me another name. Are you sure Charlie is right?
Am I sure? repeated Lizzie, with a saucy toss of her head. "Charlie is never wrong."
Is Charlie downstairs?
No, he has gone back to work.
Lizzie, will you help me if it is in your power?
Ah, that I will--gladly!
I have a presentiment that a great crisis in my life is approaching. I must not stir out of the house; I am waiting for a letter. She took her purse from her pocket, and counted the money in it; there were altogether but a very few shillings. "I want money, Lizzie," she said, casting her eyes rapidly around, and collecting all the small articles in the room upon which money could be raised. She retained but one article of value--a miniature of herself, set in a slender framework of gold. "Run and see what you can get upon these things, Lizzie; the desk was a valuable one in years gone by. I want every shilling I can raise."
I can lend you a little, Mrs. Lenoir.
.God reward you, my dear! I Will take it. You shall be repaid, if I live.
I know that. Why, Mrs. Lenoir! she had caught sight of the bank-notes on the table.
It is traitor's money, Lizzie, left by the man who was here a few minutes since. A curse, instead of a blessing might fall upon me if I used one penny of it.
At five o'clock in the afternoon, Mrs. Lenoir received the following note:
"Meet the young lady at Ludgate Hill Station at half-past six o'clock. You will find her waiting for you in the ladies' room. I have decided upon Sevenoaks as a good starting-place. I will see you there to-night. A.T.""
"A fortunate chance revealed to Seth Dumbrick the knowledge of the Duchess's flight many hours before she intended him to become acquainted with it. Both he and Sally had observed a strange and unaccountable excitement in the Duchess's manner, and had spoken of it in confidence to each other. She had been absent twice during the day, and when on the second occasion she returned, her restlessness was so marked that it communicated itself to her friends. It was not without fear, nor without some sense of the ingratitude of the act, that the Duchess prepared secretly for flight, and more than once her courage almost failed her; but she fortified herself with the reflection that she could return at the last moment if she wished, and that she had time before her to retract.
She had no real love for Ned Chester. She liked him, and had been led away by his attentions and flatteries, by the handsome presents he had given her, and by the belief that he was rich and a gentleman. All the sentiment that the future contained for her was that she would be able to live like a lady. In all other respects the page was blank, and her history would be written from experiences to come.
Early in the afternoon there was a heavy fall of snow, which, from appearance, bid fair to continue through the night. In the midst of the storm, the Duchess stole away from Rosemary Lane.
Within half a mile from home she entered a cab, as she believed unobserved. But Sally, who was at that moment returning from the establishment which supplied her with needlework, saw the Duchess's face, as the cab drove swiftly off. The truth flashed upon her instantly; the Duchess had gone away from them for ever. Wringing her hands in despair, she ran after the cab, but it was soon out of sight, and seeing the hopelessness of pursuit she retraced her steps, and ran swiftly to Rosemary Lane to acquaint Seth Dumbrick with the circumstance.
Mention has frequently been made of Mrs. Preedy. To this woman the Duchess had entrusted a letter accompanied with a bribe, and the instruction that it was not to be delivered to Seth until the following morning. In the course of the few anxious minutes which Seth (after hearing what Sally had to tell him) devoted to the endeavour to discover a clue in Rosemary Lane, he came across Mrs. Preedy. It needed no great shrewdness on his part to suspect, from the woman's important manner, that she had something to impart, and with a small exercise of cunning he extracted the letter from her.
The mere receipt of it filled him with alarm. He hurried to his cellar, with Sally at his heels.
I wouldn't open it before the neighbours, he said to Sally, "for the Duchess's sake. They're only too ready to talk, and take away a girl's character."
With this he opened the letter. The words were few:
I have gone away, and perhaps shall never come back. I will try and pay you and Sally for all your kindness to me. Don't blame me; I cannot help what I am doing. When you see me again, I shall be a lady. Goodbye.
They looked at each other with white faces.
It has come, said Seth, in a pathetic voice, "What we dreaded has come. Our child has deserted us. God send that she is not being deceived; but I fear--I fear!" He paced the cellar for some moments in anxious thought, and Sally, with all her soul in her eyes, followed his movements. Presently he straightened himself with the air of a man who has a serious task before him. "I am going straight to my duty," he said. "Kiss me, my dear. Whatever a man can do, I intend to do, without fear of consequences."
Let me go with you, Daddy, implored Sally.
Come along, then; it will be as well, perhaps.
No further words passed between them, and as quickly as it could be accomplished, the shutters were put up to Seth's stall, and he and Sally were riding to Mr. Temple's house. On his arrival there Seth demanded to see Mr. Temple.
