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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6aeed1d --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #65012 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/65012) diff --git a/old/65012-0.txt b/old/65012-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index b705cf0..0000000 --- a/old/65012-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,3853 +0,0 @@ -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65012 *** - - - - -DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME. - -A Novel, - -IN ONE VOLUME. - - -BY - -MRS. FRED. E. PIRKIS. - - -London: - -REMINGTON AND CO., - -5, ARUNDEL STREET, STRAND, W.C. - - -1877. - -[_All Rights Reserved._] - - - - -DEDICATED, - -WITH ALL LOVE AND ESTEEM, - -TO MY BROTHER, - -GEORGE IGNATIUS PIRKIS. - - - - -CONTENTS - - -I - -II - -III - -IV - -V - -VI - -VII - -VIII - -IX - -X - -XI - -XII - -XIII - -XIV - -XV - - - - -DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME. - - -CHAPTER I. - - -“£200 REWARD. Disappeared from her home, Amy, only daughter of Stephen -Warden, Esq., of the High Elms, Harleyford. Age, 17; height, 5ft. Dark -hair and eyes, oval face, small nose, mouth, and chin; remarkably small -hands and feet; dressed in dark blue silk walking costume, broad -brimmed felt hat, with light-blue ostrich feather. Jewellery worn—a -gold butterfly brooch, and butterfly earrings; on the third finger of -left hand, an antique ruby ring—one large stone, surrounded with eight -small diamonds, set in a garter with buckle; motto on garter, ‘_Sans -espoir je meurs._’ The young lady was last seen on the morning of the -14th of August, leaving the park lands, and entering the high road -leading to Dunwich. Information to be given to Inspector Smythe, -Dunwich Police Station, who will pay the above reward on the young -lady’s restoration to her family, or portions of the amount according -to the value of the information received.” - -_____ - -The above handbill appeared one bright summer’s morning on the walls of -Dunwich Police Station, and on all the principal buildings of that busy -manufacturing town. - -Hard-working men of business found time, in the midst of their buying -and selling, to stop and read, and wonder how it was possible that -any young lady, well looked after, as Miss Warden undoubtedly was, -well-known, too, in the neighbourhood, and surrounded by relations, -friends, and servants, could thus disappear from their very midst, at -noon-day, and leave no trace of any sort. - -Harleyford was situated about five miles from Dunwich, and Mr. Warden’s -house about three from the local railway station. A well-traversed high -road led from his estate to the market town—Dunwich. This the young -lady had been seen to enter about ten o’clock on the morning of the -14th of August, by some country people, with whom she exchanged -greetings. From that moment nothing more had been seen nor heard of -her, and it was, as the country people expressed it in their broad -Leicestershire dialect, “as though the earth had opened, and swallowed -her up,” so completely had all traces of her been lost. - -Well-to-do tradesmen and thriving farmers, passing by, read the -handbill with a sort of shudder. Here was a young lady taking her usual -morning walk on a bright summer’s day; she wishes her neighbours a gay -good morning with a nod and a smile, goes on her way, and lo! nothing -more is seen or heard of her. After this, who was safe? And with a sigh -and a shiver, and a thought of their own young daughters at home, they -went their way to ponder over the strange occurrence. - -The county people by scores left their cards on Mr. and Mrs. Warden; -heard how they had waited breakfast for their daughter, then luncheon, -then dinner—how they had sent their men far and near to scour the -country—how every river had been dragged, every infirmary and hospital -searched, every railway official questioned and cross-questioned as to -whether the young lady had been seen entering either station—how the -parents had racked their brains to discover any possible or impossible -pretext which could drive their daughter from her home—how that now, -well-nigh broken-hearted, after a fortnight of wearying suspense, they -had folded their hands and prayed for any news, even the worst that -might come. - -“It is beyond mystery,” said old Lady Nugent to her young lady -companion, driving along the very same high road which had seen the -last of poor Amy, and looking right and left in the hedges, as though -she expected to find some traces of her there; “If the girl had had any -love troubles, one could understand it better; for the young, foolish -things at seventeen are often driven to some desperate folly by a man’s -wicked eyes. But every one knows she could have made the best match in -the county if she had liked. There’s young Lord Hardcastle, who -absolutely worships her—fastidious and fault-finding as he is; and as -for Frank Varley, the rector’s son, with his £10,000 a year, he is -positively mad after her.” - -“Yes, my lady,” responded the companion, “and it is well known that -neither Mr. nor Mrs. Warden cared in the least whom she chose. Ah! she -was always a coquette, even in the schoolroom. Those young, bright -things with so much money, and so many chances generally choose badly -after all, and run away with some groom, or footman. Depend upon it, my -lady”— - -“Don’t be an idiot, Matthews,” interrupts the dowager, “talk about -things you understand. It has been ascertained beyond doubt that no one -but Miss Warden is missing, far or near. Besides, the young lady, -however playful and vivacious she might be with her equals in station, -was too well-born and well-bred to permit the slightest familiarity -from an inferior. She would not have suffered such a thing any more -than I should myself,” with a withering glance at Matthews. “Tell -George,” she added, pulling violently at the check-string, “to drive -past the police station. I want to see what they have put in the -handbills.” - -And, as the old lady drives through the crowd of stragglers gathered -about the station-house doors, two others, with white, anxious faces, -are standing there, reading the printed lines. Tall, fair, muscular -Frank Varley, the rector’s scapegrace son, the best rider, runner, and -rower in the county—the first in all mischief—in all breakneck -adventures—and yet more sought after at balls and garden parties, than -the richest lord, or the most eligible unmarried baronet—his mother’s -darling and pride, and a constant source of anxiety and apprehension to -his father. - -As he reads, his brow darkens. “By heaven!” he mutters through his set -teeth, “there has been foul play somewhere. She held my hand for a -moment only, at the ball the night before, under the large oleander -tree, and called me her own Frank; and then, coquette as she is, the -next minute she told me she meant her own _brother_ Frank—I had -been so good to her. Shall we all sit still with folded hands, and let -a girl like that be stolen from our very midst? A thousand times, no!” -And then aloud, with a full-drawn breath, “By heaven! no corner of the -earth shall hide her from me; by land and by sea, by night and by day, -I will search the whole world through, till I find her, living or dead.” - -“You are right,” exclaims a voice at his elbow, and Lord Hardcastle’s -dark pale face, with thin, clear-cut features, looks over his shoulder. -(“Kid-gloved Hardcastle” he was sometimes called by his sporting and -boating friends, on account of his super-refinement and dainty -fastidiousness.) “You are right; there has been some foul play -here—some deed of iniquity which must be brought to light. We, who -have been rivals hitherto, may well join hands now.” He extends his -thin white hand, which Varley grasps in a strong, firm hold. “I repeat -your own words; ‘no corner of the earth shall hide her from me; by land -and by sea, by night and by day, I will search the whole world through -till I find her, living or dead.’” - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -WHILE the townspeople and country folks read and wondered at the -printed handbills, the father and mother of the missing girl wandered -about their now desolate home, listless, aimless, well-nigh -broken-hearted. The first sharp pang, it is true, was past, and the -sorrow had settled down to a dull leaden weight on heart and brain. The -servants walked about the house slowly and silently, speaking in -subdued voices. Day and night lay old Presto, Amy’s favourite -deerhound, at the house door, waiting and listening, and never seeming -to eat nor sleep. Her maid carefully each day fed her birds and watered -her flowers, and every one in the household vied with each other in -endeavouring to carry out every known wish or fancy the young lady had -ever had (and it must be confessed they were not a few) as they would -endeavour to carry out the wishes of some dear one dead. On every side, -in every room, were traces of the lost darling. Here, the open piano -with a roll of new music; there, the uncovered harp. In the little -morning room piece after piece of unfinished needlework, and here in a -little “studio,” as Amy was pleased to call it, numberless pencil -sketches, an oil landscape commenced, a water-colour three-parts done, -and a crayon head, “all but” finished. A whole tableful of -china-painting accessories, and commenced cups, saucers, and plates; -and there, in a corner, a cabinet of fret-work tools, with brackets, -card trays, and picture frames enough to stock a small shop. - -From all this it may be seen that the young lady’s tastes and pursuits -were numerous and varied—change, to her, the one great necessity of -life. A too great indulgence from her earliest infancy had developed in -her character an impatience of restraint, an impetuosity and wilfulness -which, unless it had been counterbalanced, as in her case it was, by an -unusually loving, playful, tender disposition, would have rendered her -imperious and domineering. As it was, every one in the household, from -her father downwards, adored her and bowed to her sway. “I must not be -kept waiting an instant” was a remark which might be heard every hour -of the day from Miss Amy’s lips. And kept waiting she never was, for -the simple reason that it was an impossibility to keep her in any -posture of tranquillity for five minutes at a time. Every thought or -idea that entered into her brain must be executed there and then and, -scarcely completed, must be thrown on one side to make way for another. - -“Were you ever thus in your very young days, Stephen?” Mrs. Warden -would sometimes enquire of her husband. And the husband would smile and -shake his head, and declare he had never been half so fascinating as -his wilful, loving, teasing little daughter, “the music and sunshine of -his life,” as he was wont to call her. - -And now all was changed! The music was hushed, the sunlight had died -out. Would the shadows ever be lifted from the home again? Would the -quick, light step ever be heard again, and the sweet, young, ringing -voice, exclaiming in its old familiar tones, “I must not be kept -waiting an instant?” - -So the father and mother asked themselves, as, standing side by side in -their dining room verandah, they looked across the bright August -landscape to where the groom was leading out Amy’s pony for its morning -canter. - -Mr. Warden, at this time, was about forty-five years of age, looking -considerably younger. A well-featured, muscular man, with energy, -determination, and many other good qualities plainly written on his -face. A more complete contrast to him than his wife could not well be -imagined. She was very tiny, very fair, very gentle, with amiability, -want of will, and weakness of character marked in every line and -feature. Her one god was her husband, her one thought how to please -him, and her every opinion and wish was simply an echo of his. - -“A doll, my dear, nothing more,” was old Lady Nugent’s summing up, -after her first introduction to Mrs. Warden, some twelve years -previously. Mr. Warden had come among them a perfect stranger, buying -one of the largest estates in the county which happened to be for sale. -He had resided, so he had said, nearly all his life in the south of -France, but his family and connections were well known in the Midland -Counties as wealthy and nobly connected. Of his wife, however, nothing -was known, nor could be discovered, so she was set down, and perhaps -justly, as having been an English governess in some French family, and -as such, most probably, Mr. Warden had first known her. - -“What men can see in dolls to induce them to marry them, I cannot see,” -pursued the dowager, “they simply need a glass case, some good clothes, -and their work in life is done.” Nevertheless, in spite of Lady -Nugent’s comments, Mrs. Warden had been well received in Harleyford for -her husband’s sake, and now, in the time of her sorrow, nothing could -exceed the kindness and sympathy extended to her on all sides. Carriage -after carriage sweeps along their drive, letter after letter is brought -to the house, some containing wild and improbable suggestions, others -opening here and there a door of hope, all full of warm and earnest -sympathy, and offers of help. - -“What can any of them do that has not already been done?” says Mr. -Warden, handing to his wife a joint letter from Frank Varley and Lord -Hardcastle, relating their solemn vow, and placing their services at -Mr. Warden’s disposal. - -“They are noble young fellows, and worthy of a true-hearted girl’s -love. But what can they do? God help us all and teach us how to act for -the best, for my brains are nearly worn out with thinking and -supposing.” - -“The gentleman from London, sir, Mr. Hill, wishes to see you,” says the -butler at his elbow, having entered the room with a quiet, solemn -tread, as though serving at a funeral feast. - -“Ah, the detective,” says Mr. Warden, thankful to have the pressure of -thought lifted for an instant; “show him into the library; I will see -him at once.” - -Mr. Hill, a slight, gentleman-like man, with the eye of an eagle, and -the nose of a deerhound, seats himself at the library table, and -spreads his memoranda before him. - -“I bring you my latest report, Mr. Warden, and I grieve to say it -amounts to very little. The only additional information I have -obtained, and that, I fear, is scarcely reliable, is from the postman, -John Martin. He tells me that on the morning of the 14th he met your -daughter in the park lands, and, at her request, handed to her her -morning’s letters. I questioned him as to how he recollected it was on -that day, and he at once admitted he could not be positive, as it was -the young lady’s custom, whenever she met him, thus to ask for and -receive her letters. I questioned him as to the general appearance of -her letters, whether directed in masculine or feminine hand-writing—(I -beg your pardon, sir, such questions must be asked)—and his reply is, -he never recollects bringing Miss Warden any but letters in ladies’ -writing. You must take the evidence for what it is worth; I fear it -counts for very little, but, such as it is, I have entered it in my -case book.” - -“I scarcely see whither your questions tend,” remarks Mr. Warden, -somewhat stiffly. “Miss Warden, I am convinced, had no correspondents -with whom I am unacquainted. She has been brought up at home, under -careful supervision, and has never visited anywhere without Mrs. Warden -or myself. If you are inferring some unknown attachment existed, such a -supposition is entirely without foundation. I have every reason to -believe that my daughter’s affections have been given, and with my -approval, to a very dear young friend and neighbour.” - -“All this I know, sir. Indeed, I think there is very little you or any -one else can tell me on this matter. There is not a man or woman in the -place whom I have not sounded to their very depths, questioned and -cross-questioned in every imaginable way. I have here, in my pocket, a -map of my own sketching, containing every field and river, every shady -nook and hollow within thirty miles round. I have also a directory with -the names, ages, occupation, and household of every human being within -the same area. Very little, indeed, remains now to be done.” - -“Don’t tell me that,” exclaims Mr. Warden, excitedly, jumping to his -feet, and pacing the room; “don’t tell me that your work here is over, -and no result for your three weeks’ labour. Don’t, I implore you, crush -me down into utter despair. Have you no hope, ever so slight, to hold -out to me—no advice of any sort to give?” - -“I have both, Mr. Warden,” replies the detective, calmly; “I need not -tell you now how I have worked out my theory, nor how, step by step, I -have come to the conclusion that your daughter is not dead. This is the -hope I hold out to you.” - -“Then, if not dead, worse than death has happened to her,” groans the -poor father, covering his face with his hands; “better death, than -dishonour.” - -For a moment both are silent; then, Mr. Warden, slowly recovering -himself, enquires, “And what is the advice you have to give, Mr. Hill? -let me have that, at any rate.” - -“Simply to watch, and to wait, sir; at present, nothing more can be -done. We have exhausted every theory, we have followed out every clue, -or pretence of one. If there are accomplices in the matter, my presence -here puts them on their guard, and as long as I remain nothing will -transpire; when I have left, and things have settled down to their -usual course, I feel sure some one will betray him or herself unawares. -I repeat, wait and watch; and directly your suspicions are aroused in -the slightest degree, communicate with me, and I will advise you to the -best of my ability.” - -“Wait!” groans Mr. Warden, “wait! ‘let things settle down to their -usual course;’ how is it possible for a man to live through such a life -of torture and suspense? Is there nothing—absolutely nothing—that can -be done before you leave us?” - -“Only one thing, and that, with your permission, I will do at once. -With the men of your household, I have been on tolerably familiar -terms, and know pretty well what they could, or could not do; but about -the women I am not so sure. If you will allow me, I will have the whole -of your female servants in here in succession, from the scullery maids, -upwards—take their names, ages, occupations, &c., from their own lips. -I may, possibly, seem to you, sir, to ask a great many irrelevant -questions, but while I am questioning, I am watching and noting, and I -will undertake to say there will be no one with a guilty conscience -who will hide it from my eye.” - -Mr. Warden rings the bell, and gives the order to the footman, who -conveys it to the housekeeper, who forthwith summons all the maids of -the household to be paraded in succession before their master, and the -detective. - -Mr. Hill requests that the housekeeper will remain in the room the -whole time. “I may have occasion,” he explains, “to refer to you from -time to time, as to the truth or otherwise of some of the statements -made.” - -First, the kitchen-maids enter, looking very red, and very much ashamed -of themselves. Mr. Hill glances at them, looks them through and -through, and contents himself with simply noting down their names, -ages, and position in Mr. Warden’s household. The cooks are almost as -quickly dismissed, and between the exit of one staff of servants and -entrance of another, Mr. Hill’s eyes are occupied in scrutinizing the -elderly housekeeper, and in addressing to her various friendly remarks. - -The housemaids undergo a much longer examination; one girl turns red, -another pale. One answers wide of the mark, and is reprimanded by Mr. -Hill; another is detected in a wilful fib by the housekeeper, who -forthwith brings her to book. Eventually, however, they are dismissed, -and the detective, turning to the housekeeper, enquires where Miss -Warden’s maid is. - -“I have to apologize for her, sir,” replies the housekeeper, “will you -kindly excuse her? The poor girl was taken with a violent sick-headache -about an hour ago, and went to lie down in her own room. I believe, -however, I can answer any questions for her you may wish to put.” - -“About an hour ago,” muses Mr. Hill, “just when the order for the -servants’ parade was given out.” Then, aloud to the housekeeper, “Is -this young person often troubled with violent headaches, Mrs. Nesbitt?” - -“Oh dear no, sir,” replies Mrs. Nesbitt, “I never knew her taken in -this way before, but you see we have all of us had such an upset, sir, -lately. Dear me! such an upset!” and the old lady glances furtively at -her master. - -“Exactly, Mrs. Nesbitt, exactly,” said Mr. Hill, sympathetically. -“That is just what I am thinking. Will you kindly take a message from -me to this young person? Tell her I have merely one or two unimportant -questions to put as a matter of form, as to her duties, &c., as Miss -Warden’s maid, but I must have the answers from her own lips. If it -will suit her better I will go with you to her own room, but in any -case I must see her.” - -Mrs. Nesbitt at once departs on her errand, and after a delay of some -ten minutes, returns with the maid, a round-faced, small-featured girl, -somewhat fashionably dressed for her position, and with an assumption -of refinement and dignity evidently intended as a copy of her young -mistress’s style. - -Mr. Hill preserves his careless suavity of manner, regrets, politely, -he should have been compelled to disturb her, hopes she will soon -recover her usual health. Meantime his eye is fixed full on her face, -and throughout the short interview his gaze is never once lifted. - -“Your name, if you please?” he asks. - -“Lucy Williams,” replies the girl, quivering and tremulous under his -fixed gaze. - -“Are your parents living, Miss Williams?” - -“No,” she replies, shortly, “I have no relations of any sort.” - -“Not even a brother,” he enquires, “who was once gamekeeper on an -estate the other side of Dunwich, and who subsequently sailed for -America?” - -Here the girl breaks down utterly, and gives way to a flood of tears. -“How dare you insult me thus?” she enquires angrily. “What do you know -of my brother Tom? He may be dead and buried for anything I care.” - -“I know very little about your brother Tom, Miss Williams, beyond the -fact of his having caused your parents a great deal of anxiety. In fact -it was the disgrace of their son’s dismissal from his situation, -charged with conspiring with poachers to rob his master, which, I -believe, broke their hearts. However, I have only one more question to -ask. Have you seen or heard anything of your brother since his return -to this neighbourhood? He was seen, I believe, not very far from this -house on the morning of the 15th of August.” - -Another passionate burst of sobbing from the girl, and this time an -appeal to Mr. Warden. - -“Will you allow me, sir, to be insulted in this way in your presence?” -she demands. “I vow and declare since I have been in your service, I -have always been an honest, faithful servant; I have never wronged any -one by word or deed. I have always”—here another flood of tears. - -“Gently, gently, Lucy,” expostulates Mr. Warden, “no one is bringing -any charge against you.” Then, to the detective, “Is it not possible to -waive this question, Mr. Hill? I really think you are going almost too -far.” - -“I will waive it with a great deal of pleasure, sir, and as far as that -goes, I do not see any necessity for prolonging the interview. Miss -Williams, I should certainly advise you to get a little quiet sleep in -your own room, it will do more for you than anything else. Good -morning, Mrs. Nesbitt, I am much obliged to you for the trouble you -have taken for me.” He politely opens the door for the housekeeper, who -conducts the still sobbing girl out of the room. - -Then the man’s manner undergoes an entire change. He turns abruptly to -Mr. Warden. “Keep your eye on that girl, sir; I have not passed the -greater part of my life among rogues of all sorts not to know a guilty -face when I see it. That girl is keeping something back, but what I am -at present at a loss to imagine. Take my word for it, within a -fortnight she will do one of two things, either request permission to -leave on account of the dulness of the house or else run away. I think -the latter, from the irresolution and want of nerve she has shown this -morning, but I am not sure. I can only reiterate the advice I have -already given you, watch and wait, and the moment your suspicions are -aroused, communicate with me.” - -And the detective takes his leave, and as Mr. Warden’s horses convey -him swiftly along the high road to Dunwich, he shakes his head gravely -and mutters, “This is a bad business, and I fear there is worse to -come. I was never before so thoroughly at a loss; I cannot see one inch -before me in the matter; however, we can only watch and wait.” - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -IT seemed strange, at first, to the good people of Harleyford to see -young Lord Hardcastle and the rector’s son daily in close and friendly -intercourse, accustomed, as they were, to see each politely ignored by -the other, or else spoken of in terms of supercilious contempt. It was -certainly a strange sight to see the young men constantly walking side -by side in earnest conversation, or else riding to and from each -other’s houses. Lord Hardcastle’s weakness had hitherto been -near-sightedness whenever Varley had happened to cross his path. -“Who was that you recognized just now?” he would say to a companion, if -he happened to have one at the time, and on being informed it was the -rector’s son, would remark, carelessly— - -“Oh, the young giant whose brains have run into muscle; let us talk of -something interesting.” - -Frank Varley, in his turn, would speak in no measured terms of “that -kid-gloved dandy—that embodiment of priggishness and polite -literature.” - -But now all was changed. A common sorrow had drawn them to each other, -and their intense and true love for, and devotion to poor Amy, had -rendered them so far unselfish as to enable them to work together with -determination and courage. - -Mr. Warden’s reply to their letter had been a brief, “Come and see me; -we will talk the matter over.” And arm in arm the young men had -responded to his invitation. - -“I am very grateful to you both,” was Mr. Warden’s greeting, “I know -not how to express my thanks; but what can any one do that has not been -already done?” - -“See here, Mr. Warden,” broke in Frank, impetuously, “I don’t care what -other people have or have not done, I must do something. I shall go mad -if I sit here idle any longer. I have no doubt that detective fellow -you had from London did his work superlatively well, but still it is -possible he may have left something undone. Let me ride through your -plantations once more; let me have men down here, and drag over again -that cursed water, yonder.” He pointed through the window to a silvery -little stream which flowed at the bottom of Mr. Warden’s lawn and -flower garden. Deep water it was here and there, and here and there -clogged with long grasses and rushes; but on and on it went, until at -length it fell into the noble river upon which the town of Dunwich is -built. - -“My poor fellow, do it if you will,” is Mr. Warden’s reply, “do it a -hundred times over, if it is any gratification to you; I fear the -result will be the same to your efforts as to mine. But tell me in your -turn, have you nothing to suggest? You, Lord Hardcastle, have the -reputation of having more brains than most of us, tell me if you can -propose anything to lighten this terrible time of suspense? Have you -thought well over the possibilities and impossibilities of this -dreadful affair, and do you see any glimmer of hope anywhere for us?” - -“Have I thought well over it?” repeats Hardcastle; “you might better -ask me, ‘do I ever think of anything else?’ for day and night no other -thought ever enters my mind; hour after hour do I sit thinking over, -and weighing in turn, each circumstance, however slight, which has -occurred in connection with the loss of your daughter. I have looked at -the matter, not only from my own point of view, and worked out my own -theories threadbare, but have endeavoured to put myself, as it were, in -other people’s bodies, to hear the matter with their ears, and see it -with their eyes! and then have I exhausted every possible or impossible -theory which they might have. Nowhere, alas, can I see any clue to the -mystery. Indeed, each day that passes renders it more terrible and -difficult. It is impossible she can be dead”— - -He pauses abruptly; large drops of perspiration stand out upon his -forehead, and his outstretched hand trembles with suppressed emotion. -“Had she been lying dead anywhere in the whole land, her body would by -this time have been brought to you, or at any rate news of how and -where she died.” - -“Hush, hush!” breaks in Mr. Warden pitifully, as, pale and tottering, -he catches hold of Lord Hardcastle’s arm; “don’t speak to me in this -way, Hardcastle, or you will kill me outright; this last month has made -an old man of me, and a feather’s weight would knock me over now. If -you can see more clearly than any of us what lies in the future, for -mercy’s sake hold back the blow as long as possible.” - -There is a pause of some minutes; at last, Varley jumps to his feet, -impatiently— - -“For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow,” he exclaims, “don’t croak any more -than you can help, but help us a little with your wisdom and advice. I -have Mr. Warden’s permission to travel over the old ground again, and -we are to commence this very hour; tell us what you purpose doing?” - -“I shall wait and watch,” replies Hardcastle, unconsciously repeating -Mr. Hill’s own words, “the clue will discover itself somewhere, -somehow, when we least expect it; here, more likely, than anywhere -else; and it needs a hearing ear and a seeing eye to seize and follow -it up. You may wander hither and thither, if you will, I shall remain -here, and wait and watch.” - -“Strange,” said Mr. Warden, musingly, “your words are the echo of what -was said to me yesterday, by the professional detective I employed.” -Then he related to them in detail the examination of the servants by -Mr. Hill, and his parting advice. - -“Have the girl, Williams, in at once, Mr. Warden,” exclaims Frank, -“question her as to what she has, or has not done; let me,” he adds, -eagerly, “ask her one or two questions; depend upon it, they will be to -the point.” - -But to this the two other gentlemen object, Mr. Warden considering it -an unjust thing to attach suspicion to the girl on account of the -misdeeds of her brother; and Lord Hardcastle alleging that by so doing -they would defeat their own object by putting the girl on her guard. -“Let us wait and watch,” once more he implores. But Frank shakes his -head, “Waiting and watching may suit some men,” he says, “but for me it -is an impossibility. I must do something, and at once, or I shall blow -my brains out; that is, if I have any,” he adds, with a grim smile, and -a shrug of his shoulders. - -Forthwith he departs to organize a body of volunteers once more to -scour the whole county—to search commons and through woods—to cut fern -and furze from shady hollows and dark corners, where, by any chance, a -secret might be hidden. Once more to drag rivers and streams, and -search under hedges, and in reed-grown ditches; and finally to question -and re-question every man, woman, and child far or near, as to their -recollection of the day’s occurrences of the 14th of August. - -This was the plan of action Frank had sketched out for himself, and -bravely indeed, did he carry it out. Volunteers by the score came -forward, for the sympathy expressed for Mr. Warden was heartfelt, and -Amy’s loss had cast a gloom over the whole county. Not a man or woman -in the country side but what would have gone to the other end of the -world to have lifted from the sorrowing father and mother this dark -cloud of suspense. As for the young lady herself, they would have laid -down their lives for her; for her kindly, pleasant ways and pretty -queenly airs, had won all hearts. And thus, high and low, rich and -poor joined hands with Frank Varley, and searched with a will, working -early, and working late—earnest men, at earnest work. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -AT this time Lord Hardcastle began to be a daily visitor at the High -Elms. “My own house is very dreary to me,” he had said, “may I come to -you very often for an hour or so, without feeling I am intruding?” And -Mr. Warden had bade him welcome, but had warned him that he would find -the High Elms more than “dreary.” “To me the place is silent and gloomy -as a vault or grave-yard,” he said, “but I am sure the presence of a -real friend like yourself will be a great comfort to Mrs. Warden, now -that I am such a poor companion for her.” Thus, it came to pass that -daily, about noon, Lord Hardcastle might be seen riding up the steep -avenue which led to Mr. Warden’s house, returning generally about dusk -to his solitary dinner, for being an orphan, and without any near -relative, and naturally of a studious, reserved disposition, his -privacy was very seldom broken into by chance visitors, or casual -acquaintances. - -As time went on, however, he frequently accepted Mr. Warden’s -invitation to dine and sleep at his house; and on these occasions he -would devote the entire morning to Mrs. Warden and her occupations; -generally after lunch walking or riding with Mr. Warden. Thus, a week -or ten days slipped away; Frank Varley and his band of volunteers -working hard meantime. Then suddenly, an unexpected calamity befel -the village of Harleyford—an epidemic of small-pox broke out, and -threatened to be of a virulent nature. A groom of Mr. Warden’s, calling -on one of the villagers, caught the disease, and returned to the High -Elms, only to sicken and die. Mr. Warden, habitually kind and -thoughtful to his dependants, had had the best local medical advice -that could be procured, and in addition, nurses, and all approved -disinfectants, &c., from the Dunwich Fever Hospital. Yet, in spite of -these precautions, Lord Hardcastle, one morning, on entering the house, -was met by the housekeeper with a face so long and melancholy he could -see at once some fresh calamity had occurred. - -“What is it, Mrs. Nesbitt?” he enquired, without waiting for the old -lady to speak, “Has your master or mistress taken the infection, or if -not, what has happened?” - -“Both, I fear, sir, are seized,” replied the housekeeper, sadly; “I -have sent for Doctor Mills and Doctor Hayward, and two additional -nurses from the hospital; but as yet, no one has come. And oh, sir! -something else has happened: Lucy Williams has disappeared in some -mysterious manner; not a soul has seen her since last night. It seems, -indeed,” added the old lady, clasping her hands, while the tears rained -from her eyes, “as though a curse had fallen upon the house. Where will -it all end! Heaven knows: I tremble to think who may be taken next.” - -This was startling news indeed, although, perhaps, nothing more than -might have been expected from the state of affairs at the High Elms. -Mr. and Mrs. Warden’s health had been considerably shaken by the days -and nights of suspense they had passed through. Consequently it would -not be a matter of surprise if they were the next to fall victims to -the disease. - -Then again with regard to Lucy Williams, were they not watching the -girl, and waiting for her to make a move in some direction? - -However, there was no time to be lost in speculation, there was work to -be done. Lord Hardcastle wrote a brief note to Varley— - -“Leave off your searching and dragging at once; there is something else -for you to do. Lucy Williams has disappeared. Come over immediately. I -will have all necessary information collected, and ready to place in -your hands by the time you arrive. This, if you will, you can convey to -Inspector Hill, Scotland Yard. It may save time. Start, if possible, by -the 2.10 p.m. train. - - “HARDCASTLE.” - -This note he despatched by one of the grooms, mounting the man on his -own horse, a high-bred roan, which knew how to go like the wind when -need was. Unfortunately there was some uncertainty as to where Varley -was to be found. The rectory in those days saw but little of him, and -his work had lately taken him to a woodland some four or five miles -distant. - -Hither the man, by Lord Hardcastle’s direction, rode in quest, only, -unfortunately, to see the volunteers returning by different routes, -after another fruitless search. On enquiry, he found that Varley -had ridden still farther on to the nearest post-town, most likely on -some false scent. - -Hither again the man followed him, and, fortunately, met him slowly -riding towards home, thinking, perhaps, of another day of useless -search ended, and where it would be best to recommence on the morrow. - -He read Hardcastle’s note, and then looked at his watch. The hands -pointed at two o’clock. - -“Here,” he exclaimed in a perfect whirl of passion and vexation, “have -I been wasting precious time over this confounded woodland, and the -real work waiting for me! That girl will have twenty-four hours start -of us. No train till 6.30 to-night! Arrive at London about nine -o’clock. The police, I suppose, set to work the first thing in the -morning! The girl has a fair chance of escape, I must say, but, thank -Heaven, there is something definite to be done at last! Here,” he -called to the groom, “ride alongside of me, and tell me all that is to -be known about the girl Williams and her flight!” - -But the man had little, or nothing, to tell beyond the fact that the -girl had gone. All his information had been obtained at second-hand, -and, like the housekeeper and other servants, the man seemed almost -bewildered with the strange events occurring in such rapid succession -in the household. - -Meantime Lord Hardcastle was carefully collecting all the information -that was to be had relative to the girl’s disappearance, questioning -each of the servants in succession. - -It appeared she had taken her supper with the other servants as usual -at 10 o’clock on the previous night, or rather had attempted to do so, -for she complained of feeling very ill, of pains in her head and back, -and declared she was unable to eat. One of the maids had taunted her by -enquiring whether it was the same sort of head-ache she had had when -Detective Hill was in the house. This was met by an indignant -rejoinder, and then the girl angrily left the room, as the others -thought, to go to bed. The next morning she did not make her appearance -at the servants’ breakfast, and the housekeeper, with whom Lucy was -somewhat a favourite, determined to allow her a little latitude, -thinking possibly the girl might really need rest and quiet. - -Time slipped by, and Mrs. Nesbitt, occupied in household matters, -did not again think of Lucy Williams until about half-past ten; then -going to her room to enquire for her, found the door locked, and -received no reply to her repeated knockings. Without consulting her -master, she desired one of the men to break open the door, and -entering, found that the bed had not been slept in, and the room in a -great state of confusion. They had not had time to inform their master -of the fact, before his bell was rung hurriedly, and he gave orders -that Dr. Hayward should immediately be sent for, as Mrs. Warden and he -were feeling far from well. “Stricken in body, as well as mind, -Nesbitt,” he had said sadly. “It doesn’t matter much, there is not a -great deal left to live for now.” - -Mrs. Nesbitt had not dared to inform him of the fresh calamities. -“And I am indeed thankful, sir,” added the poor old lady, “that you -have come into the house to lift some of this heavy responsibility off -my shoulders.” - -“Let me see Lucy’s room, Mrs. Nesbitt,” said Lord Hardcastle. - -The housekeeper immediately conducted him to the servants’ quarters. - -“Is this exactly the condition in which you found the room?” he -enquired, as Nesbitt threw back the door for him to enter. - -“Indeed, sir, and I grieve to say that it is,” she replied. “To think -that any young girl in this house could leave a room in such a state is -more than I can understand,” and she sighed again. - -Lord Hardcastle looked attentively round. A box, half open, and the -contents partially drawn out, stood at the foot of the bed. A dress, -bonnet and walking jacket lay upon a chair, evidently thrown there in a -hurry, and a whole pile of burned letters was heaped in the fire-grate. -Here and there the charred scraps had been fluttered on to the floor, -most likely by the rapid passing and re-passing of the girl while -preparing for her flight. - -“And to think that we might all of us have been burned in our beds last -night,” moaned the housekeeper, “for aught she cared, the wicked girl!” - -“Tell me, Mrs. Nesbitt,” interrupts Lord Hardcastle, “do you know the -extent of Lucy Williams’s wardrobe? how many bonnets or hats had she do -you think?” - -“It’s that which puzzles me, sir. I know for certain, she had but two, -for she told me only yesterday, she would not buy another just now, in -case we might have to go into mourning for our dear young lady, and she -complained that both were so shabby she was ashamed to be seen in them. -And there they both are; she must have left the house with nothing on -her head.” - -“Or else in some one else’s!” remarks Lord Hardcastle. “It was -yesterday you say she spoke of her hats; from her remarks I should -imagine her flight was not thought of until suggested by the taunts of -the other maid. Consequently her plans would not be properly matured -nor well laid. So much the better for our chance of finding her. Tell -me, Mrs. Nesbitt, could you or any one else speak as to the contents of -Miss Warden’s wardrobe, and had Lucy Williams any means of access to -it.” - -“She had sole charge of it, sir, after our dear young lady left. You -see Mrs. Warden and every one else so liked and trusted Lucy that -everything was left in her hands, except the jewel case, which was -removed to Mrs. Warden’s room. I don’t believe any one but Lucy could -speak for a certainty as to what Miss Warden had or had not.” - -“We will go now, if you please, to Miss Warden’s room,” says Lord -Hardcastle, giving one more glance at the untidy chamber. “This door -must be secured and sealed till the police have seen the room. I will -see if by any chance she has left any letters behind her.” - -But on looking through the drawers and boxes no papers of any sort are -to be found, and it seems to the housekeeper, that few if any of the -girl’s clothes have been removed. - -In an hour’s time, Lord Hardcastle has a small packet of carefully -written notes ready for Varley’s assistance and guidance. - -“I have not time,” he wrote, “to give you in detail the bases upon -which my suppositions rest, I have simply dotted down one or two facts -which I have ascertained beyond doubt, and one or two ideas which may -perhaps be useful to you. - -“In the first place, the girl’s flight if intended at some future -period, was certainly not thought of for to-day, until late last night. -This I am sure of from the hurried and scanty nature of her -preparations. - -“Secondly, she has not gone away in her own clothes, but most likely in -Miss Warden’s; at any rate in one of Miss Warden’s bonnets and walking -jackets. - -“Thirdly, she has most probably appropriated other properties of Miss -Warden’s, as the young lady’s room and its contents have been left in -her sole charge. - -“Hence it follows (fourthly), that she has probably taken the train to -London, travelling by the first this morning, as she would be anxious -to dispose of her spoil and would only dare to do so in the metropolis. - -“Fifthly, the girl has gone away very ill. My own impression is, that -the small-pox is in her system, and that she will not hold up as far as -to London. - -“Sixthly, her only friend in London, as far as can be ascertained, is a -Miss or Mrs. Kempe, who resides at 15, Gresham Street North, High -Street, Hackney.” - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -DR. HAYWARD’S report of Mr. and Mrs. Warden’s health was far from -satisfactory. “The lady,” he said, in reply to Lord Hardcastle’s -enquiries, was undoubtedly suffering from small-pox, which in her weak -state of health, had taken strong hold of her. As to Mr. Warden, he -could not be sure; he feared some disease was latent in his system; he -was altogether below par, and the anxiety and grief he had gone through -had completely undermined his constitution— - -“Do what you can for them, while you can, my dear, young friend,” he -added (he had known Hardcastle from his boyhood), “and spare them, -as far as possible, the details of this sad business.” - -So Lord Hardcastle had sent for his portmanteau, and a few favourite -books, and begged of Mrs. Nesbitt a room in some quiet corner of the -house, “A room, if you please, with cool, quiet colouring, no reds, or -blues, or yellows, to flash out from the walls, and some soft thick -carpet on the floor,” he had said, his wonted fastidiousness once more -asserting itself. But he was more than repaid for any temporary -inconvenience he might suffer, by the look of grateful thanks which -crossed Mr. Warden’s careworn face, and his warm pressure of the hand, -as he thanked his young friend for his kind unselfishness in thus -voluntarily sharing the dreariness and desolation of their home. -Dreary it was, indeed, to one who had known it in the old days. No -light footsteps on the stairs, or sudden opening of doors, and a bright -young voice pouring forth a flood of question, answer, and exclamation -in a breath; no croquet, nor tennis balls here and there on the lawn, -nor galloping of pony’s feet up the long steep avenue. A silence as of -death appeared to have fallen upon the house, and the father and -mother, stricken and weary, looked in each other’s pale faces and -wondered “could this be the home of a month ago?” - -And as Lord Hardcastle began to grow accustomed to the routine and -family life of the household, two thoughts gradually forced themselves -into his mind, which he felt would lead him somewhere, although utterly -at a loss to imagine where. - -Thrown as he was daily into close and intimate relations with Mr. and -Mrs. Warden, he could not help reflecting on the strangeness of the -fact, that neither in appearance, disposition, nor manner, did Amy in -the slightest degree resemble either parent. The more closely he -observed them, the more the dissimilarity became apparent. - -The second fact which forced itself upon his notice, related solely to -Mrs. Warden. Sincere as her grief for her daughter’s loss undoubtedly -was, it soon became apparent to Lord Hardcastle, that it was -nevertheless simply a reflected sorrow, that is to say, it struck her -through her husband; she grieved for his loss, more than for her own, -and was broken-hearted because she saw that grief was slowly killing -him day by day. No one but a very close observer would have noted these -things, and Lord Hardcastle was a very close observer, and more than -that, a logical one. He did not believe in the possibility of sudden -and disconnected facts occurring in the human world any more than in -the world of nature. “There is a reason for these things, although at -present it eludes me,” he would say to himself time after time. Long -after midnight might the shaded lamp be seen burning from his bedroom -window, and could any one have lifted the curtain, they would have seen -Hardcastle, with head resting on his hands, and elbows on the table, no -books before him, nor any pretence of writing materials, but a whole -world of thought evidently passing and repassing through his brain. - -Meantime enquiries were set on foot on all sides as to the girl -Williams. Frank Varley had ascertained from the station master at -Dunwich, that a young girl, veiled and exceedingly well dressed, had -left by the first train on that morning— - -“I should not have noticed any number of ladies at any other time, -sir,” said the man, “but it is quite the exception for any but work -people or business men to travel up by the 5.9 a.m. train.” - -Varley had farther ascertained from the guard, that the lady had -travelled first class, and had seemed very faint and tired. Arriving at -the Midland Station, his work suddenly and unexpectedly became very -easy to him. The officials there at once informed him of a lady having -been taken alarmingly ill on alighting from the early morning train. -The porter who told him, said that he himself had fetched a cab for -her, and, scarcely conscious, she had given some address at Hackney, -where she wished to be driven, but the name of the street had entirely -slipped his memory. - -Frank did not waste time in further enquiries. He at once telegraphed -to Detective Hill fullest particulars of Lucy’s flight, and where he -expected to find her, requesting him to follow him there as soon as -possible. Then he sprang into a cab, and gave the man orders to drive -to Gresham Street, Hackney. - -An hour’s drive brought him to the farther side of that northern -suburb—a _terra incognita_ to Frank, whose knowledge of London was -limited to the club quarters, and west-end-squares and parks. Two or -three busy roads were crossed, with flaring gas jets and goods very -freely distributed on the pavement in front of the comparatively empty -shops. Then a sudden turn brought him into a quiet street of some -twenty or thirty two-storied houses, inhabited mostly by dressmakers, -machinists, and journeymen of all kinds. Although poor, there was an -air of quiet industry about the place, which gave Frank the hope that -Lucy Williams’s friends might prove respectable, honest people. -Dismissing his cab, he knocked at the door of No. 15; a few minutes -elapsed, and it was opened by a tall, thin, pale woman of about thirty -years of age, very neatly dressed, and with a look of settled anxiety -and grief upon a face plain, but still frank and honest. - -“Ah! I expected you, sir,” she said, quietly, “or at least some one in -pursuit to-night. If you have come in search of Lucy Williams, I -beseech you take these, and let the girl die in peace.” - -She opened her hand, and held out something glittering; there was no -light in the narrow doorway, but the glimmer of a gas-lamp lower down -the street fell upon a small heap of splendidly cut diamonds, and was -flashed back in a thousand brilliant hues. These Frank readily -identified as the brooch and earrings Miss Warden had worn at the -county ball the last night he had seen her. He took them from the -woman’s hand— - -“Yes, I want these,” he said, “but I also want your friend, and -must and will see her. Don’t attempt to hinder me, but take me at once -to where she is.” - -“Have mercy, sir,” pleaded the woman, “the poor girl cannot live very -long, she is standing on the verge of the dark river. Do not! oh do -not, I implore you, turn her thoughts from the only One who can carry -her over! I have read to her, I have prayed—” - -“Be quiet!” interrupted Frank, for he began to fear there might be some -trickery behind all this; lest she might be delaying his entrance in -this way, in order to give the girl time to escape. “Be quiet,” he -repeated, “and take me at once to the girl, or I shall find my way by -myself.” Then the woman yielded, and once more pleading for mercy -for her friend, opened a door on her left hand, and Frank found himself -in a small, hot room, only lighted by a low fire flickering in the -grate. - -A faint moaning from the bed denoted it was occupied. “Can you not -bring me a light?” said Frank, “I can’t see which way to turn.” At the -sound of a man’s voice, a figure started up in the square old-fashioned -bed, exclaiming in a high-pitched, feverish voice— - -“Have they come for me? Let me die in peace, I entreat you! Oh, sir, I -will tell you everything, everything; only let me stay here.” Then, -clasping her hands, and swaying herself to and fro she exclaimed— - -“Tom knows all about it; I did it for him, only for him!” Then she fell -back exhausted, evidently in a high state of delirium, muttering again -and again, “Tom, only for Tom.” - -Frank readily recognised Lucy’s voice, but it was too dark to see her -face. The woman came forward and endeavoured to soothe her; “Hush, -Lucy,” she said, “don’t think about Tom now, although God knows I would -lay down my life for him. Turn your thoughts to One able to save both -you and Tom if you will repent and believe. Hear what He said to the -dying thief on the cross.” Then she commenced reciting the Scripture -story from memory. But again Frank interrupted her— - -“See here,” he said, “I am not a heathen, nor an infidel, but I want to -know what you have done towards bringing the girl round. Have you had a -doctor in?” - -“A doctor, sir,” replied the woman, “since Lucy came into the house I -have not ceased reading and praying with her for one five minutes; if -it is the Lord’s will she will recover, and live to repent of her sins; -but if she must die, why should I waste precious time trying to cure -her poor body, while Satan is striving to steal her soul.” - -“Hush! my good woman,” said Frank, “I will stay here with your friend, -and do my best to fight the devil for you; you must go at once and get -a doctor in. Here, take my card, get the best and nearest doctor; tell -him I will be answerable for all charges.” - -“I go, sir,” replied the woman; then, once more bending over the bed, -she murmured, “Lucy, Lucy, while there is yet time, turn to the Lord; -do not forget what He has said to all who go to Him in tears and -penitence.” Then Frank took her by the arm, and led her out of the -room, reminding her that there still might be a chance of saving her -friend’s life. - -Left thus unexpectedly alone with the girl, Frank determined to make -one more effort to get at the truth. How ill she was, he scarcely knew, -but getting more accustomed to the dim light of the room, he could see -that her face was crimson with fever, and her eyes wild and staring. He -approached the bed quietly, and bending over her, said in a low tone— - -“Lucy Williams, do you know me? I have come a long way to ask you a -question, will you try to answer it?” - -The girl started up in bed with a loud cry, “Tom, Tom!” she exclaimed, -evidently mistaking Varley for her brother; “Why do you stay here? I -thought you were at Liverpool; you will never, never get off!” Then she -sank back on her pillows, and recommenced breathing heavily. - -Frank waited a few minutes and thought he would try once more. This -time he began differently. “Lucy,” he said, in a kind, soothing tone, -“I have no doubt your brother is safe somewhere by this time, it is -about your young mistress I wish to speak, your dear Miss Amy. Can you -tell me where she is or do you know what led her to leave her home?” -But now the girl’s terror redoubled; she clasped her hands and hid her -face in the pillows. “Do not take me away, sir,” she implored, “let me -die here in peace! I did it for Tom—he knows, he will tell you—only -leave me here till the morning?” Then her mutterings became incoherent, -and she tossed wildly from side to side. - -It was evidently useless; nothing more could then be attempted, and -Varley drew away from the bed and leant against the window ledge. Had -he been of an imaginative temperament, the scene in which he was -playing a part would have excited his nerves horribly. Not a sound in -the house save the tick, tick, of a large Dutch clock fixed in a corner -near the window. Now and then a feeble flame would spring up in the -half-filled grate and cast a gaunt shadow across the ceiling. A badly -silvered oval mirror hung over the mantle-piece and seemed to reflect -all sorts of weird shapes; and every now and then, from the poor worn -out bed in the darkest corner of the room, came a sob or moan, or the -girl’s half-muttered delirous fancies. - -“I shall be glad when this is over,” said Frank to himself. “How long -that woman is. The girl may be dead before morning and we none the -wiser for what she knows!” He tried to catch a sentence here and there -of her wanderings, but it told him nothing beyond the fact that her -brother was somehow mixed up in the affair, and her one anxiety was for -his safety. - -At length, after what seemed to Frank an hour’s waiting, but which in -reality was but half the time, footsteps stopped outside in the silent -street. In a few moments two figures entered the room and a brisk sharp -voice exclaimed, “A light, Miss Kempe, and quickly; do you suppose I -can attend a patient in the dark?” Then Miss Kempe groped in the depths -of a corner cupboard, and presently produced a small end of a small -candle ensconced in a large flat candlestick; this Frank quickly -lighted with one of his cigar matches, and exchanging greetings with -the doctor, turned with him towards the bed. - -The doctor held the candle low, throwing the light on the girl’s face, -then he shook his head. “Are you afraid of infection?” he said, turning -to Frank, “if so you had better go home at once.” - -“Afraid!” repeated Varley, “No, I am not afraid of anything under -heaven when I have an object in view. But what is it? What is she -suffering from?” - -“Suppressed small-pox. A very bad case; something on her mind, too, I -should say,” this with a keen glance at Frank, “Twenty-four hours will -see the end of it.” Then he turned to Miss Kempe and proceeded to give -her some necessary directions. - -And twenty-four hours did see the end of it. About an hour before -midnight, Frank was joined in his watch by Detective Hill, who at once -offered to take sole charge of the case. “No,” said Frank decisively, -“as long as there is the shadow of a chance of the shadow of a clue -being given I shall remain. Your ears are sharpened by your practice -and profession, but mine, Mr. Hill, by something with which your -profession has nothing to do.” - -“Gentlemen,” said the doctor, as the grey dawn began to struggle -through the narrow panes, and light up the poorly furnished room. “It -is perfectly useless for either of you to remain. The delirium has -ceased, and the girl has fallen into a state of stupor from which she -will never waken. She will never speak again.” - -Still they stayed on. The Detective, as the day wore away, went in and -out for his meals or a breath of fresh air, for the small room had -become stifling. But Frank never stirred. “She may die at any moment,” -he thought, “and it’s just possible that at the very last her energies -may re-kindle, and she may make some sign that will need -interpretation.” - -So he waited and waited. The doctor came in and out, attending -neighbouring patients and returning at intervals. The old clock went -tick, tick, in the corner, and Miss Kempe, on her knees at the bedside, -prayed audibly for the poor dying one. “Will you not join me, sir,” she -had said to Frank, “in wrestling for this poor sinner’s soul?” - -“I won’t say I won’t join you, Miss Kempe,” Frank had replied, “but you -must let me stay here by the window.” - -And thus towards evening the girl passed away in her sleep; she made no -sign, she did not even lift her hand, and Frank, with a sigh and a -pitiful look at the once bright-faced Lucy Williams, thankfully made -his escape into the fresh air. - -He was soon joined by Detective Hill. “So sir,” he said, “it is all -over, and there is little more we can do beyond setting a watch on the -house and the woman there.” - -“How so,” exclaimed Frank, “do you suspect she is mixed up in the -affair? To me she seemed an honest sort of person, although somewhat of -a fanatic.” - -“So she is, sir, a really good woman I believe, a sort of a mission -woman, I think they call her, connected with the Plymouth Brethren. I -have, however, made a few enquiries about her, and I find that she was -at one time engaged to be married to Tom Williams, but gave him up on -account of the dissolute life he was leading. For his sake I suspect -she has shown all this kindness to Lucy, and I think it more than -probable that the fellow not hearing from his sister will endeavour to -communicate with her through this woman.” - -“Then it has not been altogether time wasted in following the girl -here? I was beginning to lose heart again, and to imagine that once -more the clue had slipped through our fingers. You mean to have this -woman watched, Mr. Hill. Very good. May I ask you to allot this task to -me? I cannot rest, I must be doing something, you know.” - -“Pardon me, sir, the man has already been chosen for the work. Your -presence in this neighbourhood is unwise, and arouses suspicion, and -instead of being the watcher, you would be the one watched. A man of -their own class must do the work. The man I have chosen is the postman -on this beat. He is an old ally and friend of mine, and has taken a -room opposite No. 15 for the purpose. We must pay him well, sir, that’s -all, and we may count on a minute report of Miss Kempe’s daily doings; -including, as a matter of course, the first foreign or country letter -she receives.” - -“Very well, you must do things your own way, I suppose. But what about -the Liverpool police, are they on the watch for the man? Is there -nothing I can do there? I dare say,” added Frank, apologetically, “you -think me a confounded fool, but I must be doing something. I think I -must start off for Chicago, Australia, or somewhere! If you can’t find -work for me, I must find it for myself.” - -“But why go so far, sir? You may be of more use nearer home. Only one -thing I must beg of you, leave this neighbourhood at once. If these -people get it into their heads that they are watched, our difficulties -will be increased tenfold. I can’t say for certain,” the Detective -added, reflectively, “but it’s just possible you might be of use at -Liverpool. I can give you the names of one or two chums of Tom -Williams, and if you can contrive to get it known among them that Lucy -has died, and left her brother her clothes and savings, it will, no -doubt, reach the fellow’s ears, and the bait may draw. You see, these -people are sharp enough to know the difference between a detective and -a gentleman, and would be more likely to attach faith to a report -coming through you, than from Scotland Yard.” - -“Very well, then, I start for Liverpool at once. I have given orders -for the girl’s funeral, and arranged that Miss Warden’s walking dress -and diamonds shall be sent back to her parents. I have only kept this, -Hill,” and Frank took from his pocket-book a small bow of lace and -ribbon. “You see, I remember her wearing it, and if it’s missed, you’ll -know I have it,” and he replaced it reverently in his breast-pocket. - -“And now, before we part, Mr. Hill,” continued Frank, “I want you -honestly and candidly to give me your own private opinion on this -matter. How, and in what way, do you consider Lucy Williams to be -concerned in Miss Warden’s disappearance?” - -“Well, sir, it’s a difficult question to answer,” replied Mr. Hill, -looking sideways at Frank. “I only feel sure of one thing in this -affair, and that is that Miss Warden is alive and well somewhere. All -else must be conjecture. My own impression is that she left her home -voluntarily, and that she is staying away voluntarily. In such cases -the maid generally possesses, to some extent, the confidence of her -mistress, and acts according to some pre-arranged plan. Even the -diamonds for instance—” - -“Stop,” shouted Frank, in a voice that made the detective start, “I -can’t stand this. Say another word, and I shall knock you down! No -power in Heaven or earth shall make me believe such a story as that. -No, no, it implies too much! Could a girl with her mouth and eyes have -deliberately set herself to deceive her parents and friends? Could -she—no, no, I will not hear it. Tell me anything but such a black story -as that, Hill.” - -“Well, sir, I have no wish to give offence. You asked for my opinion, -but it is extremely difficult in such a case as this to have one.” This -with a respectful glance at Frank’s Herculean arm and well-developed -muscles. - -Two hours after this Frank was well on his way to Liverpool. Anxious, -worried, disappointed as he was at the unforeseen ending to his -journey, he could not help feeling at heart more hopeful than he had -hitherto been. “Alive and well somewhere,” he kept repeating to himself -over and over again, not as an incentive to his work, for he needed -none, but for the ring of comfort the words brought. - -“Nothing can ever shake my faith in that girl, nothing can ever make me -doubt her truth and purity,” he said, as he entered one or two facts in -his note-book for future experience and guidance. “But how the mystery -deepens and thickens, supposing her to be alive and well somewhere!” - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -SHORTLY after his arrival at Liverpool, Frank received two letters from -Harleyford. The first from his mother, ran thus— - -“MY DEAREST BOY,— - -“We received your telegram, with your address, yesterday, and I need -not say how thankful your father and I were to hear that you were safe -and well, and that you had some settled place of abode, where a letter -could be sent. We had begun to fear that with your usual impetuosity, -you would be starting off on some long journey, and it would be weeks -or months before there would be any means of communicating with you. - -“I know, where a young lady is concerned, it is almost always lost -labour to attempt to reason with a young man, so it is with little hope -of success that I make one more appeal to your common sense. - -“My dearest Frank, can you possibly imagine that you, unversed and -inexperienced in such matters, can hope to meet with success where -well-trained professional men have failed? Have not the science and -ingenuity of first-class London detectives been exhausted in this -search, and what can you hope to do? To my mind one of two things is -certain; either Miss Warden met with some accident (to us -unaccountable) and is long since dead; or else she has contracted some -_mésalliance_, and is remaining voluntarily hidden from her -friends. In either case, search for her, as far as you are concerned, -is equally fruitless; for dead or living she could never be your wife. - -“My son, be reasonable, give up a task for which you are utterly -unsuited, and which renders your father and myself equally miserable. -We are ‘wearying’ for you, as your old Scotch tutor used to say, and -the rectory seems very cheerless with my Frank’s chair so long -unoccupied. - -“The sculling match will be coming off soon, and I hear that Benson is -likely to be the favourite. What do you wish done about Sultana? I know -you objected to Robert riding her, but she has grown far too frisky for -your father to mount. Let us have a long letter as soon as you possibly -can, and thankful, indeed, shall I be if it contains the welcome news -that you will soon be amongst us again. - - “Ever, with much love, - - “Your affectionate mother, - - “GRACE VARLEY.” - -Then there followed a long postscript. - -“Do you remember your old playfellow, Mary Burton? I have her staying -with me now (she came over from the Denver’s) and she has grown into -one of the sweetest, handsomest girls, I have ever seen. She is just -twenty-one, and has come into her mother’s large property at -North-over-Fells. She is very anxious to know if you are at all like -the Frank of old times, but I tell her a mother’s description of her -only son cannot be a trustworthy one, so she must wait till she sees -you, and judge for herself. Adieu.” - -“Dear mother!” said Frank, when he read her letter, “God bless her, she -means kindly, and may say things to me no one else would dare to!” - -Then he wrote a short reply. - -“DEAREST MOTHER,— - -“Please not to expect me at the rectory until you see me. I have -serious work on hand, which nothing but death or success will induce me -to give up. Thanks for all your news. - -“Robert may ride Sultana, but tell him, I’ll thrash him if he spoils -her mouth. I am delighted to hear such good accounts of Mary Burton, -but I have other thoughts in my head than old playfellows and -sweethearts just now. - - “With a great deal of love, - - “Your affectionate son, - - “FRANK VARLEY.” - -Mrs. Varley read his letter, and sighed and cried over it. Then she -showed it to Mary Burton, who sighed and smiled over it. - -“Why are such coquettes as Amy Warden sent into the world to turn men’s -brains, Mary, will you tell me that?” said Mrs. Varley. “If she had -lived, she would have been a most unsuitable wife for Frank, with her -self-willed, impatient temper. Will you wait for him, Mary? Do you -think he is worth waiting for?” - -And Mary had confessed that she thought he was worth waiting for, -and had sighed and smiled again. Why should she not smile, indeed? -There was no rival beauty in her way now! - -Frank’s second letter was from Lord Hardcastle, and contained a brief -summary of events at Harleyford— - -“I grieve to say,” he wrote, “that Mrs. Warden is in a very weak state -of health. Indeed I think far more seriously of her than Hayward does, -and have suggested that further medical advice should be called in. Mr. -Warden has pulled himself together wonderfully, for his wife’s sake, -and seems, to a certain extent, to have recovered some of his old -strength and energy. - -“With regard to Lucy Williams, my own opinion is very strong and -decided. I fail to see matters in the light in which Hill, in his -report to us, has placed them. He seeks to imply that she has been -acting in concert with Miss Warden, or upon some pre-arranged plan, and -was probably commissioned by her mistress to sell the diamonds to -supply her with money. To my mind he is shooting beyond the mark in -such a supposition. I can only look upon the girl as a common thief of -a very ordinary type, who took advantage of the state of confusion into -which the ‘High Elms’ was thrown, to take possession of her mistress’s -jewellery and clothes. She has probably stolen far more than we know, -and when Mrs. Warden becomes stronger (if she ever does) and able to go -into the matter, no doubt many things will be missed. - -“I think in following this track, you are most probably wasting time -and energy. Still, as you say one must do something, and it is just -possible that in following up one clue you may come upon another, so I -will say no more, but wish you ‘God speed’ with all my heart.” - -Frank growled tremendously over this letter— - -“It’s all very well,” he muttered, “for Hardcastle to sit quietly at -home and throw cold water on all my attempts; how on earth does he -think the clue is to be found if one does not look after it? He says so -little, it is difficult to get at the man’s real thoughts on the -matter. It is easy to say it is perfectly useless doing this or doing -that, but what in Heaven’s name does he think ought to be done?” - -What indeed! Not once or twice, but every hour in the day did Lord -Hardcastle ask himself the same question. He felt like a man walking in -a circle, for ever on the verge of a mystery, but never approaching any -nearer than a circle permitted. Become now one of the family at the -High Elms, not a look, not a word, not a tone of any one of the -household ever escaped his observation. Mrs. Warden’s severe illness -had thoroughly incapacitated her for the exertion of receiving -visitors, and the family had gradually become all but isolated from -their neighbours. An occasional morning caller, leaving cards only, the -daily visit of the doctor, and the arrival of the London post, was all -that occurred to break the day’s monotony. - -Thus the summer wore slowly away, the short autumn days began to grow -chill and stormy, the sad old house looked drear and gray among the -tall, dark elms. Very drear and very gray Lord Hardcastle thought it, -as he rode slowly along the steep avenue leading through the park. He -had been transacting some business in Dunwich for Mr. Warden, and, -somewhat weary and dispirited, was returning in the afternoon twilight. -He looked right and left on a damp misty landscape. The equinoctial -gales had set in early, and the trees were already brown and leafless. -Heavy rains, too, had flooded the country round, and the stream running -through the Park was swollen and turbid, threatening to overflow its -banks. Dark clouds were gathering overhead, and a flight of rooks -whirling low and flapping their black wings, with their mournful -cawing, completed the desolateness of the scene. - -“It is like entering a graveyard,” he thought, as he rode along. Then -his memory went back to one bright sunny morning, when riding up this -same avenue he had met Amy and her father, well-mounted, coming from -the house. Very lovely had she looked in the summer sunshine, with her -fresh, girlish beauty, and almost royal dignity of manner. - -“_A bien-tôt_, Lord Hardcastle,” had been her salutation as she -cantered past, and the sweet, ringing voice echoed in his ears -still—aye, and would until he died. Was it the many-sidedness of Amy’s -character (if the expression be allowed) which made her so dangerously -fascinating? With Varley, generally speaking, her manner had been -that of a finished coquette, alternately commanding or persuading, -wilful or gentle, as the fancy seized her. With Hardcastle, on the -contrary, her bearing was that of a stately, high-bred lady; her -impatience and impetuosity of temper only shown in the vivacity and -variety of her conversation. Was it, could it be all over now for ever? -Was all this bright beauty and loveliness but a memory—a thing of the -past? All this and much more passed through Lord Hardcastle’s mind as -he drew near to the house, standing out grim and gray against the dark, -threatening sky. - -“Bad news again, sir,” said the man who came forward to take his horse, -“Mrs. Warden is much worse, but would insist on getting up this -afternoon. Doctor Hayward has been sent for, and master would like to -see you at once in the morning room.” - -Thither Lord Hardcastle immediately went. The morning room was one of -the prettiest sitting rooms in the house—Amy’s favourite in the old -days, on account of its long French windows opening on to the lawn, and -from which might be seen a charming miniature landscape of woodland and -park, and the silvery rippling stream now so dark and swollen. - -Mr. Warden came forward to meet him. “She would come down and sit -here,” he whispered; “a sudden change has set in, and I have sent for -Hayward; I fear he will be caught in this storm, for a storm we shall -certainly have.” As he spoke, a crash of thunder shook the house from -basement to roof, and flash after flash of brilliant lightning followed -in quick succession. - -“Let me move your chair, dear,” he said, tenderly, “a little way from -the window; it is a grand sight, but almost too much for your nerves.” -She yielded at once to his wishes, as she had yielded all through their -married life; and still further to shield her from the bright flashes -he stood between her and the window, bending over her in an almost -lover-like attitude, so as not to lose any of her words, for her voice -had grown alarmingly faint and weak. - -“This reminds me of old times, Stephen,” she said, looking up in his -face. At this moment a pitiful howl from old “Presto,” the hound, rang -through the room. The dog himself trembled violently and began to -sniff first under the windows, then at the door. Mr. Warden rang the -bell. “Don’t turn him out, Stephen,” said his wife, “I like him here at -my feet. Don’t you remember he was often like this in a storm. Poor old -doggie,” she added, stooping down to smooth his large head, “stay with -me as long as you can.” - -Mr. Warden made no reply. Something in his throat seemed to choke him. -Lord Hardcastle looked from one to the other. Then he wrote on a slip -of paper, “The man must have missed Hayward somehow; I will go myself -after him,” and placing it where Mr. Warden would see it, hurriedly -departed on his mission. - -And now the storm seemed to have reached its height. Flash after flash -lighted up the otherwise dark room, peal after peal crashed over -the roof, and the rain dashed in torrents against the window panes. “We -will have lights,” Mr. Warden had said, but his wife had objected, -urging that she wished to see the storm in all its grandeur and beauty. -“We have had dark days together lately, dear,” she said plaintively, -looking up in his face, “but I feel they are ending now. Something -tells me that your Amy will come home again”—Another mournful howl from -“Presto” interrupted her, and again the bright pink and purple of the -lightning played about the room. - -“I never saw ‘Presto’ so frightened before,” she exclaimed. “How -strange it is! I used to be so nervous and terrified in a thunderstorm, -and to-night I feel so happy, as if I were beginning my girl’s life -over again.” She broke off suddenly, looking towards the window. “What -was that?” she exclaimed, “surely I heard something more than the rain!” - -“Yes,” said her husband, trying to steady his nerves, which were almost -beyond his control, “it is the bough of the oleander against the glass. -How the wind is rising! It is indeed an awful tempest!” - -And now Lord Hardcastle and Dr. Hayward came in, drenched to the skin -and out of breath with their hurried ride, then the dog, with one -prolonged howl, flew past them as they entered. “Something is wrong,” -said Hardcastle. “Hey, ‘Presto!’ go, find!” and opening a side door he -let the dog out into the stormy night. - -The doctor went softly into the middle of the room and looked at his -patient. The hectic flush was fading from her face, and she seemed to -be sinking into a sweet sound sleep. - -“I am so thankful to see her thus,” said Mr. Warden, “she has been so -feverish and excitable all day, I think the storm must have upset her -nerves.” - -“Hush!” said the doctor, solemnly, holding up his hand, “this is not -sleep; this is death, Mr. Warden; she will soon be beyond the sound of -storm and tempest.” He yielded his place to the husband, who, kneeling -by her side, took her thin white hand in his. Hardcastle and the doctor -withdrawing to a further corner of the room, waited and watched for the -end to come. - -Gradually the storm subsided, and the rain settled down into a slow -steady fall. The breathing of the patient became slower and fainter, -and the doctor whispered to Hardcastle that the end was at hand. At -that moment a long low wail sounded on the outside of the window, and -Hardcastle, peering through the dark panes, could see “Presto’s” brown -head and glittering eyes pressed close against the glass. - -He crept softly out of the room to call the dog in, fearful lest he -might disturb the solemn watch in the chamber of death. “Quiet, old -doggie,” he said, stooping down to pat the hound, all wet and -mud-covered as he was. But what is this! What is it makes the young man -start and tremble, and his lips and cheeks turn pale? What is it brings -that look of horror into his face, and makes his eyes distend and his -nostrils quiver? What is this hanging in shreds between the dog’s -firmly-set teeth? What is it? Only a few tattered remnants of dark-blue -silk! - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -MRS. WARDEN passed away before midnight; only the doctor and her -husband were with her at the last moment, for Hardcastle, bare-headed -and trembling with excitement, had followed the hound out into the dark -night. - -“Find, ‘Presto,’ find,” he exclaimed, urging the dog forward. But -“Presto” needed no urging, he bounded rather than ran over the sodden -grass and under the dripping trees; no stars, no moon, no light -anywhere, and Hardcastle, breathless and stumbling, with difficulty -kept up with the eager hound, who turns neither to the right nor to the -left, but makes straight for the deep rushing stream, straight on to -the low, sloping bank; and there the dog stops and trembles. - -“Which way, ‘Presto?’ Forward, forward!” shouts Hardcastle. But the dog -will not stir a step now, and stands quivering on the brink of the -stream; Hardcastle mounts the bank after him, and, bending forward, -looks up and down the river. Not a sound save the rush and whirl of the -waters, the moaning of the wind in the dark trees, and the pitiless -splash, splash of the rain. Not a sign of life nor death in the flood, -but as he turns to descend the slippery bank, something lying in the -roots of an overhanging willow tree catches his eye. One arm clinging -to a low bough, one arm in the cold, dark waters, and in another -instant he holds in his hand a girl’s low-crowned felt hat, with -pale-blue ostrich feather. “My God! and is this the end?” He cries out -in the bitterness of his heart, then, feeling how utterly useless and -helpless he is alone and single-handed in the dark, he rushes back to -the house. - -“I want men, I want lights,” he calls in a hoarse voice; “quickly, in -Heaven’s name, down to the stream!” Down to the stream they follow him, -with lights, and ropes, and drags. No time is lost in setting to work; -lanterns are swung on ropes across the river, the men, with Hardcastle -at their head, are wading through the swollen waters—hand in hand, -throwing ropes, dragging, shouting, lest some poor soul might still be -struggling in the dark flood. - -What does it matter? There she lies, face downwards, among the reeds -and tall rushes in the river’s mud. What does it matter! The men may -shout—the waters rush—aye, and her warm, true-hearted lover kneel by -her side, and call her by her sweet name, never more will those dark -eyes open to the light of day, nor those red lips be unsealed to tell -their story of sorrow and wrong! Clasp her tight, and clasp her long, -Lord Hardcastle, then yield her up for ever to the shadows, the doubt, -the darkness of the grave. - -They brought her in, and laid her on her own dainty little bed. The -storm had ceased now; day dawned, the birds carolled and twittered at -the casement, and the bright sunshine streamed in through Amy’s -rose-coloured curtains, and fell sideways on her pale, grey face. -Silent, hopeless, and awe-stricken the father and lover gazed upon -their darling; the search is ended now—there she lies in her blue silk -dress, all torn and mud-stained; her dark hair unwound and lying round -her in long, damp coils; her tiny hands still clasped as though in -prayer, and a look of agony and terror in her half-closed eyes. Alas! -how changed. What terrible ordeal can she have passed through since she -last lay sleeping here. There are lines on her brow, and dark circles -beneath her eyes which tell of tears and sorrow; a pained look about -the chiselled mouth which the Amy of old days never wore. Lord -Hardcastle bends over her reverently—he will not even kiss her -forehead, dead as she lies, for he dared not have done so living. -Kneeling as he would to his sovereign, he takes her damp, cold -hand in his to press to his lips; as he does so, something glittering -on the third finger of her left hand catches his eye. What is it! Not -the antique ruby ring with its quaint motto, “_sans espoir je meurs_,” -only a plain gold band encircles the tiny finger—a simple wedding-ring! - -They buried Mrs. Warden and Amy on one day—on one day, but not in one -grave. People in Harleyford wondered much at this; and they wondered -still more, when, shortly afterwards a splendid granite monument was -placed over the mother’s grave, with name, age, date, birth, and death -engraved in clear-cut letters; while Amy’s resting-place was shadowed -only by a simple marble cross with but one word inscribed, “_Aimée_.” - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -THE news of Amy’s death was telegraphed to Frank at Dublin. Thither, -following some imaginary clue, he had gone, and eager and hopeful at -heart, the sudden tidings nearly proved his death-blow. Before the day -closed which brought the news, Frank was lying helpless and unconscious -on a bed of fever. - -Mrs. Varley trembled for her son’s life; fortunately her address was -known to the proprietor of the hotel where Frank was staying, and -he had immediately telegraphed to her her son’s danger. - -“Mary,” she said, addressing Miss Burton, “have you courage to cross -the Channel with me to try to save my poor boy? The rector will follow -next week if there’s any need, but he cannot leave his parish at an -hour’s notice.” - -And Mary had expressed her willingness to start there and then for -Dublin. What would she not do for one who had always been as a brother -to her? So the two ladies took passage in a packet crossing the next -day, and arrived at Dublin to find Frank raving and tossing in the -delirium of brain fever. - -Then followed days and nights of weary watching and nursing. - -“He may pull through yet, madam,” said the good old doctor, addressing -Mrs. Varley, but peering wonderingly at Mary through his spectacles. He -had been told that the sudden death of a young lady was the cause of -the illness. Who, then, was this other young lady so devoted in her -attentions to the sufferer? “He may pull through yet, madam; he has a -constitution of iron and the frame of a giant, not to speak of the two -angels who watch over him day and night!” This in a rich Irish brogue, -with a gallant bow right and left to the two ladies. - -And Frank did pull through. Gradually the fever in his brain subsided, -and though weak and helpless as a child, the doctor pronounced him out -of danger. - -But with returning consciousness came back the sense of sorrow and -loss, and Mrs. Varley’s heart ached for her son as she saw the look of -utter blank misery and despair settle down upon his once bright, happy -face. “Get him to talk of his sorrow” had been the doctor’s advice, and -gently and gradually his mother had led him on to speak freely of poor -Amy and her terrible ending. - -“We all suffer with and for you, my son,” said Mrs. Varley, sitting by -Frank’s easy chair in the early twilight, the glow from the fire alone -lighting the room, “but my feeling for you does not prevent me feeling -for someone else very near and very dear to me, and who is just now -suffering as much as, or, perhaps, more than you.” - -Frank’s eyes expressed his wonder. Of whom could his mother be -speaking? Wrapped up in his own misery, he had had no thought for the -sorrows of others. - -“Don’t try to talk to me, Frank, dear,” continued his mother. “You must -forgive me if I say that sorrow is apt to make one selfish and -unobservant. Otherwise you would have noticed not only the grief and -anxiety in my face, which has made an old woman of me the last few -weeks, but also the grief in a sweet young face which has been watching -yours very sadly for many a day and night.” - -“Mother, mother,” exclaimed Frank, passionately, for now his mother’s -meaning was unmistakable. “Why did you bring the girl here? You knew it -was useless. Why didn’t you leave me here to die? God knows I have -nothing left to live for now!” - -“Miss Burton did not come for you alone, Frank, she came for my sake -also. She has been to me as a daughter in my trouble, and as a daughter -she came with me here. Your father could not leave his parish, and was -it right that I should travel all these miles alone to face such an -illness as yours? The difficulty, however, will soon be ended, as Mary -tells me she must leave us to-morrow; she has friends here in Dublin. -Your danger is past, she says, and she is no longer needed. Believe me, -Frank, it is not your return to health which is driving her away, but -your coldness and indifference, and (forgive me, dear) your -ingratitude.” - -“What is it you want me to do, mother?” asks poor Frank, piteously. -“Not marry her! I have no love to offer any woman now. My heart is -crushed and broken, and a dozen Mary Burtons couldn’t mend it.” - -“I know that, Frank, dear,” replied his mother, very sweetly, “but if -you have a broken heart to carry about with you, it should teach you to -be very tender to the broken hearts of others, especially to so good -and true a heart as Mary’s. A few kind words to her just now would make -her, if not happy, at any rate a little less miserable than she is now.” - -“Tell me what to say, then,” said Frank, wearily, “and let me say it at -once. You don’t want me to ask her to marry me? The words would choke -me, I think.” - -“No, my son, not that. I only want you to thank her for her kindness -and care through your illness (for, indeed, she has nearly worn herself -out in saving your life), and I want you just to say four little words -to her. ‘Don’t leave us, Mary.’ This for your mother’s sake, for -what could I do without her? May I send her to you, Frank?” she added, -after a pause. - -Then Frank, wearied with the discussion, gave a feeble assent, and Mrs. -Varley left the room immediately, thankful for her partial success, and -hoping much from the coming interview between her son and Mary. - -Very softly Mary entered the room, and went straight up to Frank. Then, -for the first time, he noticed how pale and sad the girl had grown. - -“How white you are looking, Mary,” he said, kindly. “Are you feeling -ill? Will you take my chair a moment?” at the same time attempting to -rise. - -“No, no,” said Mary in an instant, flushing scarlet, “you are still an -invalid, and must not think of politeness. Mrs. Varley said you wanted -to see me. What is it, Frank?” - -“Mary,” he said, taking both her hands in his, “I want to ask you to -forgive my abominable rudeness and ingratitude to you. I want to thank -you for all you have done for me. I am so ashamed I have not done this -before, but I have been so miserable, so broken-hearted.” Then the poor -fellow broke down utterly, and weakened by his long illness and unable -to control himself, covered his face with his hands, and wept and -sobbed like a child. - -“Frank, Frank,” pleaded Mary. “For all our sakes restrain yourself; you -will kill me if you give way like this. What can I do for you? I would -lay down my life to give you an hour’s happiness.” - -Still Frank sobbed on, and Mary, bending over him as a mother would -over a sick child, drew his head on to her shoulder, and soothed and -comforted him. - -Gradually the passion of his grief subsided, and he lay back, with his -head on her shoulder, worn out and exhausted. - -Then Mrs. Varley gently turned the handle of the door, and entered the -room. - -“Thank God for this,” she exclaimed. “Mary, don’t move. Frank, dear, -she is the one wife out of all the world you should have chosen, and -you may well be thankful to have won such an one. God bless you both. I -will write to your father to-night.” - -Frank was on the point of asking his mother what he had said or done -that she should congratulate and bless him in this way, but Mary’s -white face and trembling hands checked the words on his lips, so he -merely said, with a weary sigh, “Mother, I must go to bed at once, I am -utterly worn out,” and tottered rather than walked to the door. Mrs. -Varley followed him. “I may tell your father it is all settled, may I -not?” she said, in a low voice, as she held open the door for him. -Frank glanced back at Mary leaning still over the back of the armchair, -and her drooping figure and tearful face pleaded her own cause. “Tell -him what you like, mother,” he replied, wearily, “only let me rest -to-night.” Besides, after all, what did it matter? The best of his life -was gone, any one who would might have the broken remnants. - -Very angry indeed was the rector when he received his wife’s letter -containing the news of his son’s engagement. “It is absolutely -indecent,” he wrote back, “it is gross disrespect to the living and the -dead. Every one knows the hopes my son cherished with regard to Miss -Warden, and now, within a fortnight after her death, he is engaged to -some one else. I will have nothing whatever to do with such an -arrangement. Mr. Warden is an old and valued friend of mine, and how -could I look him in the face if I countenanced such conduct on the part -of my son? Is he a child or a lunatic that he cannot learn to control -his own feelings and bear up against a bereavement? Let him make up his -mind to bear his sorrows as a man should and as other people have had -to before him.” - -In reply to this, Mrs. Varley wrote a long letter pleading, not so much -the wisdom of her own conduct, as the necessity of the case. - -“Frank is neither a child nor a lunatic,” so ran the letter, “but he -has strong passions and an impetuous temper which would very rapidly -carry him down hill if once he turned that way. Add to this his broken -health and spirits, and you will see I have had no light task to -perform in endeavouring to restore him to what he once was. The -physician here tells me his only chance of recovering health and -strength is to start at once on a long foreign tour—under any -circumstances he must not think of returning to Harleyford for another -year. What then, do you advise? Can you leave your parish for so long a -time to travel with your son through Europe (she knew the rector hated -travelling, or indeed any kind of bodily exertion) or do you consider -that I should be a suitable companion for him under the circumstances? -Is there any one of his own friends fit for such a task, or who could -do for him all that a tender loving wife will do? What would it matter -to Mr. Warden, or to any one else likely to criticise his conduct, if -Frank fell into a course of reckless dissipation, or ended his life by -his own hand—and this, let me tell you, is another terror I have had -always before me. No, no, my dear husband, see things in their right -light I beseech you; you must give way in this matter, and believe me -it is as much for your own happiness as your son’s that you should do -so.” - -And the rector did give way as might have been expected, and not only -consented to his son’s wedding, but went over to Dublin and performed -the ceremony himself, and also sketched out the wedding tour for the -young people—a trip through the American continent first, and a final -run through the chief cities of Europe. - -“Hardcastle has the best of it now,” said poor Frank, sadly, to -himself, as he stood waiting for his bride in the vestry of the little -Irish church where the ceremony was to take place. “He has no mother to -talk him into a marriage he has no heart for. Not but that I shall do -my best to make her happy, for she is sweet and good, but I cannot tear -the other memory out of my heart.” - -Thus it was that Frank and Mary became man and wife within a month of -poor Amy’s death, and the rector and Mrs. Varley returned to -Harleyford to sustain, as best they might, the inquisitiveness and -criticism of their neighbours. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -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!” - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -BEFORE starting for France, Lord Hardcastle received two letters. The -first, from Detective Hill, ran thus:— - -“SIR,— - -“It is now so long since I have received any orders from Mr. Warden, -that I venture to write to you, fearing he may be ill, and knowing you -have his entire confidence in the matter on which I am engaged. - -“Since I sent in my last report relative to Miss Kempe’s movements, -nothing of importance has occurred, until yesterday, when she received -a letter enclosing another, evidently foreign. The outside envelope was -too thick to enable my man (the postman if you will remember, sir) to -discover what stamp was on the letter, but the crackle of the thin, -foreign paper was unmistakable. As I write (at the window opposite her -house) there are evident signs of packing up and departure going on in -her room. I shall feel much obliged if you will transmit to me further -instructions on Mr. Warden’s behalf. The woman may possibly be leaving -England, and I am anxious to know whether the investigation is to be -continued, and the woman still watched, as I must necessarily appoint -very different men for foreign work. - - “Awaiting your orders, - - “I remain, - - “Your lordship’s obedient servant, - - “JERVIS HILL.” - -To this, Lord Hardcastle sent a brief reply— - -“SIR,— - -“Mr. Warden and myself think you are attaching too much importance to -Miss Kempe and her movements, and that it really is not worth while to -pursue this matter further. We are hoping for better results from -another quarter. - - “I remain, - - “Your obedient servant, - - “HARDCASTLE.” - -The second letter was from Frank Varley, written on the eve of his -wedding-day, and ran as follows:— - -“DEAR HARDCASTLE,— - -“I dare say you have but one feeling in your heart for a poor, -weak-minded wretch like me, that of utter unmitigated contempt. I -don’t attempt to justify myself, for under present circumstances it -would be impossible. I am only, writing to enclose a small packet—a -blue bow of ribbon. You will know, old fellow, to whom it belonged, and -why I am sending it to you. I couldn’t find it in my heart to put it -behind the fire. - - “Ever yours, - - “FRANK VARLEY.” - -“Poor Varley,” said Lord Hardcastle, when he read this. “He spent his -strength for nought, and gave in before the race was half run! And yet -who am I that I should pity or blame him? The end alone will show whose -life has been best worth living!” - -And now the preparations for the journey to France were completed, and -one dull misty November afternoon, Mr. Warden and Lord Hardcastle said -a long good-bye to the High Elms. Very damp, very cold and dreary the -old house looked as they turned the corner of the steep avenue. - -“Not in this world,” said Mr. Warden, mournfully, “shall I call any -place home again.” - -What could Lord Hardcastle say in reply? He clasped his old friend’s -hand with a firmer, tighter clasp, while the thought ran through his -own mind— - -“What will our coming back here be like?” - -Early in the evening they arrived in London. The preparations for their -journey had been very simple. No servants, very little luggage, and -their destination even kept secret. Mr. Warden had informed his -agents he would be travelling through Europe for some months for his -health, and had given various _postes restantes_ in France to which his -letters were to be sent. He would advise them, he said, of any change -in his plans should his inclination lead him in any other direction. - -It was not without serious thought and anxiety that Lord Hardcastle had -undertaken this journey. There could be no doubt that Mr. Warden’s -strength had given way very much lately, and it was incurring a heavy -responsibility to induce a man at his age, and with his broken health, -to go so far on what might prove to be a fool’s errand after all. -“But,” reasoned Hardcastle, “he will certainly die if he remain in his -own desolate home, brooding over his sorrows. Action and movement -will do more for him than anything else, and if we can but lift the -cloud from the dead girl’s grave, we shall both feel our life has not -been spent for nought.” - -The roar of London at first sounded strangely in their ears, accustomed -as they were to the saddest and quietest of households. Lord Hardcastle -took upon himself the various small duties which travelling involves, -and at once gave orders to be driven to Charing Cross Station. Leaving -Mr. Warden at the hotel, he directed a porter to place their luggage in -the booking-office to be in readiness for the morning tidal train, -while he exchanged some English money for present use. There appeared -to be a crowd of some sort round the booking-office, and the porter -placed the baggage a little on one side, waiting his turn. - -At this moment Lord Hardcastle’s attention was attracted by a tall -figure clad in a long, grey travelling cloak, the hood of which was -drawn low over her face. She brushed past him, but he could not see her -features, for her head was bent low, as though wishing to hide her -face. Something peculiar in the swing of her walk arrested his -attention; it was not ungraceful, but seemed as it were to keep time to -some song or tune sounding in her ear, so even and regular were her -steps. She was evidently in a hurry to save some train, and was -crossing towards the third class ticket window, when Lord Hardcastle’s -luggage caught her eye. She stood still, looked round her on every -side, then bending down, read attentively the labels on each box. -At this moment the porter advanced to take charge of his baggage, and -the woman, evidently altering her plans, walked slowly out of the -station. - -Lord Hardcastle returned to the hotel, and the woman in grey passed -completely out of his mind. Finding Mr. Warden very much tired with the -journey to London, he proposed that they should rest quietly the next -day, and pass over to Boulogne during the night. To this Mr. Warden -agreed readily. - -“I must husband my strength,” he said, “for it is slipping away -rapidly. I feel now as if I were embarked upon my last mission, which -must be well executed, or not at all.” - -Lord Hardcastle looked up at him anxiously. How sad, and old, and worn -the dear, kind face had grown lately! How white the hair, and sunken -the cheeks, and the eyes with a far-away, mournful look, which said as -plainly as words could speak, “it will soon be over now, and I shall be -at rest.” - -“Don’t speak like that, Mr. Warden,” he said, “or you will take away my -last remnants of courage. Who can tell what may yet lie before us.” - -“Who can tell, indeed,” echoed Mr. Warden, “who can tell.” He shivered -as he spoke, and looked so really ill that Lord Hardcastle began to -feel seriously uneasy about him, and begged him to see a doctor before -he left England. - -“No,” said Mr. Warden, firmly, “the night soon will come when no man -can work. Let us not anticipate it by an hour. Not until we have -played the last card we hold will we give up the game.” Then he said -good-night, and went to his own room. - -The next day rose dark and stormy, and Hardcastle trembled to think of -the effect a rough passage might have on Mr. Warden in his weak state -of health. He did not, however, offer any farther opposition to their -journey, knowing it would be useless, and besides this, an undefinable -feeling in his own mind kept urging him on to the native land of the -two Aimées. - -“I cannot explain why,” he said to himself, as they landed at Boulogne -in the chill early dawn of the following day, “but I somehow feel as if -we had only now struck upon the right track, and that all we have -hitherto done has been so much lost time. I know there must be a -reason for this feeling; some finer sense in my being must have seized -upon some fact in this strange history which my coarser and more -logical faculties have failed to perceive.” - -So occupied was he with his own thoughts, that he had not noticed that -he had become separated from his companion in the narrow landing-place, -and had drifted into a crowd of porters, with their various loads, -making for the custom-house. - -Where was Mr. Warden? He looked right and left along the Quai, and -there, standing half hidden behind some bales, stood the same tall grey -figure he had noticed at Charing Cross Station. It was unmistakable -now; the woman, for some reason, was evidently watching and following -them; and, doubtful whether their separation was accidental or -intentional, was at a loss whom she should keep in sight. Following the -turn of her head, Lord Hardcastle could see Mr. Warden some little way -in advance, and, hastening towards him, the woman suddenly passed in -front, and disappeared down some narrow passage. - -“Let her go,” thought Hardcastle; “somewhere, somehow, we may meet -again. I shall know her long stooping figure and swinging gait -anywhere.” Then, hastening forward, he soon overtook Mr. Warden, and -calling a carriage, desired to be driven to the Hotel de la Cloche, -situated somewhere in the heart of the town. - -Lord Hardcastle had foreseen before starting that their journey must -necessarily be performed by easy stages; they had, therefore, booked -only as far as to Boulogne, intending to rest there a day or two to -decide upon their route to Le Puy. - -The Hotel de la Cloche stands in one of the quietest parts of the town, -a little back from the broad, brick-built street, in a grassy, -moss-grown quadrangle. An arched corridor runs round this quadrangle, -and above this are built the various outbuildings of the hotel. A small -fountain, with an insufficient supply of water, plays in the courtyard, -and very miserable and dreary it looked under the dull November sky -from the windows of the room which Mr. Warden had selected for a -sitting-room. - -More than ever sad and weary he seemed as he seated himself in front of -a large wood fire he had ordered to be made. A pretence of lunch or -dinner had been gone through, and the short November day was already -closing in, the heavy stonework above the windows adding not a little -to the gloom of the room. Lord Hardcastle had tried unsuccessfully -various topics of conversation, feeling the necessity of arousing Mr. -Warden from the sadness of his own thoughts. - -“Tell me, Mr. Warden,” at length he said, almost despairing of success, -“something about Le Puy; it is an unknown land to me. I have never -visited that part of France.” - -“Le Puy!” exclaimed Mr. Warden, suddenly arousing himself, “Ah, that is -a country worth living in! It is a land of variety and beauty, of -sunshine and solitude; less terrible than Switzerland, it is, at the -same time, more interesting, because more varied. It is a land of -extinct volcanoes; at every turn one is brought face to face with -nature under a new aspect. Here some mighty convulsion has upheaved -gigantic rocks; there in the valley lie fertile plains watered by -gushing mountain torrents; above all tower and frown the fantastic -Cevennes, cut and fashioned into all sorts of wonderful shapes, and -everywhere reigns a silence and solitude only to be found in the lonely -mountain regions. Ah! it is a land of glory and beauty! But, my young -friend, you will scarcely see it with my eyes; to me it is the saddest -and sweetest of all lands, for there I first loved and first suffered, -and there my two Aimées were born and grew to beauty.” Then he paused, -and presently added, in a mournful, passionate tone, “My poor little -Amy! I fancy I see her now, creeping along the narrow mountain path, or -looking over the verge of some deep ravine, both hands filled with wild -flowers and grasses. She would never own to feeling frightened or -nervous at the giddy height, but if she felt her little feet slipping, -she would call out impatiently, ‘Papa, papa! take my flowers, quickly -please, I must not be kept waiting an instant.’ It is almost too much -for me to recall those days, Lord Hardcastle,” he sighed, wearily, “I -think I will see if I can get a little sleep; perhaps in the morning I -shall feel brighter and stronger.” - -Then he left the room, saying good-night, and that he did not wish to -be disturbed until the morning. - -Lord Hardcastle looked after him sadly. “He will reach Le Puy,” he -thought; “his spirit will keep him up as far as that, but he will never -come back again. Have I done wisely in inducing him to leave his home? -But what home has he left? Only a mere skeleton or husk of one. This is -our last and only chance; we are bound, at any cost to try it.” - -The wood fire crackled and burned, the window panes grew dark and -darker, and long, fantastic shadows began to flicker across the -oak-panelled wall, to the low, arched ceiling. - -Hardcastle’s thoughts wandered far away to the lonely house at -Harleyford—vividly came back to him the stormy, windy night, the -piteous howling of the dog, and poor Amy lying cold and wet and -lifeless in his arms. Picture after picture of the past passed before -his eyes—the dear dead face as it looked in the grey of the early -morning, the strange, pained old look that had spread itself over the -features until they almost seemed strange and unknown to him. - -The fire crackled, the weird shadows leapt from floor to ceiling, and -Hardcastle, drowsy with the overnight’s journey, began to see strange -shapes in the room, and fantastic visions began to mix with his waking -thoughts. He fancied he was standing amidst the rocky, silent scenery -Mr. Warden had just described to him. The mountain mists were rolling -away from peak and crag, the summer sun was mounting the horizon, and -there, on the verge of some terrible precipice, stood Amy—bright, -beautiful, girlish as ever, both hands filled with flowers, which she -playfully held out to him. - -Tremblingly he advanced towards her, hoping to save her from what -appeared instant death without alarming her; but the mountain mist -swooped down upon them, enveloping Amy and himself in its damp folds. -Then it lifted again, but no Amy was to be seen, and there, advancing -slowly towards him, was the tall, stooping figure in grey, whom he had -seen that morning on the Quai. She, too, stretched out her hands to -him, but what she held he could not at first see. Nearer and nearer she -drew, the mountain mists still clinging to her long, trailing skirt, -and hiding her face as with a veil. In another instant her cold, thin -hands held his, and a deep, sad woman’s voice said, slowly and -distinctly, “Take it, keep it, and let the poor sinner go.” Then -he felt a ring placed upon his little finger, and there, flashing out -in the mist and darkness was Amy’s antique ruby ring. - -What was it woke him at this moment? What was that noise sounding in -his ears still? Could it be a door or a window shutting? He started to -his feet and looked round the room. Nothing appeared to have been -disturbed, the books and papers on the table were just as he had left -them. Then he pushed aside the curtains, and looked out into the dreary -quadrangle. The fountain sent up a feeble spray towards the leaden sky. -The corridor looked damp and dismal as ever. Were his eyes deceiving -him? Was he thoroughly awake, or could it be that there, slipping in -and out between the pillars like a shadow almost in the dimness of the -light, was the grey, stooping figure of his dream? - -He sprang to the door, and flinging it back, let in a flood of light -from the staircase and landing. Then he paused in amazement, for there, -on the little finger of his left hand, sparkled and glittered an -antique ruby ring with garter and buckle, and the motto, in old French -letters, “_Sans espoir je meurs!_” - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -“TAKE it, keep it, and let the poor sinner go!” Through long days and -sleepless nights the words echoed and re-echoed in Lord Hardcastle’s -ears. That they were spoken by an actual human voice he was positively -certain, but all enquiries respecting the grey veiled figure proved -fruitless, and from that time he saw her no more. - -Very carefully and gently he broke the news of the restoration of Amy’s -ring to Mr. Warden, feeling the necessity that every circumstance -connected with their search should be known to him as it occurred, for -who could tell what might happen next? - -Mr. Warden listened very calmly to the strange story— - -“It is the beginning of the end,” he said. “Heaven only knows what the -end will be! Stranger things than this are, no doubt, in store for us. -Keep the ring, Hardcastle, who can have a greater right than you to -wear it?” - -And Hardcastle kept the ring, and registered yet another vow in his own -heart in much the same words he had vowed hand-in-hand with Frank -Varley, that “by night and by day, by land and by sea, he would search -the whole world through” to clear the name of the girl he loved. - -Mr. Warden daily grew weaker and weaker. They rested a week at -Boulogne, and then travelled by easy stages to Le Puy. After eight -days’ quiet travelling they reached the picturesque old city, and -though tired and worn out to the last degree, Mr. Warden insisted on -being at once driven to a small quiet inn (it could scarcely be called -hotel) situated half way between the town and his old mountain home. - -“_A l’Aigle des Montagnes_” was the sign which hung over this quiet -little hostelry, and its dedication could not possibly have been better -chosen. Perched high in the second belt of rocks which surrounds Le -Puy, it seemed incredible, when looked at from the plateau beneath, -that aught but eagle’s wings could mount so far. A narrow, winding -path, made to admit the “little cars” of the country, with not an -inch to spare on either side, led to the inn. To an inexperienced -traveller the road seemed terrible and dangerous, but the hardy, -sure-footed mountaineer made but light of it. What to him was a -precipice, first on this side, then on that, and occasionally on both? -Once arrived at the summit the view was simply magnificent, bounded -only by the distant Cevennes, and showing, in all its sparkling beauty, -the windings of the Loire and its many tributaries. - -Hither some twenty years previously Mr. Warden had first come, and with -an artist’s appreciation of the grand and the beautiful, had returned -again and again to paint the wild mountain scenery and ruined chateaux -which were hung here and there like eagle’s nests among the rocks. - -Since those old days the place had twice changed hands, and the present -proprietor was totally unknown to him. Nevertheless the place and its -surroundings could not fail to revive many bitter memories and days -both sad and sweet to him, and on the second day after their arrival, -Lord Hardcastle saw in him such a rapid change for the worse, that he -at once gave orders that a doctor should be sent for from Le Puy. - -“It is useless, Hardcastle,” said Mr. Warden, when he heard the order -given. “No doctor can do anything for me now. Let them get me a few -tonics, which I can prescribe for myself, so that I may rally for a few -days, and pay a visit to my old home here. Open the window,” he added -impetuously, “this soft, sweet air brings life back to me.” - -Then Hardcastle placed for him a low easy chair close to the casement, -whence he could look right and left upon the mountain panorama, and -even catch a glimpse of a turret of his old chateau standing high among -the distant rocks. - -Mr. Warden gazed long and earnestly upon the magnificent landscape, -drinking in every sight and sound, as a dying man might gaze upon some -loved scene whose memory he wished to carry with him into eternity. -Lord Hardcastle dared not disturb him, he leaned over the back of his -chair without a word, and endeavoured, as far as possible, to follow -the train of his thoughts. - -Suddenly Mr. Warden turned his head and looked Hardcastle full in the -face. He spoke excitedly, and his voice appeared almost to have -regained its old strength and firmness. - -“Hardcastle,” he said “you have done a great deal for me, I know you -will do one thing more. It may be the last favour I shall ask of you. -Come here, stand at my right. You see, just between those sugarloaf -crags, the west turrets of my old home—the Chateau D’Albiac it was -called in those days. It stands on the highest ground in Cassagnac. A -little to the right there is a low well-cultivated valley, with about -five or six peasants’ houses dotted here and there. In one of these -Isola’s people lived, and there my darling Aimée was reared as her -foster-child. Will you go there for me, and if you can find her, bring -her here to me. I have one or two questions to ask, which she only can -answer.” - -“Gladly,” replied Hardcastle. “It has been my intention from the first -to seek this woman out and question her. As soon as the doctor arrives, -I will leave you in his charge, and set off without further delay.” - -“No,” said Mr. Warden decisively, “you must set off at once; you do not -know these mountain paths as I do, and to a stranger they are full of -difficulties and dangers. Cassagnac is nearly six miles from here. You -laugh at the distance. Five miles of these mountain paths is no light -thing, I can assure you. If you start at once on one of the little -mountain ponies, you will not arrive at Cassagnac till nearly sunset. -Then you will have at least three miles further to go before you can -get a night’s lodging, for you cannot possibly by any means return here -until to-morrow.” - -“Until to-morrow,” echoed Hardcastle sadly, and the thought flashed -through his brain “what if he be not here to-morrow?” - -Mr. Warden read his thoughts, “It is not so near as that Hardcastle,” -he said quietly; “but it is not far away. Go at once, I implore you, -for days and hours are getting precious to me now. Your doctor will be -here before long; the people of the house are good and kind, and I feel -at home with them. Go at once, I beg of you; let me not feel I have had -my journey here for nothing. Ah! if my young strength would come back -to me for one day, how gladly would I set off with you!” Then he leaned -back in his easy chair wearied out, and once more begging Hardcastle to -start immediately, closed his eyes as though he wished to sleep. - -Hardcastle had no choice but to obey. He went at once to the innkeeper -and his wife, and gave them strict orders to be constantly in and out -of Mr. Warden’s room during his absence, and one to remain with him -throughout the night. Then he wrote a few lines to the doctor, -requesting him to remain until his return on the morrow. Even with -these precautions his heart misgave him, and he could scarcely summon -courage to start on his journey. - -However, he felt further contention with Mr. Warden would be worse than -useless—it would be positively injurious to him, so with another -farewell glance at his friend, apparently sleeping quietly in the -window seat, he set off on his little mountain pony. - -Then it was that the Cevenol scenery burst upon him in all its wild -grandeur. It was not one magnificent picture which met his eye, but a -hundred or more, for every turn of the steep mountain path brought to -view some fresh tableau of startling beauty. But the one thing which -struck him most was the solitude, the intense silence which reigned -everywhere. The rush and roar of the falling torrent, the scream of a -distant wild bird, and once only the lowing of some oxen, evidently -yoked to one of the rude cars of the country, these were the only -sounds which broke the perfect stillness of the scene. - -“Cassagnac,” he thought, “must be a very tiny village, for its highway -to be so little frequented.” It had slipped his memory, so full it was -of other thoughts, that none but the hardiest or poorest of the -villagers would remain to face the terrible winter of these parts, when -roads and valleys alike are choked with snow. In fact he was journeying -on to a deserted village, for, by the end of November at latest, most -of the peasants have taken refuge in more accessible localities. - -Quietly and steadily the little pony kept on his way, never swerving an -inch right or left; the gritty lava crunched under his feet, and now -and then a huge boulder would fall from the path into the deep ravine -below, with an echoing crash. Hardcastle had provided himself with a -plan of the country,—a rudely sketched one, drawn out by the landlord -of the “_Aigle des Montagnes_,” for the use of his guests—but he -scarcely needed it, so well did the little pony know his road. - -As the afternoon went on the Chateau D’Albiac stood out plainly in -front of him. But although apparently so near it was yet some little -distance off, for the pathway, ever mounting, took many curves and -bends, and Lord Hardcastle found he could not possibly arrive there -before twilight set in. The sun sank lower and lower, the shadows -lengthened and deepened, and although the air for the time of year was -remarkably balmy and mild, Hardcastle could not repress a shudder as he -took the last curve which brought him face to face with the old -chateau. Was it the silence and loneliness of the place which so -oppressed him, or was it that his nerves had been shaken by the strange -events through which he had lately passed? A feeling he could not -understand took possession of his mind. He felt almost like a man -walking in a dream, seeing strange sights and hearing strange sounds, -so unreal, so unlike anything he had ever seen was the mountain picture -around him. There, straight in front of him, stood the old chateau, the -highest point in the rocky landscape. Every door barred, every window -shut, not to be opened till the following spring. The sun sank lower -and lower, the shadows lengthened and deepened, the rocks began to take -fantastic shapes against the evening sky, lighted in the west by the -long golden and purple streaks of the dying day. Not a sound broke the -intense silence of the place, and Hardcastle, throwing the reins on his -pony’s neck, in perfect stillness drank in the beauty and glory of the -scene. The sun, with a farewell scarlet light, fired the windows of the -old chateau, danced upon peaks and crags of fantastic shape, and sent a -flood of glory upon two solitary female figures standing on one of the -highest points of the worn-out volcanoes. - -“I must be dreaming! It is a land of visions here; I have lost control -over my own senses;” said Hardcastle, aloud, as he pressed forward to -get a nearer view of what seemed to him an illusion. Two figures at -such a time, in such a scene of loneliness and solitude! Nearer and -nearer he drew. What did he see? Breathless and nerveless he leaned -forward deprived alike of speech and power. Mountains, crags and -sunlight swam before his eyes and faded away into mist, while the words -of Mr. Warden, in the study of Harleyford, rang and echoed in his -ears. “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. The long white robe she wore, and the -dark-faced nurse by her side.” There, straight in front of him, was the -literal realization of the picture in all its details, for there, -awe-struck and silent as himself, stood Amy Warden and Isola the nurse! - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -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. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -AT this time Mr. Warden received his first packet of English letters -from the _poste restante_ at Le Puy. - -Among others there was one from Inspector Hill, which ran as follows:— - - “Scotland Yard, - - “Nov. 20th. - -“SIR,— - -“I think it right you should be informed of certain facts which have -come to my knowledge respecting some jewellery belonging to Miss -Warden, viz., a diamond necklace, earrings, and brooch, which have -already been restored to you through Mr. Varley, and an antique ruby -ring which Miss Warden was supposed to have worn the day she left home, -but which in reality was left by her on her toilette table with the -diamonds which she had worn on the previous night at the Leicestershire -county ball. - -“My informant is a Miss Marian Kempe, whom you may possibly remember I -have mentioned once or twice in my reports to you as a relative of the -girl Lucy Williams, at one time Miss Warden’s maid. - -“This girl Williams, if you will remember, I stated had a most -disreputable brother who had been convicted of connivance with poachers -to rob his master’s estate. On his release from prison he returned to -his native place, and once more fell into his old dissolute habits. -He appears, on several occasions, to have had interviews with -his sister at your house, and to have threatened her in various ways if -she could not find sufficient money to enable him to reach New York, or -some other large city, where he hoped, by false written characters, to -find some means of support. - -“Then occurred Miss Warden’s mysterious disappearance, and the -jewellery lying loose upon the table proved too strong a temptation for -the girl, who at once secreted the diamonds and ring, and when asked by -you for the dress in which to describe Miss Warden in the -advertisements, cleverly included the ring in the description. This -ring she at once handed over to her brother, who immediately started -for Liverpool, intending to wait there for farther supplies which his -sister had promised, if possible, to procure for him. - -“The diamonds she appears to have kept back for a time in case they -should be asked for, but in the state of confusion into which your -house was thrown, and Mrs. Warden being too ill to interest herself -much in the matter, they were not missed; in fact, I believe, the jewel -case was not even opened when handed over to Mrs. Warden’s care. - -“The girl most probably intended to dispose of the diamonds in London, -and afterwards to have escaped with her brother to New York, when, as -you know, she was seized with small-pox, and died at the house of her -relative, the Miss Marian Kempe whom I have already mentioned. - -“This Miss Kempe is, undoubtedly, a woman of good character, holding -extreme religious views, and willing to sacrifice everything in the -discharge of her duty. She was at one time engaged to be married to Tom -Williams, and although the match was broken off, is evidently still -very much attached to the man. About a week since she came to me in -travelling dress, and appeared very much fatigued with a long journey -she said she had just taken across the channel. She also seemed much -agitated, and asked me in an excited tone if I ever read the Gospel, -and if I knew who it was Christ came to seek and to save? ‘See here, -Miss Kempe,’ I said in reply, ‘if you are alluding to publicans and -sinners, I conclude you have something to say to me about that rascal, -Tom Williams. If so, say it at once, please, for I have no time -for sermonizing, I assure you.’ ‘He is no rascal,’ she said, -indignantly, ‘he is a repentant sinner, and will yet, please God, be -numbered among the elect.’ Then she proceeded to tell me a very -extraordinary story. How that Tom Williams arrived at Liverpool, -intending to wait there for Lucy; how he waited and waited, and at -length received, through some secret channel, the news of her death, -and that the diamonds had been restored to you. In his haste to escape, -he took passage in the first steamer he came across, which chanced to -be a trader bound for Boulogne. It is also possible he imagined himself -to be safer across the channel than across the Atlantic. Landing at -Boulogne, he appears to have had some drunken quarrel with an Italian -seaman, who wounded him severely in the thigh with a large clasp -knife. Tom was eventually carried by some passers-by to a quiet -lodging-house on the Quai, and the woman of the house showed him a -great deal of kind attention. A fever set in after this stabbing -affair, and Tom was reduced to a very low ebb. Utterly friendless, in a -foreign country, and at death’s door, his thoughts turned to Miss Kempe -as the one most likely to help him out of his troubles. He consequently -made an appeal to her, couched in very penitent language, and implored -her, by her past affection for him, to help him out of his sin and -misery. This letter he sent under cover to some comrade in London, who -posted it to Miss Kempe’s address. The bait succeeded admirably. The -woman at once locked up her room, disposed of a few valuables she had, -and started for Boulogne. At Charing Cross Station, when about to take -her ticket for the night train, she caught sight of your luggage on the -platform, addressed to Boulogne. She at once concluded you were in -pursuit of Tom, and determined to wait and watch your proceedings. She, -however, crossed the next morning, and hurrying to Tom, informed him of -your approach, and asked what he thought it best to do. ‘This is what -they want, Marian,’ he said, drawing the ring from under his pillow, -‘take it to them, and beg me off.’ This she seemed afraid to do, and -waited about the hotel all day before she could make up her mind to -enter. When at length she summoned courage to do so, she wandered by -chance into your sitting-room, and finding Lord Hardcastle asleep by -the fire, the idea occurred to her of placing the ring on his finger as -he slept, thus avoiding embarrassing questions, and thinking, poor, -foolish woman, that if your property were restored to you, you would no -longer wish to prosecute the rascal. Her object in coming to me was -twofold. First, to assure me of the genuineness of the man’s -repentance, and secondly to find out, if possible, your intention on -the matter. - -“Of course nothing would be easier than to bring the man to justice. I -have not the slightest belief in his penitence, and I farther think, if -he should recover, he will induce this infatuated woman to marry him -for the sake of her small savings. - -“I must ask your pardon, sir, for this long letter I have -unwillingly troubled you with, and awaiting your orders, beg to remain, - - “Your obedient servant, - - “JERVIS HILL.” - -“Postscript.—Since writing the above I have received a special -communication from Dunwich Police Station, in which, perhaps, sir, you -may feel interested. It relates to the conviction of a gipsy woman and -tramp, for stealing. In her possession was found a long travelling -cloak and thick veil. This she states she found in a plantation in your -grounds about two months ago, when she had there taken refuge from a -thunderstorm which had set in with violence. This thunderstorm, sir, we -must all remember as occurring on the night Miss Warden’s body was -found. This cloak and veil most probably belonged to her and enabled -her to pass unnoticed and unknown through Dunwich streets, and were -most likely thrown on one side by her when wearied and heated by her -long walk she found them heavy and cumbersome. They remain at Dunwich -Station to be claimed and identified, if possible, and may chance to be -of great importance should you wish at any time to recommence the -investigation I had the honour to conduct for you. - - “J. HILL.” - -To this Lord Hardcastle wrote in reply, at Mr. Warden’s request— - -“SIR,— - -“Mr. Warden wishes me to thank you for your letter, and to inform you -that he cannot ask you to recommence your former investigation for the -simple reason that Miss Warden has returned to her family and friends, -and will in due time communicate all that is wished to be known. - -“As for Tom Williams, Mr. Warden has not the least intention of -prosecuting him provided he gives up his malpractices and leads a -sober, honest life. Please to have him informed of this, and also -strongly counsel Miss Kempe to return to her home and keep her money in -her own hands. - - “Your obedient servant, - - “HARDCASTLE.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -AMY’S story took long to tell. Not in one continuous narrative, but at -long intervals, and in answer to many questions did she give her father -the history of the days she had spent away from home. - -And this is the substance of her narrative. - -On that bright August morning, the day after her first ball, she went -out of the house with a light step and a gay young heart. No thought of -care or sorrow in her mind, on the verge of womanhood, with a life full -of promise and brightness stretching out before her, the world, as it -were, at her feet, and the crown of her youth and beauty on her head, -suddenly a dark cloud fell over it all, shutting out the brilliant -landscape and sunlight, and enveloping youth, beauty, hope and promise, -the whole of the glory of the summer’s day, in the mist and darkness of -the valley of the shadow of death. - -Amy Warden, thinking only of her last night’s scene of triumph (for -such it had been to her) walked gaily through her father’s grounds till -she came almost to the verge of the park lands. Here she met the -postman, “My letters, if you please,” she said, exchanging a kind “good -morning” with the man. He handed two to her in feminine handwriting, -and passed on. The first she quickly disposed of, it was from a young -girl friend, declining an invitation of Amy’s for the following day. -The second, in a strange foreign hand, although bearing the London post -mark, she opened as she quitted the park for the Dunwich high road. It -was (as has already been stated) market day at Dunwich, and two or -three villagers from Harleyford passed at this moment with whom she -exchanged greetings, and who, for the time, drew her attention from the -letter. - -Once more turning her eye upon the page, she read words which made -park, woodland and road alike swim before her eyes, and which sent her -young blood rushing to her face and back again with a chill to her -heart. Recovering herself partially, she turned back into the -park lands, and there, under the shadow of the great trees, read -through her letter. - -It was written partly in Cevenol _patois_, partly in good French, and -thus it ran:— - -“MA MIGNONNE,— - -“Hast thou forgotten Isola, thy nurse? Hast thou forgotten the one who -rocked thee in her arms to sleep, and led thee over the mountain to -gather wild campions to weave garlands and crowns for thy beautiful -mother? Dost thou know thou hast a mother living now among those -mountains? Has he who shadowed and cursed her young life told thee the -story of her suffering and wrong? For twelve long years, ma cherie, has -she lived a life of loneliness and sorrow, and now she lies on a bed of -sickness and pain with the hand of death upon her. She is wearying for -thee, my Aimée, wilt thou not go to her? I am in London, and I wait all -day long at your great Midland Station, for I know thou wilt come. I -shall know your sweet face among a thousand, for have I not seen it -night after night in my dreams? And thou! thou wilt know Isola, thy old -nurse, by her brown hood and cloak of the mountains.” - -In utter bewilderment and amazement, with every nerve in her body -jarring and trembling, Amy read and re-read her letter, and as she did -so the conviction of its genuineness and truth forced itself upon her. -Two thoughts only remained on her mind, the first, “my father told me a -bitter cruel lie when he denied my mother to my face, and placed -another in her stead;” the second, “my mother still lives! If I hasten -I may yet see her before she dies. My darling, beautiful mother, whom -unknowingly I have loved all through my life.” - -Her anger against her father was only exceeded by one feeling, her -intense, fervent love for her mother, whose image now stood out -distinctly in her young memory. Isola’s words had brought back a whole -world of recollections, the crowns of flowers, the mountain paths, the -things which to her had seemed before but floating fancies or childish -dreams, now took their right form as distinct vivid realities. - -Not knowing anything of the circumstances which had brought about Mr. -Warden’s separation from his first wife, to her excited imagination he -appeared a perfect monster of wickedness, a cruel, fickle tyrant, who -had cast off one who loved him truly, for the sake of another woman— - -“He told me a lie,” she kept repeating to herself again and again, “to -make me love that other woman, and to steel my heart against my own -mother.” - -Then the picture of that mother, lying sick unto death, rose before her -mind, and one thought swept away every other. - -“I will go to her at once,” she said with a wild cry, “at any risk, at -any cost. Who knows, I may yet perhaps save her life.” - -With Amy, to think was to act; not a moment’s hesitation now. There was -another way to Dunwich station, besides the high road—a quiet way, -which led through fields and lanes, a little circuitously, perhaps, and -for that reason not likely to be traversed on the busy market day by -any but gipsies or tramps. This road Amy at once took; she knew there -was a train leaving for London about noon, and this she determined if -possible to save. What was a five miles walk to a girl at her age, -young, active and strong; besides had she not one all-absorbing thought -to shorten her road, and lend wings to her feet— - -“I am going to the mother I have dreamed of and loved all through my -young life.” - -Once arrived at Dunwich, she was pretty sure to escape recognition. The -station (a junction, with a large amount of traffic) was on market days -positively crowded, and Amy, passing rapidly through the throng, took -her ticket, and seated herself in the London train without more than a -casual glance from the guard, to whom she was personally unknown. - -Then she had time for thought. But the more she thought, the more the -difficulties of her position grew upon her. How could she act for the -best? It was simply an impossibility for her to consult her father on -the matter, for would not all his efforts be directed to keep her -mother out of her rightful position, and would he who had lived so long -in sin (so she thought) with another, be likely to have any sympathy -for her in her present undertaking. - -“I will wait and consult with Isola,” was the young girl’s thought as -the train whirled her on towards London, “she will most likely know -what my mother’s wishes are,” and as she thought of that mother, and -the years of suffering her father’s cruelty had condemned her to -endure, every feeling was absorbed in one indignant resolve to leave no -means untried to have that mother righted and restored, if not to -happiness, at least to peace and honour. - -As the train entered the London Station, she noticed a woman clad in a -long brown cloak, with a peasant’s hood drawn over her head, whom she -quickly identified as Isola; not from her recollection of her nurse’s -face, for here memory failed her, nor yet alone from her dress, which, -though strange, seemed familiar to her, but the woman was evidently -waiting and watching, and her long earnest gaze into each carriage as -the train drew up at the platform, could not fail to strike the most -casual observer— - -“Ma bonne, ma bonne,” said Amy in a low voice, as she jumped from the -train, stretching out both hands towards her nurse— - -“Holy mother!” exclaimed the woman, seizing Amy’s hand, and -passionately kissing it— - -“Which of my two children is it that I see? The eyes, the voice, the -hands, the hair are her mother’s own. My child, bless the Saints and -Holy Mary whenever you look at your sweet face in the glass, for thou -wilt never be without thy mother’s portrait all thy life long.” - -Then followed question and answer in rapid succession. Amy ascertained -from Isola that her mother had entered the convent of St. Geneviève, -some few miles distant from their old home. Isola breathed not a word -of her mother’s transgression, nor how she had abandoned husband and -child for the caprice of a moment. Isola’s intense love for, and -devotion to her mistress, blinded her to all her faults; she could see -her in but one light, that of a wronged, suffering woman, and as such -she spoke of her. She dwelt long upon Mr. Warden’s harshness and -cruelty to his young wife, and told Amy how at length his treatment -became insupportable, and they were compelled to seek another home; how -that her mother had eventually taken vows in the Convent of St. -Geneviève, seeking in religion the happiness she could not find in the -world. Isola made no mention of the lie passed off on Mr. Warden -respecting his wife’s death. To her mind the one weak point in Aimée’s -character was her love for her husband and her real penitence for her -fault. This to Isola was simply incomprehensible— - -“The man hates you, why should you love him?” was her argument. “He -treated you badly, you did well to leave him.” - -Nevertheless, whatever order Aimée gave must be carried out to the very -letter, and with the blind unreasoning fidelity of a dog, she obeyed -her mistress’s slightest wish. - -Thus it was, that intentionally or unintentionally, Isola’s narrative -conveyed a very wrong impression to Amy’s mind. The young girl scarcely -realized her own feelings towards her father, so completely had they -been reversed— - -“I could not have believed all this Isola, even from your lips,” she -said passionately, “if he had not himself told me a lie, and denied my -own mother to my face.” - -So they journeyed on. Miss Warden had only a few sovereigns in her -purse, but Isola seemed to be well supplied with money— - -“Where does all your money come from?” asked Amy wonderingly, as she -noticed Isola’s well-filled purse. Isola pointed to her ears, despoiled -of ornaments— - -“You sold them!” exclaimed Amy, “why, they must have represented the -savings of at least twenty years,” she added, recollecting the practice -of the French peasantry to invest their earnings in jewellery, and -especially in earrings, which they exchange for others more valuable as -they rise and prosper in the world. Isola bowed her head— - -“Could they be yielded to one more worthy, or to one who had a greater -right?” she enquired earnestly. - -Tears filled Amy’s eyes at the proof of such devotion, and she said no -more. - -By the time they arrived at Folkestone, Amy had become more calm and -collected. She endeavoured to mark out for herself some plan of action— - -“I think Isola,” she suggested, “we will telegraph to my father from -here that I am safe and well, and that he will hear from me again.” - -“_Mon Dieu!_” exclaimed Isola, “and be stopped by the police on landing -at Boulogne! No, no, my child, wait till thou hast safely reached thy -mother, then telegraph, write, or do what thou wilt.” - -Amy saw the force of the argument, and contended no more, but it was -difficult, nay impossible for a girl who had loved her father so -passionately as she had, to shut out altogether from her imagination -the agony of mind he must be suffering at her unaccountable absence. -But what could she do? The difficulties of her position seemed -insuperable, and her mind had become so bewildered, she felt she could -scarcely now distinguish between right and wrong. Besides, the one -all-absorbing intense desire to see her mother had taken such -possession of her, that every other feeling was comparatively deadened. - -They crossed by the night mail to Boulogne, and thence without delay -continued the route to Le Puy. A wearisome journey, and which, to Amy, -seemed endless, so long and dreary seemed the hours which kept her -apart from her idolised mother. At length it was accomplished, and at -the time that the whole country round Harleyford had risen to join in -the fruitless search, and Frank Varley and Lord Hardcastle had clasped -hands in a solemn vow to rest not day nor night till the wanderer was -brought home, Amy was lying in her mother’s arms at the Convent of St. -Geneviève, or kneeling by her side kissing her hands, feet, or dress, -in a perfect ecstasy and bewilderment of joy that her wildest -imaginings were at last realized, and that she had found a mother -indeed. - -“Ah,” said Amy, here breaking off her narrative and drawing a long -breath. “No one could have painted my mother to me as she really was -and as I found her. It would have needed a special inspiration to have -done so. To describe material beauty, the beauty of form, colour, and -outline—yes, it can be done; but to paint the many transparent tints of -a sunbeam, or the light and shadow of a handful of the sparkling, -rippling stream! It is impossible. When one can be found to do this -then may he begin to paint my mother in all her changeful, wondrous -beauty. As a very empress, as a star in a dark sky she shone out among -the little brown nuns at St. Geneviève. They were all so little, so -brown, so old, not a young face among them. Not one of them had been -the other side of the mountains for more than thirty years. They were -all most kind and courteous, and so indulgent to my mother in all her -caprices, treating her almost as a wayward, spoilt child, and only -insisting on such matters as were absolutely necessary to keep up the -discipline of the convent. In her tiny bare little room, in her coarse -brown-grey dress, my mother had passed ten of the best years of her -life. It is marvellous to me, knowing her as I now do, that the routine -and confinement of a convent life had not broken her spirit and quite -worn her out. Oh, papa, I hate routine, I hate discipline, I detest a -quiet, orderly life, and yet I feel as if, should I live to be -withered, and brown, and old, I should like to come here to these kind -little nuns and end my days in peace with them.” - -Amy sighed wearily; she often sighed now. The strange events through -which she had lately passed had tried her beyond measure, but the -bitterest trial of all had been the choice she had been compelled to -make between her father and her mother. To believe in the truth of the -one was to acknowledge the falsehood of the other, and it was hard -indeed for her young, loving heart to choose between the two. - -Mr. Warden looked at his daughter anxiously. She was greatly changed, -and he could not but feel that his bright, light-hearted Amy would -never come back again. Now and then flashes of her old self would shine -out, and she would look up in his face with her own laughing eyes, but -it was only now and then, and the Amy of to-day was a sadder, paler, -more thoughtful being than the Amy of six months ago. - -“Amy, dear,” said Mr. Warden, tenderly, “tell me one thing and I will -ask no more questions to-night. Did your mother ever allude in any way -to the wrong she once did me, or did you learn this story from some one -else?” - -“From Lord Hardcastle,” replied Amy. “When I first saw my mother, as -she clasped me in her arms, she said, ‘my darling, do you know the -whole truth, and can you love me still?’ I, imagining she referred to -your neglect and cruelty, and her impatience and flight as described by -Isola, replied that I did know the whole truth, and I loved her better -than ever. After this nothing more was said by either of us on the -matter. It was not until Lord Hardcastle stood before me on the rocks -and insisted, with his thin pale face and solemn manner, that I should -hear the whole truth and then judge between my parents, that I knew -what had really occurred. Papa, papa, I felt then I should hate him for -ever and ever for having cast down my idol from its pedestal. Yet,” she -added, tearfully, “I ought to be grateful to him, too, for has he not -given back to me my own dear father, and cleared away the cloud that -had risen up between us?” - -“Thank God for that, indeed, my child, and had it not been for him, -Amy, your father would not be here talking to you now. A few more such -days of grief and anxiety would have worn out the last remains of my -strength. I owe Lord Hardcastle a debt I can never repay, and it pained -me beyond measure the other day to hear your abrupt question as to his -right to wear your ring. You must have wounded him deeply.” - -“But, papa, dear, that was because he was not equal to the occasion. -Some gentlemen I know, such as Mr. Varley for instance, would have said -‘if I had but the right to wear it,’ or some such polite speech. Of -course I should have thought it very impertinent and great nonsense. -But no one will ever accuse Lord Hardcastle of talking nonsense! He -mounts his high horse immediately, gives me back my ring with scarcely -a word, and with the air of an emperor walks out of the room!” - -“Amy,” said Mr. Warden, after a moment’s pause, “you spoke of Frank -Varley just now; do you care to know what has become of him?” - -“Yes,” said Amy, looking up eagerly, “where is he, papa? What did he do -when he heard I was lost? Tell me, don’t keep me waiting an instant,” -she added in her old tone and manner. - -“For one whole month, my child,” said Mr. Warden, carefully watching -his daughter’s face, “he was broken-hearted, inconsolable, in fact all -but a madman. The next,” he said this very slowly, for he was loth to -strike the blow, “he was engaged to Mary Burton, and married ten days -afterwards.” - -A start, a shiver, a very flushed and then a very pale face, that was -all, and then Amy repeated in a strangely quiet tone, “Married to Mary -Burton! I remember her well, that large, fair, good-looking girl, who -didn’t know how to make men look at her! We won’t talk any more to-day, -papa. The little doctor will scold me if I keep you up late and tire -you. Ah!” she said with a sigh and a look towards the mountains, “I -think those little brown nuns at St. Geneviève have a far better time -of it than we who stand out here in the cold and storm to fight our -life’s battle!” - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -“SHE was like a wild bird beating its wings against its prison bars,” -said Amy, continuing her narrative a few days before they started for -England. “The excitement and pleasure of seeing me had acted magically -on her, so much so that I found it difficult to realize the truth of -Isola’s description of her before my coming. In a day or two, however, -the excitement subsided, and I became seriously alarmed. She seemed -possessed by a spirit of unrest, and I began to fear for her reason. No -sleep at night, no rest for one five minutes in the day. She fulfilled -all her religious duties faithfully (they were not heavy ones, and the -Abbess was indulgent) but every spare moment she spent with me was -passed in one ceaseless moan. ‘I must see him; there will be no peace -for me till I have looked at the dear face again. Help me, my child, -help me!’ I knew not what to do for the best. I felt it would be -useless to consult the Abbess, or even the Convent Confessor, on the -matter, as their experience in the world’s ways was even less than -mine, and they looked upon everything in the light of their religion. -Besides, I knew there was no possibility of their allowing my mother -outside the walls, even in charge of a sister, for their rules on this -point were strict. What could be done? I felt, too, that you ought to -be written to by some one, but by whom? Mercy to Mrs. Warden, whom I -was convinced was ignorant of my mother’s existence, withheld my hand, -and whom could I trust in such a matter, or to whom, indeed, could I -expose my father’s guilt? I felt confident in my own mind that you -would naturally guess whither I had gone, and would possibly frame some -excuse for me to Mrs. Warden and others. But, O, my father, I have no -words to express the agony, the absolute torture of mind I suffered at -the thought of your unworthiness, of your cruelty to one whom I -believed to be so noble and good as my mother. - -“The difficulties, too, of my position were very great. The Abbess was -kindness itself to me, and bade me stay with my mother as long as I -pleased, but she was constantly asking me questions as to my family and -connections, and I, not knowing how much of my mother’s story had been -confided to her, was fearful of betraying my mother every hour of the -day. Latterly, however, all these anxieties gave way to one more -terrible than all. Little as I knew of such cases, I felt sure that my -mother was in a state bordering on madness, and every day that passed -increased her danger. Isola, who came daily to see us, had but one -thought in her mind, how to save my mother, and was for ever suggesting -to me some wild plan, which I felt to be either wrong or impracticable. -At one time she would propose I should receive a letter, informing me -of your death; at another she suggested I should frame some story that -would prove you to be utterly base, and unworthy of any woman’s love. -But that I could not do, for deep down in my heart there was a feeling -I could not explain, nor put into words, but which made me angry or -indignant whenever Isola began to anathematize you. - -“At length, one evening after I had gone to my own room, utterly worn -out with my mother’s excitement and misery, a sudden thought came into -my head. ‘Why not gratify her, why not enable her to see the man she so -blindly worships?’ Then it flashed across my mind how easily the thing -could be done! I had but to assume my mother’s nun’s dress and hood, -and no ordinary observer could have told it was not my mother herself. -She in my dress would easily be permitted to pass the portress’s lodge, -and once outside the convent walls Isola would be at hand with further -disguises, if necessary, and means of facilitating the journey to -England. - -“I felt, as you may imagine, I was incurring heavy responsibility in -acting thus. But what was to be done? I had no one to advise me. I knew -that you ought to be communicated with, and it was simply an -impossibility for me to leave my mother in the state she was in. Once I -had hinted at the advisability of my going back to consult with you as -to what ought to be done, but she became perfectly frantic at the bare -thought of such a thing, and throwing herself at my feet, had implored -me ‘not to quench the last ray of light in her life.’ - -“Isola entered heart and soul into my plan. ‘I will go with her,’ -she exclaimed. ‘She is too much of a child to be trusted by herself in -the world. Where she wanders thither will I go, where she dies there -will I die, and there will I be buried.’ I gladly consented to this, as -Isola had already once made the journey to England, and would know all -the details of the route. My mother, too, was so bright and quick, and -her remembrance of the English you taught her so perfect, that I had -scarcely any fear of difficulties arising on the road. My one and only -anxiety was how would she conduct herself in her interview with you. -Would she act quietly and with discretion, or would she cause some open -scandal and disgrace to you and to your family? I did my best to -prevent this by exacting from her a solemn promise that she would -not go down to Harleyford, but remain in London at the hotel where -Isola stayed, write to you from there, and there wait your reply. My -heart misgave me when she made me this promise. Yet, I thought to -myself, after all it doesn’t much matter what she says or does in -England. The truth will have to be made known to the world, and the -rightful wife acknowledged. ‘Ah! it was a weary, bitter time,’” and -here Amy broke down utterly. “My brain aches now when I think of it, -and a pain comes into my heart which, I think, will be there till my -dying day.” - -“Poor child!” said Mr. Warden, tenderly smoothing the masses of dark -hair which clustered upon Amy’s white forehead, as she laid her head -wearily on his shoulder. “My poor little girl, you have been too much -tried. You were too young to bear so heavy a load of responsibility and -sorrow. For an old worn-out heart like mine a little suffering, more or -less, cannot make much difference, but for you, in your bright, fresh -girlhood, it was hard indeed to bear up against such a complication of -mistakes and wrong-doing.” - -“Yes,” said Amy, wearily, going on with her story, “it was very hard -and very miserable, and after my mother had started, I nearly broke -down altogether. - -“Our plan succeeded beyond our hopes even. In the evening twilight, in -the dress in which I left my home, my mother passed out of the Convent -gates, with Isola, on the pretext of visiting some old friends on the -other side of Le Puy. You, my father, had you seen her then, might have -mistaken her for your own daughter, so complete was the resemblance in -face, form, and figure. Perhaps she looked a little paler, a little -thinner, and a few years older (certainly not more) than I did six -months ago, but it would have needed younger and keener eyes than those -of the old nuns to have discovered this. And I, in my mother’s dress -and hood, had not the slightest fear of detection. I had become so -accustomed to the daily routine of the convent, that I knew to the -least iota every one of my mother’s religious duties. Latterly, too, -she had been so weak and ill she had been allowed to remain very much -in her own room. I had acquired, or rather reacquired, the singing -intonation peculiar to the Cevenol peasant, and knowing our voices were -so nearly one pitch and tone, had no fear of discovery on this point. I -drew the hood a little more closely over my face; I was perhaps a -little less sociable and friendly with the sisters, and thus for three -days I escaped detection. - -“But on the fourth day I knew that Pére Ambroise, the Confessor, was -expected, and I determined that with him I would attempt no further -concealment. He was a personal friend of my mother’s; it was he who -induced her to enter the Convent of St. Geneviève, and it was his wise -counsels, I don’t doubt, which had restrained and quieted her impetuous -temper, as long as it was possible to do so. Such a dear old man, papa, -he ought to be made a bishop at the very least, instead of ending his -days here as Curé and Confessor to twenty or thirty little nuns. I -contrived to meet him as he entered the convent garden, and while -walking with him towards the house, told him, in as few words as -possible, the story of my mother’s escape, and my reason for planning -it. At first he was very angry, although not so much as might have been -expected, considering the heavy sin he believed to have been committed. - -“‘_La petite Sœur_ (that was the name my mother was known by on account -of her comparative youth) ought to have consulted me,’ he said, ‘I have -taught her for many years, and she might have relied on my counsels.’ - -“‘Would you have let her go had she done so?’ I asked. - -“‘Without doubt, no,’ he exclaimed, earnestly. - -“‘Was there any other way of saving her life or reason?’ I asked again— - -“‘My daughter,’ he replied, very gently, ‘you are very young, but I -pray that long ere you have reached my age, you will have learned that -there are some things to be thought of before life or reason, and that -a man or woman must be at times prepared to sacrifice both rather than -honour, faith, or the service of God.’ - -“I felt so ashamed that he should have to speak to me in this way, that -I knew not what to say. I felt how wrongly I had acted from first to -last. But what was I to do? I was altogether bewildered, and began to -wish I had consulted the good Father before. However, it was too late -now. I could only repeat I was very sorry to have grieved and offended -him, but perhaps if he knew the whole of my story he would not judge me -so harshly. - -“‘I do not ask for your confidence, my daughter,’ he replied, ‘there -may be things in your family history you would not care to repeat, but -I had a right to expect your mother’s confidence, and now I find it was -but half-given.’ - -“Then he told me how I had made myself amenable to the laws of the -country in thus assisting in the escape of a nun— - -“‘But,’ he added kindly, ‘you, my child are too young to be prosecuted -on such a matter, and Isola too old. She will return and repent, she is -too true a daughter of the Church not to do so, but your mother never -will. The world has had her heart throughout her sojourn here, and the -world will claim its own.’ - -“Then he told me I was welcome to stay here as long as I pleased, as -guest at the convent, or if I had other friends with whom I would -prefer staying, he would have much pleasure in conducting me to them. -Was he not a splendid man, papa?” added Amy enthusiastically, “he -looked so noble and so good while he was speaking, he made me feel -thoroughly ashamed of my own conduct, and the part I had played -throughout. Of course I told him I would remain gratefully with the -nuns till I heard from my mother or you, and then determining there -should be no further deceit on my part, told him how I expected to hear -through Isola’s nephew, a young woodcutter in the neighbourhood. - -“How anxiously I longed and waited for news you may imagine, but a -whole week passed, and still not a word. At length, about ten days -after my mother’s departure, and when I was feeling positively sick -with suspense, and a dread of what was coming, Isola herself, to my -great amazement, appeared at the convent gates. I hastened down to her, -dreading I knew not what. - -“‘Where is my mother?’ was my first question— - -“‘I left her in London,’ replied Isola, ‘she ordered me to return here -to thee and await her orders, and I have done so. It was hard to part -from her, she looked so young and beautiful, but she told me she would -manage now her own affairs; that she was going down to the little -country village to see him she loved so well, and that thou wouldst -need an escort back to thy own country. I gave her all the money I had, -and my old brown hood and cloak, and here I am, my child, to take care -of thee.’ Then she handed to me a few short hurried lines from my -mother, telling me ‘she was safe and happy, and knew well what she -should do; that it might be some little time before she wrote again, -but when all was happily arranged she would send for me, and I know,’ -she concluded, ‘all will be happily arranged. I shall win him back; I -have loved him so well I cannot lose him.’ - -“My heart sank as I read the note. Something told me the worst was to -come, and as day after day slipped by, and not a line not a message -from either father or mother, my brain began to grow dazed and stupid, -and I think I really lost the power of reasoning. I dared not write to -you; I felt how justly angry you must be with me, whatever your own -fault, for having acted so madly and foolishly. I wandered backwards -and forwards from the convent to Isola’s cottage, from Isola’s cottage -to the convent, hoping for news, praying for news, and feeling the -suspense to be more than I could bear. O, papa, papa!” concluded Amy, -breaking down once more, and giving way to a passion of tears, “if you -had not come when you did, your poor little Amy would have lost her -reason altogether, or else have laid down to die from sheer weariness -and sickness of heart.” - -Gently and tenderly Mr. Warden soothed his daughter. - -“My poor little girl,” he said, “you have been too much tried for one -so young. This is the last time we will talk over this sad story, but -before we lay it on one side for ever, you must hear one or two things -it is only right you should know. Lord Hardcastle has told you no doubt -most of what occurred during your absence, and all our grief for your -loss, but did he tell you the part he has played throughout; what he -has been to me all through our trials; and how it was he who guided us -here? Tell me that Amy!” - -“No,” replied Amy, “he has never mentioned anything of that kind to me. -Indeed he has scarcely spoken to me the last few days, and whenever he -looks at me, his eyes grow so large and cross, that I feel sure he is -thinking in his own mind, ‘what an immense deal of trouble this -self-willed silly girl has given us all! what a pity everyone is not as -sensible and clever as I am!’” - -Then Mr. Warden commenced from the very beginning, and told Amy every -particular, even to the smallest detail, of all that had occurred -during her absence. He spared her nothing. All his own grief and -despair he laid bare before her, the solemn vow, too of Frank Varley -and Lord Hardcastle, and how each had played their part. He recounted -to her all the terrors of that dreadful night when death was in the -house and the baying hound betrayed her mother’s presence. Step by step -he led her on through the sad story of the finding of her mother’s -body, his own broken-hearted sorrow, and Lord Hardcastle’s intense -grief. Amy never lifted her eyes from his face, but drank in his every -word and tone. Like one awaking from a dream, silent and enthralled she -sat and listened. As Mr. Warden repeated to her Lord Hardcastle’s words -in the library at the High Elms, “I want to be able to hold up a -picture of the girl I love so truly, in all her innocence, and beauty, -and purity, and to say to all the world, this is she whom I have loved -in life, whom I love in death, whom I shall love after death, through -eternity!” Amy sprang to her feet with clasped hands, exclaiming— - -“Papa, papa, what is this, I do not understand.” At this moment the -door opened and Lord Hardcastle entered the room. Anything more -embarrassing could not be imagined. Carried away by his feelings, Mr. -Warden had spoken loudly, and Amy’s high-pitched voice must have rung -the length of the corridor. For a moment all were silent, and Amy, -confused and nervous, leant over the window-ledge, dropping stones and -dry leaves from the flower-boxes on to the verandah beneath. - -Lord Hardcastle was the first to recover himself. - -“Mr. Warden,” he said, “I have come in to say good-bye; I shall leave, -I think, before daylight to-morrow, for a little run through Spain. I -am rather interested in Dr. Lytton’s account of the Moorish excavations -going on just now. You are looking so thoroughly well and happy, that I -quite feel my services are no longer needed.” - -He spoke carelessly, almost indifferently, but there was a mournful -ring in the last few words which went straight to Amy’s heart. - -“He must not go, he shall not leave us in this way,” she exclaimed, -suddenly turning from the window, addressing her father, but stretching -out her hands to Lord Hardcastle. The old bright look had come back to -her eyes, the old imperious tones sounded once more in her voice, “How -can we thank him? What can we do for him who has done so much for us. -Lord Hardcastle,” she continued, turning impetuously towards him, with -flushed face and sparkling eyes, “I was very rude to you a short time -ago, can you forgive me? You were wearing my ruby ring, will you take -it back again, and keep it for ever and ever in remembrance of my -gratitude to you? I have so little to offer,” she added apologetically, -with a little sigh, drawing the ring from her finger and holding it -towards him. - -“But I want something more than the ring to keep for ever and ever,” -said Lord Hardcastle, in low earnest tones, for Amy’s voice and manner, -told him that the icy barriers between them were broken down at last. -“Not now, Amy,” he added tenderly, as he felt the little hand he had -contrived to secure, trembling in his own; “not now, for we have -scarcely as yet passed from beneath the cloud of the shadows of death, -but by-and-by, when the dark winter days have come and gone, and the -bright spring sun shines down once more upon us, then I shall hope to -come to you and ask not only for this little hand, but for all you have -to give, even for your own sweet self!” - -There was yet one more dark shadow to fall before the travellers -started on their homeward journey. Amy had proposed to her father that -they should pay a farewell visit to the little brown nuns at St. -Geneviève, to thank them for their hospitality to her. Mr. Warden -gladly acceded to her request, and the visit was paid the day before -they started for England. On leaving the convent, they purposed -visiting Isola in her lonely little hut in the valley, intending to -make some permanent provision for her comfort for the rest of her life. - -“Poor faithful creature,” said Mr. Warden pityingly, as they descended -by the wild steep footway, “I would gladly ask her to return with us, -were it not for the recollection of falsehood and misery which her face -brings with it.” - -Before they reached the hut, however, they were met by Isola’s nephew, -the young woodcutter, of whom mention has already been made. He looked -grave and sad, and lifting his hat respectfully to Mr. Warden, waited -for him to speak. - -“How is your aunt this morning, André,” said Amy, “shall we find her -within?” - -The young man shook his head. - -“She is gone, mademoiselle, she will never return. This morning at -daybreak the angels carried her soul away. Since mademoiselle left us, -she wearied and sickened, she eat nothing, she never slept. There in -the window is her lace cushion with the bobbins untouched, and day and -night she sat and moaned in her wicker chair. Yesterday, when I tried -to make her take some food, she turned her face to the wall, ‘No, no,’ -she said, ‘the summer flowers are faded and dead, why should the -withered leaf hang upon the bough?’ She never spoke to me afterwards, -and this morning, when I went to her room to ask how she was, I found -her lying dead and silent on her bed. Will mademoiselle come in and see -her as she lies? She looks beautiful with her wreaths and garlands of -flowers.” - -This, however, Mr. Warden would not permit, for he felt his young -daughter had already been tried beyond her strength, and Amy, with the -mists of tears hanging over her eyes, looked her last at the Cevenol -valley, and said a long farewell to the beautiful solitude. - -And so the winter snows and clouds came and went, and the spring sun -shone out once more, calling into life and being a thousand sweet -sights and sounds. It lighted up the grey house at Harleyford, and fell -slantwise through the tall elms on to the tender grass beneath. It -shone through the east window of Harleyford Old Church, on to a quiet -wedding party assembled there one bright May morning, and played in -many coloured beams on two monuments standing side by side in the -grassy graveyard. - -And far away in the lonely valley of the Cevennes, the same spring -sunshine lighted up a quiet weed-grown resting-place, and fell in -quivering lines and curves upon a simple wooden cross, engraved in rude -peasant’s carving, with these few words— - -“ISOLA.” - -“_Fidèle jusques à la mort._” - - - - -Transcriber’s Note - -This transcription is based on scans available through Historical Texts -from a copy held by the British Library: - - https://historicaltexts.jisc.ac.uk/bl-002924134 - -Except where noted, inconsistencies in spelling (for example, “gray” -vs. “grey”) and hyphenation (for example, “grave-yard” vs. “graveyard”) -were not standardized. In addition, no changes were made to variant -spellings such as “delirous”. - -The following changes were made to the text: - -• Added a table of contents. - -• p. 11: aimless, well-nigh broken hearted.—Changed “broken hearted” -to “broken-hearted” for consistency. - -• p. 26: Mr Hill glances at them—Added a period after “Mr”. - -• p. 29: “How dare yon insult me thus?”—Changed “yon” to “you”. - -• p. 51: it would be best to re-commence on the morrow.—Changed -“re-commence” to “recommence” for consistency. - -• p. 52: ‘Here,’ he called to the groom, ‘ride alongside of me, and tell -me all that is to be known about the girl Williams and her -flight!’”—Changed this sentence so that it is not a quotation within a -quotation. Deleted the opening single quotation mark before “Here”; -changed the closing single quotation mark after “Here” to a closing -double quotation mark; changed the opening single quotation mark before -“rule” to an opening double quotation mark; and deleted the closing -single quotation mark before the closing double quotation mark at the -end of the sentence. - -• pp. 61–62: my dear, young friend, he added (he had known Hardcastle -from his boyhood), and spare them—Added a closing double quotation -after “friend,” and added an opening double quotation mark before “and -spare them”. - -• p. 63: a bright young voice pouring forth a flood of question, answer, -and exclammation in a breath—Changed “exclammation” to “exclamation”. - -• p. 95: There was no rival beauty in her way now!”—Deleted the -quotation mark at the end of the sentence. - -• p. 115: with but one word inscribed, “_Aimée_”—Added a period to -the end of the sentence. - -• p. 127: In reply to this, Mrs. Warden wrote a long letter—Changed -“Warden” to “Varley”. - -• p. 138: when sorrow seemed a far away thing—Changed “far away” to -“far-away”. - -• p. 147: The signature “AIMEE” after “for I have torn your image -out of my heart.” was changed to “AIMÉE”. - -• p. 157: shall love after death, through eternity!”—Added a single -closing quotation mark after “eternity!” to close the quotation within -a quotation. - -• p. 165: he directed a porter to place their luggage in the booking -office—Added a hyphen between “booking” and “office” for consistency -within the same paragraph. - -• p. 225: she turned back into the park-lands—Changed “park-lands” to -“park lands” for consistency. - -• p. 262: Was he not a splendid man, papa? added Amy enthusiastically, -he looked so noble—Added a closing double quotation mark after “papa?” -and an opening quotation mark before “he looked”. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65012 ***