The servant conveyed the message to Mr. Temple, coupling it with the information that the visitor was the person who had lately been turned from the house by Mr. Temple's orders. Mr. Temple ordered the servant again to expel him; but the man returned, saying that Seth Dumbrick declared he must have an interview, and promised that he would not detain Mr. Temple. The secret of this lay in the servant having been bribed by Seth.
The person is not alone, sir, said the servant; "he has a woman with him."
Let him come in, said Mr. Temple; "and you yourself will remain within call."
Now, said Mr. Temple haughtily, the moment Seth and Sally entered, "without a word of preamble, the reason of this intrusion. You are, perhaps, aware that I could have you locked up for forcing your way into my house."
In that case, said Seth firmly, "I should be compelled, in the magistrate's court to make certain matters public. The press is open to a man's wrongs."
Clap-trap, exclaimed Mr. Temple. "Come at once to your business with me."
Seth handed to Mr. Temple the note left by the Duchess with Mrs. Preedy. Mr. Temple read it in silence, and returned it with the words,
How does this affect me?
My child has fled, said Seth.
How does that affect me?
Your son is with her.
Twill satisfy you, said Mr. Temple, with a frown, "that you are labouring under a gross error." He touched the bell; the servant answered it. "Go to Mr. Arthur Temple, and tell him I desire to see him."
He is not in the house, sir.
Has he been long absent?
Not long, sir, replied the man who, through a fellow-servant, was enabled to give the information. "He left in great haste for the railway station to catch a train, I heard."
For what place?
For Sevenoaks, sir.
Mr. Temple was aware that Seth's lynx eyes were upon him, and that it would give the common man an advantage if he exhibited surprise.
Send Richards to me.
Richards left the house with your son, sir.
Throughout his life Mr. Temple had proved himself equal to emergencies.
You have nothing further to say to me, I presume, he said, addressing himself to Seth.
Nothing that your own sense of honour and justice does not dictate, was the reply.
It dictates nothing that you can have a claim to hear. There is the door.
Seth had his reasons now for not wishing to prolong the interview.
I will not trouble you any longer, sir. I know what kind of justice I might expect from you in such a matter as this. From this moment it is for me to act, not to talk. I have but this to say before I leave. If my child comes to grief through your son--if he inflicts a wrong upon her--I will devote my life to exposing both him and you.
He quitted the room upon this, and, giving instructions to the cab-driver, bade Sally jump in.
Where are you going now, Daddy? asked Sally.
To Sevenoaks. We may yet be in time.
The same train which conveyed him and Sally to Sevenoaks, conveyed Mr. Temple also. The men did not see each other. Mr. Temple rode first-class, Seth and Sally third.
The snowstorm showed no sign of abatement; steadily and heavily the white flakes fell.
The links which fate weaves around human lives were drawing closer and closer around the lives of the actors in this story; every yard that was traversed by the train, conveying Seth and Mr. Temple, strengthened the threads which for years had been so far distant from one another, that nothing but the strangest circumstance could have prevented them from eventually breaking. As Seth gazed from the window upon the falling snow, he prayed that he might be in time to save the child of his love, or to assure himself that she was on the right track. To Mr. Temple the heavy snowfall brought the memory of a night long buried in the past, when he had stood hidden near a quaint old church, while strangers' hands were saving from death the woman he had betrayed. And an uneasy feeling crept into his mind at the thought that the church was within a mile of the place towards which he was wending his way.
The thoughts which occupied the mind of Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess when they met at the railway-station were of too disturbing a nature to allow of conversation. Only a few words were exchanged. Mrs. Lenoir, who was the first to arrive, accosted the Duchess immediately she entered the waiting-room.
You are the young lady I am to accompany to Sevenoaks?
The uttermost power of her will could not prevent her voice from trembling.
The Duchess glanced at the speaker, but her agitation prevented her from closely observing Mrs. Lenoir. She saw, however, that Mrs. Lenoir's dress and manner were those of a lady.
Mr. Temple told me I should meet a lady here, said the Duchess.
I saw him to-day, returned Mrs. Lenoir, "and it was arranged that I should come to you."
The gentle voice acted soothingly upon the Duchess.
I have the tickets; the train starts at a quarter to seven. What a dreadful night it is! We must be quick, or we shall miss the train.
We have ample time, said Mrs. Lenoir, looking at the clock; "it is not half-past six. You look faint and weary, my dear; have you had tea?"
No.
Come into the refreshment-room, and, drink a cup. It will do you good.
Every nerve in Mrs. Lenoir's body quivered as the girl placed her hand in hers; they went together to the refreshment-room, where they drank their tea, and then, hurrying to the train, they entered a first-class carriage. The journey was made in silence; the carriage was full, and such converse as they could hold could not take place in the presence of strangers. The Duchess leant back upon the soft cushions and closed her eyes, and Mrs. Lenoir watched her with silent love. She saw in the Duchess's face so startling a likeness to her own when she herself was a girl, that words were scarcely needed to prove to her that her child was sitting by her side. But that she knew that all her physical and mental strength was required to compass the end she had in view, she could not have restrained her feelings.
In due time they arrived at Sevenoaks, and Mrs. Lenoir inquired whether they were to wait at the station.
Oh, no, said the Duchess, handing a paper to Mrs. Lenoir. "Mr. Temple has written what we are to do."
Mrs. Lenoir read the instructions, to the effect that when they reached Sevenoaks they were to take a fly and drive to an hotel, the "Empire," where, in accordance with a telegram he had sent to the proprietor, they would find rooms prepared for them.
Stay here a moment, my dear, said Mrs. Lenoir.
She went to a porter, and asked him whether the "Empire" was a respectable hotel.
It's one of the best in Sevenoaks, was the reply. "Shall I get you a fly?"
If you please.
She quickly decided that the best course to pursue was to go at once to the hotel, where she could unravel the plot to the Duchess; events would determine what was to follow. Before she rejoined the Duchess she walked to a young man and woman, who were standing on the platform a little apart from the throng, and spoke to them. This couple had travelled third-class from London by the same train; Mrs. Lenoir had seen them at Ludgate Hill Station, but it had been understood between them that they should not appear to know each other.
You have proved yourselves good friends to me, she said to them hurriedly; "we are going to an hotel called the 'Empire.' Follow us at once, and be ready to come to me if I want you there."
They signified by a gesture that they understood and would obey her, and then Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess walked to the fly, and drove to the "Empire."
They found the rooms ready, and the landlady herself led them up the stairs. A bright fire was burning, and everything presented a cheerful appearance. The Duchess took off her gloves, and Mrs. Lenoir assisted her to remove her hat and cloak, and removed her own hat and veil. Then, for the first time on that night, the girl saw Mrs. Lenoir's face in full, clear light. She started back, with an exclamation of alarm.
I have seen you before!
Yes, my dear--but do not avoid me; I implore you to listen to me! It is not I who am deceiving you--indeed, indeed, it is not! I am here for your good.
I do not understand, said the Duchess, looking vaguely around. "Mr. Temple said that a lady-relative would meet me at the station. Are you not a relative of his?"
I am not in any way related to the man who has been paying his addresses to you----
Of the gentleman, you mean, interrupted the Duchess, with a pride that was made pitiable by the doubt and suspicion that was mingled with it.
As you will, my child. I will speak of him presently. There is something nearer to my heart, which will break if you do not listen to what I have to say.
I cannot listen, said the Duchess, "until you prove in some way that you are not deceiving me."
Thank God, I have the proof with me. On the night you saw me lying senseless in the snow, this gentleman you call Mr. Temple was with you.
Yes, and when I left you he promised to help you home.
He kept his promise, and learned where I live. I had never seen him before, nor had he ever seen me; we were utter strangers to each other. Yet to-day, this very morning, he came to me, and proposed that I should enter into a plot to betray you! He proposed that I should present myself to you as his aunt, as a lady who was favourable to his elopement with you, and that in this capacity I should accompany you here. For your good I consented--to save you I am here. Say that you believe me.
Part of what you say must be true; but you said you have the proof with you--what proof, and what are you going to prove?
That this man is no gentleman--that he is a villain--and that his name is not Temple. On my knees--on my knees!--I thank God that it is in my power to save you from the fatal precipice upon which you are standing! Trust me--believe in me; I am a woman like yourself, and my life has been a life of bitter, bitter sorrow!
She was on her knees before the Duchess, clasping the girl's hands, and gazing imploringly into her face. Her strange passion, the earnestness of her words, her suffering gentle face, were not without their effect upon the frightened girl; but some kind of stubbornness to believe that her hopes of becoming a lady were on the point of being overturned rendered her deaf to the appeal in any other way than it affected herself. The threatened discovery was so overwhelming as to leave no room for pity or sympathy for the woman kneeling before her.
Where is your proof? asked the Duchess.
Mrs. Lenoir started to her feet, and ringing the bell, gave a whispered instruction to the maid who answered it. In a few moments Lizzie and Charlie entered the room. They were the persons who came third-class from London, by the same train which conveyed Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess to Sevenoaks; with some vague idea that she might need Charlie's testimony, Mrs. Lenoir had begged Lizzie to ask him to come.
Lizzie, said Mrs. Lenoir, "will you tell this young lady what you know of me?"
I know nothing but good, Mrs. Lenoir, replied Lizzie, taking her hand, and kissing it; "there isn't a man or woman in our neighbourhood who hasn't a kind word for you."
My dear, said Mrs. Lenoir, addressing the Duchess, "this is a girl who lives in the same house as I do, and who has known me for years. What is the matter with you, Lizzie?" For the girl was gazing at the Duchess with a look of wild admiration and interest.
I beg your pardon, said Lizzie, "but is the young lady your daughter that you spoke to me of last night----"
Lizzie was stopped in her speech by a sob from Mrs. Lenoir, who hid her face in her hands, and turned from them, hearing as she turned, a whisper from the Duchess:
What does she mean? Your daughter! Oh, my God! Let me look at you again.
But Mrs. Lenoir kept her face hidden from the girl, and said, with broken sobs:
Let me have my way a little, my dear. I will speak more plainly presently, when we are alone. Give me your hand----
She held the pretty fingers which the Duchess gave her, with a clinging loving pressure which caused the girl's heart to thrill with hope and fear.
Hear what Lizzie has to say first. Lizzie, you were in my room this morning when a gentleman called to see me?
Yes, Mrs. Lenoir.
You heard him inquiring for me?
Yes.
Did he give any name?
After he left, I heard that he called himself Mr. Temple.
While these words were spoken, Mrs. Lenoir, finding herself unable to stand, sank into a chair, and the Duchess, sinking to her knees, hid her face in her lap, holding Mrs. Lenoir's hand.
Describe the man, Lizzie, said Mrs. Lenoir.
Lizzie did so in a graphic manner; the portrait she presented was truthful and unmistakable. Every word that was being uttered was carrying conviction to the Duchess's soul.
When he left the house, said Mrs. Lenoir, "Charlie and you--Charlie and Lizzie are engaged, my dear, and will soon be married,"--this to the Duchess--"Charlie and you were in the passage, and he passed you."
Yes.
Charlie, you saw his face?
I did, ma'am.
And recognised it?
As sure as anything's sure, though a good many years have gone by since I saw it last.
Was his name Temple?
Not by a long way.
Tell me his name again, Charlie.
Ned Chester his name was, and is, added Charlie positively.
At the mention of the name a shudder passed through the Duchess's frame.
What character did he bear when you knew him?
A precious bad one; not to put too fine a point upon it, he was a thief.
That will do, Charlie. Good night; good night, Lizzie.
Good night, Mrs. Lenoir, God bless you.
Thank you, my dears.
In another moment Mrs. Lenoir and the Duchess were again alone.
The questions had been asked by Mrs. Lenoir with the distinct purpose of convincing the Duchess that she was acting in good faith and for the girl's good. She felt that she was on her trial, as it were, and out of the teachings of her own sad experience she gathered wisdom to act in such a way as to win confidence. On the Duchess the effect produced was convincing, so far as the man whose attention she had accepted was concerned; but a dual process of thought was working in her mind--one associated with the lover who would have betrayed her, the other associated with the woman who had stepped between her and her peril.
My dear, said Mrs. Lenoir, after an interval of silence, during which the Duchess had not raised her head, and Mrs. Lenoir was strengthening herself for the coming trial, "will you give me what information you can concerning yourself which will help to guide us both in this sad hour?"
A pressure of her fingers answered her in the affirmative.
Keep your eyes from me till I bid you rise, continued Mrs. Lenoir, with heaving bosom. "Where do you live?"
In Rosemary Lane.
Have you lived all your life there?
Since I was a very little child.
You were not born there?
Oh, no; I do not know where I was born---- Mrs. Lenoir's eyes wandered to the window which shut out the night. She could not see it, but she felt that the snow was falling; "and," said the Duchess in a faltering voice, "I cannot remember seeing the face of my mother."
Tell me all you know, my dear; conceal nothing from me.
In broken tones the girl told every particular of her history, from her introduction into Rosemary Lane, as the incident had been related to her by Seth Dumbrick, to the present and first great trial in life.
Look up, my dear.
The Duchess raised her eyes, almost blinded with tears. Mrs. Lenoir tenderly wiped them away, and placed in the girl's hand the miniature portrait of herself, painted in her younger and happier days.
It is like me, murmured the girl.
It is my picture when I was your age. She sank to her knees by the side of the Duchess. "At this time and in this place my story is too long to tell. You shall learn all by-and-by, when we are safe. I had a child--a daughter, born on such a night as this, in sorrow and tribulation. My memory is too treacherous, and the long and severe illness I passed through was too terrible in its effects upon me, to enable me to recall the circumstances of that period of my life. But I had my child, and she drew life from my breast, and brought gleams of happiness to my troubled soul. I have no recollection how long a time passed, till a deep darkness fell upon me; but when I recovered, and my reason was restored to me, I was told that my child was dead. I had no power to prove that it was false; I was weak, friendless, penniless, and I wandered into the world solitary and alone. But throughout all my weary and sorrowful life, a voice--God's voice--never ceased whispering to me that my child was alive, and that I should one day meet her, and clasp her to my heart! In this hope alone I have lived; but for this hope I should have died long years ago. Heaven has fulfilled its promise, and has brought you to my arms. I look into your face, and I see the face of my child; I listen to your voice, and I hear the voice of my child! God would not deceive me! In time to come, when you have heard my story, we will, if you decide that it shall be so, seek for worldly proof. I think I see the way to it, and if it is possible it shall be found."
She rose from her knees, and standing apart from the wondering weeping girl, said, in a low voice, between her sobs:
In my youth I was wronged. I was innocent, as God is my judge! My fault was, that I trusted and believed; that I, a young girl inexperienced in the world's hard ways, listened to the vows of a man, whom I loved with all my soul's strength; whom I believed in as I believe in Eternal justice! That was my sin. I have been bitterly punished; no kiss of love, no word of affection that I could receive as truly my right, has been bestowed upon me since I was robbed of my child. I have been in darkness for years; I am in darkness now, waiting for the light to shine upon my soul!
It came. Tender arms stole about her neck, loving lips were pressed to hers. In an agony of joy she clasped the girl to her bosom, and wept over her. For only a few moments did she allow herself the bliss of this reunion. She looked, affrighted, to a clock on the mantelpiece.
At what time did that man say he would be here to meet us? she asked in a hurried whisper.
At eleven o'clock, was the whispered reply.
It wants but five minutes to the hour. We must go, child; we must fly from this place. No breath of suspicion must attach itself to my child's good name. Come--quickly, quickly!
The Duchess allowed Mrs. Lenoir to put on her hat and cloak, and before the hour struck they were in the street, hastening through the snow.
Whither? She knew not. But fate was directing her steps.
They did not escape unobserved, and within a short time of their departure from the hotel, were being tracked by friend and foe. The ostler attached to the hotel saw the woman stealing away, and noted the direction they took; and when Ned Chester drove to the "Empire" and heard with dismay of the flight, the ostler turned an honest penny by directing him on their road. He turned more than one honest penny on this--to him--fortunate night. Richards, who had made himself fully acquainted with Ned's movements, arrived at the hotel, in company with Arthur Temple, a few minutes after the runaway thief left it, and had no difficulty in obtaining the information he required.
Two birds with one stone, sir, he said to Arthur; "we shall catch the thief and save the girl."
We may be too late if we go afoot, said Arthur; "every moment is precious. Now, my man," to the ostler, "your fastest horse and your lightest trap. A guinea for yourself if they are ready without delay; another guinea if we overtake the persons we are after."
I'll earn them both, sir, cried the ostler, running to the stable door. "You go into the hotel and speak to the missis."
No sooner said than done. Before the horse was harnessed, the landlady had been satisfied.
My name is Temple, said Arthur to her in a heat, after the first words of explanation. "Here is my card, and here is some money as a guarantee. It is a matter of life and death, and the safety of an innocent girl hangs upon the moments."
His excitement communicated itself to the landlady, who was won by his good looks and his enthusiasm, and she herself ran out to expedite the matter. They were soon on the road, but not soon enough to prevent Ned Chester from having more than a fair start of them.
Richards, who held the reins, needed no such incentive to put on the best speed as his young master's impatience unremittingly provided. As rapidly as possible the horse ploughed its way through the heavy snow. Their course lay beyond the railway station, and as they passed it the few passengers by a train which had just arrived were emerging from the door. To Arthur Temple's surprise Richards, whose lynx eyes were watching every object, suddenly pulled up in the middle of the road.
Hold the reins a moment, sir, he said jumping from the conveyance; "here's somebody may be useful."
He had caught sight of two faces he recognised, those of Sally and Seth Dumbrick.
Have you come here after the Duchess? he asked, arresting his steps.
Yes. Oh! yes, answered Sally, in amazement. Richards pulled her towards the conveyance, and Seth followed close at her heels.
Jump in, said Richards, who by this time was fully enjoying the adventure. "I'll take you to her. Don't stop to ask questions; there's no time to answer them."
Seth hesitated, but a glance at Arthur's truthful, ingenuous face dispelled his doubts, and he mounted the conveyance with Sally, and entered into earnest conversation with the young man.
Mrs. Lenoir, when she stole with the Duchess through the streets of Sevenoaks, had but one object in view--to escape from the town into the country, where she believed they would be safe from pursuit. Blindly she led the way until she came to the country. Fortunately at about this time the snow ceased to fall, and the exciting events of the night rendered her and the Duchess oblivious to the difficulties which attended their steps. So unnerved was the Duchess by what had occurred that she was bereft of all power over her will, and she allowed herself unresistingly, and without question, to be led by Mrs. Lenoir to a place of safety and refuge. They encouraged each other by tender words and caresses, and Mrs. Lenoir looked anxiously before her for a cottage or farmhouse, where they could obtain shelter and a bed. But no such haven was in sight until they were at some distance from the town, when the devoted woman saw a building which she hoped might prove what she was in search of. As they approached closer to the building she was undeceived; before her stood a quaint old church, with a hooded porch, and a graveyard by its side. A sudden faintness came upon her as she recognised the familiar outlines of the sacred refuge in which her child was born; but before the full force of this recognition had time to make itself felt, her thoughts were wrested from contemplation of the strange coincidence by sounds of pursuing shouts.
Her mother's fears, her mother's love, interpreted the sounds aright, and she knew that they proceeded from the man from whom they were endeavouring to escape. Seizing the Duchess's arm, she flew towards the porch, and reaching it at the moment Ned Chester overtook them, thrust the girl into the deeper shadows, and stood before her child with flashing eyes with her arms spread out as a shield.
So! cried Ned Chester, panting and furious; "a pretty trick you have played me! Serve me right for trusting to such a woman!"
He strove to push her aside, so that he might have speech with the Duchess, and Mrs. Lenoir struck him in the face. He laughed at the feeble blow--not lightly, but mockingly. The savage nature of the man was roused. He raised his hand to return the blow, when the Duchess stepped forward and confronted him. His arm dropped to his side.
What is the meaning of this? he asked, endeavouring to convey some tenderness in his tone. "What has this creature been telling you? She has been poisoning your mind against me, if I'm a judge of things. Come, be reasonable; take my arm, and let us return to the hotel."
But his power over the girl was gone; the brutality of his manner was a confirmation of the story she had heard of his treachery towards her.
Mr. Chester, she said--and paused, frightened at the change which came over him at the utterance of his name. His face grew white, and an ugly twitching played about his lips.
What have you heard? he demanded hoarsely.
She mustered sufficient strength to reply faintly.
The truth.
His savage nature mastered him. With a cruel sweep of his arm, he dashed Mrs. Lenoir to the ground, and clasped the Duchess in a fierce embrace. Her shrieks pierced the air.
Help! Help!
Her appeal was answered, almost on the instant. An iron grasp upon his neck compelled him to relinquish his hold of the terrified girl. Seth Dumbrick held him as in a vice and he had no power to free himself. The warning voice of Richards was needed to put a limit to the strong man's just resentment:
Don't hurt him any more than is necessary, Mr. Seth Dumbrick. There's a rod in pickle for him worse than anything you can do to him.
Lie there, you dog! exclaimed Seth, forcing Ned Chester to the ground, and placing his foot upon his breast. "Stir an inch, and I will kill you!"
While this episode in the drama was being enacted, another of a different kind was working itself out. When the Duchess was released by Ned Chester, Arthur Temple threw his arm around her, to prevent her from falling.
Do not be frightened, he said, in a soothing tone, "you are safe now. I am glad we are in time. My name is Arthur Temple."
They gazed at each other in rapt admiration. To Arthur, the beauty of the Duchess was a revelation. In the struggle with Ned Chester, her hat had fallen from her head, and her hair lay upon her shoulders in heavy golden folds. Her lovely eyes, suffused with tears, were raised to his face in gratitude. For a moment she was blind to everything but the appearance of this hero, who, as it seemed to her fevered fancy, had descended from Heaven to rescue her. But a cry of compassion from Sally brought her back to earth, and, turning, she saw her faithful nurse and companion kneeling in the snow, with Mrs. Lenoir's head in her lap. She flew to her side, and tremblingly assisted Sally in her endeavour to restore the insensible woman to life. But the blow which Ned Chester had dealt Mrs. Lenoir was a fierce one; she lay as one dead, and when, after some time, she showed signs of life, she feebly waved her hands, in the effort to beat away a shadowed horror, and moaned:
Will he never come? Will he never come?
She was living the past over again. Her mind had gone back to the time when, assisted by John, the gardener of Springfield, she had travelled in agony through the heavy snow, to implore the man who had betrayed and deserted her to take pity on her hapless state, and to render her some kind of human justice, if not for her sake, for the sake of his child, then unborn. And the thought which oppressed her and filled her with dread at that awful epoch of her life, now found expression on her lips:
Will he never come? Oh, my God! will he never come?
Do you think, whispered Arthur Temple to Seth Dumbrick, who had given Ned Chester into Richards' charge, "that we might raise her into the trap, and drive her slowly to the town?"
The tender arms about her desisted from their effort as she moaned:
If you raise me in your arms, I shall die! If you attempt to carry me into the town, I shall die!
The very words she had spoken to John on that night of agony. And then again:
Will he never come? If he saw me, he would take pity on me! Send him to me, kind Heaven!
Another actor appeared upon the scene,--Mr. Temple, who, accompanied by the ostler, had found his way to the spot.
Arthur! he cried.
The young man rose at once to his feet, and went to his father.
Mr. Temple, in the brief glance he threw around him, saw faces he recognised; saw Richards guarding Ned Chester, saw Seth Dumbrick and Sally, saw, without observing her face, Mrs. Lenoir lying with her head on the Duchess's bosom. He did not look at them a second time. His only thought was of Arthur, the pride and hope of his life, the one being he loved on earth.
What has brought you here, sir? asked Arthur. "Anxiety for you," replied Mr. Temple. "Why do I see you in this company? How much is true of the story that man told me?"--pointing to Seth Dumbrick. "If you have got yourself into any trouble----"
The look of pained surprise in Arthur's face prevented the completion of the sentence. The father and son had moved a few paces from the group, and the words they exchanged were heard only by themselves.
If I have got myself into any trouble! echoed Arthur, struggling with the belief his father's words carried to his mind. "What trouble do you refer to?"
We must not play with words, Arthur. My meaning is plain. If that man's story is true, and you have entangled yourself with a woman--such things commonly happen----
For both our sakes, said Arthur, drawing himself up, "say not another word. I came here to save an innocent girl from a villain's snare. When you find me guilty of any such wickedness as your words imply, renounce me as your son--as I would renounce a son of mine if unhappily he should prove himself capable of an act so base and cruel! The name of Temple is not to be sullied by such dishonour!"
Mr. Temple shuddered involuntarily, remembering that it was on this very spot he, a mature and worldly-wise man, had been guilty of an act immeasurably more base and dishonourable than that in the mind of his generous-hearted son.
Come, sir, said Arthur, taking his father's hand, and leading him to the group, "do justice to others as well as to myself. This is the young lady whom, happily, we have saved. Confess that you have never looked upon a fairer face, nor one more innocent."
Mr. Temple's breath came and went quickly as the Duchess raised her tear-stained face to his. At this moment, Mrs. Lenoir, with a deep sigh, opened her eyes and saw Mr. Temple bending over her. With a shriek that struck terror to the hearts of those who surrounded her, she struggled from the arms of the Duchess, and embraced the knees of Mr. Temple.
You have come, then--you have come! Heaven has heard my prayers! I knew you would not desert me! Oh, God! my joy will kill me!
And looking down upon the kneeling woman, clasping his knees in a delirium of false happiness, Mr. Temple, with a face that rivalled in whiteness the snow-covered plains around him, gazed into the face of Nelly Marston!
A suspicion of the possible truth struggled to the mind of the Duchess.
Mother! she said, in a voice of much tenderness, raising the prostrate woman from her knees, and supporting her, "why should you kneel to him?"
The tender voice, the tender embrace, the sudden flashing upon her senses of the forms standing about her, recalled Mrs. Lenoir from her dream, and she clung to her daughter with a fierce and passionate clinging.
My child! my child! They shall not take you from me! Say that you will not desert me--promise me, my child! I will work for you--I will be your servant--anything----
Hush, mother! said the girl. "Be comforted. I will never leave you. No power can part us."
With a supreme effort of will, Mr. Temple tore himself from the contemplation of the shameful discovery, and the likely consequences of the exposure.
Come, Arthur, he said, holding out his trembling hand to his son; "this is no place for us."
His voice was weak and wandering, and he seemed to have suddenly grown ten years older.
Arthur did not stir from the side of Mrs. Lenoir.
Come, I say! cried Mr. Temple petulantly; "have you no consideration for me? It can all be explained; we will talk over the matter when we are alone."
We must talk of it now, said Arthur solemnly, "with God's light shining upon us, and before His House of Prayer."
A high purpose shone in the young man's face, and his manner was sad and earnest. He took Mrs. Lenoir's hand with infinite tenderness and respect:
Will you answer, with truth, what I shall ask you?
As truthfully as I would speak in presence of my Maker! replied Mrs. Lenoir, with downcast head.
This gentleman is my father. What is he to you?
He is the father of my dear child, torn from me by a cruel fraud, and now, thank God, Oh, thank God! restored to me by a miracle. He should have been my husband. When he prevailed upon me to fly with him--I loved him, and was true to him in thought and deed, as God is my Judge!--he promised solemnly to marry me.
And then----
I can say no more, murmured Mrs. Lenoir with sobs that shook the souls of all who heard; "he deserted me, and left me to shame and poverty. O, my child!" she cried, turning her streaming eyes to the Duchess, "tell me that you forgive me!"
It is not you who need forgiveness, mother, sobbed the Duchess, falling into her mother's arms.
A terrible silence ensued, broken by the querulous voice of Mr. Temple:
This woman's story is false. Arthur, will you take her word against mine? Remember what I have done for you--think of the love I bear you! Do nothing rash, I implore you! Say, if you like, that she has not lied. I will be kind to her, and will see that her life is passed in comfort. Will that content you? He paused between every sentence for his son to speak, but no sound passed Arthur's lips. From the depths of his soul, whose leading principles were honour and justice, the young man was seeking for the right path. Exasperated by his silence, Mr. Temple continued, and in a rash moment said: "What can she adduce but her bare word? What evidence that the girl is my child?"
A voice from the rear of the group supplied the proof he asked for. It was Richards who spoke.
I can give the evidence. The girl is your child.
Mr. Temple turned upon him with a look of fear, and the eyes of all were directed to Richards' face.
The scene had produced so profound an effect upon the man that, holding the last link required to complete the chain, he was impressed with a superstitious dread that a judgment would fall upon him if he held back at this supreme moment.
The child is yours. Before you instructed me to ascertain the particulars concerning Seth Dumbrick's life, I had made the discovery. It was I who took the child to Rosemary Lane, and left her there.
You traitor! cried Mr. Temple, almost frenzied; "you have deceived and betrayed me!"
You told me, said Richards, in a dogged voice, "that you wished the child placed in such a position in life that she should never be able to suspect who was her father, and I did the best I could. You employed me to do your dirty work, and I did it, and was paid for it. And when, to try you, I told you that your child had died, you expressed in your manner so little pity, that, having learned to know you, I thought it as well not to undeceive you."
The last link was supplied, and the chain was complete. This disclosure effected a startling change in Mr. Temple's demeanour. He drew himself up haughtily. "Arthur, I command you to come with me."
I cannot obey you, sir, said Arthur sadly and firmly. "You have broken the tie which bound us. I will never enter your house again; nor will I share your dishonour. Justice shows me the road where duty lies, and I will follow it."
He held out his hand to the Duchess; she accepted it, and clasped it in love and wonder; and passing his disengaged arm around Mrs. Lenoir's waist, he turned his back upon his father, and took the road which justice pointed out to him.
But a short distance from the country place in which Seth Dumbrick and the children of his adoption spent their holiday, is a pretty and comfortable residence standing in its own grounds. Here lives Nelly Marston and her daughter, no longer bearing the name of the Duchess of Rosemary Lane, but the more simple and natural one of Kate. Happily the faults of our young heroine are not uneradicable, and under the loving ministration of her devoted mother she is gradually developing a sweetness and simplicity of nature which will bear good fruit in the future. The long-suffering mother is happy beyond her wildest hopes, and night and morning she bends her knees in gratitude, and offers up prayers of thankfulness for the life of love she is enjoying. That she is enabled to live this life in ease and comfort is due to Arthur Temple, who, having some private fortune of his own through a legacy left to him in childhood, is able in this way to make some compensation to the trusting woman whom his father betrayed. He comes to the happy home at intervals, and calls Kate his sister, and pays to Kates' mother a respect in which something of reverence finds a place. To this home, also, every fortnight, come Seth Dumbrick and Sally, from Saturday afternoon to Monday morning, and at rarer intervals Nelly Marston and her daughter pay visits to Rosemary Lane, and pass happy hours in Seth's cellar.
So much for the present. What lies in the future?
It may be that Arthur Temple and his father may become reconciled, but the old ties are broken, and in the son's future the father shall play no part. The father's head is no longer erect and proud: his sin has found him out, and his dearest hopes are crushed. It is just.
It may be that our heroine may meet with a man who will woo her honourably, and that when she has children of her own, the better lessons which her mother is imparting will prove to be indeed the best blessing which could fall to her lot.
But it cannot be that Nelly Marston's happiness shall be greater than it is at present. It is full and perfect, and the past is atoned for. Despite the verdict which too censorious people might pass upon her, Nelly Marston's home is a home of innocence and virtue.
The End