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- } -.spaced { - letter-spacing: 0.075em; - } -span.lftspc { - margin-left: 0.07em - } -span.lftspc_pgno { - margin-left: 2.95em - } -span.lftspc_pgno2 { - margin-left: 1.8em - } -span.rgtspc_pgno { - margin-left: -2.15em - } -.x-ebookmaker span.lftspc_pgno { right: 1%; font-size: x-small; background-color: inherit; color: silver; - text-indent: 0em; text-align: right; position: absolute; - border: thin solid silver; padding: .1em .2em; font-style: normal; - font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; } -.x-ebookmaker span.lftspc_pgno2 { right: 1%; font-size: x-small; background-color: inherit; color: silver; - text-indent: 0em; text-align: right; position: absolute; - border: thin solid silver; padding: .1em .2em; font-style: normal; - font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; } -.x-ebookmaker span.rgtspc_pgno { right: 1%; font-size: x-small; background-color: inherit; color: silver; - text-indent: 0em; text-align: right; position: absolute; - border: thin solid silver; padding: .1em .2em; font-style: normal; - font-variant: normal; font-weight: normal; text-decoration: none; } -.pad_top { - padding-top: 0.6em - } - -div.tnote { - padding-bottom:0.5em; - padding-top:0.25em; - padding-left:0.5em; - padding-right:0.5em; - margin-right: 1.5em; - margin-left: 1.5em; - margin-top: 2em; - font-size: 88%; - background: #eeeeee; - border: solid 0.1em - } -h2.tnote { - letter-spacing: 0; - font-style:italic; - font-size: 110%; - font-weight: bold; - padding-top:0em; - padding-bottom:0.4em; - line-height:100%; - margin-bottom:0em - } -div.tnote p { - padding-left: 0; - padding-top: 0.25em; - margin-left: 0; - } -a { - text-decoration: none; - } -ul { - margin-top: 0.5em; - margin-bottom: 0 - } -li { - margin-bottom: 0.5em; - } -div.tnote p.link { - padding-left: 0; - text-indent: 0em; - text-align: center; - padding-top: 0.4em; - line-height: 100%; - padding-bottom: 0.4em - } -</style> -</head> -<body> -<div>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65012 ***</div> - -<div class="image"> -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Cover" width="322" height="500" title=""> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter title_page" id="Title_page"> -<h1 class="title"> -DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME. -</h1> -<p class="subtitle1"> -A Novel, -</p> -<p class="subtitle2"> -IN ONE VOLUME. -</p> -<p class="by"> -BY -</p> -<p class="author"> -MRS. FRED. E. PIRKIS. -</p> - -<hr> - -<p class="center italics"> -London: -</p> -<p class="center spaced"> -REMINGTON AND CO., -</p> -<p class="center"> -<small>5, A<small>RUNDEL</small> S<small>TREET</small>, S<small>TRAND</small>, W.C.</small> -</p> - -<hr class="small"> - -<p class="center smallish"> -1877. -</p> -<p class="center smallish"> -[<i>All Rights Reserved.</i>] -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter dedication" id="Dedication"> -<p> -DEDICATED, -</p> -<p> -WITH ALL LOVE AND ESTEEM, -</p> -<p> -TO MY BROTHER, -</p> -<p> -GEORGE IGNATIUS PIRKIS. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter tnote" id="contents"> -<h2 id="toc" class="toc">CONTENTS</h2> - -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_01">I</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_02">II</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_03">III</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_04">IV</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_05">V</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_06">VI</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_07">VII</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_08">VIII</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_09">IX</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_10">X</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_11">XI</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_12">XII</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_13">XIII</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_14">XIV</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_15">XV</a></p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_01"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-1">[1]</a></span> -</p> - -<p class="title"> -DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME. -</p> - -<hr class="xsmall"> - -<h2 class="chapter1" id="chapter_01_hdg"> -CHAPTER I. -</h2> -<p class="hang"> -“£200 R<small>EWARD</small>. Disappeared from her home, Amy, only daughter of Stephen -Warden, Esq., of the High Elms, Harleyford. Age, 17; height, 5ft. Dark -hair and eyes, oval face, small nose, mouth, and chin; remarkably small -hands and feet; dressed in dark blue silk walking costume, broad -brimmed felt hat, with light-blue ostrich feather. Jewellery worn—a -gold butterfly brooch, and butterfly earrings; on the third finger of -left hand, an antique ruby ring—one large stone, surrounded with eight -small<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-2"><span class="lftspc_pgno">[2]</span></a></span> diamonds, set in a garter with buckle; motto on garter, ‘<i>Sans -espoir je meurs.</i>’ The young lady was last seen on the morning of the -14th of August, leaving the park lands, and entering the high road -leading to Dunwich. Information to be given to Inspector Smythe, -Dunwich Police Station, who will pay the above reward on the young -lady’s restoration to her family, or portions of the amount according -to the value of the information received.” -</p> - -<hr class="small"> - -<p> -The above handbill appeared one bright summer’s morning on the walls of -Dunwich Police Station, and on all the principal buildings of that busy -manufacturing town. -</p> -<p> -Hard-working men of business found time, in the midst of their buying -and selling, to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-3">[3]</a></span> stop and read, and wonder how it was possible that -any young lady, well looked after, as Miss Warden undoubtedly was, -well-known, too, in the neighbourhood, and surrounded by relations, -friends, and servants, could thus disappear from their very midst, at -noon-day, and leave no trace of any sort. -</p> -<p> -Harleyford was situated about five miles from Dunwich, and Mr. Warden’s -house about three from the local railway station. A well-traversed high -road led from his estate to the market town—Dunwich. This the young -lady had been seen to enter about ten o’clock on the morning of the -14th of August, by some country people, with whom she exchanged -greetings. From that moment nothing more had been seen nor heard of -her, and it was, as the country people expressed<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-4">[4]</a></span> it in their broad -Leicestershire dialect, “as though the earth had opened, and swallowed -her up,” so completely had all traces of her been lost. -</p> -<p> -Well-to-do tradesmen and thriving farmers, passing by, read the -handbill with a sort of shudder. Here was a young lady taking her usual -morning walk on a bright summer’s day; she wishes her neighbours a gay -good morning with a nod and a smile, goes on her way, and lo! nothing -more is seen or heard of her. After this, who was safe? And with a sigh -and a shiver, and a thought of their own young daughters at home, they -went their way to ponder over the strange occurrence. -</p> -<p> -The county people by scores left their cards on Mr. and Mrs. Warden; -heard how they had waited breakfast for their daughter, then<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-5">[5]</a></span> luncheon, -then dinner—how they had sent their men far and near to scour the -country—how every river had been dragged, every infirmary and hospital -searched, every railway official questioned and cross-questioned as to -whether the young lady had been seen entering either station—how the -parents had racked their brains to discover any possible or impossible -pretext which could drive their daughter from her home—how that now, -well-nigh broken-hearted, after a fortnight of wearying suspense, they -had folded their hands and prayed for any news, even the worst that -might come. -</p> -<p> -“It is beyond mystery,” said old Lady Nugent to her young lady -companion, driving along the very same high road which had seen the -last of poor Amy, and looking right<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-6">[6]</a></span> and left in the hedges, as though -she expected to find some traces of her there; “If the girl had had any -love troubles, one could understand it better; for the young, foolish -things at seventeen are often driven to some desperate folly by a man’s -wicked eyes. But every one knows she could have made the best match in -the county if she had liked. There’s young Lord Hardcastle, who -absolutely worships her—fastidious and fault-finding as he is; and as -for Frank Varley, the rector’s son, with his £10,000 a year, he is -positively mad after her.” -</p> -<p> -“Yes, my lady,” responded the companion, “and it is well known that -neither Mr. nor Mrs. Warden cared in the least whom she chose. Ah! she -was always a coquette, even in the schoolroom. Those young, bright<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-7">[7]</a></span> -things with so much money, and so many chances generally choose badly -after all, and run away with some groom, or footman. Depend upon it, my -lady”— -</p> -<p> -“Don’t be an idiot, Matthews,” interrupts the dowager, “talk about -things you understand. It has been ascertained beyond doubt that no one -but Miss Warden is missing, far or near. Besides, the young lady, -however playful and vivacious she might be with her equals in station, -was too well-born and well-bred to permit the slightest familiarity -from an inferior. She would not have suffered such a thing any more -than I should myself,” with a withering glance at Matthews. “Tell -George,” she added, pulling violently at the check-string, “to drive -past the police station. I want to see what they have put in the -handbills.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-8">[8]</a></span> -And, as the old lady drives through the crowd of stragglers gathered -about the station-house doors, two others, with white, anxious faces, -are standing there, reading the printed lines. Tall, fair, muscular -Frank Varley, the rector’s scapegrace son, the best rider, runner, and -rower in the county—the first in all mischief—in all breakneck -adventures—and yet more sought after at balls and garden parties, than -the richest lord, or the most eligible unmarried baronet—his mother’s -darling and pride, and a constant source of anxiety and apprehension to -his father. -</p> -<p> -As he reads, his brow darkens. “By heaven!” he mutters through his set -teeth, “there has been foul play somewhere. She held my hand for a -moment only, at the ball the night before, under the large oleander -tree, and called me her own Frank; and then,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-9">[9]</a></span> coquette as she is, the -next minute she told me she meant her own <i>brother</i> Frank—I had -been so good to her. Shall we all sit still with folded hands, and let -a girl like that be stolen from our very midst? A thousand times, no!” -And then aloud, with a full-drawn breath, “By heaven! no corner of the -earth shall hide her from me; by land and by sea, by night and by day, -I will search the whole world through, till I find her, living or dead.” -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“You are right,” exclaims a voice at his elbow, and Lord Hardcastle’s -dark pale face, with thin, clear-cut features, looks over his shoulder. -(“Kid-gloved Hardcastle” he was sometimes called by his sporting and -boating friends, on account of his super-refinement and dainty -fastidiousness.) “You are right; there has been some foul play -here—some<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-10">[10]</a></span> deed of iniquity which must be brought to light. We, who -have been rivals hitherto, may well join hands now.” He extends his -thin white hand, which Varley grasps in a strong, firm hold. “I repeat -your own words; ‘no corner of the earth shall hide her from me; by land -and by sea, by night and by day, I will search the whole world through -till I find her, living or dead.’<span class="lftspc">”</span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_02"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-11">[11]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 id="chapter_02_hdg"> -CHAPTER II. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -W<small>HILE</small> the townspeople and country folks read and wondered at the -printed handbills, the father and mother of the missing girl wandered -about their now desolate home, listless, aimless, well-nigh -broken-hearted. The first sharp pang, it is true, was past, and -the sorrow had settled down to a dull leaden weight on heart and brain. -The servants walked about the house slowly and silently, speaking in -subdued voices. Day and night lay old Presto, Amy’s favourite -deerhound, at the house door, waiting and listening, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-12"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[12]</span></a></span> never seeming -to eat nor sleep. Her maid carefully each day fed her birds and watered -her flowers, and every one in the household vied with each other in -endeavouring to carry out every known wish or fancy the young lady had -ever had (and it must be confessed they were not a few) as they would -endeavour to carry out the wishes of some dear one dead. On every side, -in every room, were traces of the lost darling. Here, the open piano -with a roll of new music; there, the uncovered harp. In the little -morning room piece after piece of unfinished needlework, and here in a -little “studio,” as Amy was pleased to call it, numberless pencil -sketches, an oil landscape commenced, a water-colour three-parts done, -and a crayon head, “all but” finished. A whole tableful of -china-painting accessories,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-13"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[13]</span></a></span> and commenced cups, saucers, and plates; -and there, in a corner, a cabinet of fret-work tools, with brackets, -card trays, and picture frames enough to stock a small shop. -</p> -<p> -From all this it may be seen that the young lady’s tastes and pursuits -were numerous and varied—change, to her, the one great necessity of -life. A too great indulgence from her earliest infancy had developed in -her character an impatience of restraint, an impetuosity and wilfulness -which, unless it had been counterbalanced, as in her case it was, by an -unusually loving, playful, tender disposition, would have rendered her -imperious and domineering. As it was, every one in the household, from -her father downwards, adored her and bowed to her sway. “I must not be -kept waiting an instant” was a remark which might<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-14">[14]</a></span> be heard every hour -of the day from Miss Amy’s lips. And kept waiting she never was, for -the simple reason that it was an impossibility to keep her in any -posture of tranquillity for five minutes at a time. Every thought or -idea that entered into her brain must be executed there and then and, -scarcely completed, must be thrown on one side to make way for another. -</p> -<p> -“Were you ever thus in your very young days, Stephen?” Mrs. Warden -would sometimes enquire of her husband. And the husband would smile and -shake his head, and declare he had never been half so fascinating as -his wilful, loving, teasing little daughter, “the music and sunshine of -his life,” as he was wont to call her. -</p> -<p> -And now all was changed! The music was<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-15">[15]</a></span> hushed, the sunlight had died -out. Would the shadows ever be lifted from the home again? Would the -quick, light step ever be heard again, and the sweet, young, ringing -voice, exclaiming in its old familiar tones, “I must not be kept -waiting an instant?” -</p> -<p> -So the father and mother asked themselves, as, standing side by side in -their dining room verandah, they looked across the bright August -landscape to where the groom was leading out Amy’s pony for its morning -canter. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden, at this time, was about forty-five years of age, looking -considerably younger. A well-featured, muscular man, with energy, -determination, and many other good qualities plainly written on his -face. A more complete contrast to him than his wife could not well be -imagined. She was very<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-16">[16]</a></span> tiny, very fair, very gentle, with amiability, -want of will, and weakness of character marked in every line and -feature. Her one god was her husband, her one thought how to please -him, and her every opinion and wish was simply an echo of his. -</p> -<p> -“A doll, my dear, nothing more,” was old Lady Nugent’s summing up, -after her first introduction to Mrs. Warden, some twelve years -previously. Mr. Warden had come among them a perfect stranger, buying -one of the largest estates in the county which happened to be for sale. -He had resided, so he had said, nearly all his life in the south of -France, but his family and connections were well known in the Midland -Counties as wealthy and nobly connected. Of his wife, however, nothing -was known, nor could be<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-17">[17]</a></span> discovered, so she was set down, and perhaps -justly, as having been an English governess in some French family, and -as such, most probably, Mr. Warden had first known her. -</p> -<p> -“What men can see in dolls to induce them to marry them, I cannot see,” -pursued the dowager, “they simply need a glass case, some good clothes, -and their work in life is done.” Nevertheless, in spite of Lady -Nugent’s comments, Mrs. Warden had been well received in Harleyford for -her husband’s sake, and now, in the time of her sorrow, nothing could -exceed the kindness and sympathy extended to her on all sides. Carriage -after carriage sweeps along their drive, letter after letter is brought -to the house, some containing wild and improbable suggestions, others -opening here and there a door of hope,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-18">[18]</a></span> all full of warm and earnest -sympathy, and offers of help. -</p> -<p> -“What can any of them do that has not already been done?” says Mr. -Warden, handing to his wife a joint letter from Frank Varley and Lord -Hardcastle, relating their solemn vow, and placing their services at -Mr. Warden’s disposal. -</p> -<p> -“They are noble young fellows, and worthy of a true-hearted girl’s -love. But what can they do? God help us all and teach us how to act for -the best, for my brains are nearly worn out with thinking and -supposing.” -</p> -<p> -“The gentleman from London, sir, Mr. Hill, wishes to see you,” says the -butler at his elbow, having entered the room with a quiet, solemn -tread, as though serving at a funeral feast. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-19">[19]</a></span> -“Ah, the detective,” says Mr. Warden, thankful to have the pressure of -thought lifted for an instant; “show him into the library; I will see -him at once.” -</p> -<p> -Mr. Hill, a slight, gentleman-like man, with the eye of an eagle, and -the nose of a deerhound, seats himself at the library table, and -spreads his memoranda before him. -</p> -<p> -“I bring you my latest report, Mr. Warden, and I grieve to say it -amounts to very little. The only additional information I have -obtained, and that, I fear, is scarcely reliable, is from the postman, -John Martin. He tells me that on the morning of the 14th he met your -daughter in the park lands, and, at her request, handed to her her -morning’s letters. I questioned him as to how he recollected it was on -that day, and he at once<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-20">[20]</a></span> admitted he could not be positive, as it was -the young lady’s custom, whenever she met him, thus to ask for and -receive her letters. I questioned him as to the general appearance of -her letters, whether directed in masculine or feminine hand-writing—(I -beg your pardon, sir, such questions must be asked)—and his reply is, -he never recollects bringing Miss Warden any but letters in ladies’ -writing. You must take the evidence for what it is worth; I fear it -counts for very little, but, such as it is, I have entered it in my -case book.” -</p> -<p> -“I scarcely see whither your questions tend,” remarks Mr. Warden, -somewhat stiffly. “Miss Warden, I am convinced, had no correspondents -with whom I am unacquainted. She has been brought up at home, under<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-21">[21]</a></span> -careful supervision, and has never visited anywhere without Mrs. Warden -or myself. If you are inferring some unknown attachment existed, such a -supposition is entirely without foundation. I have every reason to -believe that my daughter’s affections have been given, and with my -approval, to a very dear young friend and neighbour.” -</p> -<p> -“All this I know, sir. Indeed, I think there is very little you or any -one else can tell me on this matter. There is not a man or woman in the -place whom I have not sounded to their very depths, questioned and -cross-questioned in every imaginable way. I have here, in my pocket, a -map of my own sketching, containing every field and river, every shady -nook and hollow within thirty miles round. I have also a directory with -the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-22">[22]</a></span> names, ages, occupation, and household of every human being within -the same area. Very little, indeed, remains now to be done.” -</p> -<p> -“Don’t tell me that,” exclaims Mr. Warden, excitedly, jumping to his -feet, and pacing the room; “don’t tell me that your work here is over, -and no result for your three weeks’ labour. Don’t, I implore you, crush -me down into utter despair. Have you no hope, ever so slight, to hold -out to me—no advice of any sort to give?” -</p> -<p> -“I have both, Mr. Warden,” replies the detective, calmly; “I need not -tell you now how I have worked out my theory, nor how, step by step, I -have come to the conclusion that your daughter is not dead. This is the -hope I hold out to you.” -</p> -<p> -“Then, if not dead, worse than death has<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-23">[23]</a></span> happened to her,” groans the -poor father, covering his face with his hands; “better death, than -dishonour.” -</p> -<p> -For a moment both are silent; then, Mr. Warden, slowly recovering -himself, enquires, “And what is the advice you have to give, Mr. Hill? -let me have that, at any rate.” -</p> -<p> -“Simply to watch, and to wait, sir; at present, nothing more can be -done. We have exhausted every theory, we have followed out every clue, -or pretence of one. If there are accomplices in the matter, my presence -here puts them on their guard, and as long as I remain nothing will -transpire; when I have left, and things have settled down to their -usual course, I feel sure some one will betray him or herself unawares. -I repeat, wait and watch; and directly your suspicions<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-24">[24]</a></span> are aroused in -the slightest degree, communicate with me, and I will advise you to the -best of my ability.” -</p> -<p> -“Wait!” groans Mr. Warden, “wait! ‘let things settle down to their -usual course;’ how is it possible for a man to live through such a life -of torture and suspense? Is there nothing—absolutely nothing—that can -be done before you leave us?” -</p> -<p> -“Only one thing, and that, with your permission, I will do at once. -With the men of your household, I have been on tolerably familiar -terms, and know pretty well what they could, or could not do; but about -the women I am not so sure. If you will allow me, I will have the whole -of your female servants in here in succession, from the scullery maids, -upwards—take their names,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-25">[25]</a></span> ages, occupations, &c., from their own lips. -I may, possibly, seem to you, sir, to ask a great many irrelevant -questions, but while I am questioning, I am watching and noting, and I -will undertake to say there will be no one with a guilty conscience -who will hide it from my eye.” -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden rings the bell, and gives the order to the footman, who -conveys it to the housekeeper, who forthwith summons all the maids of -the household to be paraded in succession before their master, and the -detective. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Hill requests that the housekeeper will remain in the room the -whole time. “I may have occasion,” he explains, “to refer to you from -time to time, as to the truth or otherwise of some of the statements -made.” -</p> -<p> -First, the kitchen-maids enter, looking very<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-26">[26]</a></span> red, and very much ashamed -of themselves. Mr. Hill glances at them, looks them through and -through, and contents himself with simply noting down their names, -ages, and position in Mr. Warden’s household. The cooks are almost as -quickly dismissed, and between the exit of one staff of servants and -entrance of another, Mr. Hill’s eyes are occupied in scrutinizing the -elderly housekeeper, and in addressing to her various friendly remarks. -</p> -<p> -The housemaids undergo a much longer examination; one girl turns red, -another pale. One answers wide of the mark, and is reprimanded by Mr. -Hill; another is detected in a wilful fib by the housekeeper, who -forthwith brings her to book. Eventually, however, they are dismissed, -and the detective, turning to the housekeeper, enquires where Miss -Warden’s maid is. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-27">[27]</a></span> -“I have to apologize for her, sir,” replies the housekeeper, “will you -kindly excuse her? The poor girl was taken with a violent sick-headache -about an hour ago, and went to lie down in her own room. I believe, -however, I can answer any questions for her you may wish to put.” -</p> -<p> -“About an hour ago,” muses Mr. Hill, “just when the order for the -servants’ parade was given out.” Then, aloud to the housekeeper, “Is -this young person often troubled with violent headaches, Mrs. Nesbitt?” -</p> -<p> -“Oh dear no, sir,” replies Mrs. Nesbitt, “I never knew her taken in -this way before, but you see we have all of us had such an upset, sir, -lately. Dear me! such an upset!” and the old lady glances furtively at -her master. -</p> -<p> -“Exactly, Mrs. Nesbitt, exactly,” said Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-28">[28]</a></span> Hill, sympathetically. -“That is just what I am thinking. Will you kindly take a message from -me to this young person? Tell her I have merely one or two unimportant -questions to put as a matter of form, as to her duties, &c., as Miss -Warden’s maid, but I must have the answers from her own lips. If it -will suit her better I will go with you to her own room, but in any -case I must see her.” -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Nesbitt at once departs on her errand, and after a delay of some -ten minutes, returns with the maid, a round-faced, small-featured girl, -somewhat fashionably dressed for her position, and with an assumption -of refinement and dignity evidently intended as a copy of her young -mistress’s style. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Hill preserves his careless suavity of manner, regrets, politely, -he should have been<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-29">[29]</a></span> compelled to disturb her, hopes she will soon -recover her usual health. Meantime his eye is fixed full on her face, -and throughout the short interview his gaze is never once lifted. -</p> -<p> -“Your name, if you please?” he asks. -</p> -<p> -“Lucy Williams,” replies the girl, quivering and tremulous under his -fixed gaze. -</p> -<p> -“Are your parents living, Miss Williams?” -</p> -<p> -“No,” she replies, shortly, “I have no relations of any sort.” -</p> -<p> -“Not even a brother,” he enquires, “who was once gamekeeper on an -estate the other side of Dunwich, and who subsequently sailed for -America?” -</p> -<p> -Here the girl breaks down utterly, and gives way to a flood of tears. -“How dare you insult me thus?” she enquires angrily. “What do you know -of my brother Tom? He<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-30">[30]</a></span> may be dead and buried for anything I care.” -</p> -<p> -“I know very little about your brother Tom, Miss Williams, beyond the -fact of his having caused your parents a great deal of anxiety. In fact -it was the disgrace of their son’s dismissal from his situation, -charged with conspiring with poachers to rob his master, which, I -believe, broke their hearts. However, I have only one more question to -ask. Have you seen or heard anything of your brother since his return -to this neighbourhood? He was seen, I believe, not very far from this -house on the morning of the 15th of August.” -</p> -<p> -Another passionate burst of sobbing from the girl, and this time an -appeal to Mr. Warden. -</p> -<p> -“Will you allow me, sir, to be insulted<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-31">[31]</a></span> in this way in your presence?” -she demands. “I vow and declare since I have been in your service, I -have always been an honest, faithful servant; I have never wronged any -one by word or deed. I have always”—here another flood of tears. -</p> -<p> -“Gently, gently, Lucy,” expostulates Mr. Warden, “no one is bringing -any charge against you.” Then, to the detective, “Is it not possible to -waive this question, Mr. Hill? I really think you are going almost too -far.” -</p> -<p> -“I will waive it with a great deal of pleasure, sir, and as far as that -goes, I do not see any necessity for prolonging the interview. Miss -Williams, I should certainly advise you to get a little quiet sleep in -your own room, it will do more for you than anything else. Good -morning, Mrs. Nesbitt, I am much<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-32">[32]</a></span> obliged to you for the trouble you -have taken for me.” He politely opens the door for the housekeeper, who -conducts the still sobbing girl out of the room. -</p> -<p> -Then the man’s manner undergoes an entire change. He turns abruptly to -Mr. Warden. “Keep your eye on that girl, sir; I have not passed the -greater part of my life among rogues of all sorts not to know a guilty -face when I see it. That girl is keeping something back, but what I am -at present at a loss to imagine. Take my word for it, within a -fortnight she will do one of two things, either request permission to -leave on account of the dulness of the house or else run away. I think -the latter, from the irresolution and want of nerve she has shown this -morning, but I am not sure. I can only reiterate the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-33">[33]</a></span> advice I have -already given you, watch and wait, and the moment your suspicions are -aroused, communicate with me.” -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -And the detective takes his leave, and as Mr. Warden’s horses convey -him swiftly along the high road to Dunwich, he shakes his head gravely -and mutters, “This is a bad business, and I fear there is worse to -come. I was never before so thoroughly at a loss; I cannot see one inch -before me in the matter; however, we can only watch and wait.” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_03"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-34">[34]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 id="chapter_03_hdg"> -CHAPTER III. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -I<small>T</small> seemed strange, at first, to the good people of Harleyford to see -young Lord Hardcastle and the rector’s son daily in close and friendly -intercourse, accustomed, as they were, to see each politely ignored by -the other, or else spoken of in terms of supercilious contempt. It was -certainly a strange sight to see the young men constantly walking side -by side in earnest conversation, or else riding to and from each -other’s houses. Lord Hardcastle’s weakness had hitherto been -near-sightedness whenever Varley had happened<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-35"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[35]</span></a></span> to cross his path. -“Who was that you recognized just now?” he would say to a companion, if -he happened to have one at the time, and on being informed it was the -rector’s son, would remark, carelessly— -</p> -<p> -“Oh, the young giant whose brains have run into muscle; let us talk of -something interesting.” -</p> -<p> -Frank Varley, in his turn, would speak in no measured terms of “that -kid-gloved dandy—that embodiment of priggishness and polite -literature.” -</p> -<p> -But now all was changed. A common sorrow had drawn them to each other, -and their intense and true love for, and devotion to poor Amy, had -rendered them so far unselfish as to enable them to work together with -determination and courage. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-36">[36]</a></span> -Mr. Warden’s reply to their letter had been a brief, “Come and see me; -we will talk the matter over.” And arm in arm the young men had -responded to his invitation. -</p> -<p> -“I am very grateful to you both,” was Mr. Warden’s greeting, “I know -not how to express my thanks; but what can any one do that has not been -already done?” -</p> -<p> -“See here, Mr. Warden,” broke in Frank, impetuously, “I don’t care what -other people have or have not done, I must do something. I shall go mad -if I sit here idle any longer. I have no doubt that detective fellow -you had from London did his work superlatively well, but still it is -possible he may have left something undone. Let me ride through your -plantations once more; let me have men down here, and drag over again -that cursed<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-37">[37]</a></span> water, yonder.” He pointed through the window to a silvery -little stream which flowed at the bottom of Mr. Warden’s lawn and -flower garden. Deep water it was here and there, and here and there -clogged with long grasses and rushes; but on and on it went, until at -length it fell into the noble river upon which the town of Dunwich is -built. -</p> -<p> -“My poor fellow, do it if you will,” is Mr. Warden’s reply, “do it a -hundred times over, if it is any gratification to you; I fear the -result will be the same to your efforts as to mine. But tell me in your -turn, have you nothing to suggest? You, Lord Hardcastle, have the -reputation of having more brains than most of us, tell me if you can -propose anything to lighten this terrible time of suspense? Have you -thought well over the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-38">[38]</a></span> possibilities and impossibilities of this -dreadful affair, and do you see any glimmer of hope anywhere for us?” -</p> -<p> -“Have I thought well over it?” repeats Hardcastle; “you might better -ask me, ‘do I ever think of anything else?’ for day and night no other -thought ever enters my mind; hour after hour do I sit thinking over, -and weighing in turn, each circumstance, however slight, which has -occurred in connection with the loss of your daughter. I have looked at -the matter, not only from my own point of view, and worked out my own -theories threadbare, but have endeavoured to put myself, as it were, in -other people’s bodies, to hear the matter with their ears, and see it -with their eyes! and then have I exhausted every possible or impossible -theory which they<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-39">[39]</a></span> might have. Nowhere, alas, can I see any clue to the -mystery. Indeed, each day that passes renders it more terrible and -difficult. It is impossible she can be dead”— -</p> -<p> -He pauses abruptly; large drops of perspiration stand out upon his -forehead, and his outstretched hand trembles with suppressed emotion. -“Had she been lying dead anywhere in the whole land, her body would by -this time have been brought to you, or at any rate news of how and -where she died.” -</p> -<p> -“Hush, hush!” breaks in Mr. Warden pitifully, as, pale and tottering, -he catches hold of Lord Hardcastle’s arm; “don’t speak to me in this -way, Hardcastle, or you will kill me outright; this last month has made -an old man of me, and a feather’s weight would knock me over now. If -you can see more<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-40">[40]</a></span> clearly than any of us what lies in the future, for -mercy’s sake hold back the blow as long as possible.” -</p> -<p> -There is a pause of some minutes; at last, Varley jumps to his feet, -impatiently— -</p> -<p> -“For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow,” he exclaims, “don’t croak any more -than you can help, but help us a little with your wisdom and advice. I -have Mr. Warden’s permission to travel over the old ground again, and -we are to commence this very hour; tell us what you purpose doing?” -</p> -<p> -“I shall wait and watch,” replies Hardcastle, unconsciously repeating -Mr. Hill’s own words, “the clue will discover itself somewhere, -somehow, when we least expect it; here, more likely, than anywhere -else; and it needs a hearing ear and a seeing eye to seize<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-41">[41]</a></span> and follow -it up. You may wander hither and thither, if you will, I shall remain -here, and wait and watch.” -</p> -<p> -“Strange,” said Mr. Warden, musingly, “your words are the echo of what -was said to me yesterday, by the professional detective I employed.” -Then he related to them in detail the examination of the servants by -Mr. Hill, and his parting advice. -</p> -<p> -“Have the girl, Williams, in at once, Mr. Warden,” exclaims Frank, -“question her as to what she has, or has not done; let me,” he adds, -eagerly, “ask her one or two questions; depend upon it, they will be to -the point.” -</p> -<p> -But to this the two other gentlemen object, Mr. Warden considering it -an unjust thing to attach suspicion to the girl on account of the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-42">[42]</a></span> -misdeeds of her brother; and Lord Hardcastle alleging that by so doing -they would defeat their own object by putting the girl on her guard. -“Let us wait and watch,” once more he implores. But Frank shakes his -head, “Waiting and watching may suit some men,” he says, “but for me it -is an impossibility. I must do something, and at once, or I shall blow -my brains out; that is, if I have any,” he adds, with a grim smile, and -a shrug of his shoulders. -</p> -<p> -Forthwith he departs to organize a body of volunteers once more to -scour the whole county—to search commons and through woods—to cut fern -and furze from shady hollows and dark corners, where, by any chance, a -secret might be hidden. Once more to drag rivers and streams, and -search under<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-43">[43]</a></span> hedges, and in reed-grown ditches; and finally to question -and re-question every man, woman, and child far or near, as to their -recollection of the day’s occurrences of the 14th of August. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -This was the plan of action Frank had sketched out for himself, and -bravely indeed, did he carry it out. Volunteers by the score came -forward, for the sympathy expressed for Mr. Warden was heartfelt, and -Amy’s loss had cast a gloom over the whole county. Not a man or woman -in the country side but what would have gone to the other end of the -world to have lifted from the sorrowing father and mother this dark -cloud of suspense. As for the young lady herself, they would have laid -down their lives for her; for her kindly, pleasant ways and pretty -queenly airs,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-44">[44]</a></span> had won all hearts. And thus, high and low, rich and -poor joined hands with Frank Varley, and searched with a will, working -early, and working late—earnest men, at earnest work. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_04"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-45">[45]</a></span></p> -<h2 id="chapter_04_hdg"> -CHAPTER IV. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -A<small>T</small> this time Lord Hardcastle began to be a daily visitor at the High -Elms. “My own house is very dreary to me,” he had said, “may I come to -you very often for an hour or so, without feeling I am intruding?” And -Mr. Warden had bade him welcome, but had warned him that he would find -the High Elms more than “dreary.” “To me the place is silent and gloomy -as a vault or grave-yard,” he said, “but I am sure the presence of a -real friend like yourself will be a great comfort to Mrs. Warden, now -that I am such a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-46"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[46]</span></a></span> poor companion for her.” Thus, it came to pass that -daily, about noon, Lord Hardcastle might be seen riding up the steep -avenue which led to Mr. Warden’s house, returning generally about dusk -to his solitary dinner, for being an orphan, and without any near -relative, and naturally of a studious, reserved disposition, his -privacy was very seldom broken into by chance visitors, or casual -acquaintances. -</p> -<p> -As time went on, however, he frequently accepted Mr. Warden’s -invitation to dine and sleep at his house; and on these occasions he -would devote the entire morning to Mrs. Warden and her occupations; -generally after lunch walking or riding with Mr. Warden. Thus, a week -or ten days slipped away; Frank Varley and his band of volunteers -working<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-47">[47]</a></span> hard meantime. Then suddenly, an unexpected calamity befel -the village of Harleyford—an epidemic of small-pox broke out, and -threatened to be of a virulent nature. A groom of Mr. Warden’s, calling -on one of the villagers, caught the disease, and returned to the High -Elms, only to sicken and die. Mr. Warden, habitually kind and -thoughtful to his dependants, had had the best local medical advice -that could be procured, and in addition, nurses, and all approved -disinfectants, &c., from the Dunwich Fever Hospital. Yet, in spite of -these precautions, Lord Hardcastle, one morning, on entering the house, -was met by the housekeeper with a face so long and melancholy he could -see at once some fresh calamity had occurred. -</p> -<p> -“What is it, Mrs. Nesbitt?” he enquired,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-48">[48]</a></span> without waiting for the old -lady to speak, “Has your master or mistress taken the infection, or if -not, what has happened?” -</p> -<p> -“Both, I fear, sir, are seized,” replied the housekeeper, sadly; “I -have sent for Doctor Mills and Doctor Hayward, and two additional -nurses from the hospital; but as yet, no one has come. And oh, sir! -something else has happened: Lucy Williams has disappeared in some -mysterious manner; not a soul has seen her since last night. It seems, -indeed,” added the old lady, clasping her hands, while the tears rained -from her eyes, “as though a curse had fallen upon the house. Where will -it all end! Heaven knows: I tremble to think who may be taken next.” -</p> -<p> -This was startling news indeed, although, perhaps, nothing more than -might have been<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-49">[49]</a></span> expected from the state of affairs at the High Elms. -Mr. and Mrs. Warden’s health had been considerably shaken by the days -and nights of suspense they had passed through. Consequently it would -not be a matter of surprise if they were the next to fall victims to -the disease. -</p> -<p> -Then again with regard to Lucy Williams, were they not watching the -girl, and waiting for her to make a move in some direction? -</p> -<p> -However, there was no time to be lost in speculation, there was work to -be done. Lord Hardcastle wrote a brief note to Varley— -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“Leave off your searching and dragging at once; there is something else -for you to do. Lucy Williams has disappeared. Come over immediately. I -will have all necessary information collected, and ready to place in<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-50">[50]</a></span> -your hands by the time you arrive. This, if you will, you can convey to -Inspector Hill, Scotland Yard. It may save time. Start, if possible, by -the 2.10 p.m. train. -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“H<small>ARDCASTLE</small>.” -</p> -<p> -This note he despatched by one of the grooms, mounting the man on his -own horse, a high-bred roan, which knew how to go like the wind when -need was. Unfortunately there was some uncertainty as to where Varley -was to be found. The rectory in those days saw but little of him, and -his work had lately taken him to a woodland some four or five miles -distant. -</p> -<p> -Hither the man, by Lord Hardcastle’s direction, rode in quest, only, -unfortunately, to see the volunteers returning by different routes, -after another fruitless search. On<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-51">[51]</a></span> enquiry, he found that Varley -had ridden still farther on to the nearest post-town, most likely on -some false scent. -</p> -<p> -Hither again the man followed him, and, fortunately, met him slowly -riding towards home, thinking, perhaps, of another day of useless -search ended, and where it would be best to recommence on the morrow. -</p> -<p> -He read Hardcastle’s note, and then looked at his watch. The hands -pointed at two o’clock. -</p> -<p> -“Here,” he exclaimed in a perfect whirl of passion and vexation, “have -I been wasting precious time over this confounded woodland, and the -real work waiting for me! That girl will have twenty-four hours start -of us. No train till 6.30 to-night! Arrive at London about nine -o’clock. The police, I suppose,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-52">[52]</a></span> set to work the first thing in the -morning! The girl has a fair chance of escape, I must say, but, thank -Heaven, there is something definite to be done at last! Here,” he -called to the groom, “ride alongside of me, and tell me all that is to -be known about the girl Williams and her flight!” -</p> -<p> -But the man had little, or nothing, to tell beyond the fact that the -girl had gone. All his information had been obtained at second-hand, -and, like the housekeeper and other servants, the man seemed almost -bewildered with the strange events occurring in such rapid succession -in the household. -</p> -<p> -Meantime Lord Hardcastle was carefully collecting all the information -that was to be had relative to the girl’s disappearance, questioning -each of the servants in succession. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-53">[53]</a></span> -It appeared she had taken her supper with the other servants as usual -at 10 o’clock on the previous night, or rather had attempted to do so, -for she complained of feeling very ill, of pains in her head and back, -and declared she was unable to eat. One of the maids had taunted her by -enquiring whether it was the same sort of head-ache she had had when -Detective Hill was in the house. This was met by an indignant -rejoinder, and then the girl angrily left the room, as the others -thought, to go to bed. The next morning she did not make her appearance -at the servants’ breakfast, and the housekeeper, with whom Lucy was -somewhat a favourite, determined to allow her a little latitude, -thinking possibly the girl might really need rest and quiet. -</p> -<p> -Time slipped by, and Mrs. Nesbitt, occupied<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-54">[54]</a></span> in household matters, -did not again think of Lucy Williams until about half-past ten; then -going to her room to enquire for her, found the door locked, and -received no reply to her repeated knockings. Without consulting her -master, she desired one of the men to break open the door, and -entering, found that the bed had not been slept in, and the room in a -great state of confusion. They had not had time to inform their master -of the fact, before his bell was rung hurriedly, and he gave orders -that Dr. Hayward should immediately be sent for, as Mrs. Warden and he -were feeling far from well. “Stricken in body, as well as mind, -Nesbitt,” he had said sadly. “It doesn’t matter much, there is not a -great deal left to live for now.” -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Nesbitt had not dared to inform him<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-55">[55]</a></span> of the fresh calamities. -“And I am indeed thankful, sir,” added the poor old lady, “that you -have come into the house to lift some of this heavy responsibility off -my shoulders.” -</p> -<p> -“Let me see Lucy’s room, Mrs. Nesbitt,” said Lord Hardcastle. -</p> -<p> -The housekeeper immediately conducted him to the servants’ quarters. -</p> -<p> -“Is this exactly the condition in which you found the room?” he -enquired, as Nesbitt threw back the door for him to enter. -</p> -<p> -“Indeed, sir, and I grieve to say that it is,” she replied. “To think -that any young girl in this house could leave a room in such a state is -more than I can understand,” and she sighed again. -</p> -<p> -Lord Hardcastle looked attentively round. A box, half open, and the -contents partially<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-56">[56]</a></span> drawn out, stood at the foot of the bed. A dress, -bonnet and walking jacket lay upon a chair, evidently thrown there in a -hurry, and a whole pile of burned letters was heaped in the fire-grate. -Here and there the charred scraps had been fluttered on to the floor, -most likely by the rapid passing and re-passing of the girl while -preparing for her flight. -</p> -<p> -“And to think that we might all of us have been burned in our beds last -night,” moaned the housekeeper, “for aught she cared, the wicked girl!” -</p> -<p> -“Tell me, Mrs. Nesbitt,” interrupts Lord Hardcastle, “do you know the -extent of Lucy Williams’s wardrobe? how many bonnets or hats had she do -you think?” -</p> -<p> -“It’s that which puzzles me, sir. I know for certain, she had but two, -for she told me<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-57">[57]</a></span> only yesterday, she would not buy another just now, in -case we might have to go into mourning for our dear young lady, and she -complained that both were so shabby she was ashamed to be seen in them. -And there they both are; she must have left the house with nothing on -her head.” -</p> -<p> -“Or else in some one else’s!” remarks Lord Hardcastle. “It was -yesterday you say she spoke of her hats; from her remarks I should -imagine her flight was not thought of until suggested by the taunts of -the other maid. Consequently her plans would not be properly matured -nor well laid. So much the better for our chance of finding her. Tell -me, Mrs. Nesbitt, could you or any one else speak as to the contents of -Miss Warden’s wardrobe, and had Lucy Williams any means of access to -it.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-58">[58]</a></span> -“She had sole charge of it, sir, after our dear young lady left. You -see Mrs. Warden and every one else so liked and trusted Lucy that -everything was left in her hands, except the jewel case, which was -removed to Mrs. Warden’s room. I don’t believe any one but Lucy could -speak for a certainty as to what Miss Warden had or had not.” -</p> -<p> -“We will go now, if you please, to Miss Warden’s room,” says Lord -Hardcastle, giving one more glance at the untidy chamber. “This door -must be secured and sealed till the police have seen the room. I will -see if by any chance she has left any letters behind her.” -</p> -<p> -But on looking through the drawers and boxes no papers of any sort are -to be found, and it seems to the housekeeper, that few if<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-59">[59]</a></span> any of the -girl’s clothes have been removed. -</p> -<p> -In an hour’s time, Lord Hardcastle has a small packet of carefully -written notes ready for Varley’s assistance and guidance. -</p> -<p> -“I have not time,” he wrote, “to give you in detail the bases upon -which my suppositions rest, I have simply dotted down one or two facts -which I have ascertained beyond doubt, and one or two ideas which may -perhaps be useful to you. -</p> -<p> -“In the first place, the girl’s flight if intended at some future -period, was certainly not thought of for to-day, until late last night. -This I am sure of from the hurried and scanty nature of her -preparations. -</p> -<p> -“Secondly, she has not gone away in her own clothes, but most likely in -Miss Warden’s;<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-60">[60]</a></span> at any rate in one of Miss Warden’s bonnets and walking -jackets. -</p> -<p> -“Thirdly, she has most probably appropriated other properties of Miss -Warden’s, as the young lady’s room and its contents have been left in -her sole charge. -</p> -<p> -“Hence it follows (fourthly), that she has probably taken the train to -London, travelling by the first this morning, as she would be anxious -to dispose of her spoil and would only dare to do so in the metropolis. -</p> -<p> -“Fifthly, the girl has gone away very ill. My own impression is, that -the small-pox is in her system, and that she will not hold up as far as -to London. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“Sixthly, her only friend in London, as far as can be ascertained, is a -Miss or Mrs. Kempe, who resides at 15, Gresham Street North, High -Street, Hackney.” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_05"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-61">[61]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 id="chapter_05_hdg"> -CHAPTER V. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -D<small>R</small>. H<small>AYWARD</small>’<small>S</small> report of Mr. and Mrs. Warden’s health was far from -satisfactory. “The lady,” he said, in reply to Lord Hardcastle’s -enquiries, was undoubtedly suffering from small-pox, which in her weak -state of health, had taken strong hold of her. As to Mr. Warden, he -could not be sure; he feared some disease was latent in his system; he -was altogether below par, and the anxiety and grief he had gone through -had completely undermined his constitution— -</p> -<p> -“Do what you can for them, while you can, my dear, young friend,” he -added (he had<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-62">[62]</a></span> known Hardcastle from his boyhood), “and spare them, -as far as possible, the details of this sad business.” -</p> -<p> -So Lord Hardcastle had sent for his portmanteau, and a few favourite -books, and begged of Mrs. Nesbitt a room in some quiet corner of the -house, “A room, if you please, with cool, quiet colouring, no reds, or -blues, or yellows, to flash out from the walls, and some soft thick -carpet on the floor,” he had said, his wonted fastidiousness once more -asserting itself. But he was more than repaid for any temporary -inconvenience he might suffer, by the look of grateful thanks which -crossed Mr. Warden’s careworn face, and his warm pressure of the hand, -as he thanked his young friend for his kind unselfishness in thus -voluntarily sharing the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-63">[63]</a></span> dreariness and desolation of their home. -Dreary it was, indeed, to one who had known it in the old days. No -light footsteps on the stairs, or sudden opening of doors, and a bright -young voice pouring forth a flood of question, answer, and exclamation -in a breath; no croquet, nor tennis balls here and there on the lawn, -nor galloping of pony’s feet up the long steep avenue. A silence as of -death appeared to have fallen upon the house, and the father and -mother, stricken and weary, looked in each other’s pale faces and -wondered “could this be the home of a month ago?” -</p> -<p> -And as Lord Hardcastle began to grow accustomed to the routine and -family life of the household, two thoughts gradually forced themselves -into his mind, which he<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-64">[64]</a></span> felt would lead him somewhere, although utterly -at a loss to imagine where. -</p> -<p> -Thrown as he was daily into close and intimate relations with Mr. and -Mrs. Warden, he could not help reflecting on the strangeness of the -fact, that neither in appearance, disposition, nor manner, did Amy in -the slightest degree resemble either parent. The more closely he -observed them, the more the dissimilarity became apparent. -</p> -<p> -The second fact which forced itself upon his notice, related solely to -Mrs. Warden. Sincere as her grief for her daughter’s loss undoubtedly -was, it soon became apparent to Lord Hardcastle, that it was -nevertheless simply a reflected sorrow, that is to say, it struck her -through her husband; she grieved for his loss, more than for her own,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-65">[65]</a></span> -and was broken-hearted because she saw that grief was slowly killing -him day by day. No one but a very close observer would have noted these -things, and Lord Hardcastle was a very close observer, and more than -that, a logical one. He did not believe in the possibility of sudden -and disconnected facts occurring in the human world any more than in -the world of nature. “There is a reason for these things, although at -present it eludes me,” he would say to himself time after time. Long -after midnight might the shaded lamp be seen burning from his bedroom -window, and could any one have lifted the curtain, they would have seen -Hardcastle, with head resting on his hands, and elbows on the table, no -books before him, nor any pretence of writing materials, but a whole<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-66">[66]</a></span> -world of thought evidently passing and repassing through his brain. -</p> -<p> -Meantime enquiries were set on foot on all sides as to the girl -Williams. Frank Varley had ascertained from the station master at -Dunwich, that a young girl, veiled and exceedingly well dressed, had -left by the first train on that morning— -</p> -<p> -“I should not have noticed any number of ladies at any other time, -sir,” said the man, “but it is quite the exception for any but work -people or business men to travel up by the 5.9 a.m. train.” -</p> -<p> -Varley had farther ascertained from the guard, that the lady had -travelled first class, and had seemed very faint and tired. Arriving at -the Midland Station, his work suddenly and unexpectedly became very -easy<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-67">[67]</a></span> to him. The officials there at once informed him of a lady having -been taken alarmingly ill on alighting from the early morning train. -The porter who told him, said that he himself had fetched a cab for -her, and, scarcely conscious, she had given some address at Hackney, -where she wished to be driven, but the name of the street had entirely -slipped his memory. -</p> -<p> -Frank did not waste time in further enquiries. He at once telegraphed -to Detective Hill fullest particulars of Lucy’s flight, and where he -expected to find her, requesting him to follow him there as soon as -possible. Then he sprang into a cab, and gave the man orders to drive -to Gresham Street, Hackney. -</p> -<p> -An hour’s drive brought him to the farther side of that northern -suburb—a <i>terra incognita</i><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-68">[68]</a></span> to Frank, whose knowledge of London was -limited to the club quarters, and west-end-squares and parks. Two or -three busy roads were crossed, with flaring gas jets and goods very -freely distributed on the pavement in front of the comparatively empty -shops. Then a sudden turn brought him into a quiet street of some -twenty or thirty two-storied houses, inhabited mostly by dressmakers, -machinists, and journeymen of all kinds. Although poor, there was an -air of quiet industry about the place, which gave Frank the hope that -Lucy Williams’s friends might prove respectable, honest people. -Dismissing his cab, he knocked at the door of No. 15; a few minutes -elapsed, and it was opened by a tall, thin, pale woman of about thirty -years of age, very neatly dressed, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-69">[69]</a></span> with a look of settled anxiety -and grief upon a face plain, but still frank and honest. -</p> -<p> -“Ah! I expected you, sir,” she said, quietly, “or at least some one in -pursuit to-night. If you have come in search of Lucy Williams, I -beseech you take these, and let the girl die in peace.” -</p> -<p> -She opened her hand, and held out something glittering; there was no -light in the narrow doorway, but the glimmer of a gas-lamp lower down -the street fell upon a small heap of splendidly cut diamonds, and was -flashed back in a thousand brilliant hues. These Frank readily -identified as the brooch and earrings Miss Warden had worn at the -county ball the last night he had seen her. He took them from the -woman’s hand— -</p> -<p> -“Yes, I want these,” he said, “but I also<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-70">[70]</a></span> want your friend, and -must and will see her. Don’t attempt to hinder me, but take me at once -to where she is.” -</p> -<p> -“Have mercy, sir,” pleaded the woman, “the poor girl cannot live very -long, she is standing on the verge of the dark river. Do not! oh do -not, I implore you, turn her thoughts from the only One who can carry -her over! I have read to her, I have prayed—” -</p> -<p> -“Be quiet!” interrupted Frank, for he began to fear there might be some -trickery behind all this; lest she might be delaying his entrance in -this way, in order to give the girl time to escape. “Be quiet,” he -repeated, “and take me at once to the girl, or I shall find my way by -myself.” Then the woman yielded, and once more pleading for mercy<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-71">[71]</a></span> -for her friend, opened a door on her left hand, and Frank found himself -in a small, hot room, only lighted by a low fire flickering in the -grate. -</p> -<p> -A faint moaning from the bed denoted it was occupied. “Can you not -bring me a light?” said Frank, “I can’t see which way to turn.” At the -sound of a man’s voice, a figure started up in the square old-fashioned -bed, exclaiming in a high-pitched, feverish voice— -</p> -<p> -“Have they come for me? Let me die in peace, I entreat you! Oh, sir, I -will tell you everything, everything; only let me stay here.” Then, -clasping her hands, and swaying herself to and fro she exclaimed— -</p> -<p> -“Tom knows all about it; I did it for him, only for him!” Then she fell -back exhausted,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-72">[72]</a></span> evidently in a high state of delirium, muttering again -and again, “Tom, only for Tom.” -</p> -<p> -Frank readily recognised Lucy’s voice, but it was too dark to see her -face. The woman came forward and endeavoured to soothe her; “Hush, -Lucy,” she said, “don’t think about Tom now, although God knows I would -lay down my life for him. Turn your thoughts to One able to save both -you and Tom if you will repent and believe. Hear what He said to the -dying thief on the cross.” Then she commenced reciting the Scripture -story from memory. But again Frank interrupted her— -</p> -<p> -“See here,” he said, “I am not a heathen, nor an infidel, but I want to -know what you have done towards bringing the girl round. Have you had a -doctor in?” -</p> -<p> -“A doctor, sir,” replied the woman, “since<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-73">[73]</a></span> Lucy came into the house I -have not ceased reading and praying with her for one five minutes; if -it is the Lord’s will she will recover, and live to repent of her sins; -but if she must die, why should I waste precious time trying to cure -her poor body, while Satan is striving to steal her soul.” -</p> -<p> -“Hush! my good woman,” said Frank, “I will stay here with your friend, -and do my best to fight the devil for you; you must go at once and get -a doctor in. Here, take my card, get the best and nearest doctor; tell -him I will be answerable for all charges.” -</p> -<p> -“I go, sir,” replied the woman; then, once more bending over the bed, -she murmured, “Lucy, Lucy, while there is yet time, turn to the Lord; -do not forget what He has said to all who go to Him in tears and -penitence.”<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-74">[74]</a></span> Then Frank took her by the arm, and led her out of the -room, reminding her that there still might be a chance of saving her -friend’s life. -</p> -<p> -Left thus unexpectedly alone with the girl, Frank determined to make -one more effort to get at the truth. How ill she was, he scarcely knew, -but getting more accustomed to the dim light of the room, he could see -that her face was crimson with fever, and her eyes wild and staring. He -approached the bed quietly, and bending over her, said in a low tone— -</p> -<p> -“Lucy Williams, do you know me? I have come a long way to ask you a -question, will you try to answer it?” -</p> -<p> -The girl started up in bed with a loud cry, “Tom, Tom!” she exclaimed, -evidently<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-75">[75]</a></span> mistaking Varley for her brother; “Why do you stay here? I -thought you were at Liverpool; you will never, never get off!” Then she -sank back on her pillows, and recommenced breathing heavily. -</p> -<p> -Frank waited a few minutes and thought he would try once more. This -time he began differently. “Lucy,” he said, in a kind, soothing tone, -“I have no doubt your brother is safe somewhere by this time, it is -about your young mistress I wish to speak, your dear Miss Amy. Can you -tell me where she is or do you know what led her to leave her home?” -But now the girl’s terror redoubled; she clasped her hands and hid her -face in the pillows. “Do not take me away, sir,” she implored, “let me -die here in peace! I did it for Tom—he knows, he will tell you—only<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-76">[76]</a></span> -leave me here till the morning?” Then her mutterings became incoherent, -and she tossed wildly from side to side. -</p> -<p> -It was evidently useless; nothing more could then be attempted, and -Varley drew away from the bed and leant against the window ledge. Had -he been of an imaginative temperament, the scene in which he was -playing a part would have excited his nerves horribly. Not a sound in -the house save the tick, tick, of a large Dutch clock fixed in a corner -near the window. Now and then a feeble flame would spring up in the -half-filled grate and cast a gaunt shadow across the ceiling. A badly -silvered oval mirror hung over the mantle-piece and seemed to reflect -all sorts of weird shapes; and every now and then, from the poor worn -out bed in<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-77">[77]</a></span> the darkest corner of the room, came a sob or moan, or the -girl’s half-muttered delirous fancies. -</p> -<p> -“I shall be glad when this is over,” said Frank to himself. “How long -that woman is. The girl may be dead before morning and we none the -wiser for what she knows!” He tried to catch a sentence here and there -of her wanderings, but it told him nothing beyond the fact that her -brother was somehow mixed up in the affair, and her one anxiety was for -his safety. -</p> -<p> -At length, after what seemed to Frank an hour’s waiting, but which in -reality was but half the time, footsteps stopped outside in the silent -street. In a few moments two figures entered the room and a brisk sharp -voice exclaimed, “A light, Miss Kempe, and quickly;<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-78">[78]</a></span> do you suppose I -can attend a patient in the dark?” Then Miss Kempe groped in the depths -of a corner cupboard, and presently produced a small end of a small -candle ensconced in a large flat candlestick; this Frank quickly -lighted with one of his cigar matches, and exchanging greetings with -the doctor, turned with him towards the bed. -</p> -<p> -The doctor held the candle low, throwing the light on the girl’s face, -then he shook his head. “Are you afraid of infection?” he said, turning -to Frank, “if so you had better go home at once.” -</p> -<p> -“Afraid!” repeated Varley, “No, I am not afraid of anything under -heaven when I have an object in view. But what is it? What is she -suffering from?” -</p> -<p> -“Suppressed small-pox. A very bad case;<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-79">[79]</a></span> something on her mind, too, I -should say,” this with a keen glance at Frank, “Twenty-four hours will -see the end of it.” Then he turned to Miss Kempe and proceeded to give -her some necessary directions. -</p> -<p> -And twenty-four hours did see the end of it. About an hour before -midnight, Frank was joined in his watch by Detective Hill, who at once -offered to take sole charge of the case. “No,” said Frank decisively, -“as long as there is the shadow of a chance of the shadow of a clue -being given I shall remain. Your ears are sharpened by your practice -and profession, but mine, Mr. Hill, by something with which your -profession has nothing to do.” -</p> -<p> -“Gentlemen,” said the doctor, as the grey dawn began to struggle -through the narrow<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-80">[80]</a></span> panes, and light up the poorly furnished room. “It -is perfectly useless for either of you to remain. The delirium has -ceased, and the girl has fallen into a state of stupor from which she -will never waken. She will never speak again.” -</p> -<p> -Still they stayed on. The Detective, as the day wore away, went in and -out for his meals or a breath of fresh air, for the small room had -become stifling. But Frank never stirred. “She may die at any moment,” -he thought, “and it’s just possible that at the very last her energies -may re-kindle, and she may make some sign that will need -interpretation.” -</p> -<p> -So he waited and waited. The doctor came in and out, attending -neighbouring patients and returning at intervals. The old clock went -tick, tick, in the corner, and Miss<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-81">[81]</a></span> Kempe, on her knees at the bedside, -prayed audibly for the poor dying one. “Will you not join me, sir,” she -had said to Frank, “in wrestling for this poor sinner’s soul?” -</p> -<p> -“I won’t say I won’t join you, Miss Kempe,” Frank had replied, “but you -must let me stay here by the window.” -</p> -<p> -And thus towards evening the girl passed away in her sleep; she made no -sign, she did not even lift her hand, and Frank, with a sigh and a -pitiful look at the once bright-faced Lucy Williams, thankfully made -his escape into the fresh air. -</p> -<p> -He was soon joined by Detective Hill. “So sir,” he said, “it is all -over, and there is little more we can do beyond setting a watch on the -house and the woman there.” -</p> -<p> -“How so,” exclaimed Frank, “do you suspect<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-82">[82]</a></span> she is mixed up in the -affair? To me she seemed an honest sort of person, although somewhat of -a fanatic.” -</p> -<p> -“So she is, sir, a really good woman I believe, a sort of a mission -woman, I think they call her, connected with the Plymouth Brethren. I -have, however, made a few enquiries about her, and I find that she was -at one time engaged to be married to Tom Williams, but gave him up on -account of the dissolute life he was leading. For his sake I suspect -she has shown all this kindness to Lucy, and I think it more than -probable that the fellow not hearing from his sister will endeavour to -communicate with her through this woman.” -</p> -<p> -“Then it has not been altogether time wasted in following the girl -here? I was<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-83">[83]</a></span> beginning to lose heart again, and to imagine that once -more the clue had slipped through our fingers. You mean to have this -woman watched, Mr. Hill. Very good. May I ask you to allot this task to -me? I cannot rest, I must be doing something, you know.” -</p> -<p> -“Pardon me, sir, the man has already been chosen for the work. Your -presence in this neighbourhood is unwise, and arouses suspicion, and -instead of being the watcher, you would be the one watched. A man of -their own class must do the work. The man I have chosen is the postman -on this beat. He is an old ally and friend of mine, and has taken a -room opposite No. 15 for the purpose. We must pay him well, sir, that’s -all, and we may count on a minute report of Miss Kempe’s daily doings; -including, as a matter<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-84">[84]</a></span> of course, the first foreign or country letter -she receives.” -</p> -<p> -“Very well, you must do things your own way, I suppose. But what about -the Liverpool police, are they on the watch for the man? Is there -nothing I can do there? I dare say,” added Frank, apologetically, “you -think me a confounded fool, but I must be doing something. I think I -must start off for Chicago, Australia, or somewhere! If you can’t find -work for me, I must find it for myself.” -</p> -<p> -“But why go so far, sir? You may be of more use nearer home. Only one -thing I must beg of you, leave this neighbourhood at once. If these -people get it into their heads that they are watched, our difficulties -will be increased tenfold. I can’t say for certain,”<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-85">[85]</a></span> the Detective -added, reflectively, “but it’s just possible you might be of use at -Liverpool. I can give you the names of one or two chums of Tom -Williams, and if you can contrive to get it known among them that Lucy -has died, and left her brother her clothes and savings, it will, no -doubt, reach the fellow’s ears, and the bait may draw. You see, these -people are sharp enough to know the difference between a detective and -a gentleman, and would be more likely to attach faith to a report -coming through you, than from Scotland Yard.” -</p> -<p> -“Very well, then, I start for Liverpool at once. I have given orders -for the girl’s funeral, and arranged that Miss Warden’s walking dress -and diamonds shall be sent back to her parents. I have only kept this,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-86">[86]</a></span> -Hill,” and Frank took from his pocket-book a small bow of lace and -ribbon. “You see, I remember her wearing it, and if it’s missed, you’ll -know I have it,” and he replaced it reverently in his breast-pocket. -</p> -<p> -“And now, before we part, Mr. Hill,” continued Frank, “I want you -honestly and candidly to give me your own private opinion on this -matter. How, and in what way, do you consider Lucy Williams to be -concerned in Miss Warden’s disappearance?” -</p> -<p> -“Well, sir, it’s a difficult question to answer,” replied Mr. Hill, -looking sideways at Frank. “I only feel sure of one thing in this -affair, and that is that Miss Warden is alive and well somewhere. All -else must be conjecture. My own impression is that she left her home -voluntarily, and that she is staying away voluntarily. In such cases -the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-87">[87]</a></span> maid generally possesses, to some extent, the confidence of her -mistress, and acts according to some pre-arranged plan. Even the -diamonds for instance—” -</p> -<p> -“Stop,” shouted Frank, in a voice that made the detective start, “I -can’t stand this. Say another word, and I shall knock you down! No -power in Heaven or earth shall make me believe such a story as that. -No, no, it implies too much! Could a girl with her mouth and eyes have -deliberately set herself to deceive her parents and friends? Could -she—no, no, I will not hear it. Tell me anything but such a black story -as that, Hill.” -</p> -<p> -“Well, sir, I have no wish to give offence. You asked for my opinion, -but it is extremely difficult in such a case as this to have one.” This -with a respectful glance at Frank’s Herculean arm and well-developed -muscles. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-88">[88]</a></span> -Two hours after this Frank was well on his way to Liverpool. Anxious, -worried, disappointed as he was at the unforeseen ending to his -journey, he could not help feeling at heart more hopeful than he had -hitherto been. “Alive and well somewhere,” he kept repeating to himself -over and over again, not as an incentive to his work, for he needed -none, but for the ring of comfort the words brought. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“Nothing can ever shake my faith in that girl, nothing can ever make me -doubt her truth and purity,” he said, as he entered one or two facts in -his note-book for future experience and guidance. “But how the mystery -deepens and thickens, supposing her to be alive and well somewhere!” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_06"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-89">[89]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 id="chapter_06_hdg"> -CHAPTER VI. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -S<small>HORTLY</small> after his arrival at Liverpool, Frank received two letters from -Harleyford. The first from his mother, ran thus— -</p> -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -“M<small>Y</small> D<small>EAREST</small> B<small>OY</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para"> -“We received your telegram, with your address, yesterday, and I need -not say how thankful your father and I were to hear that you were safe -and well, and that you had some settled place of abode, where a letter -could be sent. We had begun to fear that with your usual impetuosity, -you would be starting off on some long journey,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-90"><span class="rgtspc_pgno">[90]</span></a></span> and it would be weeks -or months before there would be any means of communicating with you. -</p> -<p> -“I know, where a young lady is concerned, it is almost always lost -labour to attempt to reason with a young man, so it is with little hope -of success that I make one more appeal to your common sense. -</p> -<p> -“My dearest Frank, can you possibly imagine that you, unversed and -inexperienced in such matters, can hope to meet with success where -well-trained professional men have failed? Have not the science and -ingenuity of first-class London detectives been exhausted in this -search, and what can you hope to do? To my mind one of two things is -certain; either Miss Warden met with some accident (to us -unaccountable)<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-91">[91]</a></span> and is long since dead; or else she has contracted some -<i>mésalliance</i>, and is remaining voluntarily hidden from her -friends. In either case, search for her, as far as you are concerned, -is equally fruitless; for dead or living she could never be your wife. -</p> -<p> -“My son, be reasonable, give up a task for which you are utterly -unsuited, and which renders your father and myself equally miserable. -We are ‘wearying’ for you, as your old Scotch tutor used to say, and -the rectory seems very cheerless with my Frank’s chair so long -unoccupied. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“The sculling match will be coming off soon, and I hear that Benson is -likely to be the favourite. What do you wish done about Sultana? I know -you objected to Robert riding her, but she has grown far<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-92">[92]</a></span> too frisky for -your father to mount. Let us have a long letter as soon as you possibly -can, and thankful, indeed, shall I be if it contains the welcome news -that you will soon be amongst us again. -</p> -<p class="closing3"> -“Ever, with much love, -</p> -<p class="closing1"> -“Your affectionate mother, -</p> -<p class="signature_r"> -“G<small>RACE</small> V<small>ARLEY</small>.” -</p> -</div> -<p> -Then there followed a long postscript. -</p> -<p> -“Do you remember your old playfellow, Mary Burton? I have her staying -with me now (she came over from the Denver’s) and she has grown into -one of the sweetest, handsomest girls, I have ever seen. She is just -twenty-one, and has come into her mother’s large property at -North-over-Fells. She is very anxious to know if you are at all like -the Frank of old times, but I tell<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-93">[93]</a></span> her a mother’s description of her -only son cannot be a trustworthy one, so she must wait till she sees -you, and judge for herself. Adieu.” -</p> -<p> -“Dear mother!” said Frank, when he read her letter, “God bless her, she -means kindly, and may say things to me no one else would dare to!” -</p> -<p> -Then he wrote a short reply. -</p> -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -“D<small>EAREST</small> M<small>OTHER</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para"> -“Please not to expect me at the rectory until you see me. I have -serious work on hand, which nothing but death or success will induce me -to give up. Thanks for all your news. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“Robert may ride Sultana, but tell him, I’ll thrash him if he spoils -her mouth. I am delighted to hear such good accounts of<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-94">[94]</a></span> Mary Burton, -but I have other thoughts in my head than old playfellows and -sweethearts just now. -</p> -<p class="closing3"> -“With a great deal of love, -</p> -<p class="closing2"> -“Your affectionate son, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“F<small>RANK</small> V<small>ARLEY</small>.” -</p> -</div> -<p> -Mrs. Varley read his letter, and sighed and cried over it. Then she -showed it to Mary Burton, who sighed and smiled over it. -</p> -<p> -“Why are such coquettes as Amy Warden sent into the world to turn men’s -brains, Mary, will you tell me that?” said Mrs. Varley. “If she had -lived, she would have been a most unsuitable wife for Frank, with her -self-willed, impatient temper. Will you wait for him, Mary? Do you -think he is worth waiting for?” -</p> -<p> -And Mary had confessed that she thought<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-95">[95]</a></span> he was worth waiting for, -and had sighed and smiled again. Why should she not smile, indeed? -There was no rival beauty in her way now! -</p> -<p> -Frank’s second letter was from Lord Hardcastle, and contained a brief -summary of events at Harleyford— -</p> -<p> -“I grieve to say,” he wrote, “that Mrs. Warden is in a very weak state -of health. Indeed I think far more seriously of her than Hayward does, -and have suggested that further medical advice should be called in. Mr. -Warden has pulled himself together wonderfully, for his wife’s sake, -and seems, to a certain extent, to have recovered some of his old -strength and energy. -</p> -<p> -“With regard to Lucy Williams, my own opinion is very strong and -decided. I fail to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-96">[96]</a></span> see matters in the light in which Hill, in his -report to us, has placed them. He seeks to imply that she has been -acting in concert with Miss Warden, or upon some pre-arranged plan, and -was probably commissioned by her mistress to sell the diamonds to -supply her with money. To my mind he is shooting beyond the mark in -such a supposition. I can only look upon the girl as a common thief of -a very ordinary type, who took advantage of the state of confusion into -which the ‘High Elms’ was thrown, to take possession of her mistress’s -jewellery and clothes. She has probably stolen far more than we know, -and when Mrs. Warden becomes stronger (if she ever does) and able to go -into the matter, no doubt many things will be missed. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-97">[97]</a></span> -“I think in following this track, you are most probably wasting time -and energy. Still, as you say one must do something, and it is just -possible that in following up one clue you may come upon another, so I -will say no more, but wish you ‘God speed’ with all my heart.” -</p> -<p> -Frank growled tremendously over this letter— -</p> -<p> -“It’s all very well,” he muttered, “for Hardcastle to sit quietly at -home and throw cold water on all my attempts; how on earth does he -think the clue is to be found if one does not look after it? He says so -little, it is difficult to get at the man’s real thoughts on the -matter. It is easy to say it is perfectly useless doing this or doing -that, but what in Heaven’s name does he think ought to be done?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-98">[98]</a></span> -What indeed! Not once or twice, but every hour in the day did Lord -Hardcastle ask himself the same question. He felt like a man walking in -a circle, for ever on the verge of a mystery, but never approaching any -nearer than a circle permitted. Become now one of the family at the -High Elms, not a look, not a word, not a tone of any one of the -household ever escaped his observation. Mrs. Warden’s severe illness -had thoroughly incapacitated her for the exertion of receiving -visitors, and the family had gradually become all but isolated from -their neighbours. An occasional morning caller, leaving cards only, the -daily visit of the doctor, and the arrival of the London post, was all -that occurred to break the day’s monotony. -</p> -<p> -Thus the summer wore slowly away, the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-99">[99]</a></span> short autumn days began to grow -chill and stormy, the sad old house looked drear and gray among the -tall, dark elms. Very drear and very gray Lord Hardcastle thought it, -as he rode slowly along the steep avenue leading through the park. He -had been transacting some business in Dunwich for Mr. Warden, and, -somewhat weary and dispirited, was returning in the afternoon twilight. -He looked right and left on a damp misty landscape. The equinoctial -gales had set in early, and the trees were already brown and leafless. -Heavy rains, too, had flooded the country round, and the stream running -through the Park was swollen and turbid, threatening to overflow its -banks. Dark clouds were gathering overhead, and a flight of rooks -whirling low and flapping their<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-100">[100]</a></span> black wings, with their mournful -cawing, completed the desolateness of the scene. -</p> -<p> -“It is like entering a graveyard,” he thought, as he rode along. Then -his memory went back to one bright sunny morning, when riding up this -same avenue he had met Amy and her father, well-mounted, coming from -the house. Very lovely had she looked in the summer sunshine, with her -fresh, girlish beauty, and almost royal dignity of manner. -</p> -<p> -“<i>A bien-tôt</i>, Lord Hardcastle,” had been her salutation as she -cantered past, and the sweet, ringing voice echoed in his ears -still—aye, and would until he died. Was it the many-sidedness of Amy’s -character (if the expression be allowed) which made her so dangerously -fascinating? With Varley,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-101">[101]</a></span> generally speaking, her manner had been -that of a finished coquette, alternately commanding or persuading, -wilful or gentle, as the fancy seized her. With Hardcastle, on the -contrary, her bearing was that of a stately, high-bred lady; her -impatience and impetuosity of temper only shown in the vivacity and -variety of her conversation. Was it, could it be all over now for ever? -Was all this bright beauty and loveliness but a memory—a thing of the -past? All this and much more passed through Lord Hardcastle’s mind as -he drew near to the house, standing out grim and gray against the dark, -threatening sky. -</p> -<p> -“Bad news again, sir,” said the man who came forward to take his horse, -“Mrs. Warden is much worse, but would insist on getting<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-102">[102]</a></span> up this -afternoon. Doctor Hayward has been sent for, and master would like to -see you at once in the morning room.” -</p> -<p> -Thither Lord Hardcastle immediately went. The morning room was one of -the prettiest sitting rooms in the house—Amy’s favourite in the old -days, on account of its long French windows opening on to the lawn, and -from which might be seen a charming miniature landscape of woodland and -park, and the silvery rippling stream now so dark and swollen. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden came forward to meet him. “She would come down and sit -here,” he whispered; “a sudden change has set in, and I have sent for -Hayward; I fear he will be caught in this storm, for a storm we shall -certainly have.” As he spoke, a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-103">[103]</a></span> crash of thunder shook the house from -basement to roof, and flash after flash of brilliant lightning followed -in quick succession. -</p> -<p> -“Let me move your chair, dear,” he said, tenderly, “a little way from -the window; it is a grand sight, but almost too much for your nerves.” -She yielded at once to his wishes, as she had yielded all through their -married life; and still further to shield her from the bright flashes -he stood between her and the window, bending over her in an almost -lover-like attitude, so as not to lose any of her words, for her voice -had grown alarmingly faint and weak. -</p> -<p> -“This reminds me of old times, Stephen,” she said, looking up in his -face. At this moment a pitiful howl from old “Presto,” the hound, rang -through the room. The dog himself<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-104">[104]</a></span> trembled violently and began to -sniff first under the windows, then at the door. Mr. Warden rang the -bell. “Don’t turn him out, Stephen,” said his wife, “I like him here at -my feet. Don’t you remember he was often like this in a storm. Poor old -doggie,” she added, stooping down to smooth his large head, “stay with -me as long as you can.” -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden made no reply. Something in his throat seemed to choke him. -Lord Hardcastle looked from one to the other. Then he wrote on a slip -of paper, “The man must have missed Hayward somehow; I will go myself -after him,” and placing it where Mr. Warden would see it, hurriedly -departed on his mission. -</p> -<p> -And now the storm seemed to have reached its height. Flash after flash -lighted up the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-105">[105]</a></span> otherwise dark room, peal after peal crashed over -the roof, and the rain dashed in torrents against the window panes. “We -will have lights,” Mr. Warden had said, but his wife had objected, -urging that she wished to see the storm in all its grandeur and beauty. -“We have had dark days together lately, dear,” she said plaintively, -looking up in his face, “but I feel they are ending now. Something -tells me that your Amy will come home again”—Another mournful howl from -“Presto” interrupted her, and again the bright pink and purple of the -lightning played about the room. -</p> -<p> -“I never saw ‘Presto’ so frightened before,” she exclaimed. “How -strange it is! I used to be so nervous and terrified in a thunderstorm, -and to-night I feel so happy,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-106">[106]</a></span> as if I were beginning my girl’s life -over again.” She broke off suddenly, looking towards the window. “What -was that?” she exclaimed, “surely I heard something more than the rain!” -</p> -<p> -“Yes,” said her husband, trying to steady his nerves, which were almost -beyond his control, “it is the bough of the oleander against the glass. -How the wind is rising! It is indeed an awful tempest!” -</p> -<p> -And now Lord Hardcastle and Dr. Hayward came in, drenched to the skin -and out of breath with their hurried ride, then the dog, with one -prolonged howl, flew past them as they entered. “Something is wrong,” -said Hardcastle. “Hey, ‘Presto!’ go, find!” and opening a side door he -let the dog out into the stormy night. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-107">[107]</a></span> -The doctor went softly into the middle of the room and looked at his -patient. The hectic flush was fading from her face, and she seemed to -be sinking into a sweet sound sleep. -</p> -<p> -“I am so thankful to see her thus,” said Mr. Warden, “she has been so -feverish and excitable all day, I think the storm must have upset her -nerves.” -</p> -<p> -“Hush!” said the doctor, solemnly, holding up his hand, “this is not -sleep; this is death, Mr. Warden; she will soon be beyond the sound of -storm and tempest.” He yielded his place to the husband, who, kneeling -by her side, took her thin white hand in his. Hardcastle and the doctor -withdrawing to a further corner of the room, waited and watched for the -end to come. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-108">[108]</a></span> -Gradually the storm subsided, and the rain settled down into a slow -steady fall. The breathing of the patient became slower and fainter, -and the doctor whispered to Hardcastle that the end was at hand. At -that moment a long low wail sounded on the outside of the window, and -Hardcastle, peering through the dark panes, could see “Presto’s” brown -head and glittering eyes pressed close against the glass. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -He crept softly out of the room to call the dog in, fearful lest he -might disturb the solemn watch in the chamber of death. “Quiet, old -doggie,” he said, stooping down to pat the hound, all wet and -mud-covered as he was. But what is this! What is it makes the young man -start and tremble, and his lips and cheeks turn pale? What is it brings<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-109">[109]</a></span> -that look of horror into his face, and makes his eyes distend and his -nostrils quiver? What is this hanging in shreds between the dog’s -firmly-set teeth? What is it? Only a few tattered remnants of dark-blue -silk! -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_07"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-110">[110]</a></span></p> -<h2 id="chapter_07_hdg"> -CHAPTER VII. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -M<small>RS</small>. W<small>ARDEN</small> passed away before midnight; only the doctor and her -husband were with her at the last moment, for Hardcastle, bare-headed -and trembling with excitement, had followed the hound out into the dark -night. -</p> -<p> -“Find, ‘Presto,’ find,” he exclaimed, urging the dog forward. But -“Presto” needed no urging, he bounded rather than ran over the sodden -grass and under the dripping trees; no stars, no moon, no light -anywhere, and Hardcastle, breathless and stumbling, with difficulty -kept up with the eager hound, who<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-111">[111]</a></span> turns neither to the right nor to the -left, but makes straight for the deep rushing stream, straight on to -the low, sloping bank; and there the dog stops and trembles. -</p> -<p> -“Which way, ‘Presto?’ Forward, forward!” shouts Hardcastle. But the dog -will not stir a step now, and stands quivering on the brink of the -stream; Hardcastle mounts the bank after him, and, bending forward, -looks up and down the river. Not a sound save the rush and whirl of the -waters, the moaning of the wind in the dark trees, and the pitiless -splash, splash of the rain. Not a sign of life nor death in the flood, -but as he turns to descend the slippery bank, something lying in the -roots of an overhanging willow tree catches his eye. One arm clinging -to a low bough, one arm in the cold, dark waters, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-112">[112]</a></span> in another -instant he holds in his hand a girl’s low-crowned felt hat, with -pale-blue ostrich feather. “My God! and is this the end?” He cries out -in the bitterness of his heart, then, feeling how utterly useless and -helpless he is alone and single-handed in the dark, he rushes back to -the house. -</p> -<p> -“I want men, I want lights,” he calls in a hoarse voice; “quickly, in -Heaven’s name, down to the stream!” Down to the stream they follow him, -with lights, and ropes, and drags. No time is lost in setting to work; -lanterns are swung on ropes across the river, the men, with Hardcastle -at their head, are wading through the swollen waters—hand in hand, -throwing ropes, dragging, shouting, lest some poor soul might still be -struggling in the dark flood. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-113">[113]</a></span> -What does it matter? There she lies, face downwards, among the reeds -and tall rushes in the river’s mud. What does it matter! The men may -shout—the waters rush—aye, and her warm, true-hearted lover kneel by -her side, and call her by her sweet name, never more will those dark -eyes open to the light of day, nor those red lips be unsealed to tell -their story of sorrow and wrong! Clasp her tight, and clasp her long, -Lord Hardcastle, then yield her up for ever to the shadows, the doubt, -the darkness of the grave. -</p> -<p> -They brought her in, and laid her on her own dainty little bed. The -storm had ceased now; day dawned, the birds carolled and twittered at -the casement, and the bright sunshine streamed in through Amy’s -rose-coloured curtains, and fell sideways on her pale, grey<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-114">[114]</a></span> face. -Silent, hopeless, and awe-stricken the father and lover gazed upon -their darling; the search is ended now—there she lies in her blue silk -dress, all torn and mud-stained; her dark hair unwound and lying round -her in long, damp coils; her tiny hands still clasped as though in -prayer, and a look of agony and terror in her half-closed eyes. Alas! -how changed. What terrible ordeal can she have passed through since she -last lay sleeping here. There are lines on her brow, and dark circles -beneath her eyes which tell of tears and sorrow; a pained look about -the chiselled mouth which the Amy of old days never wore. Lord -Hardcastle bends over her reverently—he will not even kiss her -forehead, dead as she lies, for he dared not have done so living. -Kneeling as he would to his<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-115">[115]</a></span> sovereign, he takes her damp, cold -hand in his to press to his lips; as he does so, something glittering -on the third finger of her left hand catches his eye. What is it! Not -the antique ruby ring with its quaint motto, “<i>sans espoir je meurs</i>,” -only a plain gold band encircles the tiny finger—a simple wedding-ring! -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -They buried Mrs. Warden and Amy on one day—on one day, but not in one -grave. People in Harleyford wondered much at this; and they wondered -still more, when, shortly afterwards a splendid granite monument was -placed over the mother’s grave, with name, age, date, birth, and death -engraved in clear-cut letters; while Amy’s resting-place was shadowed -only by a simple marble cross with but one word inscribed, “<i>Aimée</i>.” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_08"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-116">[116]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 id="chapter_08_hdg"> -CHAPTER VIII. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -T<small>HE</small> news of Amy’s death was telegraphed to Frank at Dublin. Thither, -following some imaginary clue, he had gone, and eager and hopeful at -heart, the sudden tidings nearly proved his death-blow. Before the day -closed which brought the news, Frank was lying helpless and unconscious -on a bed of fever. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Varley trembled for her son’s life; fortunately her address was -known to the proprietor of the hotel where Frank was<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-117">[117]</a></span> staying, and -he had immediately telegraphed to her her son’s danger. -</p> -<p> -“Mary,” she said, addressing Miss Burton, “have you courage to cross -the Channel with me to try to save my poor boy? The rector will follow -next week if there’s any need, but he cannot leave his parish at an -hour’s notice.” -</p> -<p> -And Mary had expressed her willingness to start there and then for -Dublin. What would she not do for one who had always been as a brother -to her? So the two ladies took passage in a packet crossing the next -day, and arrived at Dublin to find Frank raving and tossing in the -delirium of brain fever. -</p> -<p> -Then followed days and nights of weary watching and nursing. -</p> -<p> -“He may pull through yet, madam,” said<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-118">[118]</a></span> the good old doctor, addressing -Mrs. Varley, but peering wonderingly at Mary through his spectacles. He -had been told that the sudden death of a young lady was the cause of -the illness. Who, then, was this other young lady so devoted in her -attentions to the sufferer? “He may pull through yet, madam; he has a -constitution of iron and the frame of a giant, not to speak of the two -angels who watch over him day and night!” This in a rich Irish brogue, -with a gallant bow right and left to the two ladies. -</p> -<p> -And Frank did pull through. Gradually the fever in his brain subsided, -and though weak and helpless as a child, the doctor pronounced him out -of danger. -</p> -<p> -But with returning consciousness came back the sense of sorrow and -loss, and Mrs. Varley’s heart ached for her son as she saw<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-119">[119]</a></span> the look of -utter blank misery and despair settle down upon his once bright, happy -face. “Get him to talk of his sorrow” had been the doctor’s advice, and -gently and gradually his mother had led him on to speak freely of poor -Amy and her terrible ending. -</p> -<p> -“We all suffer with and for you, my son,” said Mrs. Varley, sitting by -Frank’s easy chair in the early twilight, the glow from the fire alone -lighting the room, “but my feeling for you does not prevent me feeling -for someone else very near and very dear to me, and who is just now -suffering as much as, or, perhaps, more than you.” -</p> -<p> -Frank’s eyes expressed his wonder. Of whom could his mother be -speaking? Wrapped up in his own misery, he had had no thought for the -sorrows of others. -</p> -<p> -“Don’t try to talk to me, Frank, dear,”<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-120">[120]</a></span> continued his mother. “You must -forgive me if I say that sorrow is apt to make one selfish and -unobservant. Otherwise you would have noticed not only the grief and -anxiety in my face, which has made an old woman of me the last few -weeks, but also the grief in a sweet young face which has been watching -yours very sadly for many a day and night.” -</p> -<p> -“Mother, mother,” exclaimed Frank, passionately, for now his mother’s -meaning was unmistakable. “Why did you bring the girl here? You knew it -was useless. Why didn’t you leave me here to die? God knows I have -nothing left to live for now!” -</p> -<p> -“Miss Burton did not come for you alone, Frank, she came for my sake -also. She has been to me as a daughter in my trouble, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-121">[121]</a></span> as a daughter -she came with me here. Your father could not leave his parish, and was -it right that I should travel all these miles alone to face such an -illness as yours? The difficulty, however, will soon be ended, as Mary -tells me she must leave us to-morrow; she has friends here in Dublin. -Your danger is past, she says, and she is no longer needed. Believe me, -Frank, it is not your return to health which is driving her away, but -your coldness and indifference, and (forgive me, dear) your -ingratitude.” -</p> -<p> -“What is it you want me to do, mother?” asks poor Frank, piteously. -“Not marry her! I have no love to offer any woman now. My heart is -crushed and broken, and a dozen Mary Burtons couldn’t mend it.” -</p> -<p> -“I know that, Frank, dear,” replied his<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-122">[122]</a></span> mother, very sweetly, “but if -you have a broken heart to carry about with you, it should teach you to -be very tender to the broken hearts of others, especially to so good -and true a heart as Mary’s. A few kind words to her just now would make -her, if not happy, at any rate a little less miserable than she is now.” -</p> -<p> -“Tell me what to say, then,” said Frank, wearily, “and let me say it at -once. You don’t want me to ask her to marry me? The words would choke -me, I think.” -</p> -<p> -“No, my son, not that. I only want you to thank her for her kindness -and care through your illness (for, indeed, she has nearly worn herself -out in saving your life), and I want you just to say four little words -to her. ‘Don’t leave us, Mary.’ This for<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-123">[123]</a></span> your mother’s sake, for -what could I do without her? May I send her to you, Frank?” she added, -after a pause. -</p> -<p> -Then Frank, wearied with the discussion, gave a feeble assent, and Mrs. -Varley left the room immediately, thankful for her partial success, and -hoping much from the coming interview between her son and Mary. -</p> -<p> -Very softly Mary entered the room, and went straight up to Frank. Then, -for the first time, he noticed how pale and sad the girl had grown. -</p> -<p> -“How white you are looking, Mary,” he said, kindly. “Are you feeling -ill? Will you take my chair a moment?” at the same time attempting to -rise. -</p> -<p> -“No, no,” said Mary in an instant, flushing scarlet, “you are still an -invalid, and must<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-124">[124]</a></span> not think of politeness. Mrs. Varley said you wanted -to see me. What is it, Frank?” -</p> -<p> -“Mary,” he said, taking both her hands in his, “I want to ask you to -forgive my abominable rudeness and ingratitude to you. I want to thank -you for all you have done for me. I am so ashamed I have not done this -before, but I have been so miserable, so broken-hearted.” Then the poor -fellow broke down utterly, and weakened by his long illness and unable -to control himself, covered his face with his hands, and wept and -sobbed like a child. -</p> -<p> -“Frank, Frank,” pleaded Mary. “For all our sakes restrain yourself; you -will kill me if you give way like this. What can I do for you? I would -lay down my life to give you an hour’s happiness.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-125">[125]</a></span> -Still Frank sobbed on, and Mary, bending over him as a mother would -over a sick child, drew his head on to her shoulder, and soothed and -comforted him. -</p> -<p> -Gradually the passion of his grief subsided, and he lay back, with his -head on her shoulder, worn out and exhausted. -</p> -<p> -Then Mrs. Varley gently turned the handle of the door, and entered the -room. -</p> -<p> -“Thank God for this,” she exclaimed. “Mary, don’t move. Frank, dear, -she is the one wife out of all the world you should have chosen, and -you may well be thankful to have won such an one. God bless you both. I -will write to your father to-night.” -</p> -<p> -Frank was on the point of asking his mother what he had said or done -that she should congratulate and bless him in this way,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-126">[126]</a></span> but Mary’s -white face and trembling hands checked the words on his lips, so he -merely said, with a weary sigh, “Mother, I must go to bed at once, I am -utterly worn out,” and tottered rather than walked to the door. Mrs. -Varley followed him. “I may tell your father it is all settled, may I -not?” she said, in a low voice, as she held open the door for him. -Frank glanced back at Mary leaning still over the back of the armchair, -and her drooping figure and tearful face pleaded her own cause. “Tell -him what you like, mother,” he replied, wearily, “only let me rest -to-night.” Besides, after all, what did it matter? The best of his life -was gone, any one who would might have the broken remnants. -</p> -<p> -Very angry indeed was the rector when he received his wife’s letter -containing the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-127">[127]</a></span> news of his son’s engagement. “It is absolutely -indecent,” he wrote back, “it is gross disrespect to the living and the -dead. Every one knows the hopes my son cherished with regard to Miss -Warden, and now, within a fortnight after her death, he is engaged to -some one else. I will have nothing whatever to do with such an -arrangement. Mr. Warden is an old and valued friend of mine, and how -could I look him in the face if I countenanced such conduct on the part -of my son? Is he a child or a lunatic that he cannot learn to control -his own feelings and bear up against a bereavement? Let him make up his -mind to bear his sorrows as a man should and as other people have had -to before him.” -</p> -<p> -In reply to this, Mrs. Varley wrote a long letter pleading, not so much -the wisdom of<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-128">[128]</a></span> her own conduct, as the necessity of the case. -</p> -<p> -“Frank is neither a child nor a lunatic,” so ran the letter, “but he -has strong passions and an impetuous temper which would very rapidly -carry him down hill if once he turned that way. Add to this his broken -health and spirits, and you will see I have had no light task to -perform in endeavouring to restore him to what he once was. The -physician here tells me his only chance of recovering health and -strength is to start at once on a long foreign tour—under any -circumstances he must not think of returning to Harleyford for another -year. What then, do you advise? Can you leave your parish for so long a -time to travel with your son through Europe (she knew the rector hated -travelling, or indeed<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-129">[129]</a></span> any kind of bodily exertion) or do you consider -that I should be a suitable companion for him under the circumstances? -Is there any one of his own friends fit for such a task, or who could -do for him all that a tender loving wife will do? What would it matter -to Mr. Warden, or to any one else likely to criticise his conduct, if -Frank fell into a course of reckless dissipation, or ended his life by -his own hand—and this, let me tell you, is another terror I have had -always before me. No, no, my dear husband, see things in their right -light I beseech you; you must give way in this matter, and believe me -it is as much for your own happiness as your son’s that you should do -so.” -</p> -<p> -And the rector did give way as might have been expected, and not only -consented to his<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-130">[130]</a></span> son’s wedding, but went over to Dublin and performed -the ceremony himself, and also sketched out the wedding tour for the -young people—a trip through the American continent first, and a final -run through the chief cities of Europe. -</p> -<p> -“Hardcastle has the best of it now,” said poor Frank, sadly, to -himself, as he stood waiting for his bride in the vestry of the little -Irish church where the ceremony was to take place. “He has no mother to -talk him into a marriage he has no heart for. Not but that I shall do -my best to make her happy, for she is sweet and good, but I cannot tear -the other memory out of my heart.” -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -Thus it was that Frank and Mary became man and wife within a month of -poor Amy’s<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-131">[131]</a></span> death, and the rector and Mrs. Varley returned to -Harleyford to sustain, as best they might, the inquisitiveness and -criticism of their neighbours. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_09"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-132">[132]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 id="chapter_09_hdg"> -CHAPTER IX. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -V<small>ERY</small> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-133"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[133]</span></a></span> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-134"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[134]</span></a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-135">[135]</a></span> so pointedly turned the conversation -that another remark on the subject would have been impossible. -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-136">[136]</a></span> 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?” -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -“Mr. Warden, tell me one thing else, I beg of you; indeed it is not -from idle curiosity I<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-137">[137]</a></span> ask it, was Aimée the name of Miss Warden’s -mother?” -</p> -<p> -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.” -</p> -<p> -“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.” -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-138">[138]</a></span> already, because there is sin and crime -mixed up in it.” -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-139">[139]</a></span> 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.” -</p> -<p> -He paused, overcome by his recollections. Lord Hardcastle leaned -forward breathlessly.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-140">[140]</a></span> Here was Mr. Warden voluntarily according the -confidence he was so eager to obtain. -</p> -<p> -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.” -</p> -<p> -Again he paused, then once more recommenced— -</p> -<p> -“For four short years we lived together,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-141">[141]</a></span> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-142">[142]</a></span> young mistress, and begged her to aid me in my efforts -as far as possible. -</p> -<p> -“But it was useless. Isola was loud and stubborn in her <i>Cevenol -patois</i>. 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-143">[143]</a></span> girl by the hand, telling -her to come and gather lilies to make a crown for her dear mamma. -</p> -<p> -“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— -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>What is it?’ said Aimée, petulantly, ‘I have not loved you so well -lately, for you have been cross and cruel to me.’ -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-144">[144]</a></span> die, your image will remain in my mind fresh and glowing, as -on that last morning I looked on your sweet face! -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-145">[145]</a></span> -“Then the storm burst. It was terrible to see my wife’s anger— -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>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?’ -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-146">[146]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-147">[147]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>A<small>IMÉE</small>.’ -</p> -<p class="pad_top"> -“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?” -</p> -<p> -“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?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-148">[148]</a></span> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-149">[149]</a></span> and henceforth my little -Amy would have all my love and care. -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-150">[150]</a></span> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Your mistress is dead,’ I asked, at once anticipating the worst. She -bowed her head. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Tell me everything, Isola,’ I gasped, hoping still there might be -some message of love or repentance for me. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>There is nothing to tell,’ she replied coldly, ‘she is dead, that is -all.’ -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>But where, when, how?’ I insisted, my soul thirsting and hungering -after my wife. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>She took cold, she would not take care, and so she died, that is -all,’ was the reply. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>And not a word or message for me, or for her daughter?’ -</p> -<p> -“Then the woman laughed a harsh scornful laugh. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>What would Monsieur have? Don Josef took care of her, and gave her -all she wanted.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-151">[151]</a></span> He was by her side when she died, and held her in his -arms.’ -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-152">[152]</a></span> short time after Aimée’s -death, I married my second wife. The result you know, a life of peace -and comparative happiness until now.” -</p> -<p> -Again Mr. Warden paused, his calmness was evidently failing him, and it -was with increased effort and difficulty that he finished his -narration. -</p> -<p> -“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— -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>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?’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-153">[153]</a></span> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-154">[154]</a></span> -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.” -</p> -<p> -“How can I thank you, Mr. Warden?” exclaimed Hardcastle earnestly, -springing<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-155">[155]</a></span> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-156">[156]</a></span> 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.” -</p> -<p> -“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?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-157">[157]</a></span> -“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!’<span class="lftspc">”</span> -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden looked up at the flushed, earnest face of the speaker, then -he said very quietly— -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“Lord Hardcastle, I thought I knew you intimately; I find I have never -really known<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-158">[158]</a></span> 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!” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_10"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-159">[159]</a></span></p> -<h2 id="chapter_10_hdg"> -CHAPTER X. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -B<small>EFORE</small> starting for France, Lord Hardcastle received two letters. The -first, from Detective Hill, ran thus:— -</p> -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -“S<small>IR</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para"> -“It is now so long since I have received any orders from Mr. Warden, -that I venture to write to you, fearing he may be ill, and knowing you -have his entire confidence in the matter on which I am engaged. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“Since I sent in my last report relative to Miss Kempe’s movements, -nothing of importance has occurred, until yesterday, when she received -a letter enclosing another,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-160">[160]</a></span> evidently foreign. The outside envelope was -too thick to enable my man (the postman if you will remember, sir) to -discover what stamp was on the letter, but the crackle of the thin, -foreign paper was unmistakable. As I write (at the window opposite her -house) there are evident signs of packing up and departure going on in -her room. I shall feel much obliged if you will transmit to me further -instructions on Mr. Warden’s behalf. The woman may possibly be leaving -England, and I am anxious to know whether the investigation is to be -continued, and the woman still watched, as I must necessarily appoint -very different men for foreign work. -</p> -<p class="closing4"> -“Awaiting your orders, -</p> -<p class="closing3"> -“I remain, -</p> -<p class="closing0"> -“Your lordship’s obedient servant, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“J<small>ERVIS</small> H<small>ILL</small>.” -</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-161">[161]</a></span> -To this, Lord Hardcastle sent a brief reply— -</p> -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -“S<small>IR</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para nobottom" > -“Mr. Warden and myself think you are attaching too much importance to -Miss Kempe and her movements, and that it really is not worth while to -pursue this matter further. We are hoping for better results from -another quarter. -</p> -<p class="closing5"> -“I remain, -</p> -<p class="closing1"> -“Your obedient servant, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“H<small>ARDCASTLE</small>.” -</p> -</div> -<p> -The second letter was from Frank Varley, written on the eve of his -wedding-day, and ran as follows:— -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -“D<small>EAR</small> H<small>ARDCASTLE</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para nobottom"> -“I dare say you have but one feeling in your heart for a poor, -weak-minded wretch<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-162"><span class="rgtspc_pgno">[162]</span></a></span> like me, that of utter unmitigated contempt. I -don’t attempt to justify myself, for under present circumstances it -would be impossible. I am only, writing to enclose a small packet—a -blue bow of ribbon. You will know, old fellow, to whom it belonged, and -why I am sending it to you. I couldn’t find it in my heart to put it -behind the fire. -</p> -<p class="closing4"> -“Ever yours, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“F<small>RANK</small> V<small>ARLEY</small>.” -</p> -</div> - -<p> -“Poor Varley,” said Lord Hardcastle, when he read this. “He spent his -strength for nought, and gave in before the race was half run! And yet -who am I that I should pity or blame him? The end alone will show whose -life has been best worth living!” -</p> -<p> -And now the preparations for the journey<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-163">[163]</a></span> to France were completed, and -one dull misty November afternoon, Mr. Warden and Lord Hardcastle said -a long good-bye to the High Elms. Very damp, very cold and dreary the -old house looked as they turned the corner of the steep avenue. -</p> -<p> -“Not in this world,” said Mr. Warden, mournfully, “shall I call any -place home again.” -</p> -<p> -What could Lord Hardcastle say in reply? He clasped his old friend’s -hand with a firmer, tighter clasp, while the thought ran through his -own mind— -</p> -<p> -“What will our coming back here be like?” -</p> -<p> -Early in the evening they arrived in London. The preparations for their -journey had been very simple. No servants, very little luggage, and -their destination even kept secret. Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-164">[164]</a></span> Warden had informed his -agents he would be travelling through Europe for some months for his -health, and had given various <i>postes restantes</i> in France to which his -letters were to be sent. He would advise them, he said, of any change -in his plans should his inclination lead him in any other direction. -</p> -<p> -It was not without serious thought and anxiety that Lord Hardcastle had -undertaken this journey. There could be no doubt that Mr. Warden’s -strength had given way very much lately, and it was incurring a heavy -responsibility to induce a man at his age, and with his broken health, -to go so far on what might prove to be a fool’s errand after all. -“But,” reasoned Hardcastle, “he will certainly die if he remain in his -own desolate home, brooding over his sorrows. Action<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-165">[165]</a></span> and movement -will do more for him than anything else, and if we can but lift the -cloud from the dead girl’s grave, we shall both feel our life has not -been spent for nought.” -</p> -<p> -The roar of London at first sounded strangely in their ears, accustomed -as they were to the saddest and quietest of households. Lord Hardcastle -took upon himself the various small duties which travelling involves, -and at once gave orders to be driven to Charing Cross Station. Leaving -Mr. Warden at the hotel, he directed a porter to place their luggage in -the booking-office to be in readiness for the morning tidal train, -while he exchanged some English money for present use. There appeared -to be a crowd of some sort round the booking-office, and the porter<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-166">[166]</a></span> -placed the baggage a little on one side, waiting his turn. -</p> -<p> -At this moment Lord Hardcastle’s attention was attracted by a tall -figure clad in a long, grey travelling cloak, the hood of which was -drawn low over her face. She brushed past him, but he could not see her -features, for her head was bent low, as though wishing to hide her -face. Something peculiar in the swing of her walk arrested his -attention; it was not ungraceful, but seemed as it were to keep time to -some song or tune sounding in her ear, so even and regular were her -steps. She was evidently in a hurry to save some train, and was -crossing towards the third class ticket window, when Lord Hardcastle’s -luggage caught her eye. She stood still, looked round her on every -side, then bending<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-167">[167]</a></span> down, read attentively the labels on each box. -At this moment the porter advanced to take charge of his baggage, and -the woman, evidently altering her plans, walked slowly out of the -station. -</p> -<p> -Lord Hardcastle returned to the hotel, and the woman in grey passed -completely out of his mind. Finding Mr. Warden very much tired with the -journey to London, he proposed that they should rest quietly the next -day, and pass over to Boulogne during the night. To this Mr. Warden -agreed readily. -</p> -<p> -“I must husband my strength,” he said, “for it is slipping away -rapidly. I feel now as if I were embarked upon my last mission, which -must be well executed, or not at all.” -</p> -<p> -Lord Hardcastle looked up at him anxiously. How sad, and old, and worn -the dear, kind<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-168">[168]</a></span> face had grown lately! How white the hair, and sunken -the cheeks, and the eyes with a far-away, mournful look, which said as -plainly as words could speak, “it will soon be over now, and I shall be -at rest.” -</p> -<p> -“Don’t speak like that, Mr. Warden,” he said, “or you will take away my -last remnants of courage. Who can tell what may yet lie before us.” -</p> -<p> -“Who can tell, indeed,” echoed Mr. Warden, “who can tell.” He shivered -as he spoke, and looked so really ill that Lord Hardcastle began to -feel seriously uneasy about him, and begged him to see a doctor before -he left England. -</p> -<p> -“No,” said Mr. Warden, firmly, “the night soon will come when no man -can work. Let us not anticipate it by an hour. Not<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-169">[169]</a></span> until we have -played the last card we hold will we give up the game.” Then he said -good-night, and went to his own room. -</p> -<p> -The next day rose dark and stormy, and Hardcastle trembled to think of -the effect a rough passage might have on Mr. Warden in his weak state -of health. He did not, however, offer any farther opposition to their -journey, knowing it would be useless, and besides this, an undefinable -feeling in his own mind kept urging him on to the native land of the -two Aimées. -</p> -<p> -“I cannot explain why,” he said to himself, as they landed at Boulogne -in the chill early dawn of the following day, “but I somehow feel as if -we had only now struck upon the right track, and that all we have -hitherto done has been so much lost time. I know<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-170">[170]</a></span> there must be a -reason for this feeling; some finer sense in my being must have seized -upon some fact in this strange history which my coarser and more -logical faculties have failed to perceive.” -</p> -<p> -So occupied was he with his own thoughts, that he had not noticed that -he had become separated from his companion in the narrow landing-place, -and had drifted into a crowd of porters, with their various loads, -making for the custom-house. -</p> -<p> -Where was Mr. Warden? He looked right and left along the Quai, and -there, standing half hidden behind some bales, stood the same tall grey -figure he had noticed at Charing Cross Station. It was unmistakable -now; the woman, for some reason, was evidently watching and following -them;<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-171">[171]</a></span> and, doubtful whether their separation was accidental or -intentional, was at a loss whom she should keep in sight. Following the -turn of her head, Lord Hardcastle could see Mr. Warden some little way -in advance, and, hastening towards him, the woman suddenly passed in -front, and disappeared down some narrow passage. -</p> -<p> -“Let her go,” thought Hardcastle; “somewhere, somehow, we may meet -again. I shall know her long stooping figure and swinging gait -anywhere.” Then, hastening forward, he soon overtook Mr. Warden, and -calling a carriage, desired to be driven to the Hotel de la Cloche, -situated somewhere in the heart of the town. -</p> -<p> -Lord Hardcastle had foreseen before starting that their journey must -necessarily be<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-172">[172]</a></span> performed by easy stages; they had, therefore, booked -only as far as to Boulogne, intending to rest there a day or two to -decide upon their route to Le Puy. -</p> -<p> -The Hotel de la Cloche stands in one of the quietest parts of the town, -a little back from the broad, brick-built street, in a grassy, -moss-grown quadrangle. An arched corridor runs round this quadrangle, -and above this are built the various outbuildings of the hotel. A small -fountain, with an insufficient supply of water, plays in the courtyard, -and very miserable and dreary it looked under the dull November sky -from the windows of the room which Mr. Warden had selected for a -sitting-room. -</p> -<p> -More than ever sad and weary he seemed as he seated himself in front of -a large wood<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-173">[173]</a></span> fire he had ordered to be made. A pretence of lunch or -dinner had been gone through, and the short November day was already -closing in, the heavy stonework above the windows adding not a little -to the gloom of the room. Lord Hardcastle had tried unsuccessfully -various topics of conversation, feeling the necessity of arousing Mr. -Warden from the sadness of his own thoughts. -</p> -<p> -“Tell me, Mr. Warden,” at length he said, almost despairing of success, -“something about Le Puy; it is an unknown land to me. I have never -visited that part of France.” -</p> -<p> -“Le Puy!” exclaimed Mr. Warden, suddenly arousing himself, “Ah, that is -a country worth living in! It is a land of variety and beauty, of -sunshine and solitude; less terrible than Switzerland, it is, at the -same time,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-174">[174]</a></span> more interesting, because more varied. It is a land of -extinct volcanoes; at every turn one is brought face to face with -nature under a new aspect. Here some mighty convulsion has upheaved -gigantic rocks; there in the valley lie fertile plains watered by -gushing mountain torrents; above all tower and frown the fantastic -Cevennes, cut and fashioned into all sorts of wonderful shapes, and -everywhere reigns a silence and solitude only to be found in the lonely -mountain regions. Ah! it is a land of glory and beauty! But, my young -friend, you will scarcely see it with my eyes; to me it is the saddest -and sweetest of all lands, for there I first loved and first suffered, -and there my two Aimées were born and grew to beauty.” Then he paused, -and presently added, in a mournful, passionate<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-175">[175]</a></span> tone, “My poor little -Amy! I fancy I see her now, creeping along the narrow mountain path, or -looking over the verge of some deep ravine, both hands filled with wild -flowers and grasses. She would never own to feeling frightened or -nervous at the giddy height, but if she felt her little feet slipping, -she would call out impatiently, ‘Papa, papa! take my flowers, quickly -please, I must not be kept waiting an instant.’ It is almost too much -for me to recall those days, Lord Hardcastle,” he sighed, wearily, “I -think I will see if I can get a little sleep; perhaps in the morning I -shall feel brighter and stronger.” -</p> -<p> -Then he left the room, saying good-night, and that he did not wish to -be disturbed until the morning. -</p> -<p> -Lord Hardcastle looked after him sadly.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-176">[176]</a></span> “He will reach Le Puy,” he -thought; “his spirit will keep him up as far as that, but he will never -come back again. Have I done wisely in inducing him to leave his home? -But what home has he left? Only a mere skeleton or husk of one. This is -our last and only chance; we are bound, at any cost to try it.” -</p> -<p> -The wood fire crackled and burned, the window panes grew dark and -darker, and long, fantastic shadows began to flicker across the -oak-panelled wall, to the low, arched ceiling. -</p> -<p> -Hardcastle’s thoughts wandered far away to the lonely house at -Harleyford—vividly came back to him the stormy, windy night, the -piteous howling of the dog, and poor Amy lying cold and wet and -lifeless in his arms.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-177">[177]</a></span> Picture after picture of the past passed before -his eyes—the dear dead face as it looked in the grey of the early -morning, the strange, pained old look that had spread itself over the -features until they almost seemed strange and unknown to him. -</p> -<p> -The fire crackled, the weird shadows leapt from floor to ceiling, and -Hardcastle, drowsy with the overnight’s journey, began to see strange -shapes in the room, and fantastic visions began to mix with his waking -thoughts. He fancied he was standing amidst the rocky, silent scenery -Mr. Warden had just described to him. The mountain mists were rolling -away from peak and crag, the summer sun was mounting the horizon, and -there, on the verge of some terrible precipice, stood Amy—bright, -beautiful, girlish as ever, both<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-178">[178]</a></span> hands filled with flowers, which she -playfully held out to him. -</p> -<p> -Tremblingly he advanced towards her, hoping to save her from what -appeared instant death without alarming her; but the mountain mist -swooped down upon them, enveloping Amy and himself in its damp folds. -Then it lifted again, but no Amy was to be seen, and there, advancing -slowly towards him, was the tall, stooping figure in grey, whom he had -seen that morning on the Quai. She, too, stretched out her hands to -him, but what she held he could not at first see. Nearer and nearer she -drew, the mountain mists still clinging to her long, trailing skirt, -and hiding her face as with a veil. In another instant her cold, thin -hands held his, and a deep, sad woman’s voice said, slowly and -distinctly,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-179">[179]</a></span> “Take it, keep it, and let the poor sinner go.” Then -he felt a ring placed upon his little finger, and there, flashing out -in the mist and darkness was Amy’s antique ruby ring. -</p> -<p> -What was it woke him at this moment? What was that noise sounding in -his ears still? Could it be a door or a window shutting? He started to -his feet and looked round the room. Nothing appeared to have been -disturbed, the books and papers on the table were just as he had left -them. Then he pushed aside the curtains, and looked out into the dreary -quadrangle. The fountain sent up a feeble spray towards the leaden sky. -The corridor looked damp and dismal as ever. Were his eyes deceiving -him? Was he thoroughly awake, or could it be that there, slipping in -and out between the pillars<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-180">[180]</a></span> like a shadow almost in the dimness of the -light, was the grey, stooping figure of his dream? -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -He sprang to the door, and flinging it back, let in a flood of light -from the staircase and landing. Then he paused in amazement, for there, -on the little finger of his left hand, sparkled and glittered an -antique ruby ring with garter and buckle, and the motto, in old French -letters, “<i>Sans espoir je meurs!</i><span class="lftspc">”</span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_11"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-181">[181]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 id="chapter_11_hdg"> -CHAPTER XI. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -“T<small>AKE</small> it, keep it, and let the poor sinner go!” Through long days and -sleepless nights the words echoed and re-echoed in Lord Hardcastle’s -ears. That they were spoken by an actual human voice he was positively -certain, but all enquiries respecting the grey veiled figure proved -fruitless, and from that time he saw her no more. -</p> -<p> -Very carefully and gently he broke the news of the restoration of Amy’s -ring to Mr. Warden, feeling the necessity that every circumstance -connected with their search<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-182">[182]</a></span> should be known to him as it occurred, for -who could tell what might happen next? -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden listened very calmly to the strange story— -</p> -<p> -“It is the beginning of the end,” he said. “Heaven only knows what the -end will be! Stranger things than this are, no doubt, in store for us. -Keep the ring, Hardcastle, who can have a greater right than you to -wear it?” -</p> -<p> -And Hardcastle kept the ring, and registered yet another vow in his own -heart in much the same words he had vowed hand-in-hand with Frank -Varley, that “by night and by day, by land and by sea, he would search -the whole world through” to clear the name of the girl he loved. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden daily grew weaker and weaker.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-183">[183]</a></span> They rested a week at -Boulogne, and then travelled by easy stages to Le Puy. After eight -days’ quiet travelling they reached the picturesque old city, and -though tired and worn out to the last degree, Mr. Warden insisted on -being at once driven to a small quiet inn (it could scarcely be called -hotel) situated half way between the town and his old mountain home. -</p> -<p> -“<i>A l’Aigle des Montagnes</i><span class="lftspc">”</span> was the sign which hung over this quiet -little hostelry, and its dedication could not possibly have been better -chosen. Perched high in the second belt of rocks which surrounds Le -Puy, it seemed incredible, when looked at from the plateau beneath, -that aught but eagle’s wings could mount so far. A narrow, winding -path, made to admit the “little cars”<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-184">[184]</a></span> of the country, with not an -inch to spare on either side, led to the inn. To an inexperienced -traveller the road seemed terrible and dangerous, but the hardy, -sure-footed mountaineer made but light of it. What to him was a -precipice, first on this side, then on that, and occasionally on both? -Once arrived at the summit the view was simply magnificent, bounded -only by the distant Cevennes, and showing, in all its sparkling beauty, -the windings of the Loire and its many tributaries. -</p> -<p> -Hither some twenty years previously Mr. Warden had first come, and with -an artist’s appreciation of the grand and the beautiful, had returned -again and again to paint the wild mountain scenery and ruined chateaux -which were hung here and there like eagle’s nests among the rocks. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-185">[185]</a></span> -Since those old days the place had twice changed hands, and the present -proprietor was totally unknown to him. Nevertheless the place and its -surroundings could not fail to revive many bitter memories and days -both sad and sweet to him, and on the second day after their arrival, -Lord Hardcastle saw in him such a rapid change for the worse, that he -at once gave orders that a doctor should be sent for from Le Puy. -</p> -<p> -“It is useless, Hardcastle,” said Mr. Warden, when he heard the order -given. “No doctor can do anything for me now. Let them get me a few -tonics, which I can prescribe for myself, so that I may rally for a few -days, and pay a visit to my old home here. Open the window,” he added -impetuously, “this soft, sweet air brings life back to me.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-186">[186]</a></span> -Then Hardcastle placed for him a low easy chair close to the casement, -whence he could look right and left upon the mountain panorama, and -even catch a glimpse of a turret of his old chateau standing high among -the distant rocks. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden gazed long and earnestly upon the magnificent landscape, -drinking in every sight and sound, as a dying man might gaze upon some -loved scene whose memory he wished to carry with him into eternity. -Lord Hardcastle dared not disturb him, he leaned over the back of his -chair without a word, and endeavoured, as far as possible, to follow -the train of his thoughts. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly Mr. Warden turned his head and looked Hardcastle full in the -face. He spoke excitedly, and his voice appeared almost to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-187">[187]</a></span> have -regained its old strength and firmness. -</p> -<p> -“Hardcastle,” he said “you have done a great deal for me, I know you -will do one thing more. It may be the last favour I shall ask of you. -Come here, stand at my right. You see, just between those sugarloaf -crags, the west turrets of my old home—the Chateau D’Albiac it was -called in those days. It stands on the highest ground in Cassagnac. A -little to the right there is a low well-cultivated valley, with about -five or six peasants’ houses dotted here and there. In one of these -Isola’s people lived, and there my darling Aimée was reared as her -foster-child. Will you go there for me, and if you can find her, bring -her here to me. I have one or two questions to ask, which she only can -answer.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-188">[188]</a></span> -“Gladly,” replied Hardcastle. “It has been my intention from the first -to seek this woman out and question her. As soon as the doctor arrives, -I will leave you in his charge, and set off without further delay.” -</p> -<p> -“No,” said Mr. Warden decisively, “you must set off at once; you do not -know these mountain paths as I do, and to a stranger they are full of -difficulties and dangers. Cassagnac is nearly six miles from here. You -laugh at the distance. Five miles of these mountain paths is no light -thing, I can assure you. If you start at once on one of the little -mountain ponies, you will not arrive at Cassagnac till nearly sunset. -Then you will have at least three miles further to go before you can -get a night’s lodging, for<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-189">[189]</a></span> you cannot possibly by any means return here -until to-morrow.” -</p> -<p> -“Until to-morrow,” echoed Hardcastle sadly, and the thought flashed -through his brain “what if he be not here to-morrow?” -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden read his thoughts, “It is not so near as that Hardcastle,” -he said quietly; “but it is not far away. Go at once, I implore you, -for days and hours are getting precious to me now. Your doctor will be -here before long; the people of the house are good and kind, and I feel -at home with them. Go at once, I beg of you; let me not feel I have had -my journey here for nothing. Ah! if my young strength would come back -to me for one day, how gladly would I set off with you!” Then he leaned -back in his easy chair wearied out, and once more begging<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-190">[190]</a></span> Hardcastle to -start immediately, closed his eyes as though he wished to sleep. -</p> -<p> -Hardcastle had no choice but to obey. He went at once to the innkeeper -and his wife, and gave them strict orders to be constantly in and out -of Mr. Warden’s room during his absence, and one to remain with him -throughout the night. Then he wrote a few lines to the doctor, -requesting him to remain until his return on the morrow. Even with -these precautions his heart misgave him, and he could scarcely summon -courage to start on his journey. -</p> -<p> -However, he felt further contention with Mr. Warden would be worse than -useless—it would be positively injurious to him, so with another -farewell glance at his friend, apparently sleeping quietly in the -window seat, he set off on his little mountain pony. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-191">[191]</a></span> -Then it was that the Cevenol scenery burst upon him in all its wild -grandeur. It was not one magnificent picture which met his eye, but a -hundred or more, for every turn of the steep mountain path brought to -view some fresh tableau of startling beauty. But the one thing which -struck him most was the solitude, the intense silence which reigned -everywhere. The rush and roar of the falling torrent, the scream of a -distant wild bird, and once only the lowing of some oxen, evidently -yoked to one of the rude cars of the country, these were the only -sounds which broke the perfect stillness of the scene. -</p> -<p> -“Cassagnac,” he thought, “must be a very tiny village, for its highway -to be so little frequented.” It had slipped his memory, so full it was -of other thoughts, that none but<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-192">[192]</a></span> the hardiest or poorest of the -villagers would remain to face the terrible winter of these parts, when -roads and valleys alike are choked with snow. In fact he was journeying -on to a deserted village, for, by the end of November at latest, most -of the peasants have taken refuge in more accessible localities. -</p> -<p> -Quietly and steadily the little pony kept on his way, never swerving an -inch right or left; the gritty lava crunched under his feet, and now -and then a huge boulder would fall from the path into the deep ravine -below, with an echoing crash. Hardcastle had provided himself with a -plan of the country,—a rudely sketched one, drawn out by the landlord -of the “<i>Aigle des Montagnes</i>,” for the use of his guests—but he -scarcely needed it, so well did the little pony know his road. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-193">[193]</a></span> -As the afternoon went on the Chateau D’Albiac stood out plainly in -front of him. But although apparently so near it was yet some little -distance off, for the pathway, ever mounting, took many curves and -bends, and Lord Hardcastle found he could not possibly arrive there -before twilight set in. The sun sank lower and lower, the shadows -lengthened and deepened, and although the air for the time of year was -remarkably balmy and mild, Hardcastle could not repress a shudder as he -took the last curve which brought him face to face with the old -chateau. Was it the silence and loneliness of the place which so -oppressed him, or was it that his nerves had been shaken by the strange -events through which he had lately passed? A feeling he could not -understand took possession of his<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-194">[194]</a></span> mind. He felt almost like a man -walking in a dream, seeing strange sights and hearing strange sounds, -so unreal, so unlike anything he had ever seen was the mountain picture -around him. There, straight in front of him, stood the old chateau, the -highest point in the rocky landscape. Every door barred, every window -shut, not to be opened till the following spring. The sun sank lower -and lower, the shadows lengthened and deepened, the rocks began to take -fantastic shapes against the evening sky, lighted in the west by the -long golden and purple streaks of the dying day. Not a sound broke the -intense silence of the place, and Hardcastle, throwing the reins on his -pony’s neck, in perfect stillness drank in the beauty and glory of the -scene. The sun, with a farewell<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-195">[195]</a></span> scarlet light, fired the windows of the -old chateau, danced upon peaks and crags of fantastic shape, and sent a -flood of glory upon two solitary female figures standing on one of the -highest points of the worn-out volcanoes. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“I must be dreaming! It is a land of visions here; I have lost control -over my own senses;” said Hardcastle, aloud, as he pressed forward to -get a nearer view of what seemed to him an illusion. Two figures at -such a time, in such a scene of loneliness and solitude! Nearer and -nearer he drew. What did he see? Breathless and nerveless he leaned -forward deprived alike of speech and power. Mountains, crags and -sunlight swam before his eyes and faded away into mist, while the words -of Mr. Warden, in the study of Harleyford,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-196">[196]</a></span> rang and echoed in his -ears. “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. The long white robe she wore, and the -dark-faced nurse by her side.” There, straight in front of him, was the -literal realization of the picture in all its details, for there, -awe-struck and silent as himself, stood Amy Warden and Isola the nurse! -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_12"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-197">[197]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 id="chapter_12_hdg"> -CHAPTER XII. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -T<small>HE</small> 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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-198">[198]</a></span> -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.” -</p> -<p> -“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”— -</p> -<p> -“Doctor Lemoine,” again interrupted Mr. Warden, “what I wish is that -you should<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-199">[199]</a></span> 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.” -</p> -<p> -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 <i>patois</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-200">[200]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -The Docteur Lemoine came in from time to time, entreating him to calm -himself, and prescribing tonics or light stimulants. -</p> -<p> -Towards noon the mist began to lift, but still no sign of Lord -Hardcastle. Two, three, four, five o’clock passed, and Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-201">[201]</a></span> 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!” -</p> -<p> -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.” -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-202">[202]</a></span> -“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!” -</p> -<p> -“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!” -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-203">[203]</a></span> 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.” -</p> -<p> -“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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-204">[204]</a></span> poor Aimée! Is she waiting for my forgiveness -before she will come?” -</p> -<p> -“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.” -</p> -<p> -Then Mr. Warden sprang to his feet and threw up his arms with an -exceeding bitter cry. -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-205">[205]</a></span> 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.” -</p> -<p> -“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.” -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden made no reply, he sunk back in a chair and covered his face -with both hands. -</p> -<p> -Then the doctor interposed; he had been gazing in amazement from one to -the other,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-206">[206]</a></span> totally unable to understand their English, yet thoroughly -comprehending that something startling and wonderful, and of great -importance to Mr. Warden, had occurred. -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“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.” -</p> -<p> -“Good news!” exclaimed Mr. Warden, “what good news can there be for me? -My wife, my daughter!—Ah! my other Amy,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-207">[207]</a></span> have you heard of her, -Hardcastle? Tell me quickly what you know, where is she, living or -dead?” -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -Now the little doctor took the lead— -</p> -<p> -“I have obeyed Milord too long, in resting here so tranquilly. You must -follow my orders now,” he said, severely and dictatorially. -</p> -<p> -“Willingly,” replied Lord Hardcastle, as he assisted to remove Mr. -Warden to a couch.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-208">[208]</a></span> “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.” -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -The movement aroused him. He opened his eyes, and they rested full on -her face. Amy controlled herself admirably. -</p> -<p> -“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.” -</p> -<p> -“I am cured already,” replied Mr. Warden, as he held his daughter -tightly clasped in his<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-209">[209]</a></span> 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? -</p> -<p> -“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.” -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -“Papa, dear,” she exclaimed in her old, quick, imperious manner, “will -you ask Lord<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-210">[210]</a></span> Hardcastle what right he has to wear a ring of mine?” -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_13"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-211">[211]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 id="chapter_13_hdg"> -CHAPTER XIII. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -A<small>T</small> this time Mr. Warden received his first packet of English letters -from the <i>poste restante</i> at Le Puy. -</p> -<p> -Among others there was one from Inspector Hill, which ran as follows:— -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p class="address"> -“Scotland Yard, -</p> -<p class="date"> -“Nov. 20th. -</p> -<p class="salutation"> -“S<small>IR</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para"> -“I think it right you should be informed of certain facts which have -come to my knowledge respecting some jewellery belonging to Miss -Warden, viz., a diamond necklace, earrings, and brooch, which have<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-212"><span class="rgtspc_pgno">[212]</span></a></span> -already been restored to you through Mr. Varley, and an antique ruby -ring which Miss Warden was supposed to have worn the day she left home, -but which in reality was left by her on her toilette table with the -diamonds which she had worn on the previous night at the Leicestershire -county ball. -</p> -<p> -“My informant is a Miss Marian Kempe, whom you may possibly remember I -have mentioned once or twice in my reports to you as a relative of the -girl Lucy Williams, at one time Miss Warden’s maid. -</p> -<p> -“This girl Williams, if you will remember, I stated had a most -disreputable brother who had been convicted of connivance with poachers -to rob his master’s estate. On his release from prison he returned to -his native place, and once more fell into his old dissolute habits.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-213">[213]</a></span> -He appears, on several occasions, to have had interviews with -his sister at your house, and to have threatened her in various ways if -she could not find sufficient money to enable him to reach New York, or -some other large city, where he hoped, by false written characters, to -find some means of support. -</p> -<p> -“Then occurred Miss Warden’s mysterious disappearance, and the -jewellery lying loose upon the table proved too strong a temptation for -the girl, who at once secreted the diamonds and ring, and when asked by -you for the dress in which to describe Miss Warden in the -advertisements, cleverly included the ring in the description. This -ring she at once handed over to her brother, who immediately started -for Liverpool, intending to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-214">[214]</a></span> wait there for farther supplies which his -sister had promised, if possible, to procure for him. -</p> -<p> -“The diamonds she appears to have kept back for a time in case they -should be asked for, but in the state of confusion into which your -house was thrown, and Mrs. Warden being too ill to interest herself -much in the matter, they were not missed; in fact, I believe, the jewel -case was not even opened when handed over to Mrs. Warden’s care. -</p> -<p> -“The girl most probably intended to dispose of the diamonds in London, -and afterwards to have escaped with her brother to New York, when, as -you know, she was seized with small-pox, and died at the house of her -relative, the Miss Marian Kempe whom I have already mentioned. -</p> -<p> -“This Miss Kempe is, undoubtedly, a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-215">[215]</a></span> woman of good character, holding -extreme religious views, and willing to sacrifice everything in the -discharge of her duty. She was at one time engaged to be married to Tom -Williams, and although the match was broken off, is evidently still -very much attached to the man. About a week since she came to me in -travelling dress, and appeared very much fatigued with a long journey -she said she had just taken across the channel. She also seemed much -agitated, and asked me in an excited tone if I ever read the Gospel, -and if I knew who it was Christ came to seek and to save? ‘See here, -Miss Kempe,’ I said in reply, ‘if you are alluding to publicans and -sinners, I conclude you have something to say to me about that rascal, -Tom Williams. If so, say it at once, please, for I have no<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-216">[216]</a></span> time -for sermonizing, I assure you.’ ‘He is no rascal,’ she said, -indignantly, ‘he is a repentant sinner, and will yet, please God, be -numbered among the elect.’ Then she proceeded to tell me a very -extraordinary story. How that Tom Williams arrived at Liverpool, -intending to wait there for Lucy; how he waited and waited, and at -length received, through some secret channel, the news of her death, -and that the diamonds had been restored to you. In his haste to escape, -he took passage in the first steamer he came across, which chanced to -be a trader bound for Boulogne. It is also possible he imagined himself -to be safer across the channel than across the Atlantic. Landing at -Boulogne, he appears to have had some drunken quarrel with an Italian -seaman, who wounded him<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-217">[217]</a></span> severely in the thigh with a large clasp -knife. Tom was eventually carried by some passers-by to a quiet -lodging-house on the Quai, and the woman of the house showed him a -great deal of kind attention. A fever set in after this stabbing -affair, and Tom was reduced to a very low ebb. Utterly friendless, in a -foreign country, and at death’s door, his thoughts turned to Miss Kempe -as the one most likely to help him out of his troubles. He consequently -made an appeal to her, couched in very penitent language, and implored -her, by her past affection for him, to help him out of his sin and -misery. This letter he sent under cover to some comrade in London, who -posted it to Miss Kempe’s address. The bait succeeded admirably. The -woman at once locked up her room, disposed<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-218">[218]</a></span> of a few valuables she had, -and started for Boulogne. At Charing Cross Station, when about to take -her ticket for the night train, she caught sight of your luggage on the -platform, addressed to Boulogne. She at once concluded you were in -pursuit of Tom, and determined to wait and watch your proceedings. She, -however, crossed the next morning, and hurrying to Tom, informed him of -your approach, and asked what he thought it best to do. ‘This is what -they want, Marian,’ he said, drawing the ring from under his pillow, -‘take it to them, and beg me off.’ This she seemed afraid to do, and -waited about the hotel all day before she could make up her mind to -enter. When at length she summoned courage to do so, she wandered by -chance into your sitting-room,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-219">[219]</a></span> and finding Lord Hardcastle asleep by -the fire, the idea occurred to her of placing the ring on his finger as -he slept, thus avoiding embarrassing questions, and thinking, poor, -foolish woman, that if your property were restored to you, you would no -longer wish to prosecute the rascal. Her object in coming to me was -twofold. First, to assure me of the genuineness of the man’s -repentance, and secondly to find out, if possible, your intention on -the matter. -</p> -<p> -“Of course nothing would be easier than to bring the man to justice. I -have not the slightest belief in his penitence, and I farther think, if -he should recover, he will induce this infatuated woman to marry him -for the sake of her small savings. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“I must ask your pardon, sir, for this long<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-220">[220]</a></span> letter I have -unwillingly troubled you with, and awaiting your orders, beg to remain, -</p> -<p class="closing2"> -“Your obedient servant, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“J<small>ERVIS</small> H<small>ILL</small>.” -</p> -<p class="pad_top nobottom"> -“Postscript.—Since writing the above I have received a special -communication from Dunwich Police Station, in which, perhaps, sir, you -may feel interested. It relates to the conviction of a gipsy woman and -tramp, for stealing. In her possession was found a long travelling -cloak and thick veil. This she states she found in a plantation in your -grounds about two months ago, when she had there taken refuge from a -thunderstorm which had set in with violence. This thunderstorm, sir, we -must all remember as occurring on the night Miss Warden’s body was -found. This cloak and veil most probably belonged to her<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-221">[221]</a></span> and enabled -her to pass unnoticed and unknown through Dunwich streets, and were -most likely thrown on one side by her when wearied and heated by her -long walk she found them heavy and cumbersome. They remain at Dunwich -Station to be claimed and identified, if possible, and may chance to be -of great importance should you wish at any time to recommence the -investigation I had the honour to conduct for you. -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“J. H<small>ILL</small>.” -</p> -</div> - -<p> -To this Lord Hardcastle wrote in reply, at Mr. Warden’s request— -</p> -<p class="pad_top salutation"> -“S<small>IR</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para"> -“Mr. Warden wishes me to thank you for your letter, and to inform you -that he cannot ask you to recommence your former<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-222"><span class="rgtspc_pgno">[222]</span></a></span> investigation for the -simple reason that Miss Warden has returned to her family and friends, -and will in due time communicate all that is wished to be known. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“As for Tom Williams, Mr. Warden has not the least intention of -prosecuting him provided he gives up his malpractices and leads a -sober, honest life. Please to have him informed of this, and also -strongly counsel Miss Kempe to return to her home and keep her money in -her own hands. -</p> -<p class="closing2"> -“Your obedient servant, -</p> -<p class="signature nobottom"> -“H<small>ARDCASTLE</small>.” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_14"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-223">[223]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 id="chapter_14_hdg"> -CHAPTER XIV. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -A<small>MY</small>’<small>S</small> story took long to tell. Not in one continuous narrative, but at -long intervals, and in answer to many questions did she give her father -the history of the days she had spent away from home. -</p> -<p> -And this is the substance of her narrative. -</p> -<p> -On that bright August morning, the day after her first ball, she went -out of the house with a light step and a gay young heart. No thought of -care or sorrow in her mind, on the verge of womanhood, with a life full -of promise and brightness stretching out before her, the world, as it -were, at her feet, and the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-224">[224]</a></span> crown of her youth and beauty on her head, -suddenly a dark cloud fell over it all, shutting out the brilliant -landscape and sunlight, and enveloping youth, beauty, hope and promise, -the whole of the glory of the summer’s day, in the mist and darkness of -the valley of the shadow of death. -</p> -<p> -Amy Warden, thinking only of her last night’s scene of triumph (for -such it had been to her) walked gaily through her father’s grounds till -she came almost to the verge of the park lands. Here she met the -postman, “My letters, if you please,” she said, exchanging a kind “good -morning” with the man. He handed two to her in feminine handwriting, -and passed on. The first she quickly disposed of, it was from a young -girl friend, declining an invitation of Amy’s for the following day.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-225">[225]</a></span> -The second, in a strange foreign hand, although bearing the London post -mark, she opened as she quitted the park for the Dunwich high road. It -was (as has already been stated) market day at Dunwich, and two or -three villagers from Harleyford passed at this moment with whom she -exchanged greetings, and who, for the time, drew her attention from the -letter. -</p> -<p> -Once more turning her eye upon the page, she read words which made -park, woodland and road alike swim before her eyes, and which sent her -young blood rushing to her face and back again with a chill to her -heart. Recovering herself partially, she turned back into the -park lands, and there, under the shadow of the great trees, read -through her letter. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-226">[226]</a></span> -It was written partly in Cevenol <i>patois</i>, partly in good French, and -thus it ran:— -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -“M<small>A</small> M<small>IGNONNE</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para"> -“Hast thou forgotten Isola, thy nurse? Hast thou forgotten the one who -rocked thee in her arms to sleep, and led thee over the mountain to -gather wild campions to weave garlands and crowns for thy beautiful -mother? Dost thou know thou hast a mother living now among those -mountains? Has he who shadowed and cursed her young life told thee the -story of her suffering and wrong? For twelve long years, ma cherie, has -she lived a life of loneliness and sorrow, and now she lies on a bed of -sickness and pain with the hand of death upon her. She is wearying for -thee, my Aimée, wilt thou not go to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-227"><span class="rgtspc_pgno">[227]</span></a></span> her? I am in London, and I wait all -day long at your great Midland Station, for I know thou wilt come. I -shall know your sweet face among a thousand, for have I not seen it -night after night in my dreams? And thou! thou wilt know Isola, thy old -nurse, by her brown hood and cloak of the mountains.” -</p> -</div> - -<p> -In utter bewilderment and amazement, with every nerve in her body -jarring and trembling, Amy read and re-read her letter, and as she did -so the conviction of its genuineness and truth forced itself upon her. -Two thoughts only remained on her mind, the first, “my father told me a -bitter cruel lie when he denied my mother to my face, and placed -another in her stead;” the second, “my mother still lives! If I hasten -I may yet see<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-228">[228]</a></span> her before she dies. My darling, beautiful mother, whom -unknowingly I have loved all through my life.” -</p> -<p> -Her anger against her father was only exceeded by one feeling, her -intense, fervent love for her mother, whose image now stood out -distinctly in her young memory. Isola’s words had brought back a whole -world of recollections, the crowns of flowers, the mountain paths, the -things which to her had seemed before but floating fancies or childish -dreams, now took their right form as distinct vivid realities. -</p> -<p> -Not knowing anything of the circumstances which had brought about Mr. -Warden’s separation from his first wife, to her excited imagination he -appeared a perfect monster of wickedness, a cruel, fickle tyrant,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-229">[229]</a></span> who -had cast off one who loved him truly, for the sake of another woman— -</p> -<p> -“He told me a lie,” she kept repeating to herself again and again, “to -make me love that other woman, and to steel my heart against my own -mother.” -</p> -<p> -Then the picture of that mother, lying sick unto death, rose before her -mind, and one thought swept away every other. -</p> -<p> -“I will go to her at once,” she said with a wild cry, “at any risk, at -any cost. Who knows, I may yet perhaps save her life.” -</p> -<p> -With Amy, to think was to act; not a moment’s hesitation now. There was -another way to Dunwich station, besides the high road—a quiet way, -which led through fields and lanes, a little circuitously, perhaps, and -for that reason not likely to be traversed<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-230">[230]</a></span> on the busy market day by -any but gipsies or tramps. This road Amy at once took; she knew there -was a train leaving for London about noon, and this she determined if -possible to save. What was a five miles walk to a girl at her age, -young, active and strong; besides had she not one all-absorbing thought -to shorten her road, and lend wings to her feet— -</p> -<p> -“I am going to the mother I have dreamed of and loved all through my -young life.” -</p> -<p> -Once arrived at Dunwich, she was pretty sure to escape recognition. The -station (a junction, with a large amount of traffic) was on market days -positively crowded, and Amy, passing rapidly through the throng, took -her ticket, and seated herself in the London train without more than a -casual<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-231">[231]</a></span> glance from the guard, to whom she was personally unknown. -</p> -<p> -Then she had time for thought. But the more she thought, the more the -difficulties of her position grew upon her. How could she act for the -best? It was simply an impossibility for her to consult her father on -the matter, for would not all his efforts be directed to keep her -mother out of her rightful position, and would he who had lived so long -in sin (so she thought) with another, be likely to have any sympathy -for her in her present undertaking. -</p> -<p> -“I will wait and consult with Isola,” was the young girl’s thought as -the train whirled her on towards London, “she will most likely know -what my mother’s wishes are,” and as she thought of that mother, and -the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-232">[232]</a></span> years of suffering her father’s cruelty had condemned her to -endure, every feeling was absorbed in one indignant resolve to leave no -means untried to have that mother righted and restored, if not to -happiness, at least to peace and honour. -</p> -<p> -As the train entered the London Station, she noticed a woman clad in a -long brown cloak, with a peasant’s hood drawn over her head, whom she -quickly identified as Isola; not from her recollection of her nurse’s -face, for here memory failed her, nor yet alone from her dress, which, -though strange, seemed familiar to her, but the woman was evidently -waiting and watching, and her long earnest gaze into each carriage as -the train drew up at the platform, could not fail to strike the most -casual observer— -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-233">[233]</a></span> -“Ma bonne, ma bonne,” said Amy in a low voice, as she jumped from the -train, stretching out both hands towards her nurse— -</p> -<p> -“Holy mother!” exclaimed the woman, seizing Amy’s hand, and -passionately kissing it— -</p> -<p> -“Which of my two children is it that I see? The eyes, the voice, the -hands, the hair are her mother’s own. My child, bless the Saints and -Holy Mary whenever you look at your sweet face in the glass, for thou -wilt never be without thy mother’s portrait all thy life long.” -</p> -<p> -Then followed question and answer in rapid succession. Amy ascertained -from Isola that her mother had entered the convent of St. Geneviève, -some few miles<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-234">[234]</a></span> distant from their old home. Isola breathed not a word -of her mother’s transgression, nor how she had abandoned husband and -child for the caprice of a moment. Isola’s intense love for, and -devotion to her mistress, blinded her to all her faults; she could see -her in but one light, that of a wronged, suffering woman, and as such -she spoke of her. She dwelt long upon Mr. Warden’s harshness and -cruelty to his young wife, and told Amy how at length his treatment -became insupportable, and they were compelled to seek another home; how -that her mother had eventually taken vows in the Convent of St. -Geneviève, seeking in religion the happiness she could not find in the -world. Isola made no mention of the lie passed off on Mr. Warden -respecting his wife’s death. To her mind<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-235">[235]</a></span> the one weak point in Aimée’s -character was her love for her husband and her real penitence for her -fault. This to Isola was simply incomprehensible— -</p> -<p> -“The man hates you, why should you love him?” was her argument. “He -treated you badly, you did well to leave him.” -</p> -<p> -Nevertheless, whatever order Aimée gave must be carried out to the very -letter, and with the blind unreasoning fidelity of a dog, she obeyed -her mistress’s slightest wish. -</p> -<p> -Thus it was, that intentionally or unintentionally, Isola’s narrative -conveyed a very wrong impression to Amy’s mind. The young girl scarcely -realized her own feelings towards her father, so completely had they -been reversed— -</p> -<p> -“I could not have believed all this Isola,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-236">[236]</a></span> even from your lips,” she -said passionately, “if he had not himself told me a lie, and denied my -own mother to my face.” -</p> -<p> -So they journeyed on. Miss Warden had only a few sovereigns in her -purse, but Isola seemed to be well supplied with money— -</p> -<p> -“Where does all your money come from?” asked Amy wonderingly, as she -noticed Isola’s well-filled purse. Isola pointed to her ears, despoiled -of ornaments— -</p> -<p> -“You sold them!” exclaimed Amy, “why, they must have represented the -savings of at least twenty years,” she added, recollecting the practice -of the French peasantry to invest their earnings in jewellery, and -especially in earrings, which they exchange for others more valuable as -they rise and prosper in the world. Isola bowed her head— -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-237">[237]</a></span> -“Could they be yielded to one more worthy, or to one who had a greater -right?” she enquired earnestly. -</p> -<p> -Tears filled Amy’s eyes at the proof of such devotion, and she said no -more. -</p> -<p> -By the time they arrived at Folkestone, Amy had become more calm and -collected. She endeavoured to mark out for herself some plan of action— -</p> -<p> -“I think Isola,” she suggested, “we will telegraph to my father from -here that I am safe and well, and that he will hear from me again.” -</p> -<p> -“<i>Mon Dieu!</i>” exclaimed Isola, “and be stopped by the police on landing -at Boulogne! No, no, my child, wait till thou hast safely reached thy -mother, then telegraph, write, or do what thou wilt.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-238">[238]</a></span> -Amy saw the force of the argument, and contended no more, but it was -difficult, nay impossible for a girl who had loved her father so -passionately as she had, to shut out altogether from her imagination -the agony of mind he must be suffering at her unaccountable absence. -But what could she do? The difficulties of her position seemed -insuperable, and her mind had become so bewildered, she felt she could -scarcely now distinguish between right and wrong. Besides, the one -all-absorbing intense desire to see her mother had taken such -possession of her, that every other feeling was comparatively deadened. -</p> -<p> -They crossed by the night mail to Boulogne, and thence without delay -continued the route to Le Puy. A wearisome journey, and which,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-239">[239]</a></span> to Amy, -seemed endless, so long and dreary seemed the hours which kept her -apart from her idolised mother. At length it was accomplished, and at -the time that the whole country round Harleyford had risen to join in -the fruitless search, and Frank Varley and Lord Hardcastle had clasped -hands in a solemn vow to rest not day nor night till the wanderer was -brought home, Amy was lying in her mother’s arms at the Convent of St. -Geneviève, or kneeling by her side kissing her hands, feet, or dress, -in a perfect ecstasy and bewilderment of joy that her wildest -imaginings were at last realized, and that she had found a mother -indeed. -</p> -<p> -“Ah,” said Amy, here breaking off her narrative and drawing a long -breath. “No one could have painted my mother to me as<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-240">[240]</a></span> she really was -and as I found her. It would have needed a special inspiration to have -done so. To describe material beauty, the beauty of form, colour, and -outline—yes, it can be done; but to paint the many transparent tints of -a sunbeam, or the light and shadow of a handful of the sparkling, -rippling stream! It is impossible. When one can be found to do this -then may he begin to paint my mother in all her changeful, wondrous -beauty. As a very empress, as a star in a dark sky she shone out among -the little brown nuns at St. Geneviève. They were all so little, so -brown, so old, not a young face among them. Not one of them had been -the other side of the mountains for more than thirty years. They were -all most kind and courteous, and so indulgent to my mother in<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-241">[241]</a></span> all her -caprices, treating her almost as a wayward, spoilt child, and only -insisting on such matters as were absolutely necessary to keep up the -discipline of the convent. In her tiny bare little room, in her coarse -brown-grey dress, my mother had passed ten of the best years of her -life. It is marvellous to me, knowing her as I now do, that the routine -and confinement of a convent life had not broken her spirit and quite -worn her out. Oh, papa, I hate routine, I hate discipline, I detest a -quiet, orderly life, and yet I feel as if, should I live to be -withered, and brown, and old, I should like to come here to these kind -little nuns and end my days in peace with them.” -</p> -<p> -Amy sighed wearily; she often sighed now. The strange events through -which she had<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-242">[242]</a></span> lately passed had tried her beyond measure, but the -bitterest trial of all had been the choice she had been compelled to -make between her father and her mother. To believe in the truth of the -one was to acknowledge the falsehood of the other, and it was hard -indeed for her young, loving heart to choose between the two. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden looked at his daughter anxiously. She was greatly changed, -and he could not but feel that his bright, light-hearted Amy would -never come back again. Now and then flashes of her old self would shine -out, and she would look up in his face with her own laughing eyes, but -it was only now and then, and the Amy of to-day was a sadder, paler, -more thoughtful being than the Amy of six months ago. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-243">[243]</a></span> -“Amy, dear,” said Mr. Warden, tenderly, “tell me one thing and I will -ask no more questions to-night. Did your mother ever allude in any way -to the wrong she once did me, or did you learn this story from some one -else?” -</p> -<p> -“From Lord Hardcastle,” replied Amy. “When I first saw my mother, as -she clasped me in her arms, she said, ‘my darling, do you know the -whole truth, and can you love me still?’ I, imagining she referred to -your neglect and cruelty, and her impatience and flight as described by -Isola, replied that I did know the whole truth, and I loved her better -than ever. After this nothing more was said by either of us on the -matter. It was not until Lord Hardcastle stood before me on the rocks -and insisted, with his thin pale face and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-244">[244]</a></span> solemn manner, that I should -hear the whole truth and then judge between my parents, that I knew -what had really occurred. Papa, papa, I felt then I should hate him for -ever and ever for having cast down my idol from its pedestal. Yet,” she -added, tearfully, “I ought to be grateful to him, too, for has he not -given back to me my own dear father, and cleared away the cloud that -had risen up between us?” -</p> -<p> -“Thank God for that, indeed, my child, and had it not been for him, -Amy, your father would not be here talking to you now. A few more such -days of grief and anxiety would have worn out the last remains of my -strength. I owe Lord Hardcastle a debt I can never repay, and it pained -me beyond measure the other day to hear your abrupt<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-245">[245]</a></span> question as to his -right to wear your ring. You must have wounded him deeply.” -</p> -<p> -“But, papa, dear, that was because he was not equal to the occasion. -Some gentlemen I know, such as Mr. Varley for instance, would have said -‘if I had but the right to wear it,’ or some such polite speech. Of -course I should have thought it very impertinent and great nonsense. -But no one will ever accuse Lord Hardcastle of talking nonsense! He -mounts his high horse immediately, gives me back my ring with scarcely -a word, and with the air of an emperor walks out of the room!” -</p> -<p> -“Amy,” said Mr. Warden, after a moment’s pause, “you spoke of Frank -Varley just now; do you care to know what has become of him?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-246">[246]</a></span> -“Yes,” said Amy, looking up eagerly, “where is he, papa? What did he do -when he heard I was lost? Tell me, don’t keep me waiting an instant,” -she added in her old tone and manner. -</p> -<p> -“For one whole month, my child,” said Mr. Warden, carefully watching -his daughter’s face, “he was broken-hearted, inconsolable, in fact all -but a madman. The next,” he said this very slowly, for he was loth to -strike the blow, “he was engaged to Mary Burton, and married ten days -afterwards.” -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -A start, a shiver, a very flushed and then a very pale face, that was -all, and then Amy repeated in a strangely quiet tone, “Married to Mary -Burton! I remember her well, that large, fair, good-looking girl, who -didn’t know how to make men look at her! We won’t<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-247">[247]</a></span> talk any more to-day, -papa. The little doctor will scold me if I keep you up late and tire -you. Ah!” she said with a sigh and a look towards the mountains, “I -think those little brown nuns at St. Geneviève have a far better time -of it than we who stand out here in the cold and storm to fight our -life’s battle!” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_15"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-248">[248]</a></span> -</p> -<h2 id="chapter_15_hdg"> -CHAPTER XV. -</h2> -<p class="noindent"> -“S<small>HE</small> was like a wild bird beating its wings against its prison bars,” -said Amy, continuing her narrative a few days before they started for -England. “The excitement and pleasure of seeing me had acted magically -on her, so much so that I found it difficult to realize the truth of -Isola’s description of her before my coming. In a day or two, however, -the excitement subsided, and I became seriously alarmed. She seemed -possessed by a spirit of unrest, and I began to fear for her reason. No -sleep at night, no rest for one five minutes in the day. She fulfilled -all her religious<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-249"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[249]</span></a></span> duties faithfully (they were not heavy ones, and the -Abbess was indulgent) but every spare moment she spent with me was -passed in one ceaseless moan. ‘I must see him; there will be no peace -for me till I have looked at the dear face again. Help me, my child, -help me!’ I knew not what to do for the best. I felt it would be -useless to consult the Abbess, or even the Convent Confessor, on the -matter, as their experience in the world’s ways was even less than -mine, and they looked upon everything in the light of their religion. -Besides, I knew there was no possibility of their allowing my mother -outside the walls, even in charge of a sister, for their rules on this -point were strict. What could be done? I felt, too, that you ought to -be written to by some one, but by<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-250"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[250]</span></a></span> whom? Mercy to Mrs. Warden, whom I -was convinced was ignorant of my mother’s existence, withheld my hand, -and whom could I trust in such a matter, or to whom, indeed, could I -expose my father’s guilt? I felt confident in my own mind that you -would naturally guess whither I had gone, and would possibly frame some -excuse for me to Mrs. Warden and others. But, O, my father, I have no -words to express the agony, the absolute torture of mind I suffered at -the thought of your unworthiness, of your cruelty to one whom I -believed to be so noble and good as my mother. -</p> -<p> -“The difficulties, too, of my position were very great. The Abbess was -kindness itself to me, and bade me stay with my mother as long as I -pleased, but she was constantly asking<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-251">[251]</a></span> me questions as to my family and -connections, and I, not knowing how much of my mother’s story had been -confided to her, was fearful of betraying my mother every hour of the -day. Latterly, however, all these anxieties gave way to one more -terrible than all. Little as I knew of such cases, I felt sure that my -mother was in a state bordering on madness, and every day that passed -increased her danger. Isola, who came daily to see us, had but one -thought in her mind, how to save my mother, and was for ever suggesting -to me some wild plan, which I felt to be either wrong or impracticable. -At one time she would propose I should receive a letter, informing me -of your death; at another she suggested I should frame some story that -would prove you to be utterly base, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-252">[252]</a></span> unworthy of any woman’s love. -But that I could not do, for deep down in my heart there was a feeling -I could not explain, nor put into words, but which made me angry or -indignant whenever Isola began to anathematize you. -</p> -<p> -“At length, one evening after I had gone to my own room, utterly worn -out with my mother’s excitement and misery, a sudden thought came into -my head. ‘Why not gratify her, why not enable her to see the man she so -blindly worships?’ Then it flashed across my mind how easily the thing -could be done! I had but to assume my mother’s nun’s dress and hood, -and no ordinary observer could have told it was not my mother herself. -She in my dress would easily be permitted to pass the portress’s<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-253">[253]</a></span> lodge, -and once outside the convent walls Isola would be at hand with further -disguises, if necessary, and means of facilitating the journey to -England. -</p> -<p> -“I felt, as you may imagine, I was incurring heavy responsibility in -acting thus. But what was to be done? I had no one to advise me. I knew -that you ought to be communicated with, and it was simply an -impossibility for me to leave my mother in the state she was in. Once I -had hinted at the advisability of my going back to consult with you as -to what ought to be done, but she became perfectly frantic at the bare -thought of such a thing, and throwing herself at my feet, had implored -me ‘not to quench the last ray of light in her life.’ -</p> -<p> -“Isola entered heart and soul into my plan.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-254">[254]</a></span> ‘I will go with her,’ -she exclaimed. ‘She is too much of a child to be trusted by herself in -the world. Where she wanders thither will I go, where she dies there -will I die, and there will I be buried.’ I gladly consented to this, as -Isola had already once made the journey to England, and would know all -the details of the route. My mother, too, was so bright and quick, and -her remembrance of the English you taught her so perfect, that I had -scarcely any fear of difficulties arising on the road. My one and only -anxiety was how would she conduct herself in her interview with you. -Would she act quietly and with discretion, or would she cause some open -scandal and disgrace to you and to your family? I did my best to -prevent this by exacting from her a solemn promise that she<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-255">[255]</a></span> would -not go down to Harleyford, but remain in London at the hotel where -Isola stayed, write to you from there, and there wait your reply. My -heart misgave me when she made me this promise. Yet, I thought to -myself, after all it doesn’t much matter what she says or does in -England. The truth will have to be made known to the world, and the -rightful wife acknowledged. ‘Ah! it was a weary, bitter time,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> and -here Amy broke down utterly. “My brain aches now when I think of it, -and a pain comes into my heart which, I think, will be there till my -dying day.” -</p> -<p> -“Poor child!” said Mr. Warden, tenderly smoothing the masses of dark -hair which clustered upon Amy’s white forehead, as she laid her head -wearily on his shoulder. “My<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-256">[256]</a></span> poor little girl, you have been too much -tried. You were too young to bear so heavy a load of responsibility and -sorrow. For an old worn-out heart like mine a little suffering, more or -less, cannot make much difference, but for you, in your bright, fresh -girlhood, it was hard indeed to bear up against such a complication of -mistakes and wrong-doing.” -</p> -<p> -“Yes,” said Amy, wearily, going on with her story, “it was very hard -and very miserable, and after my mother had started, I nearly broke -down altogether. -</p> -<p> -“Our plan succeeded beyond our hopes even. In the evening twilight, in -the dress in which I left my home, my mother passed out of the Convent -gates, with Isola, on the pretext of visiting some old friends on the -other side of Le Puy. You, my father, had<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-257">[257]</a></span> you seen her then, might have -mistaken her for your own daughter, so complete was the resemblance in -face, form, and figure. Perhaps she looked a little paler, a little -thinner, and a few years older (certainly not more) than I did six -months ago, but it would have needed younger and keener eyes than those -of the old nuns to have discovered this. And I, in my mother’s dress -and hood, had not the slightest fear of detection. I had become so -accustomed to the daily routine of the convent, that I knew to the -least iota every one of my mother’s religious duties. Latterly, too, -she had been so weak and ill she had been allowed to remain very much -in her own room. I had acquired, or rather reacquired, the singing -intonation peculiar to the Cevenol peasant, and knowing<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-258">[258]</a></span> our voices were -so nearly one pitch and tone, had no fear of discovery on this point. I -drew the hood a little more closely over my face; I was perhaps a -little less sociable and friendly with the sisters, and thus for three -days I escaped detection. -</p> -<p> -“But on the fourth day I knew that Pére Ambroise, the Confessor, was -expected, and I determined that with him I would attempt no further -concealment. He was a personal friend of my mother’s; it was he who -induced her to enter the Convent of St. Geneviève, and it was his wise -counsels, I don’t doubt, which had restrained and quieted her impetuous -temper, as long as it was possible to do so. Such a dear old man, papa, -he ought to be made a bishop at the very least, instead of ending his -days here<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-259">[259]</a></span> as Curé and Confessor to twenty or thirty little nuns. I -contrived to meet him as he entered the convent garden, and while -walking with him towards the house, told him, in as few words as -possible, the story of my mother’s escape, and my reason for planning -it. At first he was very angry, although not so much as might have been -expected, considering the heavy sin he believed to have been committed. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span><i>La petite Sœur</i> (that was the name my mother was known by on account -of her comparative youth) ought to have consulted me,’ he said, ‘I have -taught her for many years, and she might have relied on my counsels.’ -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Would you have let her go had she done so?’ I asked. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-260">[260]</a></span> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Without doubt, no,’ he exclaimed, earnestly. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Was there any other way of saving her life or reason?’ I asked again— -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>My daughter,’ he replied, very gently, ‘you are very young, but I -pray that long ere you have reached my age, you will have learned that -there are some things to be thought of before life or reason, and that -a man or woman must be at times prepared to sacrifice both rather than -honour, faith, or the service of God.’ -</p> -<p> -“I felt so ashamed that he should have to speak to me in this way, that -I knew not what to say. I felt how wrongly I had acted from first to -last. But what was I to do? I was altogether bewildered, and began to -wish I had consulted the good Father<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-261">[261]</a></span> before. However, it was too late -now. I could only repeat I was very sorry to have grieved and offended -him, but perhaps if he knew the whole of my story he would not judge me -so harshly. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>I do not ask for your confidence, my daughter,’ he replied, ‘there -may be things in your family history you would not care to repeat, but -I had a right to expect your mother’s confidence, and now I find it was -but half-given.’ -</p> -<p> -“Then he told me how I had made myself amenable to the laws of the -country in thus assisting in the escape of a nun— -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>But,’ he added kindly, ‘you, my child are too young to be prosecuted -on such a matter, and Isola too old. She will return and repent, she is -too true a daughter of the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-262">[262]</a></span> Church not to do so, but your mother never -will. The world has had her heart throughout her sojourn here, and the -world will claim its own.’ -</p> -<p> -“Then he told me I was welcome to stay here as long as I pleased, as -guest at the convent, or if I had other friends with whom I would -prefer staying, he would have much pleasure in conducting me to them. -Was he not a splendid man, papa?” added Amy enthusiastically, “he -looked so noble and so good while he was speaking, he made me feel -thoroughly ashamed of my own conduct, and the part I had played -throughout. Of course I told him I would remain gratefully with the -nuns till I heard from my mother or you, and then determining there -should be no further deceit on my part, told him how I<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-263">[263]</a></span> expected to hear -through Isola’s nephew, a young woodcutter in the neighbourhood. -</p> -<p> -“How anxiously I longed and waited for news you may imagine, but a -whole week passed, and still not a word. At length, about ten days -after my mother’s departure, and when I was feeling positively sick -with suspense, and a dread of what was coming, Isola herself, to my -great amazement, appeared at the convent gates. I hastened down to her, -dreading I knew not what. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Where is my mother?’ was my first question— -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>I left her in London,’ replied Isola, ‘she ordered me to return here -to thee and await her orders, and I have done so. It was hard to part -from her, she looked so young and beautiful, but she told me she would -manage<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-264">[264]</a></span> now her own affairs; that she was going down to the little -country village to see him she loved so well, and that thou wouldst -need an escort back to thy own country. I gave her all the money I had, -and my old brown hood and cloak, and here I am, my child, to take care -of thee.’ Then she handed to me a few short hurried lines from my -mother, telling me ‘she was safe and happy, and knew well what she -should do; that it might be some little time before she wrote again, -but when all was happily arranged she would send for me, and I know,’ -she concluded, ‘all will be happily arranged. I shall win him back; I -have loved him so well I cannot lose him.’ -</p> -<p> -“My heart sank as I read the note. Something told me the worst was to -come, and as<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-265">[265]</a></span> day after day slipped by, and not a line not a message -from either father or mother, my brain began to grow dazed and stupid, -and I think I really lost the power of reasoning. I dared not write to -you; I felt how justly angry you must be with me, whatever your own -fault, for having acted so madly and foolishly. I wandered backwards -and forwards from the convent to Isola’s cottage, from Isola’s cottage -to the convent, hoping for news, praying for news, and feeling the -suspense to be more than I could bear. O, papa, papa!” concluded Amy, -breaking down once more, and giving way to a passion of tears, “if you -had not come when you did, your poor little Amy would have lost her -reason altogether, or else have laid down to die from sheer weariness -and sickness of heart.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-266">[266]</a></span> -Gently and tenderly Mr. Warden soothed his daughter. -</p> -<p> -“My poor little girl,” he said, “you have been too much tried for one -so young. This is the last time we will talk over this sad story, but -before we lay it on one side for ever, you must hear one or two things -it is only right you should know. Lord Hardcastle has told you no doubt -most of what occurred during your absence, and all our grief for your -loss, but did he tell you the part he has played throughout; what he -has been to me all through our trials; and how it was he who guided us -here? Tell me that Amy!” -</p> -<p> -“No,” replied Amy, “he has never mentioned anything of that kind to me. -Indeed he has scarcely spoken to me the last few days, and whenever he -looks at me, his eyes<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-267">[267]</a></span> grow so large and cross, that I feel sure he is -thinking in his own mind, ‘what an immense deal of trouble this -self-willed silly girl has given us all! what a pity everyone is not as -sensible and clever as I am!’<span class="lftspc">”</span> -</p> -<p> -Then Mr. Warden commenced from the very beginning, and told Amy every -particular, even to the smallest detail, of all that had occurred -during her absence. He spared her nothing. All his own grief and -despair he laid bare before her, the solemn vow, too of Frank Varley -and Lord Hardcastle, and how each had played their part. He recounted -to her all the terrors of that dreadful night when death was in the -house and the baying hound betrayed her mother’s presence. Step by step -he led her on through the sad story of the finding of her mother’s -body, his<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-268">[268]</a></span> own broken-hearted sorrow, and Lord Hardcastle’s intense -grief. Amy never lifted her eyes from his face, but drank in his every -word and tone. Like one awaking from a dream, silent and enthralled she -sat and listened. As Mr. Warden repeated to her Lord Hardcastle’s words -in the library at the High Elms, “I want to be able to hold up a -picture of the girl I love so truly, in all her innocence, and beauty, -and purity, and to say to all the world, this is she whom I have loved -in life, whom I love in death, whom I shall love after death, through -eternity!” Amy sprang to her feet with clasped hands, exclaiming— -</p> -<p> -“Papa, papa, what is this, I do not understand.” At this moment the -door opened and Lord Hardcastle entered the room. Anything<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-269">[269]</a></span> more -embarrassing could not be imagined. Carried away by his feelings, Mr. -Warden had spoken loudly, and Amy’s high-pitched voice must have rung -the length of the corridor. For a moment all were silent, and Amy, -confused and nervous, leant over the window-ledge, dropping stones and -dry leaves from the flower-boxes on to the verandah beneath. -</p> -<p> -Lord Hardcastle was the first to recover himself. -</p> -<p> -“Mr. Warden,” he said, “I have come in to say good-bye; I shall leave, -I think, before daylight to-morrow, for a little run through Spain. I -am rather interested in Dr. Lytton’s account of the Moorish excavations -going on just now. You are looking so thoroughly well and happy, that I -quite feel my services are no longer needed.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-270">[270]</a></span> -He spoke carelessly, almost indifferently, but there was a mournful -ring in the last few words which went straight to Amy’s heart. -</p> -<p> -“He must not go, he shall not leave us in this way,” she exclaimed, -suddenly turning from the window, addressing her father, but stretching -out her hands to Lord Hardcastle. The old bright look had come back to -her eyes, the old imperious tones sounded once more in her voice, “How -can we thank him? What can we do for him who has done so much for us. -Lord Hardcastle,” she continued, turning impetuously towards him, with -flushed face and sparkling eyes, “I was very rude to you a short time -ago, can you forgive me? You were wearing my ruby ring, will you take -it back again, and keep it for ever and ever in remembrance of my<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-271">[271]</a></span> -gratitude to you? I have so little to offer,” she added apologetically, -with a little sigh, drawing the ring from her finger and holding it -towards him. -</p> -<p> -“But I want something more than the ring to keep for ever and ever,” -said Lord Hardcastle, in low earnest tones, for Amy’s voice and manner, -told him that the icy barriers between them were broken down at last. -“Not now, Amy,” he added tenderly, as he felt the little hand he had -contrived to secure, trembling in his own; “not now, for we have -scarcely as yet passed from beneath the cloud of the shadows of death, -but by-and-by, when the dark winter days have come and gone, and the -bright spring sun shines down once more upon us, then I shall hope to -come to you and ask not only for this<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-272">[272]</a></span> little hand, but for all you have -to give, even for your own sweet self!” -</p> -<p> -There was yet one more dark shadow to fall before the travellers -started on their homeward journey. Amy had proposed to her father that -they should pay a farewell visit to the little brown nuns at St. -Geneviève, to thank them for their hospitality to her. Mr. Warden -gladly acceded to her request, and the visit was paid the day before -they started for England. On leaving the convent, they purposed -visiting Isola in her lonely little hut in the valley, intending to -make some permanent provision for her comfort for the rest of her life. -</p> -<p> -“Poor faithful creature,” said Mr. Warden pityingly, as they descended -by the wild steep footway, “I would gladly ask her to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-273">[273]</a></span> return with us, -were it not for the recollection of falsehood and misery which her face -brings with it.” -</p> -<p> -Before they reached the hut, however, they were met by Isola’s nephew, -the young woodcutter, of whom mention has already been made. He looked -grave and sad, and lifting his hat respectfully to Mr. Warden, waited -for him to speak. -</p> -<p> -“How is your aunt this morning, André,” said Amy, “shall we find her -within?” -</p> -<p> -The young man shook his head. -</p> -<p> -“She is gone, mademoiselle, she will never return. This morning at -daybreak the angels carried her soul away. Since mademoiselle left us, -she wearied and sickened, she eat nothing, she never slept. There in -the window is her lace cushion with the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-274">[274]</a></span> bobbins untouched, and day and -night she sat and moaned in her wicker chair. Yesterday, when I tried -to make her take some food, she turned her face to the wall, ‘No, no,’ -she said, ‘the summer flowers are faded and dead, why should the -withered leaf hang upon the bough?’ She never spoke to me afterwards, -and this morning, when I went to her room to ask how she was, I found -her lying dead and silent on her bed. Will mademoiselle come in and see -her as she lies? She looks beautiful with her wreaths and garlands of -flowers.” -</p> -<p> -This, however, Mr. Warden would not permit, for he felt his young -daughter had already been tried beyond her strength, and Amy, with the -mists of tears hanging over her eyes, looked her last at the Cevenol -valley,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-275">[275]</a></span> and said a long farewell to the beautiful solitude. -</p> -<p> -And so the winter snows and clouds came and went, and the spring sun -shone out once more, calling into life and being a thousand sweet -sights and sounds. It lighted up the grey house at Harleyford, and fell -slantwise through the tall elms on to the tender grass beneath. It -shone through the east window of Harleyford Old Church, on to a quiet -wedding party assembled there one bright May morning, and played in -many coloured beams on two monuments standing side by side in the -grassy graveyard. -</p> -<p> -And far away in the lonely valley of the Cevennes, the same spring -sunshine lighted up a quiet weed-grown resting-place, and fell in -quivering lines and curves upon a simple<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-276">[276]</a></span> wooden cross, engraved in rude -peasant’s carving, with these few words— -</p> -<p class="center pad_top nobottom"> -“ISOLA.” -</p> -<p class="center pad_top nobottom"> -“<i>Fidèle jusques à la mort.</i>” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter tnote" id="tnote"> -<h2 class="tnote" id="tnote_hdg"> -Transcriber’s Note -</h2> -<p> -This transcription is based on scans available through Historical Texts -from a copy held by the British Library: -</p> -<p class="link"> -<a href="https://historicaltexts.jisc.ac.uk/bl-002924134"> -historicaltexts.jisc.ac.uk/bl-002924134</a> -</p> -<p> -Except where noted, inconsistencies in spelling (for example, “gray” -vs. “grey”) and hyphenation (for example, “grave-yard” vs. “graveyard”) -were not standardized. In addition, no changes were made to variant -spellings such as “delirous”. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -The following changes were made to the text: -</p> -<ul> -<li> -Added a table of contents. -</li> -<li> -p. 11: aimless, well-nigh broken hearted.—Changed “broken hearted” -to “broken-hearted” for consistency. -</li> -<li> -p. 26: Mr Hill glances at them—Added a period after “Mr”. -</li> -<li> -p. 29: “How dare yon insult me thus?”—Changed “yon” to “you”. -</li> -<li> -p. 51: it would be best to re-commence on the morrow.—Changed -“re-commence” to “recommence” for consistency. -</li> -<li> -p. 52: ‘Here,’ he called to the groom, ‘ride alongside of me, and tell -me all that is to be known about the girl Williams and her -flight!’<span class="lftspc">”</span>—Changed this sentence so that it is not a quotation within a -quotation. Deleted the opening single quotation mark before “Here”; -changed the closing single quotation mark after “Here” to a closing -double quotation mark; changed the opening single quotation mark before -“rule” to an opening double quotation mark; and deleted the closing -single quotation mark before the closing double quotation mark at the -end of the sentence. -</li> -<li> -pp. 61–62: my dear, young friend, he added (he had known Hardcastle -from his boyhood), and spare them—Added a closing double quotation -after “friend,” and added an opening double quotation mark before “and -spare them”. -</li> -<li> -p. 63: a bright young voice pouring forth a flood of question, answer, -and exclammation in a breath—Changed “exclammation” to “exclamation”. -</li> -<li> -p. 95: There was no rival beauty in her way now!”—Deleted the -quotation mark at the end of the sentence. -</li> -<li> -p. 115: with but one word inscribed, “<i>Aimée</i>”—Added a period to -the end of the sentence. -</li> -<li> -p. 127: In reply to this, Mrs. Warden wrote a long letter—Changed -“Warden” to “Varley”. -</li> -<li> -p. 138: when sorrow seemed a far away thing—Changed “far away” to -“far-away”. -</li> -<li> -p. 147: The signature “A<small>IMEE</small>” after “for I have torn your image -out of my heart.” was changed to “A<small>IMÉE</small>”. -</li> -<li> -p. 157: shall love after death, through eternity!”—Added a single -closing quotation mark after “eternity!” to close the quotation within -a quotation. -</li> -<li> -p. 165: he directed a porter to place their luggage in the booking -office—Added a hyphen between “booking” and “office” for consistency -within the same paragraph. -</li> -<li> -p. 225: she turned back into the park-lands—Changed “park-lands” to -“park lands” for consistency. -</li> -<li> -p. 262: Was he not a splendid man, papa? added Amy enthusiastically, -he looked so noble—Added a closing double quotation mark after “papa?” -and an opening quotation mark before “he looked”. -</li> -</ul> -</div> -<div>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65012 ***</div> -</body> -</html> diff --git a/old/65012-h/images/cover.jpg b/old/65012-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differdeleted file mode 100644 index 0b9bafb..0000000 --- a/old/65012-h/images/cover.jpg +++ /dev/null diff --git a/old/old/65012-0.txt b/old/old/65012-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 2f7234b..0000000 --- a/old/old/65012-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,4226 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Disappeared From Her Home, by Catherine -Louisa Pirkis - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Disappeared From Her Home - -Author: Catherine Louisa Pirkis - -Release Date: April 06, 2021 [eBook #65012] -[Most recently updated: August 18, 2021] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Paul Haxo from images graciously made available by Historical - Texts and the British Library. - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME *** - - - - -DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME. - -A Novel, - -IN ONE VOLUME. - - -BY - -MRS. FRED. E. PIRKIS. - - -London: - -REMINGTON AND CO., - -5, ARUNDEL STREET, STRAND, W.C. - - -1877. - -[_All Rights Reserved._] - - - - -DEDICATED, - -WITH ALL LOVE AND ESTEEM, - -TO MY BROTHER, - -GEORGE IGNATIUS PIRKIS. - - - - -CONTENTS - - -I - -II - -III - -IV - -V - -VI - -VII - -VIII - -IX - -X - -XI - -XII - -XIII - -XIV - -XV - - - - -DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME. - - -CHAPTER I. - - -“£200 REWARD. Disappeared from her home, Amy, only daughter of Stephen -Warden, Esq., of the High Elms, Harleyford. Age, 17; height, 5ft. Dark -hair and eyes, oval face, small nose, mouth, and chin; remarkably small -hands and feet; dressed in dark blue silk walking costume, broad -brimmed felt hat, with light-blue ostrich feather. Jewellery worn—a -gold butterfly brooch, and butterfly earrings; on the third finger of -left hand, an antique ruby ring—one large stone, surrounded with eight -small diamonds, set in a garter with buckle; motto on garter, ‘_Sans -espoir je meurs._’ The young lady was last seen on the morning of the -14th of August, leaving the park lands, and entering the high road -leading to Dunwich. Information to be given to Inspector Smythe, -Dunwich Police Station, who will pay the above reward on the young -lady’s restoration to her family, or portions of the amount according -to the value of the information received.” - -_____ - -The above handbill appeared one bright summer’s morning on the walls of -Dunwich Police Station, and on all the principal buildings of that busy -manufacturing town. - -Hard-working men of business found time, in the midst of their buying -and selling, to stop and read, and wonder how it was possible that -any young lady, well looked after, as Miss Warden undoubtedly was, -well-known, too, in the neighbourhood, and surrounded by relations, -friends, and servants, could thus disappear from their very midst, at -noon-day, and leave no trace of any sort. - -Harleyford was situated about five miles from Dunwich, and Mr. Warden’s -house about three from the local railway station. A well-traversed high -road led from his estate to the market town—Dunwich. This the young -lady had been seen to enter about ten o’clock on the morning of the -14th of August, by some country people, with whom she exchanged -greetings. From that moment nothing more had been seen nor heard of -her, and it was, as the country people expressed it in their broad -Leicestershire dialect, “as though the earth had opened, and swallowed -her up,” so completely had all traces of her been lost. - -Well-to-do tradesmen and thriving farmers, passing by, read the -handbill with a sort of shudder. Here was a young lady taking her usual -morning walk on a bright summer’s day; she wishes her neighbours a gay -good morning with a nod and a smile, goes on her way, and lo! nothing -more is seen or heard of her. After this, who was safe? And with a sigh -and a shiver, and a thought of their own young daughters at home, they -went their way to ponder over the strange occurrence. - -The county people by scores left their cards on Mr. and Mrs. Warden; -heard how they had waited breakfast for their daughter, then luncheon, -then dinner—how they had sent their men far and near to scour the -country—how every river had been dragged, every infirmary and hospital -searched, every railway official questioned and cross-questioned as to -whether the young lady had been seen entering either station—how the -parents had racked their brains to discover any possible or impossible -pretext which could drive their daughter from her home—how that now, -well-nigh broken-hearted, after a fortnight of wearying suspense, they -had folded their hands and prayed for any news, even the worst that -might come. - -“It is beyond mystery,” said old Lady Nugent to her young lady -companion, driving along the very same high road which had seen the -last of poor Amy, and looking right and left in the hedges, as though -she expected to find some traces of her there; “If the girl had had any -love troubles, one could understand it better; for the young, foolish -things at seventeen are often driven to some desperate folly by a man’s -wicked eyes. But every one knows she could have made the best match in -the county if she had liked. There’s young Lord Hardcastle, who -absolutely worships her—fastidious and fault-finding as he is; and as -for Frank Varley, the rector’s son, with his £10,000 a year, he is -positively mad after her.” - -“Yes, my lady,” responded the companion, “and it is well known that -neither Mr. nor Mrs. Warden cared in the least whom she chose. Ah! she -was always a coquette, even in the schoolroom. Those young, bright -things with so much money, and so many chances generally choose badly -after all, and run away with some groom, or footman. Depend upon it, my -lady”— - -“Don’t be an idiot, Matthews,” interrupts the dowager, “talk about -things you understand. It has been ascertained beyond doubt that no one -but Miss Warden is missing, far or near. Besides, the young lady, -however playful and vivacious she might be with her equals in station, -was too well-born and well-bred to permit the slightest familiarity -from an inferior. She would not have suffered such a thing any more -than I should myself,” with a withering glance at Matthews. “Tell -George,” she added, pulling violently at the check-string, “to drive -past the police station. I want to see what they have put in the -handbills.” - -And, as the old lady drives through the crowd of stragglers gathered -about the station-house doors, two others, with white, anxious faces, -are standing there, reading the printed lines. Tall, fair, muscular -Frank Varley, the rector’s scapegrace son, the best rider, runner, and -rower in the county—the first in all mischief—in all breakneck -adventures—and yet more sought after at balls and garden parties, than -the richest lord, or the most eligible unmarried baronet—his mother’s -darling and pride, and a constant source of anxiety and apprehension to -his father. - -As he reads, his brow darkens. “By heaven!” he mutters through his set -teeth, “there has been foul play somewhere. She held my hand for a -moment only, at the ball the night before, under the large oleander -tree, and called me her own Frank; and then, coquette as she is, the -next minute she told me she meant her own _brother_ Frank—I had -been so good to her. Shall we all sit still with folded hands, and let -a girl like that be stolen from our very midst? A thousand times, no!” -And then aloud, with a full-drawn breath, “By heaven! no corner of the -earth shall hide her from me; by land and by sea, by night and by day, -I will search the whole world through, till I find her, living or dead.” - -“You are right,” exclaims a voice at his elbow, and Lord Hardcastle’s -dark pale face, with thin, clear-cut features, looks over his shoulder. -(“Kid-gloved Hardcastle” he was sometimes called by his sporting and -boating friends, on account of his super-refinement and dainty -fastidiousness.) “You are right; there has been some foul play -here—some deed of iniquity which must be brought to light. We, who -have been rivals hitherto, may well join hands now.” He extends his -thin white hand, which Varley grasps in a strong, firm hold. “I repeat -your own words; ‘no corner of the earth shall hide her from me; by land -and by sea, by night and by day, I will search the whole world through -till I find her, living or dead.’” - - - - -CHAPTER II. - - -WHILE the townspeople and country folks read and wondered at the -printed handbills, the father and mother of the missing girl wandered -about their now desolate home, listless, aimless, well-nigh -broken-hearted. The first sharp pang, it is true, was past, and the -sorrow had settled down to a dull leaden weight on heart and brain. The -servants walked about the house slowly and silently, speaking in -subdued voices. Day and night lay old Presto, Amy’s favourite -deerhound, at the house door, waiting and listening, and never seeming -to eat nor sleep. Her maid carefully each day fed her birds and watered -her flowers, and every one in the household vied with each other in -endeavouring to carry out every known wish or fancy the young lady had -ever had (and it must be confessed they were not a few) as they would -endeavour to carry out the wishes of some dear one dead. On every side, -in every room, were traces of the lost darling. Here, the open piano -with a roll of new music; there, the uncovered harp. In the little -morning room piece after piece of unfinished needlework, and here in a -little “studio,” as Amy was pleased to call it, numberless pencil -sketches, an oil landscape commenced, a water-colour three-parts done, -and a crayon head, “all but” finished. A whole tableful of -china-painting accessories, and commenced cups, saucers, and plates; -and there, in a corner, a cabinet of fret-work tools, with brackets, -card trays, and picture frames enough to stock a small shop. - -From all this it may be seen that the young lady’s tastes and pursuits -were numerous and varied—change, to her, the one great necessity of -life. A too great indulgence from her earliest infancy had developed in -her character an impatience of restraint, an impetuosity and wilfulness -which, unless it had been counterbalanced, as in her case it was, by an -unusually loving, playful, tender disposition, would have rendered her -imperious and domineering. As it was, every one in the household, from -her father downwards, adored her and bowed to her sway. “I must not be -kept waiting an instant” was a remark which might be heard every hour -of the day from Miss Amy’s lips. And kept waiting she never was, for -the simple reason that it was an impossibility to keep her in any -posture of tranquillity for five minutes at a time. Every thought or -idea that entered into her brain must be executed there and then and, -scarcely completed, must be thrown on one side to make way for another. - -“Were you ever thus in your very young days, Stephen?” Mrs. Warden -would sometimes enquire of her husband. And the husband would smile and -shake his head, and declare he had never been half so fascinating as -his wilful, loving, teasing little daughter, “the music and sunshine of -his life,” as he was wont to call her. - -And now all was changed! The music was hushed, the sunlight had died -out. Would the shadows ever be lifted from the home again? Would the -quick, light step ever be heard again, and the sweet, young, ringing -voice, exclaiming in its old familiar tones, “I must not be kept -waiting an instant?” - -So the father and mother asked themselves, as, standing side by side in -their dining room verandah, they looked across the bright August -landscape to where the groom was leading out Amy’s pony for its morning -canter. - -Mr. Warden, at this time, was about forty-five years of age, looking -considerably younger. A well-featured, muscular man, with energy, -determination, and many other good qualities plainly written on his -face. A more complete contrast to him than his wife could not well be -imagined. She was very tiny, very fair, very gentle, with amiability, -want of will, and weakness of character marked in every line and -feature. Her one god was her husband, her one thought how to please -him, and her every opinion and wish was simply an echo of his. - -“A doll, my dear, nothing more,” was old Lady Nugent’s summing up, -after her first introduction to Mrs. Warden, some twelve years -previously. Mr. Warden had come among them a perfect stranger, buying -one of the largest estates in the county which happened to be for sale. -He had resided, so he had said, nearly all his life in the south of -France, but his family and connections were well known in the Midland -Counties as wealthy and nobly connected. Of his wife, however, nothing -was known, nor could be discovered, so she was set down, and perhaps -justly, as having been an English governess in some French family, and -as such, most probably, Mr. Warden had first known her. - -“What men can see in dolls to induce them to marry them, I cannot see,” -pursued the dowager, “they simply need a glass case, some good clothes, -and their work in life is done.” Nevertheless, in spite of Lady -Nugent’s comments, Mrs. Warden had been well received in Harleyford for -her husband’s sake, and now, in the time of her sorrow, nothing could -exceed the kindness and sympathy extended to her on all sides. Carriage -after carriage sweeps along their drive, letter after letter is brought -to the house, some containing wild and improbable suggestions, others -opening here and there a door of hope, all full of warm and earnest -sympathy, and offers of help. - -“What can any of them do that has not already been done?” says Mr. -Warden, handing to his wife a joint letter from Frank Varley and Lord -Hardcastle, relating their solemn vow, and placing their services at -Mr. Warden’s disposal. - -“They are noble young fellows, and worthy of a true-hearted girl’s -love. But what can they do? God help us all and teach us how to act for -the best, for my brains are nearly worn out with thinking and -supposing.” - -“The gentleman from London, sir, Mr. Hill, wishes to see you,” says the -butler at his elbow, having entered the room with a quiet, solemn -tread, as though serving at a funeral feast. - -“Ah, the detective,” says Mr. Warden, thankful to have the pressure of -thought lifted for an instant; “show him into the library; I will see -him at once.” - -Mr. Hill, a slight, gentleman-like man, with the eye of an eagle, and -the nose of a deerhound, seats himself at the library table, and -spreads his memoranda before him. - -“I bring you my latest report, Mr. Warden, and I grieve to say it -amounts to very little. The only additional information I have -obtained, and that, I fear, is scarcely reliable, is from the postman, -John Martin. He tells me that on the morning of the 14th he met your -daughter in the park lands, and, at her request, handed to her her -morning’s letters. I questioned him as to how he recollected it was on -that day, and he at once admitted he could not be positive, as it was -the young lady’s custom, whenever she met him, thus to ask for and -receive her letters. I questioned him as to the general appearance of -her letters, whether directed in masculine or feminine hand-writing—(I -beg your pardon, sir, such questions must be asked)—and his reply is, -he never recollects bringing Miss Warden any but letters in ladies’ -writing. You must take the evidence for what it is worth; I fear it -counts for very little, but, such as it is, I have entered it in my -case book.” - -“I scarcely see whither your questions tend,” remarks Mr. Warden, -somewhat stiffly. “Miss Warden, I am convinced, had no correspondents -with whom I am unacquainted. She has been brought up at home, under -careful supervision, and has never visited anywhere without Mrs. Warden -or myself. If you are inferring some unknown attachment existed, such a -supposition is entirely without foundation. I have every reason to -believe that my daughter’s affections have been given, and with my -approval, to a very dear young friend and neighbour.” - -“All this I know, sir. Indeed, I think there is very little you or any -one else can tell me on this matter. There is not a man or woman in the -place whom I have not sounded to their very depths, questioned and -cross-questioned in every imaginable way. I have here, in my pocket, a -map of my own sketching, containing every field and river, every shady -nook and hollow within thirty miles round. I have also a directory with -the names, ages, occupation, and household of every human being within -the same area. Very little, indeed, remains now to be done.” - -“Don’t tell me that,” exclaims Mr. Warden, excitedly, jumping to his -feet, and pacing the room; “don’t tell me that your work here is over, -and no result for your three weeks’ labour. Don’t, I implore you, crush -me down into utter despair. Have you no hope, ever so slight, to hold -out to me—no advice of any sort to give?” - -“I have both, Mr. Warden,” replies the detective, calmly; “I need not -tell you now how I have worked out my theory, nor how, step by step, I -have come to the conclusion that your daughter is not dead. This is the -hope I hold out to you.” - -“Then, if not dead, worse than death has happened to her,” groans the -poor father, covering his face with his hands; “better death, than -dishonour.” - -For a moment both are silent; then, Mr. Warden, slowly recovering -himself, enquires, “And what is the advice you have to give, Mr. Hill? -let me have that, at any rate.” - -“Simply to watch, and to wait, sir; at present, nothing more can be -done. We have exhausted every theory, we have followed out every clue, -or pretence of one. If there are accomplices in the matter, my presence -here puts them on their guard, and as long as I remain nothing will -transpire; when I have left, and things have settled down to their -usual course, I feel sure some one will betray him or herself unawares. -I repeat, wait and watch; and directly your suspicions are aroused in -the slightest degree, communicate with me, and I will advise you to the -best of my ability.” - -“Wait!” groans Mr. Warden, “wait! ‘let things settle down to their -usual course;’ how is it possible for a man to live through such a life -of torture and suspense? Is there nothing—absolutely nothing—that can -be done before you leave us?” - -“Only one thing, and that, with your permission, I will do at once. -With the men of your household, I have been on tolerably familiar -terms, and know pretty well what they could, or could not do; but about -the women I am not so sure. If you will allow me, I will have the whole -of your female servants in here in succession, from the scullery maids, -upwards—take their names, ages, occupations, &c., from their own lips. -I may, possibly, seem to you, sir, to ask a great many irrelevant -questions, but while I am questioning, I am watching and noting, and I -will under take to say there will be no one with a guilty conscience -who will hide it from my eye.” - -Mr. Warden rings the bell, and gives the order to the footman, who -conveys it to the housekeeper, who forthwith summons all the maids of -the household to be paraded in succession before their master, and the -detective. - -Mr. Hill requests that the housekeeper will remain in the room the -whole time. “I may have occasion,” he explains, “to refer to you from -time to time, as to the truth or otherwise of some of the statements -made.” - -First, the kitchen-maids enter, looking very red, and very much ashamed -of themselves. Mr. Hill glances at them, looks them through and -through, and contents himself with simply noting down their names, -ages, and position in Mr. Warden’s household. The cooks are almost as -quickly dismissed, and between the exit of one staff of servants and -entrance of another, Mr. Hill’s eyes are occupied in scrutinizing the -elderly housekeeper, and in addressing to her various friendly remarks. - -The housemaids undergo a much longer examination; one girl turns red, -another pale. One answers wide of the mark, and is reprimanded by Mr. -Hill; another is detected in a wilful fib by the housekeeper, who -forthwith brings her to book. Eventually, however, they are dismissed, -and the detective, turning to the housekeeper, enquires where Miss -Warden’s maid is. - -“I have to apologize for her, sir,” replies the housekeeper, “will you -kindly excuse her? The poor girl was taken with a violent sick-headache -about an hour ago, and went to lie down in her own room. I believe, -however, I can answer any questions for her you may wish to put.” - -“About an hour ago,” muses Mr. Hill, “just when the order for the -servants’ parade was given out.” Then, aloud to the housekeeper, “Is -this young person often troubled with violent headaches, Mrs. Nesbitt?” - -“Oh dear no, sir,” replies Mrs. Nesbitt, “I never knew her taken in -this way before, but you see we have all of us had such an upset, sir, -lately. Dear me! such an upset!” and the old lady glances furtively at -her master. - -“Exactly, Mrs. Nesbitt, exactly,” said Mr. Hill, sympathetically. -“That is just what I am thinking. Will you kindly take a message from -me to this young person? Tell her I have merely one or two unimportant -questions to put as a matter of form, as to her duties, &c., as Miss -Warden’s maid, but I must have the answers from her own lips. If it -will suit her better I will go with you to her own room, but in any -case I must see her.” - -Mrs. Nesbitt at once departs on her errand, and after a delay of some -ten minutes, returns with the maid, a round-faced, small-featured girl, -somewhat fashionably dressed for her position, and with an assumption -of refinement and dignity evidently intended as a copy of her young -mistress’s style. - -Mr. Hill preserves his careless suavity of manner, regrets, politely, -he should have been compelled to disturb her, hopes she will soon -recover her usual health. Meantime his eye is fixed full on her face, -and throughout the short interview his gaze is never once lifted. - -“Your name, if you please?” he asks. - -“Lucy Williams,” replies the girl, quivering and tremulous under his -fixed gaze. - -“Are your parents living, Miss Williams?” - -“No,” she replies, shortly, “I have no relations of any sort.” - -“Not even a brother,” he enquires, “who was once gamekeeper on an -estate the other side of Dunwich, and who subsequently sailed for -America?” - -Here the girl breaks down utterly, and gives way to a flood of tears. -“How dare you insult me thus?” she enquires angrily. “What do you know -of my brother Tom? He may be dead and buried for anything I care.” - -“I know very little about your brother Tom, Miss Williams, beyond the -fact of his having caused your parents a great deal of anxiety. In fact -it was the disgrace of their son’s dismissal from his situation, -charged with conspiring with poachers to rob his master, which, I -believe, broke their hearts. However, I have only one more question to -ask. Have you seen or heard anything of your brother since his return -to this neighbourhood? He was seen, I believe, not very far from this -house on the morning of the 15th of August.” - -Another passionate burst of sobbing from the girl, and this time an -appeal to Mr. Warden. - -“Will you allow me, sir, to be insulted in this way in your presence?” -she demands. “I vow and declare since I have been in your service, I -have always been an honest, faithful servant; I have never wronged any -one by word or deed. I have always”—here another flood of tears. - -“Gently, gently, Lucy,” expostulates Mr. Warden, “no one is bringing -any charge against you.” Then, to the detective, “Is it not possible to -waive this question, Mr. Hill? I really think you are going almost too -far.” - -“I will waive it with a great deal of pleasure, sir, and as far as that -goes, I do not see any necessity for prolonging the interview. Miss -Williams, I should certainly advise you to get a little quiet sleep in -your own room, it will do more for you than anything else. Good -morning, Mrs. Nesbitt, I am much obliged to you for the trouble you -have taken for me.” He politely opens the door for the housekeeper, who -conducts the still sobbing girl out of the room. - -Then the man’s manner undergoes an entire change. He turns abruptly to -Mr. Warden. “Keep your eye on that girl, sir; I have not passed the -greater part of my life among rogues of all sorts not to know a guilty -face when I see it. That girl is keeping something back, but what I am -at present at a loss to imagine. Take my word for it, within a -fortnight she will do one of two things, either request permission to -leave on account of the dulness of the house or else run away. I think -the latter, from the irresolution and want of nerve she has shown this -morning, but I am not sure. I can only reiterate the advice I have -already given you, watch and wait, and the moment your suspicions are -aroused, communicate with me.” - -And the detective takes his leave, and as Mr. Warden’s horses convey -him swiftly along the high road to Dunwich, he shakes his head gravely -and mutters, “This is a bad business, and I fear there is worse to -come. I was never before so thoroughly at a loss; I cannot see one inch -before me in the matter; however, we can only watch and wait.” - - - - -CHAPTER III. - - -IT seemed strange, at first, to the good people of Harleyford to see -young Lord Hardcastle and the rector’s son daily in close and friendly -intercourse, accustomed, as they were, to see each politely ignored by -the other, or else spoken of in terms of supercilious contempt. It was -certainly a strange sight to see the young men constantly walking side -by side in earnest conversation, or else riding to and from each -other’s houses. Lord Hardcastle’s weakness had hitherto been -near-sightedness whenever Varley had happened to cross his path. -“Who was that you recognized just now?” he would say to a companion, if -he happened to have one at the time, and on being informed it was the -rector’s son, would remark, carelessly— - -“Oh, the young giant whose brains have run into muscle; let us talk of -something interesting.” - -Frank Varley, in his turn, would speak in no measured terms of “that -kid-gloved dandy—that embodiment of priggishness and polite -literature.” - -But now all was changed. A common sorrow had drawn them to each other, -and their intense and true love for, and devotion to poor Amy, had -rendered them so far unselfish as to enable them to work together with -determination and courage. - -Mr. Warden’s reply to their letter had been a brief, “Come and see me; -we will talk the matter over.” And arm in arm the young men had -responded to his invitation. - -“I am very grateful to you both,” was Mr. Warden’s greeting, “I know -not how to express my thanks; but what can any one do that has not been -already done?” - -“See here, Mr. Warden,” broke in Frank, impetuously, “I don’t care what -other people have or have not done, I must do something. I shall go mad -if I sit here idle any longer. I have no doubt that detective fellow -you had from London did his work superlatively well, but still it is -possible he may have left something undone. Let me ride through your -plantations once more; let me have men down here, and drag over again -that cursed water, yonder.” He pointed through the window to a silvery -little stream which flowed at the bottom of Mr. Warden’s lawn and -flower garden. Deep water it was here and there, and here and there -clogged with long grasses and rushes; but on and on it went, until at -length it fell into the noble river upon which the town of Dunwich is -built. - -“My poor fellow, do it if you will,” is Mr. Warden’s reply, “do it a -hundred times over, if it is any gratification to you; I fear the -result will be the same to your efforts as to mine. But tell me in your -turn, have you nothing to suggest? You, Lord Hardcastle, have the -reputation of having more brains than most of us, tell me if you can -propose anything to lighten this terrible time of suspense? Have you -thought well over the possibilities and impossibilities of this -dreadful affair, and do you see any glimmer of hope anywhere for us?” - -“Have I thought well over it?” repeats Hardcastle; “you might better -ask me, ‘do I ever think of anything else?’ for day and night no other -thought ever enters my mind; hour after hour do I sit thinking over, -and weighing in turn, each circumstance, however slight, which has -occurred in connection with the loss of your daughter. I have looked at -the matter, not only from my own point of view, and worked out my own -theories threadbare, but have endeavoured to put myself, as it were, in -other people’s bodies, to hear the matter with their ears, and see it -with their eyes! and then have I exhausted every possible or impossible -theory which they might have. Nowhere, alas, can I see any clue to the -mystery. Indeed, each day that passes renders it more terrible and -difficult. It is impossible she can be dead”— - -He pauses abruptly; large drops of perspiration stand out upon his -forehead, and his outstretched hand trembles with suppressed emotion. -“Had she been lying dead anywhere in the whole land, her body would by -this time have been brought to you, or at any rate news of how and -where she died.” - -“Hush, hush!” breaks in Mr. Warden pitifully, as, pale and tottering, -he catches hold of Lord Hardcastle’s arm; “don’t speak to me in this -way, Hardcastle, or you will kill me outright; this last month has made -an old man of me, and a feather’s weight would knock me over now. If -you can see more clearly than any of us what lies in the future, for -mercy’s sake hold back the blow as long as possible.” - -There is a pause of some minutes; at last, Varley jumps to his feet, -impatiently— - -“For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow,” he exclaims, “don’t croak any more -than you can help, but help us a little with your wisdom and advice. I -have Mr. Warden’s permission to travel over the old ground again, and -we are to commence this very hour; tell us what you purpose doing?” - -“I shall wait and watch,” replies Hardcastle, unconsciously repeating -Mr. Hill’s own words, “the clue will discover itself somewhere, -somehow, when we least expect it; here, more likely, than anywhere -else; and it needs a hearing ear and a seeing eye to seize and follow -it up. You may wander hither and thither, if you will, I shall remain -here, and wait and watch.” - -“Strange,” said Mr. Warden, musingly, “your words are the echo of what -was said to me yesterday, by the professional detective I employed.” -Then he related to them in detail the examination of the servants by -Mr. Hill, and his parting advice. - -“Have the girl, Williams, in at once, Mr. Warden,” exclaims Frank, -“question her as to what she has, or has not done; let me,” he adds, -eagerly, “ask her one or two questions; depend upon it, they will be to -the point.” - -But to this the two other gentlemen object, Mr. Warden considering it -an unjust thing to attach suspicion to the girl on account of the -misdeeds of her brother; and Lord Hardcastle alleging that by so doing -they would defeat their own object by putting the girl on her guard. -“Let us wait and watch,” once more he implores. But Frank shakes his -head, “Waiting and watching may suit some men,” he says, “but for me it -is an impossibility. I must do something, and at once, or I shall blow -my brains out; that is, if I have any,” he adds, with a grim smile, and -a shrug of his shoulders. - -Forthwith he departs to organize a body of volunteers once more to -scour the whole county—to search commons and through woods—to cut fern -and furze from shady hollows and dark corners, where, by any chance, a -secret might be hidden. Once more to drag rivers and streams, and -search under hedges, and in reed-grown ditches; and finally to question -and re-question every man, woman, and child far or near, as to their -recollection of the day’s occurrences of the 14th of August. - -This was the plan of action Frank had sketched out for himself, and -bravely indeed, did he carry it out. Volunteers by the score came -forward, for the sympathy expressed for Mr. Warden was heartfelt, and -Amy’s loss had cast a gloom over the whole county. Not a man or woman -in the country side but what would have gone to the other end of the -world to have lifted from the sorrowing father and mother this dark -cloud of suspense. As for the young lady herself, they would have laid -down their lives for her; for her kindly, pleasant ways and pretty -queenly airs, had won all hearts. And thus, high and low, rich and -poor joined hands with Frank Varley, and searched with a will, working -early, and working late—earnest men, at earnest work. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - - -AT this time Lord Hardcastle began to be a daily visitor at the High -Elms. “My own house is very dreary to me,” he had said, “may I come to -you very often for an hour or so, without feeling I am intruding?” And -Mr. Warden had bade him welcome, but had warned him that he would find -the High Elms more than “dreary.” “To me the place is silent and gloomy -as a vault or grave-yard,” he said, “but I am sure the presence of a -real friend like yourself will be a great comfort to Mrs. Warden, now -that I am such a poor companion for her.” Thus, it came to pass that -daily, about noon, Lord Hardcastle might be seen riding up the steep -avenue which led to Mr. Warden’s house, returning generally about dusk -to his solitary dinner, for being an orphan, and without any near -relative, and naturally of a studious, reserved disposition, his -privacy was very seldom broken into by chance visitors, or casual -acquaintances. - -As time went on, however, he frequently accepted Mr. Warden’s -invitation to dine and sleep at his house; and on these occasions he -would devote the entire morning to Mrs. Warden and her occupations; -generally after lunch walking or riding with Mr. Warden. Thus, a week -or ten days slipped away; Frank Varley and his band of volunteers -working hard meantime. Then suddenly, an unexpected calamity befel -the village of Harleyford—an epidemic of small-pox broke out, and -threatened to be of a virulent nature. A groom of Mr. Warden’s, calling -on one of the villagers, caught the disease, and returned to the High -Elms, only to sicken and die. Mr. Warden, habitually kind and -thoughtful to his dependants, had had the best local medical advice -that could be procured, and in addition, nurses, and all approved -disinfectants, &c., from the Dunwich Fever Hospital. Yet, in spite of -these precautions. Lord Hardcastle, one morning, on entering the house, -was met by the housekeeper with a face so long and melancholy he could -see at once some fresh calamity had occurred. - -“What is it, Mrs. Nesbitt?” he enquired, without waiting for the old -lady to speak, “Has your master or mistress taken the infection, or if -not, what has happened?” - -“Both, I fear, sir, are seized,” replied the housekeeper, sadly; “I -have sent for Doctor Mills and Doctor Hayward, and two additional -nurses from the hospital; but as yet, no one has come. And oh, sir! -something else has happened: Lucy Williams has disappeared in some -mysterious manner; not a soul has seen her since last night. It seems, -indeed,” added the old lady, clasping her hands, while the tears rained -from her eyes, “as though a curse had fallen upon the house. Where will -it all end! Heaven knows: I tremble to think who may be taken next.” - -This was startling news indeed, although, perhaps, nothing more than -might have been expected from the state of affairs at the High Elms. -Mr. and Mrs. Warden’s health had been considerably shaken by the days -and nights of suspense they had passed through. Consequently it would -not be a matter of surprise if they were the next to fall victims to -the disease. - -Then again with regard to Lucy Williams, were they not watching the -girl, and waiting for her to make a move in some direction? - -However, there was no time to be lost in speculation, there was work to -be done. Lord Hardcastle wrote a brief note to Varley— - -“Leave off your searching and dragging at once; there is something else -for you to do. Lucy Williams has disappeared. Come over immediately. I -will have all necessary information collected, and ready to place in -your hands by the time you arrive. This, if you will, you can convey to -Inspector Hill, Scotland Yard. It may save time. Start, if possible, by -the 2.10 p.m. train. - - “HARDCASTLE.” - -This note he despatched by one of the grooms, mounting the man on his -own horse, a high-bred roan, which knew how to go like the wind when -need was. Unfortunately there was some uncertainty as to where Varley -was to be found. The rectory in those days saw but little of him, and -his work had lately taken him to a woodland some four or five miles -distant. - -Hither the man, by Lord Hardcastle’s direction, rode in quest, only, -unfortunately, to see the volunteers returning by different routes, -after another fruitless search. On enquiry, he found that Varley -had ridden still farther on to the nearest post-town, most likely on -some false scent. - -Hither again the man followed him, and, fortunately, met him slowly -riding towards home, thinking, perhaps, of another day of useless -search ended, and where it would be best to recommence on the morrow. - -He read Hardcastle’s note, and then looked at his watch. The hands -pointed at two o’clock. - -“Here,” he exclaimed in a perfect whirl of passion and vexation, “have -I been wasting precious time over this confounded woodland, and the -real work waiting for me! That girl will have twenty-four hours start -of us. No train till 6.30 to-night! Arrive at London about nine -o’clock. The police, I suppose, set to work the first thing in the -morning! The girl has a fair chance of escape, I must say, but, thank -Heaven, there is something definite to be done at last! Here,” he -called to the groom, “ride alongside of me, and tell me all that is to -be known about the girl Williams and her flight!” - -But the man had little, or nothing, to tell beyond the fact that the -girl had gone. All his information had been obtained at second-hand, -and, like the housekeeper and other servants, the man seemed almost -bewildered with the strange events occurring in such rapid succession -in the household. - -Meantime Lord Hardcastle was carefully collecting all the information -that was to be had relative to the girl’s disappearance, questioning -each of the servants in succession. - -It appeared she had taken her supper with the other servants as usual -at 10 o’clock on the previous night, or rather had attempted to do so, -for she complained of feeling very ill, of pains in her head and back, -and declared she was unable to eat. One of the maids had taunted her by -enquiring whether it was the same sort of head-ache she had had when -Detective Hill was in the house. This was met by an indignant -rejoinder, and then the girl angrily left the room, as the others -thought, to go to bed. The next morning she did not make her appearance -at the servants’ breakfast, and the housekeeper, with whom Lucy was -somewhat a favourite, determined to allow her a little latitude, -thinking possibly the girl might really need rest and quiet. - -Time slipped by, and Mrs. Nesbitt, occupied in household matters, -did not again think of Lucy Williams until about half-past ten; then -going to her room to enquire for her, found the door locked, and -received no reply to her repeated knockings. Without consulting her -master, she desired one of the men to break open the door, and -entering, found that the bed had not been slept in, and the room in a -great state of confusion. They had not had time to inform their master -of the fact, before his bell was rung hurriedly, and he gave orders -that Dr. Hayward should immediately be sent for, as Mrs. Warden and he -were feeling far from well. “Stricken in body, as well as mind, -Nesbitt,” he had said sadly. “It doesn’t matter much, there is not a -great deal left to live for now.” - -Mrs. Nesbitt had not dared to inform him of the fresh calamities. -“And I am indeed thankful, sir,” added the poor old lady, “that you -have come into the house to lift some of this heavy responsibility off -my shoulders.” - -“Let me see Lucy’s room, Mrs. Nesbitt,” said Lord Hardcastle. - -The housekeeper immediately conducted him to the servants’ quarters. - -“Is this exactly the condition in which you found the room?” he -enquired, as Nesbitt threw back the door for him to enter. - -“Indeed, sir, and I grieve to say that it is,” she replied. “To think -that any young girl in this house could leave a room in such a state is -more than I can understand,” and she sighed again. - -Lord Hardcastle looked attentively round. A box, half open, and the -contents partially drawn out, stood at the foot of the bed. A dress, -bonnet and walking jacket lay upon a chair, evidently thrown there in a -hurry, and a whole pile of burned letters was heaped in the fire-grate. -Here and there the charred scraps had been fluttered on to the floor, -most likely by the rapid passing and re-passing of the girl while -preparing for her flight. - -“And to think that we might all of us have been burned in our beds last -night,” moaned the housekeeper, “for aught she cared, the wicked girl!” - -“Tell me, Mrs. Nesbitt,” interrupts Lord Hardcastle, “do you know the -extent of Lucy Williams’s wardrobe? how many bonnets or hats had she do -you think?” - -“It’s that which puzzles me, sir. I know for certain, she had but two, -for she told me only yesterday, she would not buy another just now, in -case we might have to go into mourning for our dear young lady, and she -complained that both were so shabby she was ashamed to be seen in them. -And there they both are; she must have left the house with nothing on -her head.” - -“Or else in some one else’s!” remarks Lord Hardcastle. “It was -yesterday you say she spoke of her hats; from her remarks I should -imagine her flight was not thought of until suggested by the taunts of -the other maid. Consequently her plans would not be properly matured -nor well laid. So much the better for our chance of finding her. Tell -me, Mrs. Nesbitt, could you or any one else speak as to the contents of -Miss Warden’s wardrobe, and had Lucy Williams any means of access to -it.” - -“She had sole charge of it, sir, after our dear young lady left. You -see Mrs. Warden and every one else so liked and trusted Lucy that -everything was left in her hands, except the jewel case, which was -removed to Mrs. Warden’s room. I don’t believe any one but Lucy could -speak for a certainty as to what Miss Warden had or had not.” - -“We will go now, if you please, to Miss Warden’s room,” says Lord -Hardcastle, giving one more glance at the untidy chamber. “This door -must be secured and sealed till the police have seen the room. I will -see if by any chance she has left any letters behind her.” - -But on looking through the drawers and boxes no papers of any sort are -to be found, and it seems to the housekeeper, that few if any of the -girl’s clothes have been removed. - -In an hour’s time, Lord Hardcastle has a small packet of carefully -written notes ready for Varley’s assistance and guidance. - -“I have not time,” he wrote, “to give you in detail the bases upon -which my suppositions rest, I have simply dotted down one or two facts -which I have ascertained beyond doubt, and one or two ideas which may -perhaps be useful to you. - -“In the first place, the girl’s flight if intended at some future -period, was certainly not thought of for to-day, until late last night. -This I am sure of from the hurried and scanty nature of her -preparations. - -“Secondly, she has not gone away in her own clothes, but most likely in -Miss Warden’s; at any rate in one of Miss Warden’s bonnets and walking -jackets. - -“Thirdly, she has most probably appropriated other properties of Miss -Warden’s, as the young lady’s room and its contents have been left in -her sole charge. - -“Hence it follows (fourthly), that she has probably taken the train to -London, travelling by the first this morning, as she would be anxious -to dispose of her spoil and would only dare to do so in the metropolis. - -“Fifthly, the girl has gone away very ill. My own impression is, that -the small-pox is in her system, and that she will not hold up as far as -to London. - -“Sixthly, her only friend in London, as far as can be ascertained, is a -Miss or Mrs. Kempe, who resides at 15, Gresham Street North, High -Street, Hackney.” - - - - -CHAPTER V. - - -DR. HAYWARD’S report of Mr. and Mrs. Warden’s health was far from -satisfactory. “The lady,” he said, in reply to Lord Hardcastle’s -enquiries, was undoubtedly suffering from small-pox, which in her weak -state of health, had taken strong hold of her. As to Mr. Warden, he -could not be sure; he feared some disease was latent in his system; he -was altogether below par, and the anxiety and grief he had gone through -had completely undermined his constitution— - -“Do what you can for them, while you can, my dear, young friend,” he -added (he had known Hardcastle from his boyhood), “and spare them, -as far as possible, the details of this sad business.” - -So Lord Hardcastle had sent for his portmanteau, and a few favourite -books, and begged of Mrs. Nesbitt a room in some quiet corner of the -house, “A room, if you please, with cool, quiet colouring, no reds, or -blues, or yellows, to flash out from the walls, and some soft thick -carpet on the floor,” he had said, his wonted fastidiousness once more -asserting itself. But he was more than repaid for any temporary -inconvenience he might suffer, by the look of grateful thanks which -crossed Mr. Warden’s careworn face, and his warm pressure of the hand, -as he thanked his young friend for his kind unselfishness in thus -voluntarily sharing the dreariness and desolation of their home. -Dreary it was, indeed, to one who had known it in the old days. No -light footsteps on the stairs, or sudden opening of doors, and a bright -young voice pouring forth a flood of question, answer, and exclamation -in a breath; no croquet, nor tennis balls here and there on the lawn, -nor galloping of pony’s feet up the long steep avenue. A silence as of -death appeared to have fallen upon the house, and the father and -mother, stricken and weary, looked in each other’s pale faces and -wondered “could this be the home of a month ago?” - -And as Lord Hardcastle began to grow accustomed to the routine and -family life of the household, two thoughts gradually forced themselves -into his mind, which he felt would lead him somewhere, although utterly -at a loss to imagine where. - -Thrown as he was daily into close and intimate relations with Mr. and -Mrs. Warden, he could not help reflecting on the strangeness of the -fact, that neither in appearance, disposition, nor manner, did Amy in -the slightest degree resemble either parent. The more closely he -observed them, the more the dissimilarity became apparent. - -The second fact which forced itself upon his notice, related solely to -Mrs. Warden. Sincere as her grief for her daughter’s loss undoubtedly -was, it soon became apparent to Lord Hardcastle, that it was -nevertheless simply a reflected sorrow, that is to say, it struck her -through her husband; she grieved for his loss, more than for her own, -and was broken-hearted because she saw that grief was slowly killing -him day by day. No one but a very close observer would have noted these -things, and Lord Hardcastle was a very close observer, and more than -that, a logical one. He did not believe in the possibility of sudden -and disconnected facts occurring in the human world any more than in -the world of nature. “There is a reason for these things, although at -present it eludes me,” he would say to himself time after time. Long -after midnight might the shaded lamp be seen burning from his bedroom -window, and could any one have lifted the curtain, they would have seen -Hardcastle, with head resting on his hands, and elbows on the table, no -books before him, nor any pretence of writing materials, but a whole -world of thought evidently passing and repassing through his brain. - -Meantime enquiries were set on foot on all sides as to the girl -Williams. Frank Varley had ascertained from the station master at -Dunwich, that a young girl, veiled and exceedingly well dressed, had -left by the first train on that morning— - -“I should not have noticed any number of ladies at any other time, -sir,” said the man, “but it is quite the exception for any but work -people or business men to travel up by the 5.9 a.m. train.” - -Varley had farther ascertained from the guard, that the lady had -travelled first class, and had seemed very faint and tired. Arriving at -the Midland Station, his work suddenly and unexpectedly became very -easy to him. The officials there at once informed him of a lady having -been taken alarmingly ill on alighting from the early morning train. -The porter who told him, said that he himself had fetched a cab for -her, and, scarcely conscious, she had given some address at Hackney, -where she wished to be driven, but the name of the street had entirely -slipped his memory. - -Frank did not waste time in further enquiries. He at once telegraphed -to Detective Hill fullest particulars of Lucy’s flight, and where he -expected to find her, requesting him to follow him there as soon as -possible. Then he sprang into a cab, and gave the man orders to drive -to Gresham Street, Hackney. - -An hour’s drive brought him to the farther side of that northern -suburb—a _terra incognita_ to Frank, whose knowledge of London was -limited to the club quarters, and west-end-squares and parks. Two or -three busy roads were crossed, with flaring gas jets and goods very -freely distributed on the pavement in front of the comparatively empty -shops. Then a sudden turn brought him into a quiet street of some -twenty or thirty two-storied houses, inhabited mostly by dressmakers, -machinists, and journeymen of all kinds. Although poor, there was an -air of quiet industry about the place, which gave Frank the hope that -Lucy Williams’s friends might prove respectable, honest people. -Dismissing his cab, he knocked at the door of No. 15; a few minutes -elapsed, and it was opened by a tall, thin, pale woman of about thirty -years of age, very neatly dressed, and with a look of settled anxiety -and grief upon a face plain, but still frank and honest. - -“Ah! I expected you, sir,” she said, quietly, “or at least some one in -pursuit to-night. If you have come in search of Lucy Williams, I -beseech you take these, and let the girl die in peace.” - -She opened her hand, and held out something glittering; there was no -light in the narrow doorway, but the glimmer of a gas-lamp lower down -the street fell upon a small heap of splendidly cut diamonds, and was -flashed back in a thousand brilliant hues. These Frank readily -identified as the brooch and earrings Miss Warden had worn at the -county ball the last night he had seen her. He took them from the -woman’s hand— - -“Yes, I want these,” he said, “but I also want your friend, and -must and will see her. Don’t attempt to hinder me, but take me at once -to where she is.” - -“Have mercy, sir,” pleaded the woman, “the poor girl cannot live very -long, she is standing on the verge of the dark river. Do not! oh do -not, I implore you, turn her thoughts from the only One who can carry -her over! I have read to her, I have prayed—” - -“Be quiet!” interrupted Frank, for he began to fear there might be some -trickery behind all this; lest she might be delaying his entrance in -this way, in order to give the girl time to escape. “Be quiet,” he -repeated, “and take me at once to the girl, or I shall find my way by -myself.” Then the woman yielded, and once more pleading for mercy -for her friend, opened a door on her left hand, and Frank found himself -in a small, hot room, only lighted by a low fire flickering in the -grate. - -A faint moaning from the bed denoted it was occupied. “Can you not -bring me a light?” said Frank, “I can’t see which way to turn.” At the -sound of a man’s voice, a figure started up in the square old-fashioned -bed, exclaiming in a high-pitched, feverish voice— - -“Have they come for me? Let me die in peace, I entreat you! Oh, sir, I -will tell you everything, everything; only let me stay here.” Then, -clasping her hands, and swaying herself to and fro she exclaimed— - -“Tom knows all about it; I did it for him, only for him!” Then she fell -back exhausted, evidently in a high state of delirium, muttering again -and again, “Tom, only for Tom.” - -Frank readily recognised Lucy’s voice, but it was too dark to see her -face. The woman came forward and endeavoured to soothe her; “Hush, -Lucy,” she said, “don’t think about Tom now, although God knows I would -lay down my life for him. Turn your thoughts to One able to save both -you and Tom if you will repent and believe. Hear what He said to the -dying thief on the cross.” Then she commenced reciting the Scripture -story from memory. But again Frank interrupted her— - -“See here,” he said, “I am not a heathen, nor an infidel, but I want to -know what you have done towards bringing the girl round. Have you had a -doctor in?” - -“A doctor, sir,” replied the woman, “since Lucy came into the house I -have not ceased reading and praying with her for one five minutes; if -it is the Lord’s will she will recover, and live to repent of her sins; -but if she must die, why should I waste precious time trying to cure -her poor body, while Satan is striving to steal her soul.” - -“Hush! my good woman,” said Frank, “I will stay here with your friend, -and do my best to fight the devil for you; you must go at once and get -a doctor in. Here, take my card, get the best and nearest doctor; tell -him I will be answerable for all charges.” - -“I go, sir,” replied the woman; then, once more bending over the bed, -she murmured, “Lucy, Lucy, while there is yet time, turn to the Lord; -do not forget what He has said to all who go to Him in tears and -penitence.” Then Frank took her by the arm, and led her out of the -room, reminding her that there still might be a chance of saving her -friend’s life. - -Left thus unexpectedly alone with the girl, Frank determined to make -one more effort to get at the truth. How ill she was, he scarcely knew, -but getting more accustomed to the dim light of the room, he could see -that her face was crimson with fever, and her eyes wild and staring. He -approached the bed quietly, and bending over her, said in a low tone— - -“Lucy Williams, do you know me? I have come a long way to ask you a -question, will you try to answer it?” - -The girl started up in bed with a loud cry, “Tom, Tom!” she exclaimed, -evidently mistaking Varley for her brother; “Why do you stay here? I -thought you were at Liverpool; you will never, never get off!” Then she -sank back on her pillows, and recommenced breathing heavily. - -Frank waited a few minutes and thought he would try once more. This -time he began differently. “Lucy,” he said, in a kind, soothing tone, -“I have no doubt your brother is safe somewhere by this time, it is -about your young mistress I wish to speak, your dear Miss Amy. Can you -tell me where she is or do you know what led her to leave her home?” -But now the girl’s terror redoubled; she clasped her hands and hid her -face in the pillows. “Do not take me away, sir,” she implored, “let me -die here in peace! I did it for Tom—he knows, he will tell you—only -leave me here till the morning?” Then her mutterings became incoherent, -and she tossed wildly from side to side. - -It was evidently useless; nothing more could then be attempted, and -Varley drew away from the bed and leant against the window ledge. Had -he been of an imaginative temperament, the scene in which he was -playing a part would have excited his nerves horribly. Not a sound in -the house save the tick, tick, of a large Dutch clock fixed in a corner -near the window. Now and then a feeble flame would spring up in the -half-filled grate and cast a gaunt shadow across the ceiling. A badly -silvered oval mirror hung over the mantle-piece and seemed to reflect -all sorts of weird shapes; and every now and then, from the poor worn -out bed in the darkest corner of the room, came a sob or moan, or the -girl’s half-muttered delirous fancies. - -“I shall be glad when this is over,” said Frank to himself. “How long -that woman is. The girl may be dead before morning and we none the -wiser for what she knows!” He tried to catch a sentence here and there -of her wanderings, but it told him nothing beyond the fact that her -brother was somehow mixed up in the affair, and her one anxiety was for -his safety. - -At length, after what seemed to Frank an hour’s waiting, but which in -reality was but half the time, footsteps stopped outside in the silent -street. In a few moments two figures entered the room and a brisk sharp -voice exclaimed, “A light, Miss Kempe, and quickly; do you suppose I -can attend a patient in the dark?” Then Miss Kempe groped in the depths -of a corner cupboard, and presently produced a small end of a small -candle ensconced in a large flat candlestick; this Frank quickly -lighted with one of his cigar matches, and exchanging greetings with -the doctor, turned with him towards the bed. - -The doctor held the candle low, throwing the light on the girl’s face, -then he shook his head. “Are you afraid of infection?” he said, turning -to Frank, “if so you had better go home at once.” - -“Afraid!” repeated Varley, “No, I am not afraid of anything under -heaven when I have an object in view. But what is it? What is she -suffering from?” - -“Suppressed small-pox. A very bad case; something on her mind, too, I -should say,” this with a keen glance at Frank, “Twenty-four hours will -see the end of it.” Then he turned to Miss Kempe and proceeded to give -her some necessary directions. - -And twenty-four hours did see the end of it. About an hour before -midnight, Frank was joined in his watch by Detective Hill, who at once -offered to take sole charge of the case. “No,” said Frank decisively, -“as long as there is the shadow of a chance of the shadow of a clue -being given I shall remain. Your ears are sharpened by your practice -and profession, but mine, Mr. Hill, by something with which your -profession has nothing to do.” - -“Gentlemen,” said the doctor, as the grey dawn began to struggle -through the narrow panes, and light up the poorly furnished room. “It -is perfectly useless for either of you to remain. The delirium has -ceased, and the girl has fallen into a state of stupor from which she -will never waken. She will never speak again.” - -Still they stayed on. The Detective, as the day wore away, went in and -out for his meals or a breath of fresh air, for the small room had -become stifling. But Frank never stirred. “She may die at any moment,” -he thought, “and it’s just possible that at the very last her energies -may re-kindle, and she may make some sign that will need -interpretation.” - -So he waited and waited. The doctor came in and out, attending -neighbouring patients and returning at intervals. The old clock went -tick, tick, in the corner, and Miss Kempe, on her knees at the bedside, -prayed audibly for the poor dying one. “Will you not join me, sir,” she -had said to Frank, “in wrestling for this poor sinner’s soul?” - -“I won’t say I won’t join you, Miss Kempe,” Frank had replied, “but you -must let me stay here by the window.” - -And thus towards evening the girl passed away in her sleep; she made no -sign, she did not even lift her hand, and Frank, with a sigh and a -pitiful look at the once bright-faced Lucy Williams, thankfully made -his escape into the fresh air. - -He was soon joined by Detective Hill. “So sir,” he said, “it is all -over, and there is little more we can do beyond setting a watch on the -house and the woman there.” - -“How so,” exclaimed Frank, “do you suspect she is mixed up in the -affair? To me she seemed an honest sort of person, although somewhat of -a fanatic.” - -“So she is, sir, a really good woman I believe, a sort of a mission -woman, I think they call her, connected with the Plymouth Brethren. I -have, however, made a few enquiries about her, and I find that she was -at one time engaged to be married to Tom Williams, but gave him up on -account of the dissolute life he was leading. For his sake I suspect -she has shown all this kindness to Lucy, and I think it more than -probable that the fellow not hearing from his sister will endeavour to -communicate with her through this woman.” - -“Then it has not been altogether time wasted in following the girl -here? I was beginning to lose heart again, and to imagine that once -more the clue had slipped through our fingers. You mean to have this -woman watched, Mr. Hill. Very good. May I ask you to allot this task to -me? I cannot rest, I must be doing something, you know.” - -“Pardon me, sir, the man has already been chosen for the work. Your -presence in this neighbourhood is unwise, and arouses suspicion, and -instead of being the watcher, you would be the one watched. A man of -their own class must do the work. The man I have chosen is the postman -on this beat. He is an old ally and friend of mine, and has taken a -room opposite No. 15 for the purpose. We must pay him well, sir, that’s -all, and we may count on a minute report of Miss Kempe’s daily doings; -including, as a matter of course, the first foreign or country letter -she receives.” - -“Very well, you must do things your own way, I suppose. But what about -the Liverpool police, are they on the watch for the man? Is there -nothing I can do there? I dare say,” added Frank, apologetically, “you -think me a confounded fool, but I must be doing something. I think I -must start off for Chicago, Australia, or somewhere! If you can’t find -work for me, I must find it for myself.” - -“But why go so far, sir? You may be of more use nearer home. Only one -thing I must beg of you, leave this neighbourhood at once. If these -people get it into their heads that they are watched, our difficulties -will be increased tenfold. I can’t say for certain,” the Detective -added, reflectively, “but it’s just possible you might be of use at -Liverpool. I can give you the names of one or two chums of Tom -Williams, and if you can contrive to get it known among them that Lucy -has died, and left her brother her clothes and savings, it will, no -doubt, reach the fellow’s ears, and the bait may draw. You see, these -people are sharp enough to know the difference between a detective and -a gentleman, and would be more likely to attach faith to a report -coming through you, than from Scotland Yard.” - -“Very well, then, I start for Liverpool at once. I have given orders -for the girl’s funeral, and arranged that Miss Warden’s walking dress -and diamonds shall be sent back to her parents. I have only kept this, -Hill,” and Frank took from his pocket-book a small bow of lace and -ribbon. “You see, I remember her wearing it, and if it’s missed, you’ll -know I have it,” and he replaced it reverently in his breast-pocket. - -“And now, before we part, Mr. Hill,” continued Frank, “I want you -honestly and candidly to give me your own private opinion on this -matter. How, and in what way, do you consider Lucy Williams to be -concerned in Miss Warden’s disappearance?” - -“Well, sir, it’s a difficult question to answer,” replied Mr. Hill, -looking sideways at Frank. “I only feel sure of one thing in this -affair, and that is that Miss Warden is alive and well somewhere. All -else must be conjecture. My own impression is that she left her home -voluntarily, and that she is staying away voluntarily. In such cases -the maid generally possesses, to some extent, the confidence of her -mistress, and acts according to some pre-arranged plan. Even the -diamonds for instance—” - -“Stop,” shouted Frank, in a voice that made the detective start, “I -can’t stand this. Say another word, and I shall knock you down! No -power in Heaven or earth shall make me believe such a story as that. -No, no, it implies too much! Could a girl with her mouth and eyes have -deliberately set herself to deceive her parents and friends? Could -she—no, no, I will not hear it. Tell me anything but such a black story -as that, Hill.” - -“Well, sir, I have no wish to give offence. You asked for my opinion, -but it is extremely difficult in such a case as this to have one.” This -with a respectful glance at Frank’s Herculean arm and well-developed -muscles. - -Two hours after this Frank was well on his way to Liverpool. Anxious, -worried, disappointed as he was at the unforeseen ending to his -journey, he could not help feeling at heart more hopeful than he had -hitherto been. “Alive and well somewhere,” he kept repeating to himself -over and over again, not as an incentive to his work, for he needed -none, but for the ring of comfort the words brought. - -“Nothing can ever shake my faith in that girl, nothing can ever make me -doubt her truth and purity,” he said, as he entered one or two facts in -his note-book for future experience and guidance. “But how the mystery -deepens and thickens, supposing her to be alive and well somewhere!” - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - - -SHORTLY after his arrival at Liverpool, Frank received two letters from -Harleyford. The first from his mother, ran thus— - -“MY DEAREST BOY,— - -“We received your telegram, with your address, yesterday, and I need -not say how thankful your father and I were to hear that you were safe -and well, and that you had some settled place of abode, where a letter -could be sent. We had begun to fear that with your usual impetuosity, -you would be starting off on some long journey, and it would be weeks -or months before there would be any means of communicating with you. - -“I know, where a young lady is concerned, it is almost always lost -labour to attempt to reason with a young man, so it is with little hope -of success that I make one more appeal to your common sense. - -“My dearest Frank, can you possibly imagine that you, unversed and -inexperienced in such matters, can hope to meet with success where -well-trained professional men have failed? Have not the science and -ingenuity of first-class London detectives been exhausted in this -search, and what can you hope to do? To my mind one of two things is -certain; either Miss Warden met with some accident (to us -unaccountable) and is long since dead; or else she has contracted some -_mésalliance_, and is remaining voluntarily hidden from her -friends. In either case, search for her, as far as you are concerned, -is equally fruitless; for dead or living she could never be your wife. - -“My son, be reasonable, give up a task for which you are utterly -unsuited, and which renders your father and myself equally miserable. -We are ‘wearying’ for you, as your old Scotch tutor used to say, and -the rectory seems very cheerless with my Frank’s chair so long -unoccupied. - -“The sculling match will be coming off soon, and I hear that Benson is -likely to be the favourite. What do you wish done about Sultana? I know -you objected to Robert riding her, but she has grown far too frisky for -your father to mount. Let us have a long letter as soon as you possibly -can, and thankful, indeed, shall I be if it contains the welcome news -that you will soon be amongst us again. - - “Ever, with much love, - - “Your affectionate mother, - - “GRACE VARLEY.” - -Then there followed a long postscript. - -“Do you remember your old playfellow, Mary Burton? I have her staying -with me now (she came over from the Denver’s) and she has grown into -one of the sweetest, handsomest girls, I have ever seen. She is just -twenty-one, and has come into her mother’s large property at -North-over-Fells. She is very anxious to know if you are at all like -the Frank of old times, but I tell her a mother’s description of her -only son cannot be a trustworthy one, so she must wait till she sees -you, and judge for herself. Adieu.” - -“Dear mother!” said Frank, when he read her letter, “God bless her, she -means kindly, and may say things to me no one else would dare to!” - -Then he wrote a short reply. - -“DEAREST MOTHER,— - -“Please not to expect me at the rectory until you see me. I have -serious work on hand, which nothing but death or success will induce me -to give up. Thanks for all your news. - -“Robert may ride Sultana, but tell him, I’ll thrash him if he spoils -her mouth. I am delighted to hear such good accounts of Mary Burton, -but I have other thoughts in my head than old playfellows and -sweethearts just now. - - “With a great deal of love, - - “Your affectionate son, - - “FRANK VARLEY.” - -Mrs. Varley read his letter, and sighed and cried over it. Then she -showed it to Mary Burton, who sighed and smiled over it. - -“Why are such coquettes as Amy Warden sent into the world to turn men’s -brains, Mary, will you tell me that?” said Mrs. Varley. “If she had -lived, she would have been a most unsuitable wife for Frank, with her -self-willed, impatient temper. Will you wait for him, Mary? Do you -think he is worth waiting for?” - -And Mary had confessed that she thought he was worth waiting for, -and had sighed and smiled again. Why should she not smile, indeed? -There was no rival beauty in her way now! - -Frank’s second letter was from Lord Hardcastle, and contained a brief -summary of events at Harleyford— - -“I grieve to say,” he wrote, “that Mrs. Warden is in a very weak state -of health. Indeed I think far more seriously of her than Hayward does, -and have suggested that further medical advice should be called in. Mr. -Warden has pulled himself together wonderfully, for his wife’s sake, -and seems, to a certain extent, to have recovered some of his old -strength and energy. - -“With regard to Lucy Williams, my own opinion is very strong and -decided. I fail to see matters in the light in which Hill, in his -report to us, has placed them. He seeks to imply that she has been -acting in concert with Miss Warden, or upon some pre-arranged plan, and -was probably commissioned by her mistress to sell the diamonds to -supply her with money. To my mind he is shooting beyond the mark in -such a supposition. I can only look upon the girl as a common thief of -a very ordinary type, who took advantage of the state of confusion into -which the ‘High Elms’ was thrown, to take possession of her mistress’s -jewellery and clothes. She has probably stolen far more than we know, -and when Mrs. Warden becomes stronger (if she ever does) and able to go -into the matter, no doubt many things will be missed. - -“I think in following this track, you are most probably wasting time -and energy. Still, as you say one must do something, and it is just -possible that in following up one clue you may come upon another, so I -will say no more, but wish you ‘God speed’ with all my heart.” - -Frank growled tremendously over this letter— - -“It’s all very well,” he muttered, “for Hardcastle to sit quietly at -home and throw cold water on all my attempts; how on earth does he -think the clue is to be found if one does not look after it? He says so -little, it is difficult to get at the man’s real thoughts on the -matter. It is easy to say it is perfectly useless doing this or doing -that, but what in Heaven’s name does he think ought to be done?” - -What indeed! Not once or twice, but every hour in the day did Lord -Hardcastle ask himself the same question. He felt like a man walking in -a circle, for ever on the verge of a mystery, but never approaching any -nearer than a circle permitted. Become now one of the family at the -High Elms, not a look, not a word, not a tone of any one of the -household ever escaped his observation. Mrs. Warden’s severe illness -had thoroughly incapacitated her for the exertion of receiving -visitors, and the family had gradually become all but isolated from -their neighbours. An occasional morning caller, leaving cards only, the -daily visit of the doctor, and the arrival of the London post, was all -that occurred to break the day’s monotony. - -Thus the summer wore slowly away, the short autumn days began to grow -chill and stormy, the sad old house looked drear and gray among the -tall, dark elms. Very drear and very gray Lord Hardcastle thought it, -as he rode slowly along the steep avenue leading through the park. He -had been transacting some business in Dunwich for Mr. Warden, and, -somewhat weary and dispirited, was returning in the afternoon twilight. -He looked right and left on a damp misty landscape. The equinoctial -gales had set in early, and the trees were already brown and leafless. -Heavy rains, too, had flooded the country round, and the stream running -through the Park was swollen and turbid, threatening to overflow its -banks. Dark clouds were gathering overhead, and a flight of rooks -whirling low and flapping their black wings, with their mournful -cawing, completed the desolateness of the scene. - -“It is like entering a graveyard,” he thought, as he rode along. Then -his memory went back to one bright sunny morning, when riding up this -same avenue he had met Amy and her father, well-mounted, coming from -the house. Very lovely had she looked in the summer sunshine, with her -fresh, girlish beauty, and almost royal dignity of manner. - -“_A bien-tôt_, Lord Hardcastle,” had been her salutation as she -cantered past, and the sweet, ringing voice echoed in his ears -still—aye, and would until he died. Was it the many-sidedness of Amy’s -character (if the expression be allowed) which made her so dangerously -fascinating? With Varley, generally speaking, her manner had been -that of a finished coquette, alternately commanding or persuading, -wilful or gentle, as the fancy seized her. With Hardcastle, on the -contrary, her bearing was that of a stately, high-bred lady; her -impatience and impetuosity of temper only shown in the vivacity and -variety of her conversation. Was it, could it be all over now for ever? -Was all this bright beauty and loveliness but a memory—a thing of the -past? All this and much more passed through Lord Hardcastle’s mind as -he drew near to the house, standing out grim and gray against the dark, -threatening sky. - -“Bad news again, sir,” said the man who came forward to take his horse, -“Mrs. Warden is much worse, but would insist on getting up this -afternoon. Doctor Hayward has been sent for, and master would like to -see you at once in the morning room.” - -Thither Lord Hardcastle immediately went. The morning room was one of -the prettiest sitting rooms in the house—Amy’s favourite in the old -days, on account of its long French windows opening on to the lawn, and -from which might be seen a charming miniature landscape of woodland and -park, and the silvery rippling stream now so dark and swollen. - -Mr. Warden came forward to meet him. “She would come down and sit -here,” he whispered; “a sudden change has set in, and I have sent for -Hayward; I fear he will be caught in this storm, for a storm we shall -certainly have.” As he spoke, a crash of thunder shook the house from -basement to roof, and flash after flash of brilliant lightning followed -in quick succession. - -“Let me move your chair, dear,” he said, tenderly, “a little way from -the window; it is a grand sight, but almost too much for your nerves.” -She yielded at once to his wishes, as she had yielded all through their -married life; and still further to shield her from the bright flashes -he stood between her and the window, bending over her in an almost -lover-like attitude, so as not to lose any of her words, for her voice -had grown alarmingly faint and weak. - -“This reminds me of old times, Stephen,” she said, looking up in his -face. At this moment a pitiful howl from old “Presto,” the hound, rang -through the room. The dog himself trembled violently and began to -sniff first under the windows, then at the door. Mr. Warden rang the -bell. “Don’t turn him out, Stephen,” said his wife, “I like him here at -my feet. Don’t you remember he was often like this in a storm. Poor old -doggie,” she added, stooping down to smooth his large head, “stay with -me as long as you can.” - -Mr. Warden made no reply. Something in his throat seemed to choke him. -Lord Hardcastle looked from one to the other. Then he wrote on a slip -of paper, “The man must have missed Hayward somehow; I will go myself -after him,” and placing it where Mr. Warden would see it, hurriedly -departed on his mission. - -And now the storm seemed to have reached its height. Flash after flash -lighted up the otherwise dark room, peal after peal crashed over -the roof, and the rain dashed in torrents against the window panes. “We -will have lights,” Mr. Warden had said, but his wife had objected, -urging that she wished to see the storm in all its grandeur and beauty. -“We have had dark days together lately, dear,” she said plaintively, -looking up in his face, “but I feel they are ending now. Something -tells me that your Amy will come home again”—Another mournful howl from -“Presto” interrupted her, and again the bright pink and purple of the -lightning played about the room. - -“I never saw ‘Presto’ so frightened before,” she exclaimed. “How -strange it is! I used to be so nervous and terrified in a thunderstorm, -and to-night I feel so happy, as if I were beginning my girl’s life -over again.” She broke off suddenly, looking towards the window. “What -was that?” she exclaimed, “surely I heard something more than the rain!” - -“Yes,” said her husband, trying to steady his nerves, which were almost -beyond his control, “it is the bough of the oleander against the glass. -How the wind is rising! It is indeed an awful tempest!” - -And now Lord Hardcastle and Dr. Hayward came in, drenched to the skin -and out of breath with their hurried ride, then the dog, with one -prolonged howl, flew past them as they entered. “Something is wrong,” -said Hardcastle. “Hey, ‘Presto!’ go, find!” and opening a side door he -let the dog out into the stormy night. - -The doctor went softly into the middle of the room and looked at his -patient. The hectic flush was fading from her face, and she seemed to -be sinking into a sweet sound sleep. - -“I am so thankful to see her thus,” said Mr. Warden, “she has been so -feverish and excitable all day, I think the storm must have upset her -nerves.” - -“Hush!” said the doctor, solemnly, holding up his hand, “this is not -sleep; this is death, Mr. Warden; she will soon be beyond the sound of -storm and tempest.” He yielded his place to the husband, who, kneeling -by her side, took her thin white hand in his. Hardcastle and the doctor -withdrawing to a further corner of the room, waited and watched for the -end to come. - -Gradually the storm subsided, and the rain settled down into a slow -steady fall. The breathing of the patient became slower and fainter, -and the doctor whispered to Hardcastle that the end was at hand. At -that moment a long low wail sounded on the outside of the window, and -Hardcastle, peering through the dark panes, could see “Presto’s” brown -head and glittering eyes pressed close against the glass. - -He crept softly out of the room to call the dog in, fearful lest he -might disturb the solemn watch in the chamber of death. “Quiet, old -doggie,” he said, stooping down to pat the hound, all wet and -mud-covered as he was. But what is this! What is it makes the young man -start and tremble, and his lips and cheeks turn pale? What is it brings -that look of horror into his face, and makes his eyes distend and his -nostrils quiver? What is this hanging in shreds between the dog’s -firmly-set teeth? What is it? Only a few tattered remnants of dark-blue -silk! - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - - -MRS. WARDEN passed away before midnight; only the doctor and her -husband were with her at the last moment, for Hardcastle, bare-headed -and trembling with excitement, had followed the hound out into the dark -night. - -“Find, ‘Presto,’ find,” he exclaimed, urging the dog forward. But -“Presto” needed no urging, he bounded rather than ran over the sodden -grass and under the dripping trees; no stars, no moon, no light -anywhere, and Hardcastle, breathless and stumbling, with difficulty -kept up with the eager hound, who turns neither to the right nor to the -left, but makes straight for the deep rushing stream, straight on to -the low, sloping bank; and there the dog stops and trembles. - -“Which way, ‘Presto?’ Forward, forward!” shouts Hardcastle. But the dog -will not stir a step now, and stands quivering on the brink of the -stream; Hardcastle mounts the bank after him, and, bending forward, -looks up and down the river. Not a sound save the rush and whirl of the -waters, the moaning of the wind in the dark trees, and the pitiless -splash, splash of the rain. Not a sign of life nor death in the flood, -but as he turns to descend the slippery bank, something lying in the -roots of an overhanging willow tree catches his eye. One arm clinging -to a low bough, one arm in the cold, dark waters, and in another -instant he holds in his hand a girl’s low-crowned felt hat, with -pale-blue ostrich feather. “My God! and is this the end?” He cries out -in the bitterness of his heart, then, feeling how utterly useless and -helpless he is alone and single-handed in the dark, he rushes back to -the house. - -“I want men, I want lights,” he calls in a hoarse voice; “quickly, in -Heaven’s name, down to the stream!” Down to the stream they follow him, -with lights, and ropes, and drags. No time is lost in setting to work; -lanterns are swung on ropes across the river, the men, with Hardcastle -at their head, are wading through the swollen waters—hand in hand, -throwing ropes, dragging, shouting, lest some poor soul might still be -struggling in the dark flood. - -What does it matter? There she lies, face downwards, among the reeds -and tall rushes in the river’s mud. What does it matter! The men may -shout—the waters rush—aye, and her warm, true-hearted lover kneel by -her side, and call her by her sweet name, never more will those dark -eyes open to the light of day, nor those red lips be unsealed to tell -their story of sorrow and wrong! Clasp her tight, and clasp her long, -Lord Hardcastle, then yield her up for ever to the shadows, the doubt, -the darkness of the grave. - -They brought her in, and laid her on her own dainty little bed. The -storm had ceased now; day dawned, the birds carolled and twittered at -the casement, and the bright sunshine streamed in through Amy’s -rose-coloured curtains, and fell sideways on her pale, grey face. -Silent, hopeless, and awe-stricken the father and lover gazed upon -their darling; the search is ended now—there she lies in her blue silk -dress, all torn and mud-stained; her dark hair unwound and lying round -her in long, damp coils; her tiny hands still clasped as though in -prayer, and a look of agony and terror in her half-closed eyes. Alas! -how changed. What terrible ordeal can she have passed through since she -last lay sleeping here. There are lines on her brow, and dark circles -beneath her eyes which tell of tears and sorrow; a pained look about -the chiselled mouth which the Amy of old days never wore. Lord -Hardcastle bends over her reverently—he will not even kiss her -forehead, dead as she lies, for he dared not have done so living. -Kneeling as he would to his sovereign, he takes her damp, cold -hand in his to press to his lips; as he does so, something glittering -on the third finger of her left hand catches his eye. What is it! Not -the antique ruby ring with its quaint motto, “_sans espoir je meurs_,” -only a plain gold band encircles the tiny finger—a simple wedding-ring! - -They buried Mrs. Warden and Amy on one day—on one day, but not in one -grave. People in Harleyford wondered much at this; and they wondered -still more, when, shortly afterwards a splendid granite monument was -placed over the mother’s grave, with name, age, date, birth, and death -engraved in clear-cut letters; while Amy’s resting-place was shadowed -only by a simple marble cross with but one word inscribed, “_Aimée_.” - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - - -THE news of Amy’s death was telegraphed to Frank at Dublin. Thither, -following some imaginary clue, he had gone, and eager and hopeful at -heart, the sudden tidings nearly proved his death-blow. Before the day -closed which brought the news, Frank was lying helpless and unconscious -on a bed of fever. - -Mrs. Varley trembled for her son’s life; fortunately her address was -known to the proprietor of the hotel where Frank was staying, and -he had immediately telegraphed to her her son’s danger. - -“Mary,” she said, addressing Miss Burton, “have you courage to cross -the Channel with me to try to save my poor boy? The rector will follow -next week if there’s any need, but he cannot leave his parish at an -hour’s notice.” - -And Mary had expressed her willingness to start there and then for -Dublin. What would she not do for one who had always been as a brother -to her? So the two ladies took passage in a packet crossing the next -day, and arrived at Dublin to find Frank raving and tossing in the -delirium of brain fever. - -Then followed days and nights of weary watching and nursing. - -“He may pull through yet, madam,” said the good old doctor, addressing -Mrs. Varley, but peering wonderingly at Mary through his spectacles. He -had been told that the sudden death of a young lady was the cause of -the illness. Who, then, was this other young lady so devoted in her -attentions to the sufferer? “He may pull through yet, madam; he has a -constitution of iron and the frame of a giant, not to speak of the two -angels who watch over him day and night!” This in a rich Irish brogue, -with a gallant bow right and left to the two ladies. - -And Frank did pull through. Gradually the fever in his brain subsided, -and though weak and helpless as a child, the doctor pronounced him out -of danger. - -But with returning consciousness came back the sense of sorrow and -loss, and Mrs. Varley’s heart ached for her son as she saw the look of -utter blank misery and despair settle down upon his once bright, happy -face. “Get him to talk of his sorrow” had been the doctor’s advice, and -gently and gradually his mother had led him on to speak freely of poor -Amy and her terrible ending. - -“We all suffer with and for you, my son,” said Mrs. Varley, sitting by -Frank’s easy chair in the early twilight, the glow from the fire alone -lighting the room, “but my feeling for you does not prevent me feeling -for someone else very near and very dear to me, and who is just now -suffering as much as, or, perhaps, more than you.” - -Frank’s eyes expressed his wonder. Of whom could his mother be -speaking? Wrapped up in his own misery, he had had no thought for the -sorrows of others. - -“Don’t try to talk to me, Frank, dear,” continued his mother. “You must -forgive me if I say that sorrow is apt to make one selfish and -unobservant. Otherwise you would have noticed not only the grief and -anxiety in my face, which has made an old woman of me the last few -weeks, but also the grief in a sweet young face which has been watching -yours very sadly for many a day and night.” - -“Mother, mother,” exclaimed Frank, passionately, for now his mother’s -meaning was unmistakable. “Why did you bring the girl here? You knew it -was useless. Why didn’t you leave me here to die? God knows I have -nothing left to live for now!” - -“Miss Burton did not come for you alone, Frank, she came for my sake -also. She has been to me as a daughter in my trouble, and as a daughter -she came with me here. Your father could not leave his parish, and was -it right that I should travel all these miles alone to face such an -illness as yours? The difficulty, however, will soon be ended, as Mary -tells me she must leave us to-morrow; she has friends here in Dublin. -Your danger is past, she says, and she is no longer needed. Believe me, -Frank, it is not your return to health which is driving her away, but -your coldness and indifference, and (forgive me, dear) your -ingratitude.” - -“What is it you want me to do, mother?” asks poor Frank, piteously. -“Not marry her! I have no love to offer any woman now. My heart is -crushed and broken, and a dozen Mary Burtons couldn’t mend it.” - -“I know that, Frank, dear,” replied his mother, very sweetly, “but if -you have a broken heart to carry about with you, it should teach you to -be very tender to the broken hearts of others, especially to so good -and true a heart as Mary’s. A few kind words to her just now would make -her, if not happy, at any rate a little less miserable than she is now.” - -“Tell me what to say, then,” said Frank, wearily, “and let me say it at -once. You don’t want me to ask her to marry me? The words would choke -me, I think.” - -“No, my son, not that. I only want you to thank her for her kindness -and care through your illness (for, indeed, she has nearly worn herself -out in saving your life), and I want you just to say four little words -to her. ‘Don’t leave us, Mary.’ This for your mother’s sake, for -what could I do without her? May I send her to you, Frank?” she added, -after a pause. - -Then Frank, wearied with the discussion, gave a feeble assent, and Mrs. -Varley left the room immediately, thankful for her partial success, and -hoping much from the coming interview between her son and Mary. - -Very softly Mary entered the room, and went straight up to Frank. Then, -for the first time, he noticed how pale and sad the girl had grown. - -“How white you are looking, Mary,” he said, kindly. “Are you feeling -ill? Will you take my chair a moment?” at the same time attempting to -rise. - -“No, no,” said Mary in an instant, flushing scarlet, “you are still an -invalid, and must not think of politeness. Mrs. Varley said you wanted -to see me. What is it, Frank?” - -“Mary,” he said, taking both her hands in his, “I want to ask you to -forgive my abominable rudeness and ingratitude to you. I want to thank -you for all you have done for me. I am so ashamed I have not done this -before, but I have been so miserable, so broken-hearted.” Then the poor -fellow broke down utterly, and weakened by his long illness and unable -to control himself, covered his face with his hands, and wept and -sobbed like a child. - -“Frank, Frank,” pleaded Mary. “For all our sakes restrain yourself; you -will kill me if you give way like this. What can I do for you? I would -lay down my life to give you an hour’s happiness.” - -Still Frank sobbed on, and Mary, bending over him as a mother would -over a sick child, drew his head on to her shoulder, and soothed and -comforted him. - -Gradually the passion of his grief subsided, and he lay back, with his -head on her shoulder, worn out and exhausted. - -Then Mrs. Varley gently turned the handle of the door, and entered the -room. - -“Thank God for this,” she exclaimed. “Mary, don’t move. Frank, dear, -she is the one wife out of all the world you should have chosen, and -you may well be thankful to have won such an one. God bless you both. I -will write to your father to-night.” - -Frank was on the point of asking his mother what he had said or done -that she should congratulate and bless him in this way, but Mary’s -white face and trembling hands checked the words on his lips, so he -merely said, with a weary sigh, “Mother, I must go to bed at once, I am -utterly worn out,” and tottered rather than walked to the door. Mrs. -Varley followed him. “I may tell your father it is all settled, may I -not?” she said, in a low voice, as she held open the door for him. -Frank glanced back at Mary leaning still over the back of the armchair, -and her drooping figure and tearful face pleaded her own cause. “Tell -him what you like, mother,” he replied, wearily, “only let me rest -to-night.” Besides, after all, what did it matter? The best of his life -was gone, any one who would might have the broken remnants. - -Very angry indeed was the rector when he received his wife’s letter -containing the news of his son’s engagement. “It is absolutely -indecent,” he wrote back, “it is gross disrespect to the living and the -dead. Every one knows the hopes my son cherished with regard to Miss -Warden, and now, within a fortnight after her death, he is engaged to -some one else. I will have nothing whatever to do with such an -arrangement. Mr. Warden is an old and valued friend of mine, and how -could I look him in the face if I countenanced such conduct on the part -of my son? Is he a child or a lunatic that he cannot learn to control -his own feelings and bear up against a bereavement? Let him make up his -mind to bear his sorrows as a man should and as other people have had -to before him.” - -In reply to this, Mrs. Varley wrote a long letter pleading, not so much -the wisdom of her own conduct, as the necessity of the case. - -“Frank is neither a child nor a lunatic,” so ran the letter, “but he -has strong passions and an impetuous temper which would very rapidly -carry him down hill if once he turned that way. Add to this his broken -health and spirits, and you will see I have had no light task to -perform in endeavouring to restore him to what he once was. The -physician here tells me his only chance of recovering health and -strength is to start at once on a long foreign tour—under any -circumstances he must not think of returning to Harleyford for another -year. What then, do you advise? Can you leave your parish for so long a -time to travel with your son through Europe (she knew the rector hated -travelling, or indeed any kind of bodily exertion) or do you consider -that I should be a suitable companion for him under the circumstances? -Is there any one of his own friends fit for such a task, or who could -do for him all that a tender loving wife will do? What would it matter -to Mr. Warden, or to any one else likely to criticise his conduct, if -Frank fell into a course of reckless dissipation, or ended his life by -his own hand—and this, let me tell you, is another terror I have had -always before me. No, no, my dear husband, see things in their right -light I beseech you; you must give way in this matter, and believe me -it is as much for your own happiness as your son’s that you should do -so.” - -And the rector did give way as might have been expected, and not only -consented to his son’s wedding, but went over to Dublin and performed -the ceremony himself, and also sketched out the wedding tour for the -young people—a trip through the American continent first, and a final -run through the chief cities of Europe. - -“Hardcastle has the best of it now,” said poor Frank, sadly, to -himself, as he stood waiting for his bride in the vestry of the little -Irish church where the ceremony was to take place. “He has no mother to -talk him into a marriage he has no heart for. Not but that I shall do -my best to make her happy, for she is sweet and good, but I cannot tear -the other memory out of my heart.” - -Thus it was that Frank and Mary became man and wife within a month of -poor Amy’s death, and the rector and Mrs. Varley returned to -Harleyford to sustain, as best they might, the inquisitiveness and -criticism of their neighbours. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - - -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!” - - - - -CHAPTER X. - - -BEFORE starting for France, Lord Hardcastle received two letters. The -first, from Detective Hill, ran thus:— - -“SIR,— - -“It is now so long since I have received any orders from Mr. Warden, -that I venture to write to you, fearing he may be ill, and knowing you -have his entire confidence in the matter on which I am engaged. - -“Since I sent in my last report relative to Miss Kempe’s movements, -nothing of importance has occurred, until yesterday, when she received -a letter enclosing another, evidently foreign. The outside envelope was -too thick to enable my man (the postman if you will remember, sir) to -discover what stamp was on the letter, but the crackle of the thin, -foreign paper was unmistakable. As I write (at the window opposite her -house) there are evident signs of packing up and departure going on in -her room. I shall feel much obliged if you will transmit to me further -instructions on Mr. Warden’s behalf. The woman may possibly be leaving -England, and I am anxious to know whether the investigation is to be -continued, and the woman still watched, as I must necessarily appoint -very different men for foreign work. - - “Awaiting your orders, - - “I remain, - - “Your lordship’s obedient servant, - - “JERVIS HILL.” - -To this, Lord Hardcastle sent a brief reply— - -“SIR,— - -“Mr. Warden and myself think you are attaching too much importance to -Miss Kempe and her movements, and that it really is not worth while to -pursue this matter further. We are hoping for better results from -another quarter. - - “I remain, - - “Your obedient servant, - - “HARDCASTLE.” - -The second letter was from Frank Varley, written on the eve of his -wedding-day, and ran as follows:— - -“DEAR HARDCASTLE,— - -“I dare say you have but one feeling in your heart for a poor, -weak-minded wretch like me, that of utter unmitigated contempt. I -don’t attempt to justify myself, for under present circumstances it -would be impossible. I am only, writing to enclose a small packet—a -blue bow of ribbon. You will know, old fellow, to whom it belonged, and -why I am sending it to you. I couldn’t find it in my heart to put it -behind the fire. - - “Ever yours, - - “FRANK VARLEY.” - -“Poor Varley,” said Lord Hardcastle, when he read this. “He spent his -strength for nought, and gave in before the race was half run! And yet -who am I that I should pity or blame him? The end alone will show whose -life has been best worth living!” - -And now the preparations for the journey to France were completed, and -one dull misty November afternoon, Mr. Warden and Lord Hardcastle said -a long good-bye to the High Elms. Very damp, very cold and dreary the -old house looked as they turned the corner of the steep avenue. - -“Not in this world,” said Mr. Warden, mournfully, “shall I call any -place home again.” - -What could Lord Hardcastle say in reply? He clasped his old friend’s -hand with a firmer, tighter clasp, while the thought ran through his -own mind— - -“What will our coming back here be like?” - -Early in the evening they arrived in London. The preparations for their -journey had been very simple. No servants, very little luggage, and -their destination even kept secret. Mr. Warden had informed his -agents he would be travelling through Europe for some months for his -health, and had given various _postes restantes_ in France to which his -letters were to be sent. He would advise them, he said, of any change -in his plans should his inclination lead him in any other direction. - -It was not without serious thought and anxiety that Lord Hardcastle had -undertaken this journey. There could be no doubt that Mr. Warden’s -strength had given way very much lately, and it was incurring a heavy -responsibility to induce a man at his age, and with his broken health, -to go so far on what might prove to be a fool’s errand after all. -“But,” reasoned Hardcastle, “he will certainly die if he remain in his -own desolate home, brooding over his sorrows. Action and movement -will do more for him than anything else, and if we can but lift the -cloud from the dead girl’s grave, we shall both feel our life has not -been spent for nought.” - -The roar of London at first sounded strangely in their ears, accustomed -as they were to the saddest and quietest of households. Lord Hardcastle -took upon himself the various small duties which travelling involves, -and at once gave orders to be driven to Charing Cross Station. Leaving -Mr. Warden at the hotel, he directed a porter to place their luggage in -the booking-office to be in readiness for the morning tidal train, -while he exchanged some English money for present use. There appeared -to be a crowd of some sort round the booking-office, and the porter -placed the baggage a little on one side, waiting his turn. - -At this moment Lord Hardcastle’s attention was attracted by a tall -figure clad in a long, grey travelling cloak, the hood of which was -drawn low over her face. She brushed past him, but he could not see her -features, for her head was bent low, as though wishing to hide her -face. Something peculiar in the swing of her walk arrested his -attention; it was not ungraceful, but seemed as it were to keep time to -some song or tune sounding in her ear, so even and regular were her -steps. She was evidently in a hurry to save some train, and was -crossing towards the third class ticket window, when Lord Hardcastle’s -luggage caught her eye. She stood still, looked round her on every -side, then bending down, read attentively the labels on each box. -At this moment the porter advanced to take charge of his baggage, and -the woman, evidently altering her plans, walked slowly out of the -station. - -Lord Hardcastle returned to the hotel, and the woman in grey passed -completely out of his mind. Finding Mr. Warden very much tired with the -journey to London, he proposed that they should rest quietly the next -day, and pass over to Boulogne during the night. To this Mr. Warden -agreed readily. - -“I must husband my strength,” he said, “for it is slipping away -rapidly. I feel now as if I were embarked upon my last mission, which -must be well executed, or not at all.” - -Lord Hardcastle looked up at him anxiously. How sad, and old, and worn -the dear, kind face had grown lately! How white the hair, and sunken -the cheeks, and the eyes with a far-away, mournful look, which said as -plainly as words could speak, “it will soon be over now, and I shall be -at rest.” - -“Don’t speak like that, Mr. Warden,” he said, “or you will take away my -last remnants of courage. Who can tell what may yet lie before us.” - -“Who can tell, indeed,” echoed Mr. Warden, “who can tell.” He shivered -as he spoke, and looked so really ill that Lord Hardcastle began to -feel seriously uneasy about him, and begged him to see a doctor before -he left England. - -“No,” said Mr. Warden, firmly, “the night soon will come when no man -can work. Let us not anticipate it by an hour. Not until we have -played the last card we hold will we give up the game.” Then he said -good-night, and went to his own room. - -The next day rose dark and stormy, and Hardcastle trembled to think of -the effect a rough passage might have on Mr. Warden in his weak state -of health. He did not, however, offer any farther opposition to their -journey, knowing it would be useless, and besides this, an undefinable -feeling in his own mind kept urging him on to the native land of the -two Aimées. - -“I cannot explain why,” he said to himself, as they landed at Boulogne -in the chill early dawn of the following day, “but I somehow feel as if -we had only now struck upon the right track, and that all we have -hitherto done has been so much lost time. I know there must be a -reason for this feeling; some finer sense in my being must have seized -upon some fact in this strange history which my coarser and more -logical faculties have failed to perceive.” - -So occupied was he with his own thoughts, that he had not noticed that -he had become separated from his companion in the narrow landing-place, -and had drifted into a crowd of porters, with their various loads, -making for the custom-house. - -Where was Mr. Warden? He looked right and left along the Quai, and -there, standing half hidden behind some bales, stood the same tall grey -figure he had noticed at Charing Cross Station. It was unmistakable -now; the woman, for some reason, was evidently watching and following -them; and, doubtful whether their separation was accidental or -intentional, was at a loss whom she should keep in sight. Following the -turn of her head, Lord Hardcastle could see Mr. Warden some little way -in advance, and, hastening towards him, the woman suddenly passed in -front, and disappeared down some narrow passage. - -“Let her go,” thought Hardcastle; “somewhere, somehow, we may meet -again. I shall know her long stooping figure and swinging gait -anywhere.” Then, hastening forward, he soon overtook Mr. Warden, and -calling a carriage, desired to be driven to the Hotel de la Cloche, -situated somewhere in the heart of the town. - -Lord Hardcastle had foreseen before starting that their journey must -necessarily be performed by easy stages; they had, therefore, booked -only as far as to Boulogne, intending to rest there a day or two to -decide upon their route to Le Puy. - -The Hotel de la Cloche stands in one of the quietest parts of the town, -a little back from the broad, brick-built street, in a grassy, -moss-grown quadrangle. An arched corridor runs round this quadrangle, -and above this are built the various outbuildings of the hotel. A small -fountain, with an insufficient supply of water, plays in the courtyard, -and very miserable and dreary it looked under the dull November sky -from the windows of the room which Mr. Warden had selected for a -sitting-room. - -More than ever sad and weary he seemed as he seated himself in front of -a large wood fire he had ordered to be made. A pretence of lunch or -dinner had been gone through, and the short November day was already -closing in, the heavy stonework above the windows adding not a little -to the gloom of the room. Lord Hardcastle had tried unsuccessfully -various topics of conversation, feeling the necessity of arousing Mr. -Warden from the sadness of his own thoughts. - -“Tell me, Mr. Warden,” at length he said, almost despairing of success, -“something about Le Puy; it is an unknown land to me. I have never -visited that part of France.” - -“Le Puy!” exclaimed Mr. Warden, suddenly arousing himself, “Ah, that is -a country worth living in! It is a land of variety and beauty, of -sunshine and solitude; less terrible than Switzerland, it is, at the -same time, more interesting, because more varied. It is a land of -extinct volcanoes; at every turn one is brought face to face with -nature under a new aspect. Here some mighty convulsion has upheaved -gigantic rocks; there in the valley lie fertile plains watered by -gushing mountain torrents; above all tower and frown the fantastic -Cevennes, cut and fashioned into all sorts of wonderful shapes, and -everywhere reigns a silence and solitude only to be found in the lonely -mountain regions. Ah! it is a land of glory and beauty! But, my young -friend, you will scarcely see it with my eyes; to me it is the saddest -and sweetest of all lands, for there I first loved and first suffered, -and there my two Aimées were born and grew to beauty.” Then he paused, -and presently added, in a mournful, passionate tone, “My poor little -Amy! I fancy I see her now, creeping along the narrow mountain path, or -looking over the verge of some deep ravine, both hands filled with wild -flowers and grasses. She would never own to feeling frightened or -nervous at the giddy height, but if she felt her little feet slipping, -she would call out impatiently, ‘Papa, papa! take my flowers, quickly -please, I must not be kept waiting an instant.’ It is almost too much -for me to recall those days, Lord Hardcastle,” he sighed, wearily, “I -think I will see if I can get a little sleep; perhaps in the morning I -shall feel brighter and stronger.” - -Then he left the room, saying good-night, and that he did not wish to -be disturbed until the morning. - -Lord Hardcastle looked after him sadly. “He will reach Le Puy,” he -thought; “his spirit will keep him up as far as that, but he will never -come back again. Have I done wisely in inducing him to leave his home? -But what home has he left? Only a mere skeleton or husk of one. This is -our last and only chance; we are bound, at any cost to try it.” - -The wood fire crackled and burned, the window panes grew dark and -darker, and long, fantastic shadows began to flicker across the -oak-panelled wall, to the low, arched ceiling. - -Hardcastle’s thoughts wandered far away to the lonely house at -Harleyford—vividly came back to him the stormy, windy night, the -piteous howling of the dog, and poor Amy lying cold and wet and -lifeless in his arms. Picture after picture of the past passed before -his eyes—the dear dead face as it looked in the grey of the early -morning, the strange, pained old look that had spread itself over the -features until they almost seemed strange and unknown to him. - -The fire crackled, the weird shadows leapt from floor to ceiling, and -Hardcastle, drowsy with the overnight’s journey, began to see strange -shapes in the room, and fantastic visions began to mix with his waking -thoughts. He fancied he was standing amidst the rocky, silent scenery -Mr. Warden had just described to him. The mountain mists were rolling -away from peak and crag, the summer sun was mounting the horizon, and -there, on the verge of some terrible precipice, stood Amy—bright, -beautiful, girlish as ever, both hands filled with flowers, which she -playfully held out to him. - -Tremblingly he advanced towards her, hoping to save her from what -appeared instant death without alarming her; but the mountain mist -swooped down upon them, enveloping Amy and himself in its damp folds. -Then it lifted again, but no Amy was to be seen, and there, advancing -slowly towards him, was the tall, stooping figure in grey, whom he had -seen that morning on the Quai. She, too, stretched out her hands to -him, but what she held he could not at first see. Nearer and nearer she -drew, the mountain mists still clinging to her long, trailing skirt, -and hiding her face as with a veil. In another instant her cold, thin -hands held his, and a deep, sad woman’s voice said, slowly and -distinctly, “Take it, keep it, and let the poor sinner go.” Then -he felt a ring placed upon his little finger, and there, flashing out -in the mist and darkness was Amy’s antique ruby ring. - -What was it woke him at this moment? What was that noise sounding in -his ears still? Could it be a door or a window shutting? He started to -his feet and looked round the room. Nothing appeared to have been -disturbed, the books and papers on the table were just as he had left -them. Then he pushed aside the curtains, and looked out into the dreary -quadrangle. The fountain sent up a feeble spray towards the leaden sky. -The corridor looked damp and dismal as ever. Were his eyes deceiving -him? Was he thoroughly awake, or could it be that there, slipping in -and out between the pillars like a shadow almost in the dimness of the -light, was the grey, stooping figure of his dream? - -He sprang to the door, and flinging it back, let in a flood of light -from the staircase and landing. Then he paused in amazement, for there, -on the little finger of his left hand, sparkled and glittered an -antique ruby ring with garter and buckle, and the motto, in old French -letters, “_Sans espoir je meurs!_” - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - - -“TAKE it, keep it, and let the poor sinner go!” Through long days and -sleepless nights the words echoed and re-echoed in Lord Hardcastle’s -ears. That they were spoken by an actual human voice he was positively -certain, but all enquiries respecting the grey veiled figure proved -fruitless, and from that time he saw her no more. - -Very carefully and gently he broke the news of the restoration of Amy’s -ring to Mr. Warden, feeling the necessity that every circumstance -connected with their search should be known to him as it occurred, for -who could tell what might happen next? - -Mr. Warden listened very calmly to the strange story— - -“It is the beginning of the end,” he said. “Heaven only knows what the -end will be! Stranger things than this are, no doubt, in store for us. -Keep the ring, Hardcastle, who can have a greater right than you to -wear it?” - -And Hardcastle kept the ring, and registered yet another vow in his own -heart in much the same words he had vowed hand-in-hand with Frank -Varley, that “by night and by day, by land and by sea, he would search -the whole world through” to clear the name of the girl he loved. - -Mr. Warden daily grew weaker and weaker. They rested a week at -Boulogne, and then travelled by easy stages to Le Puy. After eight -days’ quiet travelling they reached the picturesque old city, and -though tired and worn out to the last degree, Mr. Warden insisted on -being at once driven to a small quiet inn (it could scarcely be called -hotel) situated half way between the town and his old mountain home. - -“_A l’Aigle des Montagnes_” was the sign which hung over this quiet -little hostelry, and its dedication could not possibly have been better -chosen. Perched high in the second belt of rocks which surrounds Le -Puy, it seemed incredible, when looked at from the plateau beneath, -that aught but eagle’s wings could mount so far. A narrow, winding -path, made to admit the “little cars” of the country, with not an -inch to spare on either side, led to the inn. To an inexperienced -traveller the road seemed terrible and dangerous, but the hardy, -sure-footed mountaineer made but light of it. What to him was a -precipice, first on this side, then on that, and occasionally on both? -Once arrived at the summit the view was simply magnificent, bounded -only by the distant Cevennes, and showing, in all its sparkling beauty, -the windings of the Loire and its many tributaries. - -Hither some twenty years previously Mr. Warden had first come, and with -an artist’s appreciation of the grand and the beautiful, had returned -again and again to paint the wild mountain scenery and ruined chateaux -which were hung here and there like eagle’s nests among the rocks. - -Since those old days the place had twice changed hands, and the present -proprietor was totally unknown to him. Nevertheless the place and its -surroundings could not fail to revive many bitter memories and days -both sad and sweet to him, and on the second day after their arrival, -Lord Hardcastle saw in him such a rapid change for the worse, that he -at once gave orders that a doctor should be sent for from Le Puy. - -“It is useless, Hardcastle,” said Mr. Warden, when he heard the order -given. “No doctor can do anything for me now. Let them get me a few -tonics, which I can prescribe for myself, so that I may rally for a few -days, and pay a visit to my old home here. Open the window,” he added -impetuously, “this soft, sweet air brings life back to me.” - -Then Hardcastle placed for him a low easy chair close to the casement, -whence he could look right and left upon the mountain panorama, and -even catch a glimpse of a turret of his old chateau standing high among -the distant rocks. - -Mr. Warden gazed long and earnestly upon the magnificent landscape, -drinking in every sight and sound, as a dying man might gaze upon some -loved scene whose memory he wished to carry with him into eternity. -Lord Hardcastle dared not disturb him, he leaned over the back of his -chair without a word, and endeavoured, as far as possible, to follow -the train of his thoughts. - -Suddenly Mr. Warden turned his head and looked Hardcastle full in the -face. He spoke excitedly, and his voice appeared almost to have -regained its old strength and firmness. - -“Hardcastle,” he said “you have done a great deal for me, I know you -will do one thing more. It may be the last favour I shall ask of you. -Come here, stand at my right. You see, just between those sugarloaf -crags, the west turrets of my old home—the Chateau D’Albiac it was -called in those days. It stands on the highest ground in Cassagnac. A -little to the right there is a low well-cultivated valley, with about -five or six peasants’ houses dotted here and there. In one of these -Isola’s people lived, and there my darling Aimée was reared as her -foster-child. Will you go there for me, and if you can find her, bring -her here to me. I have one or two questions to ask, which she only can -answer.” - -“Gladly,” replied Hardcastle. “It has been my intention from the first -to seek this woman out and question her. As soon as the doctor arrives, -I will leave you in his charge, and set off without further delay.” - -“No,” said Mr. Warden decisively, “you must set off at once; you do not -know these mountain paths as I do, and to a stranger they are full of -difficulties and dangers. Cassagnac is nearly six miles from here. You -laugh at the distance. Five miles of these mountain paths is no light -thing, I can assure you. If you start at once on one of the little -mountain ponies, you will not arrive at Cassagnac till nearly sunset. -Then you will have at least three miles further to go before you can -get a night’s lodging, for you cannot possibly by any means return here -until to-morrow.” - -“Until to-morrow,” echoed Hardcastle sadly, and the thought flashed -through his brain “what if he be not here to-morrow?” - -Mr. Warden read his thoughts, “It is not so near as that Hardcastle,” -he said quietly; “but it is not far away. Go at once, I implore you, -for days and hours are getting precious to me now. Your doctor will be -here before long; the people of the house are good and kind, and I feel -at home with them. Go at once, I beg of you; let me not feel I have had -my journey here for nothing. Ah! if my young strength would come back -to me for one day, how gladly would I set off with you!” Then he leaned -back in his easy chair wearied out, and once more begging Hardcastle to -start immediately, closed his eyes as though he wished to sleep. - -Hardcastle had no choice but to obey. He went at once to the innkeeper -and his wife, and gave them strict orders to be constantly in and out -of Mr. Warden’s room during his absence, and one to remain with him -throughout the night. Then he wrote a few lines to the doctor, -requesting him to remain until his return on the morrow. Even with -these precautions his heart misgave him, and he could scarcely summon -courage to start on his journey. - -However, he felt further contention with Mr. Warden would be worse than -useless—it would be positively injurious to him, so with another -farewell glance at his friend, apparently sleeping quietly in the -window seat, he set off on his little mountain pony. - -Then it was that the Cevenol scenery burst upon him in all its wild -grandeur. It was not one magnificent picture which met his eye, but a -hundred or more, for every turn of the steep mountain path brought to -view some fresh tableau of startling beauty. But the one thing which -struck him most was the solitude, the intense silence which reigned -everywhere. The rush and roar of the falling torrent, the scream of a -distant wild bird, and once only the lowing of some oxen, evidently -yoked to one of the rude cars of the country, these were the only -sounds which broke the perfect stillness of the scene. - -“Cassagnac,” he thought, “must be a very tiny village, for its highway -to be so little frequented.” It had slipped his memory, so full it was -of other thoughts, that none but the hardiest or poorest of the -villagers would remain to face the terrible winter of these parts, when -roads and valleys alike are choked with snow. In fact he was journeying -on to a deserted village, for, by the end of November at latest, most -of the peasants have taken refuge in more accessible localities. - -Quietly and steadily the little pony kept on his way, never swerving an -inch right or left; the gritty lava crunched under his feet, and now -and then a huge boulder would fall from the path into the deep ravine -below, with an echoing crash. Hardcastle had provided himself with a -plan of the country,—a rudely sketched one, drawn out by the landlord -of the “_Aigle des Montagnes_,” for the use of his guests—but he -scarcely needed it, so well did the little pony know his road. - -As the afternoon went on the Chateau D’Albiac stood out plainly in -front of him. But although apparently so near it was yet some little -distance off, for the pathway, ever mounting, took many curves and -bends, and Lord Hardcastle found he could not possibly arrive there -before twilight set in. The sun sank lower and lower, the shadows -lengthened and deepened, and although the air for the time of year was -remarkably balmy and mild, Hardcastle could not repress a shudder as he -took the last curve which brought him face to face with the old -chateau. Was it the silence and loneliness of the place which so -oppressed him, or was it that his nerves had been shaken by the strange -events through which he had lately passed? A feeling he could not -understand took possession of his mind. He felt almost like a man -walking in a dream, seeing strange sights and hearing strange sounds, -so unreal, so unlike anything he had ever seen was the mountain picture -around him. There, straight in front of him, stood the old chateau, the -highest point in the rocky landscape. Every door barred, every window -shut, not to be opened till the following spring. The sun sank lower -and lower, the shadows lengthened and deepened, the rocks began to take -fantastic shapes against the evening sky, lighted in the west by the -long golden and purple streaks of the dying day. Not a sound broke the -intense silence of the place, and Hardcastle, throwing the reins on his -pony’s neck, in perfect stillness drank in the beauty and glory of the -scene. The sun, with a farewell scarlet light, fired the windows of the -old chateau, danced upon peaks and crags of fantastic shape, and sent a -flood of glory upon two solitary female figures standing on one of the -highest points of the worn-out volcanoes. - -“I must be dreaming! It is a land of visions here; I have lost control -over my own senses;” said Hardcastle, aloud, as he pressed forward to -get a nearer view of what seemed to him an illusion. Two figures at -such a time, in such a scene of loneliness and solitude! Nearer and -nearer he drew. What did he see? Breathless and nerveless he leaned -forward deprived alike of speech and power. Mountains, crags and -sunlight swam before his eyes and faded away into mist, while the words -of Mr. Warden, in the study of Harleyford, rang and echoed in his -ears. “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. The long white robe she wore, and the -dark-faced nurse by her side.” There, straight in front of him, was the -literal realization of the picture in all its details, for there, -awe-struck and silent as himself, stood Amy Warden and Isola the nurse! - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - - -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. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - - -AT this time Mr. Warden received his first packet of English letters -from the _poste restante_ at Le Puy. - -Among others there was one from Inspector Hill, which ran as follows:— - - “Scotland Yard, - - “Nov. 20th. - -“SIR,— - -“I think it right you should be informed of certain facts which have -come to my knowledge respecting some jewellery belonging to Miss -Warden, viz., a diamond necklace, earrings, and brooch, which have -already been restored to you through Mr. Varley, and an antique ruby -ring which Miss Warden was supposed to have worn the day she left home, -but which in reality was left by her on her toilette table with the -diamonds which she had worn on the previous night at the Leicestershire -county ball. - -“My informant is a Miss Marian Kempe, whom you may possibly remember I -have mentioned once or twice in my reports to you as a relative of the -girl Lucy Williams, at one time Miss Warden’s maid. - -“This girl Williams, if you will remember, I stated had a most -disreputable brother who had been convicted of connivance with poachers -to rob his master’s estate. On his release from prison he returned to -his native place, and once more fell into his old dissolute habits. -He appears, on several occasions, to have had interviews with -his sister at your house, and to have threatened her in various ways if -she could not find sufficient money to enable him to reach New York, or -some other large city, where he hoped, by false written characters, to -find some means of support. - -“Then occurred Miss Warden’s mysterious disappearance, and the -jewellery lying loose upon the table proved too strong a temptation for -the girl, who at once secreted the diamonds and ring, and when asked by -you for the dress in which to describe Miss Warden in the -advertisements, cleverly included the ring in the description. This -ring she at once handed over to her brother, who immediately started -for Liverpool, intending to wait there for farther supplies which his -sister had promised, if possible, to procure for him. - -“The diamonds she appears to have kept back for a time in case they -should be asked for, but in the state of confusion into which your -house was thrown, and Mrs. Warden being too ill to interest herself -much in the matter, they were not missed; in fact, I believe, the jewel -case was not even opened when handed over to Mrs. Warden’s care. - -“The girl most probably intended to dispose of the diamonds in London, -and afterwards to have escaped with her brother to New York, when, as -you know, she was seized with small-pox, and died at the house of her -relative, the Miss Marian Kempe whom I have already mentioned. - -“This Miss Kempe is, undoubtedly, a woman of good character, holding -extreme religious views, and willing to sacrifice everything in the -discharge of her duty. She was at one time engaged to be married to Tom -Williams, and although the match was broken off, is evidently still -very much attached to the man. About a week since she came to me in -travelling dress, and appeared very much fatigued with a long journey -she said she had just taken across the channel. She also seemed much -agitated, and asked me in an excited tone if I ever read the Gospel, -and if I knew who it was Christ came to seek and to save? ‘See here, -Miss Kempe,’ I said in reply, ‘if you are alluding to publicans and -sinners, I conclude you have something to say to me about that rascal, -Tom Williams. If so, say it at once, please, for I have no time -for sermonizing, I assure you.’ ‘He is no rascal,’ she said, -indignantly, ‘he is a repentant sinner, and will yet, please God, be -numbered among the elect.’ Then she proceeded to tell me a very -extraordinary story. How that Tom Williams arrived at Liverpool, -intending to wait there for Lucy; how he waited and waited, and at -length received, through some secret channel, the news of her death, -and that the diamonds had been restored to you. In his haste to escape, -he took passage in the first steamer he came across, which chanced to -be a trader bound for Boulogne. It is also possible he imagined himself -to be safer across the channel than across the Atlantic. Landing at -Boulogne, he appears to have had some drunken quarrel with an Italian -seaman, who wounded him severely in the thigh with a large clasp -knife. Tom was eventually carried by some passers-by to a quiet -lodging-house on the Quai, and the woman of the house showed him a -great deal of kind attention. A fever set in after this stabbing -affair, and Tom was reduced to a very low ebb. Utterly friendless, in a -foreign country, and at death’s door, his thoughts turned to Miss Kempe -as the one most likely to help him out of his troubles. He consequently -made an appeal to her, couched in very penitent language, and implored -her, by her past affection for him, to help him out of his sin and -misery. This letter he sent under cover to some comrade in London, who -posted it to Miss Kempe’s address. The bait succeeded admirably. The -woman at once locked up her room, disposed of a few valuables she had, -and started for Boulogne. At Charing Cross Station, when about to take -her ticket for the night train, she caught sight of your luggage on the -platform, addressed to Boulogne. She at once concluded you were in -pursuit of Tom, and determined to wait and watch your proceedings. She, -however, crossed the next morning, and hurrying to Tom, informed him of -your approach, and asked what he thought it best to do. ‘This is what -they want, Marian,’ he said, drawing the ring from under his pillow, -‘take it to them, and beg me off.’ This she seemed afraid to do, and -waited about the hotel all day before she could make up her mind to -enter. When at length she summoned courage to do so, she wandered by -chance into your sitting-room, and finding Lord Hardcastle asleep by -the fire, the idea occurred to her of placing the ring on his finger as -he slept, thus avoiding embarrassing questions, and thinking, poor, -foolish woman, that if your property were restored to you, you would no -longer wish to prosecute the rascal. Her object in coming to me was -twofold. First, to assure me of the genuineness of the man’s -repentance, and secondly to find out, if possible, your intention on -the matter. - -“Of course nothing would be easier than to bring the man to justice. I -have not the slightest belief in his penitence, and I farther think, if -he should recover, he will induce this infatuated woman to marry him -for the sake of her small savings. - -“I must ask your pardon, sir, for this long letter I have -unwillingly troubled you with, and awaiting your orders, beg to remain, - - “Your obedient servant, - - “JERVIS HILL.” - -“Postscript.—Since writing the above I have received a special -communication from Dunwich Police Station, in which, perhaps, sir, you -may feel interested. It relates to the conviction of a gipsy woman and -tramp, for stealing. In her possession was found a long travelling -cloak and thick veil. This she states she found in a plantation in your -grounds about two months ago, when she had there taken refuge from a -thunderstorm which had set in with violence. This thunderstorm, sir, we -must all remember as occurring on the night Miss Warden’s body was -found. This cloak and veil most probably belonged to her and enabled -her to pass unnoticed and unknown through Dunwich streets, and were -most likely thrown on one side by her when wearied and heated by her -long walk she found them heavy and cumbersome. They remain at Dunwich -Station to be claimed and identified, if possible, and may chance to be -of great importance should you wish at any time to recommence the -investigation I had the honour to conduct for you. - - “J. HILL.” - -To this Lord Hardcastle wrote in reply, at Mr. Warden’s request— - -“SIR,— - -“Mr. Warden wishes me to thank you for your letter, and to inform you -that he cannot ask you to recommence your former investigation for the -simple reason that Miss Warden has returned to her family and friends, -and will in due time communicate all that is wished to be known. - -“As for Tom Williams, Mr. Warden has not the least intention of -prosecuting him provided he gives up his malpractices and leads a -sober, honest life. Please to have him informed of this, and also -strongly counsel Miss Kempe to return to her home and keep her money in -her own hands. - - “Your obedient servant, - - “HARDCASTLE.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - - -AMY’S story took long to tell. Not in one continuous narrative, but at -long intervals, and in answer to many questions did she give her father -the history of the days she had spent away from home. - -And this is the substance of her narrative. - -On that bright August morning, the day after her first ball, she went -out of the house with a light step and a gay young heart. No thought of -care or sorrow in her mind, on the verge of womanhood, with a life full -of promise and brightness stretching out before her, the world, as it -were, at her feet, and the crown of her youth and beauty on her head, -suddenly a dark cloud fell over it all, shutting out the brilliant -landscape and sunlight, and enveloping youth, beauty, hope and promise, -the whole of the glory of the summer’s day, in the mist and darkness of -the valley of the shadow of death. - -Amy Warden, thinking only of her last night’s scene of triumph (for -such it had been to her) walked gaily through her father’s grounds till -she came almost to the verge of the park lands. Here she met the -postman, “My letters, if you please,” she said, exchanging a kind “good -morning” with the man. He handed two to her in feminine handwriting, -and passed on. The first she quickly disposed of, it was from a young -girl friend, declining an invitation of Amy’s for the following day. -The second, in a strange foreign hand, although bearing the London post -mark, she opened as she quitted the park for the Dunwich high road. It -was (as has already been stated) market day at Dunwich, and two or -three villagers from Harleyford passed at this moment with whom she -exchanged greetings, and who, for the time, drew her attention from the -letter. - -Once more turning her eye upon the page, she read words which made -park, woodland and road alike swim before her eyes, and which sent her -young blood rushing to her face and back again with a chill to her -heart. Recovering herself partially, she turned back into the -park lands, and there, under the shadow of the great trees, read -through her letter. - -It was written partly in Cevenol _patois_, partly in good French, and -thus it ran:— - -“MA MIGNONNE,— - -“Hast thou forgotten Isola, thy nurse? Hast thou forgotten the one who -rocked thee in her arms to sleep, and led thee over the mountain to -gather wild campions to weave garlands and crowns for thy beautiful -mother? Dost thou know thou hast a mother living now among those -mountains? Has he who shadowed and cursed her young life told thee the -story of her suffering and wrong? For twelve long years, ma cherie, has -she lived a life of loneliness and sorrow, and now she lies on a bed of -sickness and pain with the hand of death upon her. She is wearying for -thee, my Aimée, wilt thou not go to her? I am in London, and I wait all -day long at your great Midland Station, for I know thou wilt come. I -shall know your sweet face among a thousand, for have I not seen it -night after night in my dreams? And thou! thou wilt know Isola, thy old -nurse, by her brown hood and cloak of the mountains.” - -In utter bewilderment and amazement, with every nerve in her body -jarring and trembling, Amy read and re-read her letter, and as she did -so the conviction of its genuineness and truth forced itself upon her. -Two thoughts only remained on her mind, the first, “my father told me a -bitter cruel lie when he denied my mother to my face, and placed -another in her stead;” the second, “my mother still lives! If I hasten -I may yet see her before she dies. My darling, beautiful mother, whom -unknowingly I have loved all through my life.” - -Her anger against her father was only exceeded by one feeling, her -intense, fervent love for her mother, whose image now stood out -distinctly in her young memory. Isola’s words had brought back a whole -world of recollections, the crowns of flowers, the mountain paths, the -things which to her had seemed before but floating fancies or childish -dreams, now took their right form as distinct vivid realities. - -Not knowing anything of the circumstances which had brought about Mr. -Warden’s separation from his first wife, to her excited imagination he -appeared a perfect monster of wickedness, a cruel, fickle tyrant, who -had cast off one who loved him truly, for the sake of another woman— - -“He told me a lie,” she kept repeating to herself again and again, “to -make me love that other woman, and to steel my heart against my own -mother.” - -Then the picture of that mother, lying sick unto death, rose before her -mind, and one thought swept away every other. - -“I will go to her at once,” she said with a wild cry, “at any risk, at -any cost. Who knows, I may yet perhaps save her life.” - -With Amy, to think was to act; not a moment’s hesitation now. There was -another way to Dunwich station, besides the high road—a quiet way, -which led through fields and lanes, a little circuitously, perhaps, and -for that reason not likely to be traversed on the busy market day by -any but gipsies or tramps. This road Amy at once took; she knew there -was a train leaving for London about noon, and this she determined if -possible to save. What was a five miles walk to a girl at her age, -young, active and strong; besides had she not one all-absorbing thought -to shorten her road, and lend wings to her feet— - -“I am going to the mother I have dreamed of and loved all through my -young life.” - -Once arrived at Dunwich, she was pretty sure to escape recognition. The -station (a junction, with a large amount of traffic) was on market days -positively crowded, and Amy, passing rapidly through the throng, took -her ticket, and seated herself in the London train without more than a -casual glance from the guard, to whom she was personally unknown. - -Then she had time for thought. But the more she thought, the more the -difficulties of her position grew upon her. How could she act for the -best? It was simply an impossibility for her to consult her father on -the matter, for would not all his efforts be directed to keep her -mother out of her rightful position, and would he who had lived so long -in sin (so she thought) with another, be likely to have any sympathy -for her in her present undertaking. - -“I will wait and consult with Isola,” was the young girl’s thought as -the train whirled her on towards London, “she will most likely know -what my mother’s wishes are,” and as she thought of that mother, and -the years of suffering her father’s cruelty had condemned her to -endure, every feeling was absorbed in one indignant resolve to leave no -means untried to have that mother righted and restored, if not to -happiness, at least to peace and honour. - -As the train entered the London Station, she noticed a woman clad in a -long brown cloak, with a peasant’s hood drawn over her head, whom she -quickly identified as Isola; not from her recollection of her nurse’s -face, for here memory failed her, nor yet alone from her dress, which, -though strange, seemed familiar to her, but the woman was evidently -waiting and watching, and her long earnest gaze into each carriage as -the train drew up at the platform, could not fail to strike the most -casual observer— - -“Ma bonne, ma bonne,” said Amy in a low voice, as she jumped from the -train, stretching out both hands towards her nurse— - -“Holy mother!” exclaimed the woman, seizing Amy’s hand, and -passionately kissing it— - -“Which of my two children is it that I see? The eyes, the voice, the -hands, the hair are her mother’s own. My child, bless the Saints and -Holy Mary whenever you look at your sweet face in the glass, for thou -wilt never be without thy mother’s portrait all thy life long.” - -Then followed question and answer in rapid succession. Amy ascertained -from Isola that her mother had entered the convent of St. Geneviève, -some few miles distant from their old home. Isola breathed not a word -of her mother’s transgression, nor how she had abandoned husband and -child for the caprice of a moment. Isola’s intense love for, and -devotion to her mistress, blinded her to all her faults; she could see -her in but one light, that of a wronged, suffering woman, and as such -she spoke of her. She dwelt long upon Mr. Warden’s harshness and -cruelty to his young wife, and told Amy how at length his treatment -became insupportable, and they were compelled to seek another home; how -that her mother had eventually taken vows in the Convent of St. -Geneviève, seeking in religion the happiness she could not find in the -world. Isola made no mention of the lie passed off on Mr. Warden -respecting his wife’s death. To her mind the one weak point in Aimée’s -character was her love for her husband and her real penitence for her -fault. This to Isola was simply incomprehensible— - -“The man hates you, why should you love him?” was her argument. “He -treated you badly, you did well to leave him.” - -Nevertheless, whatever order Aimée gave must be carried out to the very -letter, and with the blind unreasoning fidelity of a dog, she obeyed -her mistress’s slightest wish. - -Thus it was, that intentionally or unintentionally, Isola’s narrative -conveyed a very wrong impression to Amy’s mind. The young girl scarcely -realized her own feelings towards her father, so completely had they -been reversed— - -“I could not have believed all this Isola, even from your lips,” she -said passionately, “if he had not himself told me a lie, and denied my -own mother to my face.” - -So they journeyed on. Miss Warden had only a few sovereigns in her -purse, but Isola seemed to be well supplied with money— - -“Where does all your money come from?” asked Amy wonderingly, as she -noticed Isola’s well-filled purse. Isola pointed to her ears, despoiled -of ornaments— - -“You sold them!” exclaimed Amy, “why, they must have represented the -savings of at least twenty years,” she added, recollecting the practice -of the French peasantry to invest their earnings in jewellery, and -especially in earrings, which they exchange for others more valuable as -they rise and prosper in the world. Isola bowed her head— - -“Could they be yielded to one more worthy, or to one who had a greater -right?” she enquired earnestly. - -Tears filled Amy’s eyes at the proof of such devotion, and she said no -more. - -By the time they arrived at Folkestone, Amy had become more calm and -collected. She endeavoured to mark out for herself some plan of action— - -“I think Isola,” she suggested, “we will telegraph to my father from -here that I am safe and well, and that he will hear from me again.” - -“_Mon Dieu!_” exclaimed Isola, “and be stopped by the police on landing -at Boulogne! No, no, my child, wait till thou hast safely reached thy -mother, then telegraph, write, or do what thou wilt.” - -Amy saw the force of the argument, and contended no more, but it was -difficult, nay impossible for a girl who had loved her father so -passionately as she had, to shut out altogether from her imagination -the agony of mind he must be suffering at her unaccountable absence. -But what could she do? The difficulties of her position seemed -insuperable, and her mind had become so bewildered, she felt she could -scarcely now distinguish between right and wrong. Besides, the one -all-absorbing intense desire to see her mother had taken such -possession of her, that every other feeling was comparatively deadened. - -They crossed by the night mail to Boulogne, and thence without delay -continued the route to Le Puy. A wearisome journey, and which, to Amy, -seemed endless, so long and dreary seemed the hours which kept her -apart from her idolised mother. At length it was accomplished, and at -the time that the whole country round Harleyford had risen to join in -the fruitless search, and Frank Varley and Lord Hardcastle had clasped -hands in a solemn vow to rest not day nor night till the wanderer was -brought home, Amy was lying in her mother’s arms at the Convent of St. -Geneviève, or kneeling by her side kissing her hands, feet, or dress, -in a perfect ecstasy and bewilderment of joy that her wildest -imaginings were at last realized, and that she had found a mother -indeed. - -“Ah,” said Amy, here breaking off her narrative and drawing a long -breath. “No one could have painted my mother to me as she really was -and as I found her. It would have needed a special inspiration to have -done so. To describe material beauty, the beauty of form, colour, and -outline—yes, it can be done; but to paint the many transparent tints of -a sunbeam, or the light and shadow of a handful of the sparkling, -rippling stream! It is impossible. When one can be found to do this -then may he begin to paint my mother in all her changeful, wondrous -beauty. As a very empress, as a star in a dark sky she shone out among -the little brown nuns at St. Geneviève. They were all so little, so -brown, so old, not a young face among them. Not one of them had been -the other side of the mountains for more than thirty years. They were -all most kind and courteous, and so indulgent to my mother in all her -caprices, treating her almost as a wayward, spoilt child, and only -insisting on such matters as were absolutely necessary to keep up the -discipline of the convent. In her tiny bare little room, in her coarse -brown-grey dress, my mother had passed ten of the best years of her -life. It is marvellous to me, knowing her as I now do, that the routine -and confinement of a convent life had not broken her spirit and quite -worn her out. Oh, papa, I hate routine, I hate discipline, I detest a -quiet, orderly life, and yet I feel as if, should I live to be -withered, and brown, and old, I should like to come here to these kind -little nuns and end my days in peace with them.” - -Amy sighed wearily; she often sighed now. The strange events through -which she had lately passed had tried her beyond measure, but the -bitterest trial of all had been the choice she had been compelled to -make between her father and her mother. To believe in the truth of the -one was to acknowledge the falsehood of the other, and it was hard -indeed for her young, loving heart to choose between the two. - -Mr. Warden looked at his daughter anxiously. She was greatly changed, -and he could not but feel that his bright, light-hearted Amy would -never come back again. Now and then flashes of her old self would shine -out, and she would look up in his face with her own laughing eyes, but -it was only now and then, and the Amy of to-day was a sadder, paler, -more thoughtful being than the Amy of six months ago. - -“Amy, dear,” said Mr. Warden, tenderly, “tell me one thing and I will -ask no more questions to-night. Did your mother ever allude in any way -to the wrong she once did me, or did you learn this story from some one -else?” - -“From Lord Hardcastle,” replied Amy. “When I first saw my mother, as -she clasped me in her arms, she said, ‘my darling, do you know the -whole truth, and can you love me still?’ I, imagining she referred to -your neglect and cruelty, and her impatience and flight as described by -Isola, replied that I did know the whole truth, and I loved her better -than ever. After this nothing more was said by either of us on the -matter. It was not until Lord Hardcastle stood before me on the rocks -and insisted, with his thin pale face and solemn manner, that I should -hear the whole truth and then judge between my parents, that I knew -what had really occurred. Papa, papa, I felt then I should hate him for -ever and ever for having cast down my idol from its pedestal. Yet,” she -added, tearfully, “I ought to be grateful to him, too, for has he not -given back to me my own dear father, and cleared away the cloud that -had risen up between us?” - -“Thank God for that, indeed, my child, and had it not been for him, -Amy, your father would not be here talking to you now. A few more such -days of grief and anxiety would have worn out the last remains of my -strength. I owe Lord Hardcastle a debt I can never repay, and it pained -me beyond measure the other day to hear your abrupt question as to his -right to wear your ring. You must have wounded him deeply.” - -“But, papa, dear, that was because he was not equal to the occasion. -Some gentlemen I know, such as Mr. Varley for instance, would have said -‘if I had but the right to wear it,’ or some such polite speech. Of -course I should have thought it very impertinent and great nonsense. -But no one will ever accuse Lord Hardcastle of talking nonsense! He -mounts his high horse immediately, gives me back my ring with scarcely -a word, and with the air of an emperor walks out of the room!” - -“Amy,” said Mr. Warden, after a moment’s pause, “you spoke of Frank -Varley just now; do you care to know what has become of him?” - -“Yes,” said Amy, looking up eagerly, “where is he, papa? What did he do -when he heard I was lost? Tell me, don’t keep me waiting an instant,” -she added in her old tone and manner. - -“For one whole month, my child,” said Mr. Warden, carefully watching -his daughter’s face, “he was broken-hearted, inconsolable, in fact all -but a madman. The next,” he said this very slowly, for he was loth to -strike the blow, “he was engaged to Mary Burton, and married ten days -afterwards.” - -A start, a shiver, a very flushed and then a very pale face, that was -all, and then Amy repeated in a strangely quiet tone, “Married to Mary -Burton! I remember her well, that large, fair, good-looking girl, who -didn’t know how to make men look at her! We won’t talk any more to-day, -papa. The little doctor will scold me if I keep you up late and tire -you. Ah!” she said with a sigh and a look towards the mountains, “I -think those little brown nuns at St. Geneviève have a far better time -of it than we who stand out here in the cold and storm to fight our -life’s battle!” - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - - -“SHE was like a wild bird beating its wings against its prison bars,” -said Amy, continuing her narrative a few days before they started for -England. “The excitement and pleasure of seeing me had acted magically -on her, so much so that I found it difficult to realize the truth of -Isola’s description of her before my coming. In a day or two, however, -the excitement subsided, and I became seriously alarmed. She seemed -possessed by a spirit of unrest, and I began to fear for her reason. No -sleep at night, no rest for one five minutes in the day. She fulfilled -all her religious duties faithfully (they were not heavy ones, and the -Abbess was indulgent) but every spare moment she spent with me was -passed in one ceaseless moan. ‘I must see him; there will be no peace -for me till I have looked at the dear face again. Help me, my child, -help me!’ I knew not what to do for the best. I felt it would be -useless to consult the Abbess, or even the Convent Confessor, on the -matter, as their experience in the world’s ways was even less than -mine, and they looked upon everything in the light of their religion. -Besides, I knew there was no possibility of their allowing my mother -outside the walls, even in charge of a sister, for their rules on this -point were strict. What could be done? I felt, too, that you ought to -be written to by some one, but by whom? Mercy to Mrs. Warden, whom I -was convinced was ignorant of my mother’s existence, withheld my hand, -and whom could I trust in such a matter, or to whom, indeed, could I -expose my father’s guilt? I felt confident in my own mind that you -would naturally guess whither I had gone, and would possibly frame some -excuse for me to Mrs. Warden and others. But, O, my father, I have no -words to express the agony, the absolute torture of mind I suffered at -the thought of your unworthiness, of your cruelty to one whom I -believed to be so noble and good as my mother. - -“The difficulties, too, of my position were very great. The Abbess was -kindness itself to me, and bade me stay with my mother as long as I -pleased, but she was constantly asking me questions as to my family and -connections, and I, not knowing how much of my mother’s story had been -confided to her, was fearful of betraying my mother every hour of the -day. Latterly, however, all these anxieties gave way to one more -terrible than all. Little as I knew of such cases, I felt sure that my -mother was in a state bordering on madness, and every day that passed -increased her danger. Isola, who came daily to see us, had but one -thought in her mind, how to save my mother, and was for ever suggesting -to me some wild plan, which I felt to be either wrong or impracticable. -At one time she would propose I should receive a letter, informing me -of your death; at another she suggested I should frame some story that -would prove you to be utterly base, and unworthy of any woman’s love. -But that I could not do, for deep down in my heart there was a feeling -I could not explain, nor put into words, but which made me angry or -indignant whenever Isola began to anathematize you. - -“At length, one evening after I had gone to my own room, utterly worn -out with my mother’s excitement and misery, a sudden thought came into -my head. ‘Why not gratify her, why not enable her to see the man she so -blindly worships?’ Then it flashed across my mind how easily the thing -could be done! I had but to assume my mother’s nun’s dress and hood, -and no ordinary observer could have told it was not my mother herself. -She in my dress would easily be permitted to pass the portress’s lodge, -and once outside the convent walls Isola would be at hand with further -disguises, if necessary, and means of facilitating the journey to -England. - -“I felt, as you may imagine, I was incurring heavy responsibility in -acting thus. But what was to be done? I had no one to advise me. I knew -that you ought to be communicated with, and it was simply an -impossibility for me to leave my mother in the state she was in. Once I -had hinted at the advisability of my going back to consult with you as -to what ought to be done, but she became perfectly frantic at the bare -thought of such a thing, and throwing herself at my feet, had implored -me ‘not to quench the last ray of light in her life.’ - -“Isola entered heart and soul into my plan. ‘I will go with her,’ -she exclaimed. ‘She is too much of a child to be trusted by herself in -the world. Where she wanders thither will I go, where she dies there -will I die, and there will I be buried.’ I gladly consented to this, as -Isola had already once made the journey to England, and would know all -the details of the route. My mother, too, was so bright and quick, and -her remembrance of the English you taught her so perfect, that I had -scarcely any fear of difficulties arising on the road. My one and only -anxiety was how would she conduct herself in her interview with you. -Would she act quietly and with discretion, or would she cause some open -scandal and disgrace to you and to your family? I did my best to -prevent this by exacting from her a solemn promise that she would -not go down to Harleyford, but remain in London at the hotel where -Isola stayed, write to you from there, and there wait your reply. My -heart misgave me when she made me this promise. Yet, I thought to -myself, after all it doesn’t much matter what she says or does in -England. The truth will have to be made known to the world, and the -rightful wife acknowledged. ‘Ah! it was a weary, bitter time,’” and -here Amy broke down utterly. “My brain aches now when I think of it, -and a pain comes into my heart which, I think, will be there till my -dying day.” - -“Poor child!” said Mr. Warden, tenderly smoothing the masses of dark -hair which clustered upon Amy’s white forehead, as she laid her head -wearily on his shoulder. “My poor little girl, you have been too much -tried. You were too young to bear so heavy a load of responsibility and -sorrow. For an old worn-out heart like mine a little suffering, more or -less, cannot make much difference, but for you, in your bright, fresh -girlhood, it was hard indeed to bear up against such a complication of -mistakes and wrong-doing.” - -“Yes,” said Amy, wearily, going on with her story, “it was very hard -and very miserable, and after my mother had started, I nearly broke -down altogether. - -“Our plan succeeded beyond our hopes even. In the evening twilight, in -the dress in which I left my home, my mother passed out of the Convent -gates, with Isola, on the pretext of visiting some old friends on the -other side of Le Puy. You, my father, had you seen her then, might have -mistaken her for your own daughter, so complete was the resemblance in -face, form, and figure. Perhaps she looked a little paler, a little -thinner, and a few years older (certainly not more) than I did six -months ago, but it would have needed younger and keener eyes than those -of the old nuns to have discovered this. And I, in my mother’s dress -and hood, had not the slightest fear of detection. I had become so -accustomed to the daily routine of the convent, that I knew to the -least iota every one of my mother’s religious duties. Latterly, too, -she had been so weak and ill she had been allowed to remain very much -in her own room. I had acquired, or rather reacquired, the singing -intonation peculiar to the Cevenol peasant, and knowing our voices were -so nearly one pitch and tone, had no fear of discovery on this point. I -drew the hood a little more closely over my face; I was perhaps a -little less sociable and friendly with the sisters, and thus for three -days I escaped detection. - -“But on the fourth day I knew that Pére Ambroise, the Confessor, was -expected, and I determined that with him I would attempt no further -concealment. He was a personal friend of my mother’s; it was he who -induced her to enter the Convent of St. Geneviève, and it was his wise -counsels, I don’t doubt, which had restrained and quieted her impetuous -temper, as long as it was possible to do so. Such a dear old man, papa, -he ought to be made a bishop at the very least, instead of ending his -days here as Curé and Confessor to twenty or thirty little nuns. I -contrived to meet him as he entered the convent garden, and while -walking with him towards the house, told him, in as few words as -possible, the story of my mother’s escape, and my reason for planning -it. At first he was very angry, although not so much as might have been -expected, considering the heavy sin he believed to have been committed. - -“‘_La petite Sœur_ (that was the name my mother was known by on account -of her comparative youth) ought to have consulted me,’ he said, ‘I have -taught her for many years, and she might have relied on my counsels.’ - -“‘Would you have let her go had she done so?’ I asked. - -“‘Without doubt, no,’ he exclaimed, earnestly. - -“‘Was there any other way of saving her life or reason?’ I asked again— - -“‘My daughter,’ he replied, very gently, ‘you are very young, but I -pray that long ere you have reached my age, you will have learned that -there are some things to be thought of before life or reason, and that -a man or woman must be at times prepared to sacrifice both rather than -honour, faith, or the service of God.’ - -“I felt so ashamed that he should have to speak to me in this way, that -I knew not what to say. I felt how wrongly I had acted from first to -last. But what was I to do? I was altogether bewildered, and began to -wish I had consulted the good Father before. However, it was too late -now. I could only repeat I was very sorry to have grieved and offended -him, but perhaps if he knew the whole of my story he would not judge me -so harshly. - -“‘I do not ask for your confidence, my daughter,’ he replied, ‘there -may be things in your family history you would not care to repeat, but -I had a right to expect your mother’s confidence, and now I find it was -but half-given.’ - -“Then he told me how I had made myself amenable to the laws of the -country in thus assisting in the escape of a nun— - -“‘But,’ he added kindly, ‘you, my child are too young to be prosecuted -on such a matter, and Isola too old. She will return and repent, she is -too true a daughter of the Church not to do so, but your mother never -will. The world has had her heart throughout her sojourn here, and the -world will claim its own.’ - -“Then he told me I was welcome to stay here as long as I pleased, as -guest at the convent, or if I had other friends with whom I would -prefer staying, he would have much pleasure in conducting me to them. -Was he not a splendid man, papa?” added Amy enthusiastically, “he -looked so noble and so good while he was speaking, he made me feel -thoroughly ashamed of my own conduct, and the part I had played -throughout. Of course I told him I would remain gratefully with the -nuns till I heard from my mother or you, and then determining there -should be no further deceit on my part, told him how I expected to hear -through Isola’s nephew, a young woodcutter in the neighbourhood. - -“How anxiously I longed and waited for news you may imagine, but a -whole week passed, and still not a word. At length, about ten days -after my mother’s departure, and when I was feeling positively sick -with suspense, and a dread of what was coming, Isola herself, to my -great amazement, appeared at the convent gates. I hastened down to her, -dreading I knew not what. - -“‘Where is my mother?’ was my first question— - -“‘I left her in London,’ replied Isola, ‘she ordered me to return here -to thee and await her orders, and I have done so. It was hard to part -from her, she looked so young and beautiful, but she told me she would -manage now her own affairs; that she was going down to the little -country village to see him she loved so well, and that thou wouldst -need an escort back to thy own country. I gave her all the money I had, -and my old brown hood and cloak, and here I am, my child, to take care -of thee.’ Then she handed to me a few short hurried lines from my -mother, telling me ‘she was safe and happy, and knew well what she -should do; that it might be some little time before she wrote again, -but when all was happily arranged she would send for me, and I know,’ -she concluded, ‘all will be happily arranged. I shall win him back; I -have loved him so well I cannot lose him.’ - -“My heart sank as I read the note. Something told me the worst was to -come, and as day after day slipped by, and not a line not a message -from either father or mother, my brain began to grow dazed and stupid, -and I think I really lost the power of reasoning. I dared not write to -you; I felt how justly angry you must be with me, whatever your own -fault, for having acted so madly and foolishly. I wandered backwards -and forwards from the convent to Isola’s cottage, from Isola’s cottage -to the convent, hoping for news, praying for news, and feeling the -suspense to be more than I could bear. O, papa, papa!” concluded Amy, -breaking down once more, and giving way to a passion of tears, “if you -had not come when you did, your poor little Amy would have lost her -reason altogether, or else have laid down to die from sheer weariness -and sickness of heart.” - -Gently and tenderly Mr. Warden soothed his daughter. - -“My poor little girl,” he said, “you have been too much tried for one -so young. This is the last time we will talk over this sad story, but -before we lay it on one side for ever, you must hear one or two things -it is only right you should know. Lord Hardcastle has told you no doubt -most of what occurred during your absence, and all our grief for your -loss, but did he tell you the part he has played throughout; what he -has been to me all through our trials; and how it was he who guided us -here? Tell me that Amy!” - -“No,” replied Amy, “he has never mentioned anything of that kind to me. -Indeed he has scarcely spoken to me the last few days, and whenever he -looks at me, his eyes grow so large and cross, that I feel sure he is -thinking in his own mind, ‘what an immense deal of trouble this -self-willed silly girl has given us all! what a pity everyone is not as -sensible and clever as I am!’” - -Then Mr. Warden commenced from the very beginning, and told Amy every -particular, even to the smallest detail, of all that had occurred -during her absence. He spared her nothing. All his own grief and -despair he laid bare before her, the solemn vow, too of Frank Varley -and Lord Hardcastle, and how each had played their part. He recounted -to her all the terrors of that dreadful night when death was in the -house and the baying hound betrayed her mother’s presence. Step by step -he led her on through the sad story of the finding of her mother’s -body, his own broken-hearted sorrow, and Lord Hardcastle’s intense -grief. Amy never lifted her eyes from his face, but drank in his every -word and tone. Like one awaking from a dream, silent and enthralled she -sat and listened. As Mr. Warden repeated to her Lord Hardcastle’s words -in the library at the High Elms, “I want to be able to hold up a -picture of the girl I love so truly, in all her innocence, and beauty, -and purity, and to say to all the world, this is she whom I have loved -in life, whom I love in death, whom I shall love after death, through -eternity!” Amy sprang to her feet with clasped hands, exclaiming— - -“Papa, papa, what is this, I do not understand.” At this moment the -door opened and Lord Hardcastle entered the room. Anything more -embarrassing could not be imagined. Carried away by his feelings, Mr. -Warden had spoken loudly, and Amy’s high-pitched voice must have rung -the length of the corridor. For a moment all were silent, and Amy, -confused and nervous, leant over the window-ledge, dropping stones and -dry leaves from the flower-boxes on to the verandah beneath. - -Lord Hardcastle was the first to recover himself. - -“Mr. Warden,” he said, “I have come in to say good-bye; I shall leave, -I think, before daylight to-morrow, for a little run through Spain. I -am rather interested in Dr. Lytton’s account of the Moorish excavations -going on just now. You are looking so thoroughly well and happy, that I -quite feel my services are no longer needed.” - -He spoke carelessly, almost indifferently, but there was a mournful -ring in the last few words which went straight to Amy’s heart. - -“He must not go, he shall not leave us in this way,” she exclaimed, -suddenly turning from the window, addressing her father, but stretching -out her hands to Lord Hardcastle. The old bright look had come back to -her eyes, the old imperious tones sounded once more in her voice, “How -can we thank him? What can we do for him who has done so much for us. -Lord Hardcastle,” she continued, turning impetuously towards him, with -flushed face and sparkling eyes, “I was very rude to you a short time -ago, can you forgive me? You were wearing my ruby ring, will you take -it back again, and keep it for ever and ever in remembrance of my -gratitude to you? I have so little to offer,” she added apologetically, -with a little sigh, drawing the ring from her finger and holding it -towards him. - -“But I want something more than the ring to keep for ever and ever,” -said Lord Hardcastle, in low earnest tones, for Amy’s voice and manner, -told him that the icy barriers between them were broken down at last. -“Not now, Amy,” he added tenderly, as he felt the little hand he had -contrived to secure, trembling in his own; “not now, for we have -scarcely as yet passed from beneath the cloud of the shadows of death, -but by-and-by, when the dark winter days have come and gone, and the -bright spring sun shines down once more upon us, then I shall hope to -come to you and ask not only for this little hand, but for all you have -to give, even for your own sweet self!” - -There was yet one more dark shadow to fall before the travellers -started on their homeward journey. Amy had proposed to her father that -they should pay a farewell visit to the little brown nuns at St. -Geneviève, to thank them for their hospitality to her. Mr. Warden -gladly acceded to her request, and the visit was paid the day before -they started for England. On leaving the convent, they purposed -visiting Isola in her lonely little hut in the valley, intending to -make some permanent provision for her comfort for the rest of her life. - -“Poor faithful creature,” said Mr. Warden pityingly, as they descended -by the wild steep footway, “I would gladly ask her to return with us, -were it not for the recollection of falsehood and misery which her face -brings with it.” - -Before they reached the hut, however, they were met by Isola’s nephew, -the young woodcutter, of whom mention has already been made. He looked -grave and sad, and lifting his hat respectfully to Mr. Warden, waited -for him to speak. - -“How is your aunt this morning, André,” said Amy, “shall we find her -within?” - -The young man shook his head. - -“She is gone, mademoiselle, she will never return. This morning at -daybreak the angels carried her soul away. Since mademoiselle left us, -she wearied and sickened, she eat nothing, she never slept. There in -the window is her lace cushion with the bobbins untouched, and day and -night she sat and moaned in her wicker chair. Yesterday, when I tried -to make her take some food, she turned her face to the wall, ‘No, no,’ -she said, ‘the summer flowers are faded and dead, why should the -withered leaf hang upon the bough?’ She never spoke to me afterwards, -and this morning, when I went to her room to ask how she was, I found -her lying dead and silent on her bed. Will mademoiselle come in and see -her as she lies? She looks beautiful with her wreaths and garlands of -flowers.” - -This, however, Mr. Warden would not permit, for he felt his young -daughter had already been tried beyond her strength, and Amy, with the -mists of tears hanging over her eyes, looked her last at the Cevenol -valley, and said a long farewell to the beautiful solitude. - -And so the winter snows and clouds came and went, and the spring sun -shone out once more, calling into life and being a thousand sweet -sights and sounds. It lighted up the grey house at Harleyford, and fell -slantwise through the tall elms on to the tender grass beneath. It -shone through the east window of Harleyford Old Church, on to a quiet -wedding party assembled there one bright May morning, and played in -many coloured beams on two monuments standing side by side in the -grassy graveyard. - -And far away in the lonely valley of the Cevennes, the same spring -sunshine lighted up a quiet weed-grown resting-place, and fell in -quivering lines and curves upon a simple wooden cross, engraved in rude -peasant’s carving, with these few words— - -“ISOLA.” - -“_Fidèle jusques à la mort._” - - - - -Transcriber’s Note - -This transcription is based on scans available through Historical Texts -from a copy held by the British Library: - - https://historicaltexts.jisc.ac.uk/bl-002924134 - -Except where noted, inconsistencies in spelling (for example, “gray” -vs. “grey”) and hyphenation (for example, “grave-yard” vs. “graveyard”) -were not standardized. In addition, no changes were made to variant -spellings such as “delirous”. - -The following changes were made to the text: - -• Added a table of contents. - -• p. 11: aimless, well-nigh broken hearted.—Changed “broken hearted” -to “broken-hearted” for consistency. - -• p. 26: Mr Hill glances at them—Added a period after “Mr”. - -• p. 29: “How dare yon insult me thus?”—Changed “yon” to “you”. - -• p. 51: it would be best to re-commence on the morrow.—Changed -“re-commence” to “recommence” for consistency. - -• p. 52: ‘Here,’ he called to the groom, ‘ride alongside of me, and tell -me all that is to be known about the girl Williams and her -flight!’”—Changed this sentence so that it is not a quotation within a -quotation. Deleted the opening single quotation mark before “Here”; -changed the closing single quotation mark after “Here” to a closing -double quotation mark; changed the opening single quotation mark before -“rule” to an opening double quotation mark; and deleted the closing -single quotation mark before the closing double quotation mark at the -end of the sentence. - -• pp. 61–62: my dear, young friend, he added (he had known Hardcastle -from his boyhood), and spare them—Added a closing double quotation -after “friend,” and added an opening double quotation mark before “and -spare them”. - -• p. 63: a bright young voice pouring forth a flood of question, answer, -and exclammation in a breath—Changed “exclammation” to “exclamation”. - -• p. 95: There was no rival beauty in her way now!”—Deleted the -quotation mark at the end of the sentence. - -• p. 115: with but one word inscribed, “_Aimée_”—Added a period to -the end of the sentence. - -• p. 127: In reply to this, Mrs. Warden wrote a long letter—Changed -“Warden” to “Varley”. - -• p. 138: when sorrow seemed a far away thing—Changed “far away” to -“far-away”. - -• p. 147: The signature “AIMEE” after “for I have torn your image -out of my heart.” was changed to “AIMÉE”. - -• p. 157: shall love after death, through eternity!”—Added a single -closing quotation mark after “eternity!” to close the quotation within -a quotation. - -• p. 165: he directed a porter to place their luggage in the booking -office—Added a hyphen between “booking” and “office” for consistency -within the same paragraph. - -• p. 225: she turned back into the park-lands—Changed “park-lands” to -“park lands” for consistency. - -• p. 262: Was he not a splendid man, papa? added Amy enthusiastically, -he looked so noble—Added a closing double quotation mark after “papa?” -and an opening quotation mark before “he looked”. - - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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- font-style:italic; - font-size: 110%; - font-weight: bold; - padding-top:0em; - padding-bottom:0.4em; - line-height:100%; - margin-bottom:0em - } -div.tnote p { - padding-left: 0; - padding-top: 0.25em; - margin-left: 0; - } -a { - text-decoration: none; - } -ul { - margin-top: 0.5em; - margin-bottom: 0 - } -li { - margin-bottom: 0.5em; - } -div.tnote p.link { - padding-left: 0; - text-indent: 0em; - text-align: center; - padding-top: 0.4em; - line-height: 100%; - padding-bottom: 0.4em - } -</style> -</head> -<body> - -<div style='text-align:center; font-size:1.2em; font-weight:bold'>The Project Gutenberg eBook of Disappeared From Her Home, by Catherine Louisa Pirkis</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online -at <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: Disappeared From Her Home</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Catherine Louisa Pirkis</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: April 06, 2021 [eBook #65012]<br /> -[Most recently updated: August 18, 2021]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Produced by: Paul Haxo from images graciously made available by Historical Texts and the British Library.</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME ***</div> -<div class="image"> -<p class="center"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" alt="Cover" width="322" height="500" title="" /> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter title_page" id="Title_page"> -<h1 class="title"> -DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME. -</h1> -<p class="subtitle1"> -A Novel, -</p> -<p class="subtitle2"> -IN ONE VOLUME. -</p> -<p class="by"> -BY -</p> -<p class="author"> -MRS. FRED. E. PIRKIS. -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="center italics"> -London: -</p> -<p class="center spaced"> -REMINGTON AND CO., -</p> -<p class="center"> -<small>5, A<small>RUNDEL</small> S<small>TREET</small>, S<small>TRAND</small>, W.C.</small> -</p> - -<hr class="small" /> - -<p class="center smallish"> -1877. -</p> -<p class="center smallish"> -[<i>All Rights Reserved.</i>] -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter dedication" id="Dedication"> -<p> -DEDICATED, -</p> -<p> -WITH ALL LOVE AND ESTEEM, -</p> -<p> -TO MY BROTHER, -</p> -<p> -GEORGE IGNATIUS PIRKIS. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter tnote" id="contents"> -<h3 id="toc" class="toc">CONTENTS</h3> - -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_01">I</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_02">II</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_03">III</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_04">IV</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_05">V</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_06">VI</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_07">VII</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_08">VIII</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_09">IX</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_10">X</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_11">XI</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_12">XII</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_13">XIII</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_14">XIV</a></p> -<p class="center"><a href="#chapter_15">XV</a></p> - -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_01"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-1">[1]</a></span> -</p> - -<p class="title"> -DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME. -</p> - -<hr class="xsmall" /> - -<h3 class="chapter1" id="chapter_01_hdg"> -CHAPTER I. -</h3> -<p class="hang"> -“£200 R<small>EWARD</small>. Disappeared from her home, Amy, only daughter of Stephen -Warden, Esq., of the High Elms, Harleyford. Age, 17; height, 5ft. Dark -hair and eyes, oval face, small nose, mouth, and chin; remarkably small -hands and feet; dressed in dark blue silk walking costume, broad -brimmed felt hat, with light-blue ostrich feather. Jewellery worn—a -gold butterfly brooch, and butterfly earrings; on the third finger of -left hand, an antique ruby ring—one large stone, surrounded with eight -small<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-2"><span class="lftspc_pgno">[2]</span></a></span> diamonds, set in a garter with buckle; motto on garter, ‘<i>Sans -espoir je meurs.</i>’ The young lady was last seen on the morning of the -14th of August, leaving the park lands, and entering the high road -leading to Dunwich. Information to be given to Inspector Smythe, -Dunwich Police Station, who will pay the above reward on the young -lady’s restoration to her family, or portions of the amount according -to the value of the information received.” -</p> - -<hr class="small" /> - -<p> -The above handbill appeared one bright summer’s morning on the walls of -Dunwich Police Station, and on all the principal buildings of that busy -manufacturing town. -</p> -<p> -Hard-working men of business found time, in the midst of their buying -and selling, to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-3">[3]</a></span> stop and read, and wonder how it was possible that -any young lady, well looked after, as Miss Warden undoubtedly was, -well-known, too, in the neighbourhood, and surrounded by relations, -friends, and servants, could thus disappear from their very midst, at -noon-day, and leave no trace of any sort. -</p> -<p> -Harleyford was situated about five miles from Dunwich, and Mr. Warden’s -house about three from the local railway station. A well-traversed high -road led from his estate to the market town—Dunwich. This the young -lady had been seen to enter about ten o’clock on the morning of the -14th of August, by some country people, with whom she exchanged -greetings. From that moment nothing more had been seen nor heard of -her, and it was, as the country people expressed<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-4">[4]</a></span> it in their broad -Leicestershire dialect, “as though the earth had opened, and swallowed -her up,” so completely had all traces of her been lost. -</p> -<p> -Well-to-do tradesmen and thriving farmers, passing by, read the -handbill with a sort of shudder. Here was a young lady taking her usual -morning walk on a bright summer’s day; she wishes her neighbours a gay -good morning with a nod and a smile, goes on her way, and lo! nothing -more is seen or heard of her. After this, who was safe? And with a sigh -and a shiver, and a thought of their own young daughters at home, they -went their way to ponder over the strange occurrence. -</p> -<p> -The county people by scores left their cards on Mr. and Mrs. Warden; -heard how they had waited breakfast for their daughter, then<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-5">[5]</a></span> luncheon, -then dinner—how they had sent their men far and near to scour the -country—how every river had been dragged, every infirmary and hospital -searched, every railway official questioned and cross-questioned as to -whether the young lady had been seen entering either station—how the -parents had racked their brains to discover any possible or impossible -pretext which could drive their daughter from her home—how that now, -well-nigh broken-hearted, after a fortnight of wearying suspense, they -had folded their hands and prayed for any news, even the worst that -might come. -</p> -<p> -“It is beyond mystery,” said old Lady Nugent to her young lady -companion, driving along the very same high road which had seen the -last of poor Amy, and looking right<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-6">[6]</a></span> and left in the hedges, as though -she expected to find some traces of her there; “If the girl had had any -love troubles, one could understand it better; for the young, foolish -things at seventeen are often driven to some desperate folly by a man’s -wicked eyes. But every one knows she could have made the best match in -the county if she had liked. There’s young Lord Hardcastle, who -absolutely worships her—fastidious and fault-finding as he is; and as -for Frank Varley, the rector’s son, with his £10,000 a year, he is -positively mad after her.” -</p> -<p> -“Yes, my lady,” responded the companion, “and it is well known that -neither Mr. nor Mrs. Warden cared in the least whom she chose. Ah! she -was always a coquette, even in the schoolroom. Those young, bright<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-7">[7]</a></span> -things with so much money, and so many chances generally choose badly -after all, and run away with some groom, or footman. Depend upon it, my -lady”— -</p> -<p> -“Don’t be an idiot, Matthews,” interrupts the dowager, “talk about -things you understand. It has been ascertained beyond doubt that no one -but Miss Warden is missing, far or near. Besides, the young lady, -however playful and vivacious she might be with her equals in station, -was too well-born and well-bred to permit the slightest familiarity -from an inferior. She would not have suffered such a thing any more -than I should myself,” with a withering glance at Matthews. “Tell -George,” she added, pulling violently at the check-string, “to drive -past the police station. I want to see what they have put in the -handbills.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-8">[8]</a></span> -And, as the old lady drives through the crowd of stragglers gathered -about the station-house doors, two others, with white, anxious faces, -are standing there, reading the printed lines. Tall, fair, muscular -Frank Varley, the rector’s scapegrace son, the best rider, runner, and -rower in the county—the first in all mischief—in all breakneck -adventures—and yet more sought after at balls and garden parties, than -the richest lord, or the most eligible unmarried baronet—his mother’s -darling and pride, and a constant source of anxiety and apprehension to -his father. -</p> -<p> -As he reads, his brow darkens. “By heaven!” he mutters through his set -teeth, “there has been foul play somewhere. She held my hand for a -moment only, at the ball the night before, under the large oleander -tree, and called me her own Frank; and then,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-9">[9]</a></span> coquette as she is, the -next minute she told me she meant her own <i>brother</i> Frank—I had -been so good to her. Shall we all sit still with folded hands, and let -a girl like that be stolen from our very midst? A thousand times, no!” -And then aloud, with a full-drawn breath, “By heaven! no corner of the -earth shall hide her from me; by land and by sea, by night and by day, -I will search the whole world through, till I find her, living or dead.” -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“You are right,” exclaims a voice at his elbow, and Lord Hardcastle’s -dark pale face, with thin, clear-cut features, looks over his shoulder. -(“Kid-gloved Hardcastle” he was sometimes called by his sporting and -boating friends, on account of his super-refinement and dainty -fastidiousness.) “You are right; there has been some foul play -here—some<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-10">[10]</a></span> deed of iniquity which must be brought to light. We, who -have been rivals hitherto, may well join hands now.” He extends his -thin white hand, which Varley grasps in a strong, firm hold. “I repeat -your own words; ‘no corner of the earth shall hide her from me; by land -and by sea, by night and by day, I will search the whole world through -till I find her, living or dead.’<span class="lftspc">”</span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_02"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-11">[11]</a></span> -</p> -<h3 id="chapter_02_hdg"> -CHAPTER II. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -W<small>HILE</small> the townspeople and country folks read and wondered at the -printed handbills, the father and mother of the missing girl wandered -about their now desolate home, listless, aimless, well-nigh -broken-hearted hearted. The first sharp pang, it is true, was past, and -the sorrow had settled down to a dull leaden weight on heart and brain. -The servants walked about the house slowly and silently, speaking in -subdued voices. Day and night lay old Presto, Amy’s favourite -deerhound, at the house door, waiting and listening, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-12"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[12]</span></a></span> never seeming -to eat nor sleep. Her maid carefully each day fed her birds and watered -her flowers, and every one in the household vied with each other in -endeavouring to carry out every known wish or fancy the young lady had -ever had (and it must be confessed they were not a few) as they would -endeavour to carry out the wishes of some dear one dead. On every side, -in every room, were traces of the lost darling. Here, the open piano -with a roll of new music; there, the uncovered harp. In the little -morning room piece after piece of unfinished needlework, and here in a -little “studio,” as Amy was pleased to call it, numberless pencil -sketches, an oil landscape commenced, a water-colour three-parts done, -and a crayon head, “all but” finished. A whole tableful of -china-painting accessories,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-13"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[13]</span></a></span> and commenced cups, saucers, and plates; -and there, in a corner, a cabinet of fret-work tools, with brackets, -card trays, and picture frames enough to stock a small shop. -</p> -<p> -From all this it may be seen that the young lady’s tastes and pursuits -were numerous and varied—change, to her, the one great necessity of -life. A too great indulgence from her earliest infancy had developed in -her character an impatience of restraint, an impetuosity and wilfulness -which, unless it had been counterbalanced, as in her case it was, by an -unusually loving, playful, tender disposition, would have rendered her -imperious and domineering. As it was, every one in the household, from -her father downwards, adored her and bowed to her sway. “I must not be -kept waiting an instant” was a remark which might<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-14">[14]</a></span> be heard every hour -of the day from Miss Amy’s lips. And kept waiting she never was, for -the simple reason that it was an impossibility to keep her in any -posture of tranquillity for five minutes at a time. Every thought or -idea that entered into her brain must be executed there and then and, -scarcely completed, must be thrown on one side to make way for another. -</p> -<p> -“Were you ever thus in your very young days, Stephen?” Mrs. Warden -would sometimes enquire of her husband. And the husband would smile and -shake his head, and declare he had never been half so fascinating as -his wilful, loving, teasing little daughter, “the music and sunshine of -his life,” as he was wont to call her. -</p> -<p> -And now all was changed! The music was<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-15">[15]</a></span> hushed, the sunlight had died -out. Would the shadows ever be lifted from the home again? Would the -quick, light step ever be heard again, and the sweet, young, ringing -voice, exclaiming in its old familiar tones, “I must not be kept -waiting an instant?” -</p> -<p> -So the father and mother asked themselves, as, standing side by side in -their dining room verandah, they looked across the bright August -landscape to where the groom was leading out Amy’s pony for its morning -canter. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden, at this time, was about forty-five years of age, looking -considerably younger. A well-featured, muscular man, with energy, -determination, and many other good qualities plainly written on his -face. A more complete contrast to him than his wife could not well be -imagined. She was very<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-16">[16]</a></span> tiny, very fair, very gentle, with amiability, -want of will, and weakness of character marked in every line and -feature. Her one god was her husband, her one thought how to please -him, and her every opinion and wish was simply an echo of his. -</p> -<p> -“A doll, my dear, nothing more,” was old Lady Nugent’s summing up, -after her first introduction to Mrs. Warden, some twelve years -previously. Mr. Warden had come among them a perfect stranger, buying -one of the largest estates in the county which happened to be for sale. -He had resided, so he had said, nearly all his life in the south of -France, but his family and connections were well known in the Midland -Counties as wealthy and nobly connected. Of his wife, however, nothing -was known, nor could be<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-17">[17]</a></span> discovered, so she was set down, and perhaps -justly, as having been an English governess in some French family, and -as such, most probably, Mr. Warden had first known her. -</p> -<p> -“What men can see in dolls to induce them to marry them, I cannot see,” -pursued the dowager, “they simply need a glass case, some good clothes, -and their work in life is done.” Nevertheless, in spite of Lady -Nugent’s comments, Mrs. Warden had been well received in Harleyford for -her husband’s sake, and now, in the time of her sorrow, nothing could -exceed the kindness and sympathy extended to her on all sides. Carriage -after carriage sweeps along their drive, letter after letter is brought -to the house, some containing wild and improbable suggestions, others -opening here and there a door of hope,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-18">[18]</a></span> all full of warm and earnest -sympathy, and offers of help. -</p> -<p> -“What can any of them do that has not already been done?” says Mr. -Warden, handing to his wife a joint letter from Frank Varley and Lord -Hardcastle, relating their solemn vow, and placing their services at -Mr. Warden’s disposal. -</p> -<p> -“They are noble young fellows, and worthy of a true-hearted girl’s -love. But what can they do? God help us all and teach us how to act for -the best, for my brains are nearly worn out with thinking and -supposing.” -</p> -<p> -“The gentleman from London, sir, Mr. Hill, wishes to see you,” says the -butler at his elbow, having entered the room with a quiet, solemn -tread, as though serving at a funeral feast. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-19">[19]</a></span> -“Ah, the detective,” says Mr. Warden, thankful to have the pressure of -thought lifted for an instant; “show him into the library; I will see -him at once.” -</p> -<p> -Mr. Hill, a slight, gentleman-like man, with the eye of an eagle, and -the nose of a deerhound, seats himself at the library table, and -spreads his memoranda before him. -</p> -<p> -“I bring you my latest report, Mr. Warden, and I grieve to say it -amounts to very little. The only additional information I have -obtained, and that, I fear, is scarcely reliable, is from the postman, -John Martin. He tells me that on the morning of the 14th he met your -daughter in the park lands, and, at her request, handed to her her -morning’s letters. I questioned him as to how he recollected it was on -that day, and he at once<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-20">[20]</a></span> admitted he could not be positive, as it was -the young lady’s custom, whenever she met him, thus to ask for and -receive her letters. I questioned him as to the general appearance of -her letters, whether directed in masculine or feminine hand-writing—(I -beg your pardon, sir, such questions must be asked)—and his reply is, -he never recollects bringing Miss Warden any but letters in ladies’ -writing. You must take the evidence for what it is worth; I fear it -counts for very little, but, such as it is, I have entered it in my -case book.” -</p> -<p> -“I scarcely see whither your questions tend,” remarks Mr. Warden, -somewhat stiffly. “Miss Warden, I am convinced, had no correspondents -with whom I am unacquainted. She has been brought up at home, under<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-21">[21]</a></span> -careful supervision, and has never visited anywhere without Mrs. Warden -or myself. If you are inferring some unknown attachment existed, such a -supposition is entirely without foundation. I have every reason to -believe that my daughter’s affections have been given, and with my -approval, to a very dear young friend and neighbour.” -</p> -<p> -“All this I know, sir. Indeed, I think there is very little you or any -one else can tell me on this matter. There is not a man or woman in the -place whom I have not sounded to their very depths, questioned and -cross-questioned in every imaginable way. I have here, in my pocket, a -map of my own sketching, containing every field and river, every shady -nook and hollow within thirty miles round. I have also a directory with -the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-22">[22]</a></span> names, ages, occupation, and household of every human being within -the same area. Very little, indeed, remains now to be done.” -</p> -<p> -“Don’t tell me that,” exclaims Mr. Warden, excitedly, jumping to his -feet, and pacing the room; “don’t tell me that your work here is over, -and no result for your three weeks’ labour. Don’t, I implore you, crush -me down into utter despair. Have you no hope, ever so slight, to hold -out to me—no advice of any sort to give?” -</p> -<p> -“I have both, Mr. Warden,” replies the detective, calmly; “I need not -tell you now how I have worked out my theory, nor how, step by step, I -have come to the conclusion that your daughter is not dead. This is the -hope I hold out to you.” -</p> -<p> -“Then, if not dead, worse than death has<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-23">[23]</a></span> happened to her,” groans the -poor father, covering his face with his hands; “better death, than -dishonour.” -</p> -<p> -For a moment both are silent; then, Mr. Warden, slowly recovering -himself, enquires, “And what is the advice you have to give, Mr. Hill? -let me have that, at any rate.” -</p> -<p> -“Simply to watch, and to wait, sir; at present, nothing more can be -done. We have exhausted every theory, we have followed out every clue, -or pretence of one. If there are accomplices in the matter, my presence -here puts them on their guard, and as long as I remain nothing will -transpire; when I have left, and things have settled down to their -usual course, I feel sure some one will betray him or herself unawares. -I repeat, wait and watch; and directly your suspicions<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-24">[24]</a></span> are aroused in -the slightest degree, communicate with me, and I will advise you to the -best of my ability.” -</p> -<p> -“Wait!” groans Mr. Warden, “wait! ‘let things settle down to their -usual course;’ how is it possible for a man to live through such a life -of torture and suspense? Is there nothing—absolutely nothing—that can -be done before you leave us?” -</p> -<p> -“Only one thing, and that, with your permission, I will do at once. -With the men of your household, I have been on tolerably familiar -terms, and know pretty well what they could, or could not do; but about -the women I am not so sure. If you will allow me, I will have the whole -of your female servants in here in succession, from the scullery maids, -upwards—take their names,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-25">[25]</a></span> ages, occupations, &c., from their own lips. -I may, possibly, seem to you, sir, to ask a great many irrelevant -questions, but while I am questioning, I am watching and noting, and I -will under take to say there will be no one with a guilty conscience -who will hide it from my eye.” -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden rings the bell, and gives the order to the footman, who -conveys it to the housekeeper, who forthwith summons all the maids of -the household to be paraded in succession before their master, and the -detective. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Hill requests that the housekeeper will remain in the room the -whole time. “I may have occasion,” he explains, “to refer to you from -time to time, as to the truth or otherwise of some of the statements -made.” -</p> -<p> -First, the kitchen-maids enter, looking very<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-26">[26]</a></span> red, and very much ashamed -of themselves. Mr. Hill glances at them, looks them through and -through, and contents himself with simply noting down their names, -ages, and position in Mr. Warden’s household. The cooks are almost as -quickly dismissed, and between the exit of one staff of servants and -entrance of another, Mr. Hill’s eyes are occupied in scrutinizing the -elderly housekeeper, and in addressing to her various friendly remarks. -</p> -<p> -The housemaids undergo a much longer examination; one girl turns red, -another pale. One answers wide of the mark, and is reprimanded by Mr. -Hill; another is detected in a wilful fib by the housekeeper, who -forthwith brings her to book. Eventually, however, they are dismissed, -and the detective, turning to the housekeeper, enquires where Miss -Warden’s maid is. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-27">[27]</a></span> -“I have to apologize for her, sir,” replies the housekeeper, “will you -kindly excuse her? The poor girl was taken with a violent sick-headache -about an hour ago, and went to lie down in her own room. I believe, -however, I can answer any questions for her you may wish to put.” -</p> -<p> -“About an hour ago,” muses Mr. Hill, “just when the order for the -servants’ parade was given out.” Then, aloud to the housekeeper, “Is -this young person often troubled with violent headaches, Mrs. Nesbitt?” -</p> -<p> -“Oh dear no, sir,” replies Mrs. Nesbitt, “I never knew her taken in -this way before, but you see we have all of us had such an upset, sir, -lately. Dear me! such an upset!” and the old lady glances furtively at -her master. -</p> -<p> -“Exactly, Mrs. Nesbitt, exactly,” said Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-28">[28]</a></span> Hill, sympathetically. -“That is just what I am thinking. Will you kindly take a message from -me to this young person? Tell her I have merely one or two unimportant -questions to put as a matter of form, as to her duties, &c., as Miss -Warden’s maid, but I must have the answers from her own lips. If it -will suit her better I will go with you to her own room, but in any -case I must see her.” -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Nesbitt at once departs on her errand, and after a delay of some -ten minutes, returns with the maid, a round-faced, small-featured girl, -somewhat fashionably dressed for her position, and with an assumption -of refinement and dignity evidently intended as a copy of her young -mistress’s style. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Hill preserves his careless suavity of manner, regrets, politely, -he should have been<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-29">[29]</a></span> compelled to disturb her, hopes she will soon -recover her usual health. Meantime his eye is fixed full on her face, -and throughout the short interview his gaze is never once lifted. -</p> -<p> -“Your name, if you please?” he asks. -</p> -<p> -“Lucy Williams,” replies the girl, quivering and tremulous under his -fixed gaze. -</p> -<p> -“Are your parents living, Miss Williams?” -</p> -<p> -“No,” she replies, shortly, “I have no relations of any sort.” -</p> -<p> -“Not even a brother,” he enquires, “who was once gamekeeper on an -estate the other side of Dunwich, and who subsequently sailed for -America?” -</p> -<p> -Here the girl breaks down utterly, and gives way to a flood of tears. -“How dare you insult me thus?” she enquires angrily. “What do you know -of my brother Tom? He<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-30">[30]</a></span> may be dead and buried for anything I care.” -</p> -<p> -“I know very little about your brother Tom, Miss Williams, beyond the -fact of his having caused your parents a great deal of anxiety. In fact -it was the disgrace of their son’s dismissal from his situation, -charged with conspiring with poachers to rob his master, which, I -believe, broke their hearts. However, I have only one more question to -ask. Have you seen or heard anything of your brother since his return -to this neighbourhood? He was seen, I believe, not very far from this -house on the morning of the 15th of August.” -</p> -<p> -Another passionate burst of sobbing from the girl, and this time an -appeal to Mr. Warden. -</p> -<p> -“Will you allow me, sir, to be insulted<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-31">[31]</a></span> in this way in your presence?” -she demands. “I vow and declare since I have been in your service, I -have always been an honest, faithful servant; I have never wronged any -one by word or deed. I have always”—here another flood of tears. -</p> -<p> -“Gently, gently, Lucy,” expostulates Mr. Warden, “no one is bringing -any charge against you.” Then, to the detective, “Is it not possible to -waive this question, Mr. Hill? I really think you are going almost too -far.” -</p> -<p> -“I will waive it with a great deal of pleasure, sir, and as far as that -goes, I do not see any necessity for prolonging the interview. Miss -Williams, I should certainly advise you to get a little quiet sleep in -your own room, it will do more for you than anything else. Good -morning, Mrs. Nesbitt, I am much<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-32">[32]</a></span> obliged to you for the trouble you -have taken for me.” He politely opens the door for the housekeeper, who -conducts the still sobbing girl out of the room. -</p> -<p> -Then the man’s manner undergoes an entire change. He turns abruptly to -Mr. Warden. “Keep your eye on that girl, sir; I have not passed the -greater part of my life among rogues of all sorts not to know a guilty -face when I see it. That girl is keeping something back, but what I am -at present at a loss to imagine. Take my word for it, within a -fortnight she will do one of two things, either request permission to -leave on account of the dulness of the house or else run away. I think -the latter, from the irresolution and want of nerve she has shown this -morning, but I am not sure. I can only reiterate the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-33">[33]</a></span> advice I have -already given you, watch and wait, and the moment your suspicions are -aroused, communicate with me.” -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -And the detective takes his leave, and as Mr. Warden’s horses convey -him swiftly along the high road to Dunwich, he shakes his head gravely -and mutters, “This is a bad business, and I fear there is worse to -come. I was never before so thoroughly at a loss; I cannot see one inch -before me in the matter; however, we can only watch and wait.” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_03"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-34">[34]</a></span> -</p> -<h3 id="chapter_03_hdg"> -CHAPTER III. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -I<small>T</small> seemed strange, at first, to the good people of Harleyford to see -young Lord Hardcastle and the rector’s son daily in close and friendly -intercourse, accustomed, as they were, to see each politely ignored by -the other, or else spoken of in terms of supercilious contempt. It was -certainly a strange sight to see the young men constantly walking side -by side in earnest conversation, or else riding to and from each -other’s houses. Lord Hardcastle’s weakness had hitherto been -near-sightedness whenever Varley had happened<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-35"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[35]</span></a></span> to cross his path. -“Who was that you recognized just now?” he would say to a companion, if -he happened to have one at the time, and on being informed it was the -rector’s son, would remark, carelessly— -</p> -<p> -“Oh, the young giant whose brains have run into muscle; let us talk of -something interesting.” -</p> -<p> -Frank Varley, in his turn, would speak in no measured terms of “that -kid-gloved dandy—that embodiment of priggishness and polite -literature.” -</p> -<p> -But now all was changed. A common sorrow had drawn them to each other, -and their intense and true love for, and devotion to poor Amy, had -rendered them so far unselfish as to enable them to work together with -determination and courage. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-36">[36]</a></span> -Mr. Warden’s reply to their letter had been a brief, “Come and see me; -we will talk the matter over.” And arm in arm the young men had -responded to his invitation. -</p> -<p> -“I am very grateful to you both,” was Mr. Warden’s greeting, “I know -not how to express my thanks; but what can any one do that has not been -already done?” -</p> -<p> -“See here, Mr. Warden,” broke in Frank, impetuously, “I don’t care what -other people have or have not done, I must do something. I shall go mad -if I sit here idle any longer. I have no doubt that detective fellow -you had from London did his work superlatively well, but still it is -possible he may have left something undone. Let me ride through your -plantations once more; let me have men down here, and drag over again -that cursed<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-37">[37]</a></span> water, yonder.” He pointed through the window to a silvery -little stream which flowed at the bottom of Mr. Warden’s lawn and -flower garden. Deep water it was here and there, and here and there -clogged with long grasses and rushes; but on and on it went, until at -length it fell into the noble river upon which the town of Dunwich is -built. -</p> -<p> -“My poor fellow, do it if you will,” is Mr. Warden’s reply, “do it a -hundred times over, if it is any gratification to you; I fear the -result will be the same to your efforts as to mine. But tell me in your -turn, have you nothing to suggest? You, Lord Hardcastle, have the -reputation of having more brains than most of us, tell me if you can -propose anything to lighten this terrible time of suspense? Have you -thought well over the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-38">[38]</a></span> possibilities and impossibilities of this -dreadful affair, and do you see any glimmer of hope anywhere for us?” -</p> -<p> -“Have I thought well over it?” repeats Hardcastle; “you might better -ask me, ‘do I ever think of anything else?’ for day and night no other -thought ever enters my mind; hour after hour do I sit thinking over, -and weighing in turn, each circumstance, however slight, which has -occurred in connection with the loss of your daughter. I have looked at -the matter, not only from my own point of view, and worked out my own -theories threadbare, but have endeavoured to put myself, as it were, in -other people’s bodies, to hear the matter with their ears, and see it -with their eyes! and then have I exhausted every possible or impossible -theory which they<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-39">[39]</a></span> might have. Nowhere, alas, can I see any clue to the -mystery. Indeed, each day that passes renders it more terrible and -difficult. It is impossible she can be dead”— -</p> -<p> -He pauses abruptly; large drops of perspiration stand out upon his -forehead, and his outstretched hand trembles with suppressed emotion. -“Had she been lying dead anywhere in the whole land, her body would by -this time have been brought to you, or at any rate news of how and -where she died.” -</p> -<p> -“Hush, hush!” breaks in Mr. Warden pitifully, as, pale and tottering, -he catches hold of Lord Hardcastle’s arm; “don’t speak to me in this -way, Hardcastle, or you will kill me outright; this last month has made -an old man of me, and a feather’s weight would knock me over now. If -you can see more<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-40">[40]</a></span> clearly than any of us what lies in the future, for -mercy’s sake hold back the blow as long as possible.” -</p> -<p> -There is a pause of some minutes; at last, Varley jumps to his feet, -impatiently— -</p> -<p> -“For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow,” he exclaims, “don’t croak any more -than you can help, but help us a little with your wisdom and advice. I -have Mr. Warden’s permission to travel over the old ground again, and -we are to commence this very hour; tell us what you purpose doing?” -</p> -<p> -“I shall wait and watch,” replies Hardcastle, unconsciously repeating -Mr. Hill’s own words, “the clue will discover itself somewhere, -somehow, when we least expect it; here, more likely, than anywhere -else; and it needs a hearing ear and a seeing eye to seize<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-41">[41]</a></span> and follow -it up. You may wander hither and thither, if you will, I shall remain -here, and wait and watch.” -</p> -<p> -“Strange,” said Mr. Warden, musingly, “your words are the echo of what -was said to me yesterday, by the professional detective I employed.” -Then he related to them in detail the examination of the servants by -Mr. Hill, and his parting advice. -</p> -<p> -“Have the girl, Williams, in at once, Mr. Warden,” exclaims Frank, -“question her as to what she has, or has not done; let me,” he adds, -eagerly, “ask her one or two questions; depend upon it, they will be to -the point.” -</p> -<p> -But to this the two other gentlemen object, Mr. Warden considering it -an unjust thing to attach suspicion to the girl on account of the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-42">[42]</a></span> -misdeeds of her brother; and Lord Hardcastle alleging that by so doing -they would defeat their own object by putting the girl on her guard. -“Let us wait and watch,” once more he implores. But Frank shakes his -head, “Waiting and watching may suit some men,” he says, “but for me it -is an impossibility. I must do something, and at once, or I shall blow -my brains out; that is, if I have any,” he adds, with a grim smile, and -a shrug of his shoulders. -</p> -<p> -Forthwith he departs to organize a body of volunteers once more to -scour the whole county—to search commons and through woods—to cut fern -and furze from shady hollows and dark corners, where, by any chance, a -secret might be hidden. Once more to drag rivers and streams, and -search under<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-43">[43]</a></span> hedges, and in reed-grown ditches; and finally to question -and re-question every man, woman, and child far or near, as to their -recollection of the day’s occurrences of the 14th of August. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -This was the plan of action Frank had sketched out for himself, and -bravely indeed, did he carry it out. Volunteers by the score came -forward, for the sympathy expressed for Mr. Warden was heartfelt, and -Amy’s loss had cast a gloom over the whole county. Not a man or woman -in the country side but what would have gone to the other end of the -world to have lifted from the sorrowing father and mother this dark -cloud of suspense. As for the young lady herself, they would have laid -down their lives for her; for her kindly, pleasant ways and pretty -queenly airs,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-44">[44]</a></span> had won all hearts. And thus, high and low, rich and -poor joined hands with Frank Varley, and searched with a will, working -early, and working late—earnest men, at earnest work. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_04"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-45">[45]</a></span></p> -<h3 id="chapter_04_hdg"> -CHAPTER IV. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -A<small>T</small> this time Lord Hardcastle began to be a daily visitor at the High -Elms. “My own house is very dreary to me,” he had said, “may I come to -you very often for an hour or so, without feeling I am intruding?” And -Mr. Warden had bade him welcome, but had warned him that he would find -the High Elms more than “dreary.” “To me the place is silent and gloomy -as a vault or grave-yard,” he said, “but I am sure the presence of a -real friend like yourself will be a great comfort to Mrs. Warden, now -that I am such a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-46"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[46]</span></a></span> poor companion for her.” Thus, it came to pass that -daily, about noon, Lord Hardcastle might be seen riding up the steep -avenue which led to Mr. Warden’s house, returning generally about dusk -to his solitary dinner, for being an orphan, and without any near -relative, and naturally of a studious, reserved disposition, his -privacy was very seldom broken into by chance visitors, or casual -acquaintances. -</p> -<p> -As time went on, however, he frequently accepted Mr. Warden’s -invitation to dine and sleep at his house; and on these occasions he -would devote the entire morning to Mrs. Warden and her occupations; -generally after lunch walking or riding with Mr. Warden. Thus, a week -or ten days slipped away; Frank Varley and his band of volunteers -working<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-47">[47]</a></span> hard meantime. Then suddenly, an unexpected calamity befel -the village of Harleyford—an epidemic of small-pox broke out, and -threatened to be of a virulent nature. A groom of Mr. Warden’s, calling -on one of the villagers, caught the disease, and returned to the High -Elms, only to sicken and die. Mr. Warden, habitually kind and -thoughtful to his dependants, had had the best local medical advice -that could be procured, and in addition, nurses, and all approved -disinfectants, &c., from the Dunwich Fever Hospital. Yet, in spite of -these precautions. Lord Hardcastle, one morning, on entering the house, -was met by the housekeeper with a face so long and melancholy he could -see at once some fresh calamity had occurred. -</p> -<p> -“What is it, Mrs. Nesbitt?” he enquired,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-48">[48]</a></span> without waiting for the old -lady to speak, “Has your master or mistress taken the infection, or if -not, what has happened?” -</p> -<p> -“Both, I fear, sir, are seized,” replied the housekeeper, sadly; “I -have sent for Doctor Mills and Doctor Hayward, and two additional -nurses from the hospital; but as yet, no one has come. And oh, sir! -something else has happened: Lucy Williams has disappeared in some -mysterious manner; not a soul has seen her since last night. It seems, -indeed,” added the old lady, clasping her hands, while the tears rained -from her eyes, “as though a curse had fallen upon the house. Where will -it all end! Heaven knows: I tremble to think who may be taken next.” -</p> -<p> -This was startling news indeed, although, perhaps, nothing more than -might have been<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-49">[49]</a></span> expected from the state of affairs at the High Elms. -Mr. and Mrs. Warden’s health had been considerably shaken by the days -and nights of suspense they had passed through. Consequently it would -not be a matter of surprise if they were the next to fall victims to -the disease. -</p> -<p> -Then again with regard to Lucy Williams, were they not watching the -girl, and waiting for her to make a move in some direction? -</p> -<p> -However, there was no time to be lost in speculation, there was work to -be done. Lord Hardcastle wrote a brief note to Varley— -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“Leave off your searching and dragging at once; there is something else -for you to do. Lucy Williams has disappeared. Come over immediately. I -will have all necessary information collected, and ready to place in<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-50">[50]</a></span> -your hands by the time you arrive. This, if you will, you can convey to -Inspector Hill, Scotland Yard. It may save time. Start, if possible, by -the 2.10 p.m. train. -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“H<small>ARDCASTLE</small>.” -</p> -<p> -This note he despatched by one of the grooms, mounting the man on his -own horse, a high-bred roan, which knew how to go like the wind when -need was. Unfortunately there was some uncertainty as to where Varley -was to be found. The rectory in those days saw but little of him, and -his work had lately taken him to a woodland some four or five miles -distant. -</p> -<p> -Hither the man, by Lord Hardcastle’s direction, rode in quest, only, -unfortunately, to see the volunteers returning by different routes, -after another fruitless search. On<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-51">[51]</a></span> enquiry, he found that Varley -had ridden still farther on to the nearest post-town, most likely on -some false scent. -</p> -<p> -Hither again the man followed him, and, fortunately, met him slowly -riding towards home, thinking, perhaps, of another day of useless -search ended, and where it would be best to recommence on the morrow. -</p> -<p> -He read Hardcastle’s note, and then looked at his watch. The hands -pointed at two o’clock. -</p> -<p> -“Here,” he exclaimed in a perfect whirl of passion and vexation, “have -I been wasting precious time over this confounded woodland, and the -real work waiting for me! That girl will have twenty-four hours start -of us. No train till 6.30 to-night! Arrive at London about nine -o’clock. The police, I suppose,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-52">[52]</a></span> set to work the first thing in the -morning! The girl has a fair chance of escape, I must say, but, thank -Heaven, there is something definite to be done at last! Here,” he -called to the groom, “ride alongside of me, and tell me all that is to -be known about the girl Williams and her flight!” -</p> -<p> -But the man had little, or nothing, to tell beyond the fact that the -girl had gone. All his information had been obtained at second-hand, -and, like the housekeeper and other servants, the man seemed almost -bewildered with the strange events occurring in such rapid succession -in the household. -</p> -<p> -Meantime Lord Hardcastle was carefully collecting all the information -that was to be had relative to the girl’s disappearance, questioning -each of the servants in succession. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-53">[53]</a></span> -It appeared she had taken her supper with the other servants as usual -at 10 o’clock on the previous night, or rather had attempted to do so, -for she complained of feeling very ill, of pains in her head and back, -and declared she was unable to eat. One of the maids had taunted her by -enquiring whether it was the same sort of head-ache she had had when -Detective Hill was in the house. This was met by an indignant -rejoinder, and then the girl angrily left the room, as the others -thought, to go to bed. The next morning she did not make her appearance -at the servants’ breakfast, and the housekeeper, with whom Lucy was -somewhat a favourite, determined to allow her a little latitude, -thinking possibly the girl might really need rest and quiet. -</p> -<p> -Time slipped by, and Mrs. Nesbitt, occupied<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-54">[54]</a></span> in household matters, -did not again think of Lucy Williams until about half-past ten; then -going to her room to enquire for her, found the door locked, and -received no reply to her repeated knockings. Without consulting her -master, she desired one of the men to break open the door, and -entering, found that the bed had not been slept in, and the room in a -great state of confusion. They had not had time to inform their master -of the fact, before his bell was rung hurriedly, and he gave orders -that Dr. Hayward should immediately be sent for, as Mrs. Warden and he -were feeling far from well. “Stricken in body, as well as mind, -Nesbitt,” he had said sadly. “It doesn’t matter much, there is not a -great deal left to live for now.” -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Nesbitt had not dared to inform him<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-55">[55]</a></span> of the fresh calamities. -“And I am indeed thankful, sir,” added the poor old lady, “that you -have come into the house to lift some of this heavy responsibility off -my shoulders.” -</p> -<p> -“Let me see Lucy’s room, Mrs. Nesbitt,” said Lord Hardcastle. -</p> -<p> -The housekeeper immediately conducted him to the servants’ quarters. -</p> -<p> -“Is this exactly the condition in which you found the room?” he -enquired, as Nesbitt threw back the door for him to enter. -</p> -<p> -“Indeed, sir, and I grieve to say that it is,” she replied. “To think -that any young girl in this house could leave a room in such a state is -more than I can understand,” and she sighed again. -</p> -<p> -Lord Hardcastle looked attentively round. A box, half open, and the -contents partially<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-56">[56]</a></span> drawn out, stood at the foot of the bed. A dress, -bonnet and walking jacket lay upon a chair, evidently thrown there in a -hurry, and a whole pile of burned letters was heaped in the fire-grate. -Here and there the charred scraps had been fluttered on to the floor, -most likely by the rapid passing and re-passing of the girl while -preparing for her flight. -</p> -<p> -“And to think that we might all of us have been burned in our beds last -night,” moaned the housekeeper, “for aught she cared, the wicked girl!” -</p> -<p> -“Tell me, Mrs. Nesbitt,” interrupts Lord Hardcastle, “do you know the -extent of Lucy Williams’s wardrobe? how many bonnets or hats had she do -you think?” -</p> -<p> -“It’s that which puzzles me, sir. I know for certain, she had but two, -for she told me<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-57">[57]</a></span> only yesterday, she would not buy another just now, in -case we might have to go into mourning for our dear young lady, and she -complained that both were so shabby she was ashamed to be seen in them. -And there they both are; she must have left the house with nothing on -her head.” -</p> -<p> -“Or else in some one else’s!” remarks Lord Hardcastle. “It was -yesterday you say she spoke of her hats; from her remarks I should -imagine her flight was not thought of until suggested by the taunts of -the other maid. Consequently her plans would not be properly matured -nor well laid. So much the better for our chance of finding her. Tell -me, Mrs. Nesbitt, could you or any one else speak as to the contents of -Miss Warden’s wardrobe, and had Lucy Williams any means of access to -it.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-58">[58]</a></span> -“She had sole charge of it, sir, after our dear young lady left. You -see Mrs. Warden and every one else so liked and trusted Lucy that -everything was left in her hands, except the jewel case, which was -removed to Mrs. Warden’s room. I don’t believe any one but Lucy could -speak for a certainty as to what Miss Warden had or had not.” -</p> -<p> -“We will go now, if you please, to Miss Warden’s room,” says Lord -Hardcastle, giving one more glance at the untidy chamber. “This door -must be secured and sealed till the police have seen the room. I will -see if by any chance she has left any letters behind her.” -</p> -<p> -But on looking through the drawers and boxes no papers of any sort are -to be found, and it seems to the housekeeper, that few if<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-59">[59]</a></span> any of the -girl’s clothes have been removed. -</p> -<p> -In an hour’s time, Lord Hardcastle has a small packet of carefully -written notes ready for Varley’s assistance and guidance. -</p> -<p> -“I have not time,” he wrote, “to give you in detail the bases upon -which my suppositions rest, I have simply dotted down one or two facts -which I have ascertained beyond doubt, and one or two ideas which may -perhaps be useful to you. -</p> -<p> -“In the first place, the girl’s flight if intended at some future -period, was certainly not thought of for to-day, until late last night. -This I am sure of from the hurried and scanty nature of her -preparations. -</p> -<p> -“Secondly, she has not gone away in her own clothes, but most likely in -Miss Warden’s;<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-60">[60]</a></span> at any rate in one of Miss Warden’s bonnets and walking -jackets. -</p> -<p> -“Thirdly, she has most probably appropriated other properties of Miss -Warden’s, as the young lady’s room and its contents have been left in -her sole charge. -</p> -<p> -“Hence it follows (fourthly), that she has probably taken the train to -London, travelling by the first this morning, as she would be anxious -to dispose of her spoil and would only dare to do so in the metropolis. -</p> -<p> -“Fifthly, the girl has gone away very ill. My own impression is, that -the small-pox is in her system, and that she will not hold up as far as -to London. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“Sixthly, her only friend in London, as far as can be ascertained, is a -Miss or Mrs. Kempe, who resides at 15, Gresham Street North, High -Street, Hackney.” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_05"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-61">[61]</a></span> -</p> -<h3 id="chapter_05_hdg"> -CHAPTER V. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -D<small>R</small>. H<small>AYWARD</small>’<small>S</small> report of Mr. and Mrs. Warden’s health was far from -satisfactory. “The lady,” he said, in reply to Lord Hardcastle’s -enquiries, was undoubtedly suffering from small-pox, which in her weak -state of health, had taken strong hold of her. As to Mr. Warden, he -could not be sure; he feared some disease was latent in his system; he -was altogether below par, and the anxiety and grief he had gone through -had completely undermined his constitution— -</p> -<p> -“Do what you can for them, while you can, my dear, young friend,” he -added (he had<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-62">[62]</a></span> known Hardcastle from his boyhood), “and spare them, -as far as possible, the details of this sad business.” -</p> -<p> -So Lord Hardcastle had sent for his portmanteau, and a few favourite -books, and begged of Mrs. Nesbitt a room in some quiet corner of the -house, “A room, if you please, with cool, quiet colouring, no reds, or -blues, or yellows, to flash out from the walls, and some soft thick -carpet on the floor,” he had said, his wonted fastidiousness once more -asserting itself. But he was more than repaid for any temporary -inconvenience he might suffer, by the look of grateful thanks which -crossed Mr. Warden’s careworn face, and his warm pressure of the hand, -as he thanked his young friend for his kind unselfishness in thus -voluntarily sharing the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-63">[63]</a></span> dreariness and desolation of their home. -Dreary it was, indeed, to one who had known it in the old days. No -light footsteps on the stairs, or sudden opening of doors, and a bright -young voice pouring forth a flood of question, answer, and exclamation -in a breath; no croquet, nor tennis balls here and there on the lawn, -nor galloping of pony’s feet up the long steep avenue. A silence as of -death appeared to have fallen upon the house, and the father and -mother, stricken and weary, looked in each other’s pale faces and -wondered “could this be the home of a month ago?” -</p> -<p> -And as Lord Hardcastle began to grow accustomed to the routine and -family life of the household, two thoughts gradually forced themselves -into his mind, which he<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-64">[64]</a></span> felt would lead him somewhere, although utterly -at a loss to imagine where. -</p> -<p> -Thrown as he was daily into close and intimate relations with Mr. and -Mrs. Warden, he could not help reflecting on the strangeness of the -fact, that neither in appearance, disposition, nor manner, did Amy in -the slightest degree resemble either parent. The more closely he -observed them, the more the dissimilarity became apparent. -</p> -<p> -The second fact which forced itself upon his notice, related solely to -Mrs. Warden. Sincere as her grief for her daughter’s loss undoubtedly -was, it soon became apparent to Lord Hardcastle, that it was -nevertheless simply a reflected sorrow, that is to say, it struck her -through her husband; she grieved for his loss, more than for her own,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-65">[65]</a></span> -and was broken-hearted because she saw that grief was slowly killing -him day by day. No one but a very close observer would have noted these -things, and Lord Hardcastle was a very close observer, and more than -that, a logical one. He did not believe in the possibility of sudden -and disconnected facts occurring in the human world any more than in -the world of nature. “There is a reason for these things, although at -present it eludes me,” he would say to himself time after time. Long -after midnight might the shaded lamp be seen burning from his bedroom -window, and could any one have lifted the curtain, they would have seen -Hardcastle, with head resting on his hands, and elbows on the table, no -books before him, nor any pretence of writing materials, but a whole<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-66">[66]</a></span> -world of thought evidently passing and repassing through his brain. -</p> -<p> -Meantime enquiries were set on foot on all sides as to the girl -Williams. Frank Varley had ascertained from the station master at -Dunwich, that a young girl, veiled and exceedingly well dressed, had -left by the first train on that morning— -</p> -<p> -“I should not have noticed any number of ladies at any other time, -sir,” said the man, “but it is quite the exception for any but work -people or business men to travel up by the 5.9 a.m. train.” -</p> -<p> -Varley had farther ascertained from the guard, that the lady had -travelled first class, and had seemed very faint and tired. Arriving at -the Midland Station, his work suddenly and unexpectedly became very -easy<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-67">[67]</a></span> to him. The officials there at once informed him of a lady having -been taken alarmingly ill on alighting from the early morning train. -The porter who told him, said that he himself had fetched a cab for -her, and, scarcely conscious, she had given some address at Hackney, -where she wished to be driven, but the name of the street had entirely -slipped his memory. -</p> -<p> -Frank did not waste time in further enquiries. He at once telegraphed -to Detective Hill fullest particulars of Lucy’s flight, and where he -expected to find her, requesting him to follow him there as soon as -possible. Then he sprang into a cab, and gave the man orders to drive -to Gresham Street, Hackney. -</p> -<p> -An hour’s drive brought him to the farther side of that northern -suburb—a <i>terra incognita</i><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-68">[68]</a></span> to Frank, whose knowledge of London was -limited to the club quarters, and west-end-squares and parks. Two or -three busy roads were crossed, with flaring gas jets and goods very -freely distributed on the pavement in front of the comparatively empty -shops. Then a sudden turn brought him into a quiet street of some -twenty or thirty two-storied houses, inhabited mostly by dressmakers, -machinists, and journeymen of all kinds. Although poor, there was an -air of quiet industry about the place, which gave Frank the hope that -Lucy Williams’s friends might prove respectable, honest people. -Dismissing his cab, he knocked at the door of No. 15; a few minutes -elapsed, and it was opened by a tall, thin, pale woman of about thirty -years of age, very neatly dressed, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-69">[69]</a></span> with a look of settled anxiety -and grief upon a face plain, but still frank and honest. -</p> -<p> -“Ah! I expected you, sir,” she said, quietly, “or at least some one in -pursuit to-night. If you have come in search of Lucy Williams, I -beseech you take these, and let the girl die in peace.” -</p> -<p> -She opened her hand, and held out something glittering; there was no -light in the narrow doorway, but the glimmer of a gas-lamp lower down -the street fell upon a small heap of splendidly cut diamonds, and was -flashed back in a thousand brilliant hues. These Frank readily -identified as the brooch and earrings Miss Warden had worn at the -county ball the last night he had seen her. He took them from the -woman’s hand— -</p> -<p> -“Yes, I want these,” he said, “but I also<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-70">[70]</a></span> want your friend, and -must and will see her. Don’t attempt to hinder me, but take me at once -to where she is.” -</p> -<p> -“Have mercy, sir,” pleaded the woman, “the poor girl cannot live very -long, she is standing on the verge of the dark river. Do not! oh do -not, I implore you, turn her thoughts from the only One who can carry -her over! I have read to her, I have prayed—” -</p> -<p> -“Be quiet!” interrupted Frank, for he began to fear there might be some -trickery behind all this; lest she might be delaying his entrance in -this way, in order to give the girl time to escape. “Be quiet,” he -repeated, “and take me at once to the girl, or I shall find my way by -myself.” Then the woman yielded, and once more pleading for mercy<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-71">[71]</a></span> -for her friend, opened a door on her left hand, and Frank found himself -in a small, hot room, only lighted by a low fire flickering in the -grate. -</p> -<p> -A faint moaning from the bed denoted it was occupied. “Can you not -bring me a light?” said Frank, “I can’t see which way to turn.” At the -sound of a man’s voice, a figure started up in the square old-fashioned -bed, exclaiming in a high-pitched, feverish voice— -</p> -<p> -“Have they come for me? Let me die in peace, I entreat you! Oh, sir, I -will tell you everything, everything; only let me stay here.” Then, -clasping her hands, and swaying herself to and fro she exclaimed— -</p> -<p> -“Tom knows all about it; I did it for him, only for him!” Then she fell -back exhausted,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-72">[72]</a></span> evidently in a high state of delirium, muttering again -and again, “Tom, only for Tom.” -</p> -<p> -Frank readily recognised Lucy’s voice, but it was too dark to see her -face. The woman came forward and endeavoured to soothe her; “Hush, -Lucy,” she said, “don’t think about Tom now, although God knows I would -lay down my life for him. Turn your thoughts to One able to save both -you and Tom if you will repent and believe. Hear what He said to the -dying thief on the cross.” Then she commenced reciting the Scripture -story from memory. But again Frank interrupted her— -</p> -<p> -“See here,” he said, “I am not a heathen, nor an infidel, but I want to -know what you have done towards bringing the girl round. Have you had a -doctor in?” -</p> -<p> -“A doctor, sir,” replied the woman, “since<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-73">[73]</a></span> Lucy came into the house I -have not ceased reading and praying with her for one five minutes; if -it is the Lord’s will she will recover, and live to repent of her sins; -but if she must die, why should I waste precious time trying to cure -her poor body, while Satan is striving to steal her soul.” -</p> -<p> -“Hush! my good woman,” said Frank, “I will stay here with your friend, -and do my best to fight the devil for you; you must go at once and get -a doctor in. Here, take my card, get the best and nearest doctor; tell -him I will be answerable for all charges.” -</p> -<p> -“I go, sir,” replied the woman; then, once more bending over the bed, -she murmured, “Lucy, Lucy, while there is yet time, turn to the Lord; -do not forget what He has said to all who go to Him in tears and -penitence.”<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-74">[74]</a></span> Then Frank took her by the arm, and led her out of the -room, reminding her that there still might be a chance of saving her -friend’s life. -</p> -<p> -Left thus unexpectedly alone with the girl, Frank determined to make -one more effort to get at the truth. How ill she was, he scarcely knew, -but getting more accustomed to the dim light of the room, he could see -that her face was crimson with fever, and her eyes wild and staring. He -approached the bed quietly, and bending over her, said in a low tone— -</p> -<p> -“Lucy Williams, do you know me? I have come a long way to ask you a -question, will you try to answer it?” -</p> -<p> -The girl started up in bed with a loud cry, “Tom, Tom!” she exclaimed, -evidently<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-75">[75]</a></span> mistaking Varley for her brother; “Why do you stay here? I -thought you were at Liverpool; you will never, never get off!” Then she -sank back on her pillows, and recommenced breathing heavily. -</p> -<p> -Frank waited a few minutes and thought he would try once more. This -time he began differently. “Lucy,” he said, in a kind, soothing tone, -“I have no doubt your brother is safe somewhere by this time, it is -about your young mistress I wish to speak, your dear Miss Amy. Can you -tell me where she is or do you know what led her to leave her home?” -But now the girl’s terror redoubled; she clasped her hands and hid her -face in the pillows. “Do not take me away, sir,” she implored, “let me -die here in peace! I did it for Tom—he knows, he will tell you—only<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-76">[76]</a></span> -leave me here till the morning?” Then her mutterings became incoherent, -and she tossed wildly from side to side. -</p> -<p> -It was evidently useless; nothing more could then be attempted, and -Varley drew away from the bed and leant against the window ledge. Had -he been of an imaginative temperament, the scene in which he was -playing a part would have excited his nerves horribly. Not a sound in -the house save the tick, tick, of a large Dutch clock fixed in a corner -near the window. Now and then a feeble flame would spring up in the -half-filled grate and cast a gaunt shadow across the ceiling. A badly -silvered oval mirror hung over the mantle-piece and seemed to reflect -all sorts of weird shapes; and every now and then, from the poor worn -out bed in<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-77">[77]</a></span> the darkest corner of the room, came a sob or moan, or the -girl’s half-muttered delirous fancies. -</p> -<p> -“I shall be glad when this is over,” said Frank to himself. “How long -that woman is. The girl may be dead before morning and we none the -wiser for what she knows!” He tried to catch a sentence here and there -of her wanderings, but it told him nothing beyond the fact that her -brother was somehow mixed up in the affair, and her one anxiety was for -his safety. -</p> -<p> -At length, after what seemed to Frank an hour’s waiting, but which in -reality was but half the time, footsteps stopped outside in the silent -street. In a few moments two figures entered the room and a brisk sharp -voice exclaimed, “A light, Miss Kempe, and quickly;<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-78">[78]</a></span> do you suppose I -can attend a patient in the dark?” Then Miss Kempe groped in the depths -of a corner cupboard, and presently produced a small end of a small -candle ensconced in a large flat candlestick; this Frank quickly -lighted with one of his cigar matches, and exchanging greetings with -the doctor, turned with him towards the bed. -</p> -<p> -The doctor held the candle low, throwing the light on the girl’s face, -then he shook his head. “Are you afraid of infection?” he said, turning -to Frank, “if so you had better go home at once.” -</p> -<p> -“Afraid!” repeated Varley, “No, I am not afraid of anything under -heaven when I have an object in view. But what is it? What is she -suffering from?” -</p> -<p> -“Suppressed small-pox. A very bad case;<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-79">[79]</a></span> something on her mind, too, I -should say,” this with a keen glance at Frank, “Twenty-four hours will -see the end of it.” Then he turned to Miss Kempe and proceeded to give -her some necessary directions. -</p> -<p> -And twenty-four hours did see the end of it. About an hour before -midnight, Frank was joined in his watch by Detective Hill, who at once -offered to take sole charge of the case. “No,” said Frank decisively, -“as long as there is the shadow of a chance of the shadow of a clue -being given I shall remain. Your ears are sharpened by your practice -and profession, but mine, Mr. Hill, by something with which your -profession has nothing to do.” -</p> -<p> -“Gentlemen,” said the doctor, as the grey dawn began to struggle -through the narrow<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-80">[80]</a></span> panes, and light up the poorly furnished room. “It -is perfectly useless for either of you to remain. The delirium has -ceased, and the girl has fallen into a state of stupor from which she -will never waken. She will never speak again.” -</p> -<p> -Still they stayed on. The Detective, as the day wore away, went in and -out for his meals or a breath of fresh air, for the small room had -become stifling. But Frank never stirred. “She may die at any moment,” -he thought, “and it’s just possible that at the very last her energies -may re-kindle, and she may make some sign that will need -interpretation.” -</p> -<p> -So he waited and waited. The doctor came in and out, attending -neighbouring patients and returning at intervals. The old clock went -tick, tick, in the corner, and Miss<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-81">[81]</a></span> Kempe, on her knees at the bedside, -prayed audibly for the poor dying one. “Will you not join me, sir,” she -had said to Frank, “in wrestling for this poor sinner’s soul?” -</p> -<p> -“I won’t say I won’t join you, Miss Kempe,” Frank had replied, “but you -must let me stay here by the window.” -</p> -<p> -And thus towards evening the girl passed away in her sleep; she made no -sign, she did not even lift her hand, and Frank, with a sigh and a -pitiful look at the once bright-faced Lucy Williams, thankfully made -his escape into the fresh air. -</p> -<p> -He was soon joined by Detective Hill. “So sir,” he said, “it is all -over, and there is little more we can do beyond setting a watch on the -house and the woman there.” -</p> -<p> -“How so,” exclaimed Frank, “do you suspect<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-82">[82]</a></span> she is mixed up in the -affair? To me she seemed an honest sort of person, although somewhat of -a fanatic.” -</p> -<p> -“So she is, sir, a really good woman I believe, a sort of a mission -woman, I think they call her, connected with the Plymouth Brethren. I -have, however, made a few enquiries about her, and I find that she was -at one time engaged to be married to Tom Williams, but gave him up on -account of the dissolute life he was leading. For his sake I suspect -she has shown all this kindness to Lucy, and I think it more than -probable that the fellow not hearing from his sister will endeavour to -communicate with her through this woman.” -</p> -<p> -“Then it has not been altogether time wasted in following the girl -here? I was<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-83">[83]</a></span> beginning to lose heart again, and to imagine that once -more the clue had slipped through our fingers. You mean to have this -woman watched, Mr. Hill. Very good. May I ask you to allot this task to -me? I cannot rest, I must be doing something, you know.” -</p> -<p> -“Pardon me, sir, the man has already been chosen for the work. Your -presence in this neighbourhood is unwise, and arouses suspicion, and -instead of being the watcher, you would be the one watched. A man of -their own class must do the work. The man I have chosen is the postman -on this beat. He is an old ally and friend of mine, and has taken a -room opposite No. 15 for the purpose. We must pay him well, sir, that’s -all, and we may count on a minute report of Miss Kempe’s daily doings; -including, as a matter<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-84">[84]</a></span> of course, the first foreign or country letter -she receives.” -</p> -<p> -“Very well, you must do things your own way, I suppose. But what about -the Liverpool police, are they on the watch for the man? Is there -nothing I can do there? I dare say,” added Frank, apologetically, “you -think me a confounded fool, but I must be doing something. I think I -must start off for Chicago, Australia, or somewhere! If you can’t find -work for me, I must find it for myself.” -</p> -<p> -“But why go so far, sir? You may be of more use nearer home. Only one -thing I must beg of you, leave this neighbourhood at once. If these -people get it into their heads that they are watched, our difficulties -will be increased tenfold. I can’t say for certain,”<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-85">[85]</a></span> the Detective -added, reflectively, “but it’s just possible you might be of use at -Liverpool. I can give you the names of one or two chums of Tom -Williams, and if you can contrive to get it known among them that Lucy -has died, and left her brother her clothes and savings, it will, no -doubt, reach the fellow’s ears, and the bait may draw. You see, these -people are sharp enough to know the difference between a detective and -a gentleman, and would be more likely to attach faith to a report -coming through you, than from Scotland Yard.” -</p> -<p> -“Very well, then, I start for Liverpool at once. I have given orders -for the girl’s funeral, and arranged that Miss Warden’s walking dress -and diamonds shall be sent back to her parents. I have only kept this,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-86">[86]</a></span> -Hill,” and Frank took from his pocket-book a small bow of lace and -ribbon. “You see, I remember her wearing it, and if it’s missed, you’ll -know I have it,” and he replaced it reverently in his breast-pocket. -</p> -<p> -“And now, before we part, Mr. Hill,” continued Frank, “I want you -honestly and candidly to give me your own private opinion on this -matter. How, and in what way, do you consider Lucy Williams to be -concerned in Miss Warden’s disappearance?” -</p> -<p> -“Well, sir, it’s a difficult question to answer,” replied Mr. Hill, -looking sideways at Frank. “I only feel sure of one thing in this -affair, and that is that Miss Warden is alive and well somewhere. All -else must be conjecture. My own impression is that she left her home -voluntarily, and that she is staying away voluntarily. In such cases -the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-87">[87]</a></span> maid generally possesses, to some extent, the confidence of her -mistress, and acts according to some pre-arranged plan. Even the -diamonds for instance—” -</p> -<p> -“Stop,” shouted Frank, in a voice that made the detective start, “I -can’t stand this. Say another word, and I shall knock you down! No -power in Heaven or earth shall make me believe such a story as that. -No, no, it implies too much! Could a girl with her mouth and eyes have -deliberately set herself to deceive her parents and friends? Could -she—no, no, I will not hear it. Tell me anything but such a black story -as that, Hill.” -</p> -<p> -“Well, sir, I have no wish to give offence. You asked for my opinion, -but it is extremely difficult in such a case as this to have one.” This -with a respectful glance at Frank’s Herculean arm and well-developed -muscles. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-88">[88]</a></span> -Two hours after this Frank was well on his way to Liverpool. Anxious, -worried, disappointed as he was at the unforeseen ending to his -journey, he could not help feeling at heart more hopeful than he had -hitherto been. “Alive and well somewhere,” he kept repeating to himself -over and over again, not as an incentive to his work, for he needed -none, but for the ring of comfort the words brought. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“Nothing can ever shake my faith in that girl, nothing can ever make me -doubt her truth and purity,” he said, as he entered one or two facts in -his note-book for future experience and guidance. “But how the mystery -deepens and thickens, supposing her to be alive and well somewhere!” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_06"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-89">[89]</a></span> -</p> -<h3 id="chapter_06_hdg"> -CHAPTER VI. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -S<small>HORTLY</small> after his arrival at Liverpool, Frank received two letters from -Harleyford. The first from his mother, ran thus— -</p> -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -“M<small>Y</small> D<small>EAREST</small> B<small>OY</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para"> -“We received your telegram, with your address, yesterday, and I need -not say how thankful your father and I were to hear that you were safe -and well, and that you had some settled place of abode, where a letter -could be sent. We had begun to fear that with your usual impetuosity, -you would be starting off on some long journey,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-90"><span class="rgtspc_pgno">[90]</span></a></span> and it would be weeks -or months before there would be any means of communicating with you. -</p> -<p> -“I know, where a young lady is concerned, it is almost always lost -labour to attempt to reason with a young man, so it is with little hope -of success that I make one more appeal to your common sense. -</p> -<p> -“My dearest Frank, can you possibly imagine that you, unversed and -inexperienced in such matters, can hope to meet with success where -well-trained professional men have failed? Have not the science and -ingenuity of first-class London detectives been exhausted in this -search, and what can you hope to do? To my mind one of two things is -certain; either Miss Warden met with some accident (to us -unaccountable)<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-91">[91]</a></span> and is long since dead; or else she has contracted some -<i>mésalliance</i>, and is remaining voluntarily hidden from her -friends. In either case, search for her, as far as you are concerned, -is equally fruitless; for dead or living she could never be your wife. -</p> -<p> -“My son, be reasonable, give up a task for which you are utterly -unsuited, and which renders your father and myself equally miserable. -We are ‘wearying’ for you, as your old Scotch tutor used to say, and -the rectory seems very cheerless with my Frank’s chair so long -unoccupied. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“The sculling match will be coming off soon, and I hear that Benson is -likely to be the favourite. What do you wish done about Sultana? I know -you objected to Robert riding her, but she has grown far<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-92">[92]</a></span> too frisky for -your father to mount. Let us have a long letter as soon as you possibly -can, and thankful, indeed, shall I be if it contains the welcome news -that you will soon be amongst us again. -</p> -<p class="closing3"> -“Ever, with much love, -</p> -<p class="closing1"> -“Your affectionate mother, -</p> -<p class="signature_r"> -“G<small>RACE</small> V<small>ARLEY</small>.” -</p> -</div> -<p> -Then there followed a long postscript. -</p> -<p> -“Do you remember your old playfellow, Mary Burton? I have her staying -with me now (she came over from the Denver’s) and she has grown into -one of the sweetest, handsomest girls, I have ever seen. She is just -twenty-one, and has come into her mother’s large property at -North-over-Fells. She is very anxious to know if you are at all like -the Frank of old times, but I tell<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-93">[93]</a></span> her a mother’s description of her -only son cannot be a trustworthy one, so she must wait till she sees -you, and judge for herself. Adieu.” -</p> -<p> -“Dear mother!” said Frank, when he read her letter, “God bless her, she -means kindly, and may say things to me no one else would dare to!” -</p> -<p> -Then he wrote a short reply. -</p> -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -“D<small>EAREST</small> M<small>OTHER</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para"> -“Please not to expect me at the rectory until you see me. I have -serious work on hand, which nothing but death or success will induce me -to give up. Thanks for all your news. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“Robert may ride Sultana, but tell him, I’ll thrash him if he spoils -her mouth. I am delighted to hear such good accounts of<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-94">[94]</a></span> Mary Burton, -but I have other thoughts in my head than old playfellows and -sweethearts just now. -</p> -<p class="closing3"> -“With a great deal of love, -</p> -<p class="closing2"> -“Your affectionate son, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“F<small>RANK</small> V<small>ARLEY</small>.” -</p> -</div> -<p> -Mrs. Varley read his letter, and sighed and cried over it. Then she -showed it to Mary Burton, who sighed and smiled over it. -</p> -<p> -“Why are such coquettes as Amy Warden sent into the world to turn men’s -brains, Mary, will you tell me that?” said Mrs. Varley. “If she had -lived, she would have been a most unsuitable wife for Frank, with her -self-willed, impatient temper. Will you wait for him, Mary? Do you -think he is worth waiting for?” -</p> -<p> -And Mary had confessed that she thought<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-95">[95]</a></span> he was worth waiting for, -and had sighed and smiled again. Why should she not smile, indeed? -There was no rival beauty in her way now! -</p> -<p> -Frank’s second letter was from Lord Hardcastle, and contained a brief -summary of events at Harleyford— -</p> -<p> -“I grieve to say,” he wrote, “that Mrs. Warden is in a very weak state -of health. Indeed I think far more seriously of her than Hayward does, -and have suggested that further medical advice should be called in. Mr. -Warden has pulled himself together wonderfully, for his wife’s sake, -and seems, to a certain extent, to have recovered some of his old -strength and energy. -</p> -<p> -“With regard to Lucy Williams, my own opinion is very strong and -decided. I fail to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-96">[96]</a></span> see matters in the light in which Hill, in his -report to us, has placed them. He seeks to imply that she has been -acting in concert with Miss Warden, or upon some pre-arranged plan, and -was probably commissioned by her mistress to sell the diamonds to -supply her with money. To my mind he is shooting beyond the mark in -such a supposition. I can only look upon the girl as a common thief of -a very ordinary type, who took advantage of the state of confusion into -which the ‘High Elms’ was thrown, to take possession of her mistress’s -jewellery and clothes. She has probably stolen far more than we know, -and when Mrs. Warden becomes stronger (if she ever does) and able to go -into the matter, no doubt many things will be missed. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-97">[97]</a></span> -“I think in following this track, you are most probably wasting time -and energy. Still, as you say one must do something, and it is just -possible that in following up one clue you may come upon another, so I -will say no more, but wish you ‘God speed’ with all my heart.” -</p> -<p> -Frank growled tremendously over this letter— -</p> -<p> -“It’s all very well,” he muttered, “for Hardcastle to sit quietly at -home and throw cold water on all my attempts; how on earth does he -think the clue is to be found if one does not look after it? He says so -little, it is difficult to get at the man’s real thoughts on the -matter. It is easy to say it is perfectly useless doing this or doing -that, but what in Heaven’s name does he think ought to be done?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-98">[98]</a></span> -What indeed! Not once or twice, but every hour in the day did Lord -Hardcastle ask himself the same question. He felt like a man walking in -a circle, for ever on the verge of a mystery, but never approaching any -nearer than a circle permitted. Become now one of the family at the -High Elms, not a look, not a word, not a tone of any one of the -household ever escaped his observation. Mrs. Warden’s severe illness -had thoroughly incapacitated her for the exertion of receiving -visitors, and the family had gradually become all but isolated from -their neighbours. An occasional morning caller, leaving cards only, the -daily visit of the doctor, and the arrival of the London post, was all -that occurred to break the day’s monotony. -</p> -<p> -Thus the summer wore slowly away, the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-99">[99]</a></span> short autumn days began to grow -chill and stormy, the sad old house looked drear and gray among the -tall, dark elms. Very drear and very gray Lord Hardcastle thought it, -as he rode slowly along the steep avenue leading through the park. He -had been transacting some business in Dunwich for Mr. Warden, and, -somewhat weary and dispirited, was returning in the afternoon twilight. -He looked right and left on a damp misty landscape. The equinoctial -gales had set in early, and the trees were already brown and leafless. -Heavy rains, too, had flooded the country round, and the stream running -through the Park was swollen and turbid, threatening to overflow its -banks. Dark clouds were gathering overhead, and a flight of rooks -whirling low and flapping their<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-100">[100]</a></span> black wings, with their mournful -cawing, completed the desolateness of the scene. -</p> -<p> -“It is like entering a graveyard,” he thought, as he rode along. Then -his memory went back to one bright sunny morning, when riding up this -same avenue he had met Amy and her father, well-mounted, coming from -the house. Very lovely had she looked in the summer sunshine, with her -fresh, girlish beauty, and almost royal dignity of manner. -</p> -<p> -“<i>A bien-tôt</i>, Lord Hardcastle,” had been her salutation as she -cantered past, and the sweet, ringing voice echoed in his ears -still—aye, and would until he died. Was it the many-sidedness of Amy’s -character (if the expression be allowed) which made her so dangerously -fascinating? With Varley,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-101">[101]</a></span> generally speaking, her manner had been -that of a finished coquette, alternately commanding or persuading, -wilful or gentle, as the fancy seized her. With Hardcastle, on the -contrary, her bearing was that of a stately, high-bred lady; her -impatience and impetuosity of temper only shown in the vivacity and -variety of her conversation. Was it, could it be all over now for ever? -Was all this bright beauty and loveliness but a memory—a thing of the -past? All this and much more passed through Lord Hardcastle’s mind as -he drew near to the house, standing out grim and gray against the dark, -threatening sky. -</p> -<p> -“Bad news again, sir,” said the man who came forward to take his horse, -“Mrs. Warden is much worse, but would insist on getting<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-102">[102]</a></span> up this -afternoon. Doctor Hayward has been sent for, and master would like to -see you at once in the morning room.” -</p> -<p> -Thither Lord Hardcastle immediately went. The morning room was one of -the prettiest sitting rooms in the house—Amy’s favourite in the old -days, on account of its long French windows opening on to the lawn, and -from which might be seen a charming miniature landscape of woodland and -park, and the silvery rippling stream now so dark and swollen. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden came forward to meet him. “She would come down and sit -here,” he whispered; “a sudden change has set in, and I have sent for -Hayward; I fear he will be caught in this storm, for a storm we shall -certainly have.” As he spoke, a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-103">[103]</a></span> crash of thunder shook the house from -basement to roof, and flash after flash of brilliant lightning followed -in quick succession. -</p> -<p> -“Let me move your chair, dear,” he said, tenderly, “a little way from -the window; it is a grand sight, but almost too much for your nerves.” -She yielded at once to his wishes, as she had yielded all through their -married life; and still further to shield her from the bright flashes -he stood between her and the window, bending over her in an almost -lover-like attitude, so as not to lose any of her words, for her voice -had grown alarmingly faint and weak. -</p> -<p> -“This reminds me of old times, Stephen,” she said, looking up in his -face. At this moment a pitiful howl from old “Presto,” the hound, rang -through the room. The dog himself<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-104">[104]</a></span> trembled violently and began to -sniff first under the windows, then at the door. Mr. Warden rang the -bell. “Don’t turn him out, Stephen,” said his wife, “I like him here at -my feet. Don’t you remember he was often like this in a storm. Poor old -doggie,” she added, stooping down to smooth his large head, “stay with -me as long as you can.” -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden made no reply. Something in his throat seemed to choke him. -Lord Hardcastle looked from one to the other. Then he wrote on a slip -of paper, “The man must have missed Hayward somehow; I will go myself -after him,” and placing it where Mr. Warden would see it, hurriedly -departed on his mission. -</p> -<p> -And now the storm seemed to have reached its height. Flash after flash -lighted up the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-105">[105]</a></span> otherwise dark room, peal after peal crashed over -the roof, and the rain dashed in torrents against the window panes. “We -will have lights,” Mr. Warden had said, but his wife had objected, -urging that she wished to see the storm in all its grandeur and beauty. -“We have had dark days together lately, dear,” she said plaintively, -looking up in his face, “but I feel they are ending now. Something -tells me that your Amy will come home again”—Another mournful howl from -“Presto” interrupted her, and again the bright pink and purple of the -lightning played about the room. -</p> -<p> -“I never saw ‘Presto’ so frightened before,” she exclaimed. “How -strange it is! I used to be so nervous and terrified in a thunderstorm, -and to-night I feel so happy,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-106">[106]</a></span> as if I were beginning my girl’s life -over again.” She broke off suddenly, looking towards the window. “What -was that?” she exclaimed, “surely I heard something more than the rain!” -</p> -<p> -“Yes,” said her husband, trying to steady his nerves, which were almost -beyond his control, “it is the bough of the oleander against the glass. -How the wind is rising! It is indeed an awful tempest!” -</p> -<p> -And now Lord Hardcastle and Dr. Hayward came in, drenched to the skin -and out of breath with their hurried ride, then the dog, with one -prolonged howl, flew past them as they entered. “Something is wrong,” -said Hardcastle. “Hey, ‘Presto!’ go, find!” and opening a side door he -let the dog out into the stormy night. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-107">[107]</a></span> -The doctor went softly into the middle of the room and looked at his -patient. The hectic flush was fading from her face, and she seemed to -be sinking into a sweet sound sleep. -</p> -<p> -“I am so thankful to see her thus,” said Mr. Warden, “she has been so -feverish and excitable all day, I think the storm must have upset her -nerves.” -</p> -<p> -“Hush!” said the doctor, solemnly, holding up his hand, “this is not -sleep; this is death, Mr. Warden; she will soon be beyond the sound of -storm and tempest.” He yielded his place to the husband, who, kneeling -by her side, took her thin white hand in his. Hardcastle and the doctor -withdrawing to a further corner of the room, waited and watched for the -end to come. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-108">[108]</a></span> -Gradually the storm subsided, and the rain settled down into a slow -steady fall. The breathing of the patient became slower and fainter, -and the doctor whispered to Hardcastle that the end was at hand. At -that moment a long low wail sounded on the outside of the window, and -Hardcastle, peering through the dark panes, could see “Presto’s” brown -head and glittering eyes pressed close against the glass. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -He crept softly out of the room to call the dog in, fearful lest he -might disturb the solemn watch in the chamber of death. “Quiet, old -doggie,” he said, stooping down to pat the hound, all wet and -mud-covered as he was. But what is this! What is it makes the young man -start and tremble, and his lips and cheeks turn pale? What is it brings<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-109">[109]</a></span> -that look of horror into his face, and makes his eyes distend and his -nostrils quiver? What is this hanging in shreds between the dog’s -firmly-set teeth? What is it? Only a few tattered remnants of dark-blue -silk! -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_07"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-110">[110]</a></span></p> -<h3 id="chapter_07_hdg"> -CHAPTER VII. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -M<small>RS</small>. W<small>ARDEN</small> passed away before midnight; only the doctor and her -husband were with her at the last moment, for Hardcastle, bare-headed -and trembling with excitement, had followed the hound out into the dark -night. -</p> -<p> -“Find, ‘Presto,’ find,” he exclaimed, urging the dog forward. But -“Presto” needed no urging, he bounded rather than ran over the sodden -grass and under the dripping trees; no stars, no moon, no light -anywhere, and Hardcastle, breathless and stumbling, with difficulty -kept up with the eager hound, who<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-111">[111]</a></span> turns neither to the right nor to the -left, but makes straight for the deep rushing stream, straight on to -the low, sloping bank; and there the dog stops and trembles. -</p> -<p> -“Which way, ‘Presto?’ Forward, forward!” shouts Hardcastle. But the dog -will not stir a step now, and stands quivering on the brink of the -stream; Hardcastle mounts the bank after him, and, bending forward, -looks up and down the river. Not a sound save the rush and whirl of the -waters, the moaning of the wind in the dark trees, and the pitiless -splash, splash of the rain. Not a sign of life nor death in the flood, -but as he turns to descend the slippery bank, something lying in the -roots of an overhanging willow tree catches his eye. One arm clinging -to a low bough, one arm in the cold, dark waters, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-112">[112]</a></span> in another -instant he holds in his hand a girl’s low-crowned felt hat, with -pale-blue ostrich feather. “My God! and is this the end?” He cries out -in the bitterness of his heart, then, feeling how utterly useless and -helpless he is alone and single-handed in the dark, he rushes back to -the house. -</p> -<p> -“I want men, I want lights,” he calls in a hoarse voice; “quickly, in -Heaven’s name, down to the stream!” Down to the stream they follow him, -with lights, and ropes, and drags. No time is lost in setting to work; -lanterns are swung on ropes across the river, the men, with Hardcastle -at their head, are wading through the swollen waters—hand in hand, -throwing ropes, dragging, shouting, lest some poor soul might still be -struggling in the dark flood. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-113">[113]</a></span> -What does it matter? There she lies, face downwards, among the reeds -and tall rushes in the river’s mud. What does it matter! The men may -shout—the waters rush—aye, and her warm, true-hearted lover kneel by -her side, and call her by her sweet name, never more will those dark -eyes open to the light of day, nor those red lips be unsealed to tell -their story of sorrow and wrong! Clasp her tight, and clasp her long, -Lord Hardcastle, then yield her up for ever to the shadows, the doubt, -the darkness of the grave. -</p> -<p> -They brought her in, and laid her on her own dainty little bed. The -storm had ceased now; day dawned, the birds carolled and twittered at -the casement, and the bright sunshine streamed in through Amy’s -rose-coloured curtains, and fell sideways on her pale, grey<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-114">[114]</a></span> face. -Silent, hopeless, and awe-stricken the father and lover gazed upon -their darling; the search is ended now—there she lies in her blue silk -dress, all torn and mud-stained; her dark hair unwound and lying round -her in long, damp coils; her tiny hands still clasped as though in -prayer, and a look of agony and terror in her half-closed eyes. Alas! -how changed. What terrible ordeal can she have passed through since she -last lay sleeping here. There are lines on her brow, and dark circles -beneath her eyes which tell of tears and sorrow; a pained look about -the chiselled mouth which the Amy of old days never wore. Lord -Hardcastle bends over her reverently—he will not even kiss her -forehead, dead as she lies, for he dared not have done so living. -Kneeling as he would to his<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-115">[115]</a></span> sovereign, he takes her damp, cold -hand in his to press to his lips; as he does so, something glittering -on the third finger of her left hand catches his eye. What is it! Not -the antique ruby ring with its quaint motto, “<i>sans espoir je meurs</i>,” -only a plain gold band encircles the tiny finger—a simple wedding-ring! -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -They buried Mrs. Warden and Amy on one day—on one day, but not in one -grave. People in Harleyford wondered much at this; and they wondered -still more, when, shortly afterwards a splendid granite monument was -placed over the mother’s grave, with name, age, date, birth, and death -engraved in clear-cut letters; while Amy’s resting-place was shadowed -only by a simple marble cross with but one word inscribed, “<i>Aimée</i>.” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_08"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-116">[116]</a></span> -</p> -<h3 id="chapter_08_hdg"> -CHAPTER VIII. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -T<small>HE</small> news of Amy’s death was telegraphed to Frank at Dublin. Thither, -following some imaginary clue, he had gone, and eager and hopeful at -heart, the sudden tidings nearly proved his death-blow. Before the day -closed which brought the news, Frank was lying helpless and unconscious -on a bed of fever. -</p> -<p> -Mrs. Varley trembled for her son’s life; fortunately her address was -known to the proprietor of the hotel where Frank was<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-117">[117]</a></span> staying, and -he had immediately telegraphed to her her son’s danger. -</p> -<p> -“Mary,” she said, addressing Miss Burton, “have you courage to cross -the Channel with me to try to save my poor boy? The rector will follow -next week if there’s any need, but he cannot leave his parish at an -hour’s notice.” -</p> -<p> -And Mary had expressed her willingness to start there and then for -Dublin. What would she not do for one who had always been as a brother -to her? So the two ladies took passage in a packet crossing the next -day, and arrived at Dublin to find Frank raving and tossing in the -delirium of brain fever. -</p> -<p> -Then followed days and nights of weary watching and nursing. -</p> -<p> -“He may pull through yet, madam,” said<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-118">[118]</a></span> the good old doctor, addressing -Mrs. Varley, but peering wonderingly at Mary through his spectacles. He -had been told that the sudden death of a young lady was the cause of -the illness. Who, then, was this other young lady so devoted in her -attentions to the sufferer? “He may pull through yet, madam; he has a -constitution of iron and the frame of a giant, not to speak of the two -angels who watch over him day and night!” This in a rich Irish brogue, -with a gallant bow right and left to the two ladies. -</p> -<p> -And Frank did pull through. Gradually the fever in his brain subsided, -and though weak and helpless as a child, the doctor pronounced him out -of danger. -</p> -<p> -But with returning consciousness came back the sense of sorrow and -loss, and Mrs. Varley’s heart ached for her son as she saw<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-119">[119]</a></span> the look of -utter blank misery and despair settle down upon his once bright, happy -face. “Get him to talk of his sorrow” had been the doctor’s advice, and -gently and gradually his mother had led him on to speak freely of poor -Amy and her terrible ending. -</p> -<p> -“We all suffer with and for you, my son,” said Mrs. Varley, sitting by -Frank’s easy chair in the early twilight, the glow from the fire alone -lighting the room, “but my feeling for you does not prevent me feeling -for someone else very near and very dear to me, and who is just now -suffering as much as, or, perhaps, more than you.” -</p> -<p> -Frank’s eyes expressed his wonder. Of whom could his mother be -speaking? Wrapped up in his own misery, he had had no thought for the -sorrows of others. -</p> -<p> -“Don’t try to talk to me, Frank, dear,”<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-120">[120]</a></span> continued his mother. “You must -forgive me if I say that sorrow is apt to make one selfish and -unobservant. Otherwise you would have noticed not only the grief and -anxiety in my face, which has made an old woman of me the last few -weeks, but also the grief in a sweet young face which has been watching -yours very sadly for many a day and night.” -</p> -<p> -“Mother, mother,” exclaimed Frank, passionately, for now his mother’s -meaning was unmistakable. “Why did you bring the girl here? You knew it -was useless. Why didn’t you leave me here to die? God knows I have -nothing left to live for now!” -</p> -<p> -“Miss Burton did not come for you alone, Frank, she came for my sake -also. She has been to me as a daughter in my trouble, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-121">[121]</a></span> as a daughter -she came with me here. Your father could not leave his parish, and was -it right that I should travel all these miles alone to face such an -illness as yours? The difficulty, however, will soon be ended, as Mary -tells me she must leave us to-morrow; she has friends here in Dublin. -Your danger is past, she says, and she is no longer needed. Believe me, -Frank, it is not your return to health which is driving her away, but -your coldness and indifference, and (forgive me, dear) your -ingratitude.” -</p> -<p> -“What is it you want me to do, mother?” asks poor Frank, piteously. -“Not marry her! I have no love to offer any woman now. My heart is -crushed and broken, and a dozen Mary Burtons couldn’t mend it.” -</p> -<p> -“I know that, Frank, dear,” replied his<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-122">[122]</a></span> mother, very sweetly, “but if -you have a broken heart to carry about with you, it should teach you to -be very tender to the broken hearts of others, especially to so good -and true a heart as Mary’s. A few kind words to her just now would make -her, if not happy, at any rate a little less miserable than she is now.” -</p> -<p> -“Tell me what to say, then,” said Frank, wearily, “and let me say it at -once. You don’t want me to ask her to marry me? The words would choke -me, I think.” -</p> -<p> -“No, my son, not that. I only want you to thank her for her kindness -and care through your illness (for, indeed, she has nearly worn herself -out in saving your life), and I want you just to say four little words -to her. ‘Don’t leave us, Mary.’ This for<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-123">[123]</a></span> your mother’s sake, for -what could I do without her? May I send her to you, Frank?” she added, -after a pause. -</p> -<p> -Then Frank, wearied with the discussion, gave a feeble assent, and Mrs. -Varley left the room immediately, thankful for her partial success, and -hoping much from the coming interview between her son and Mary. -</p> -<p> -Very softly Mary entered the room, and went straight up to Frank. Then, -for the first time, he noticed how pale and sad the girl had grown. -</p> -<p> -“How white you are looking, Mary,” he said, kindly. “Are you feeling -ill? Will you take my chair a moment?” at the same time attempting to -rise. -</p> -<p> -“No, no,” said Mary in an instant, flushing scarlet, “you are still an -invalid, and must<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-124">[124]</a></span> not think of politeness. Mrs. Varley said you wanted -to see me. What is it, Frank?” -</p> -<p> -“Mary,” he said, taking both her hands in his, “I want to ask you to -forgive my abominable rudeness and ingratitude to you. I want to thank -you for all you have done for me. I am so ashamed I have not done this -before, but I have been so miserable, so broken-hearted.” Then the poor -fellow broke down utterly, and weakened by his long illness and unable -to control himself, covered his face with his hands, and wept and -sobbed like a child. -</p> -<p> -“Frank, Frank,” pleaded Mary. “For all our sakes restrain yourself; you -will kill me if you give way like this. What can I do for you? I would -lay down my life to give you an hour’s happiness.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-125">[125]</a></span> -Still Frank sobbed on, and Mary, bending over him as a mother would -over a sick child, drew his head on to her shoulder, and soothed and -comforted him. -</p> -<p> -Gradually the passion of his grief subsided, and he lay back, with his -head on her shoulder, worn out and exhausted. -</p> -<p> -Then Mrs. Varley gently turned the handle of the door, and entered the -room. -</p> -<p> -“Thank God for this,” she exclaimed. “Mary, don’t move. Frank, dear, -she is the one wife out of all the world you should have chosen, and -you may well be thankful to have won such an one. God bless you both. I -will write to your father to-night.” -</p> -<p> -Frank was on the point of asking his mother what he had said or done -that she should congratulate and bless him in this way,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-126">[126]</a></span> but Mary’s -white face and trembling hands checked the words on his lips, so he -merely said, with a weary sigh, “Mother, I must go to bed at once, I am -utterly worn out,” and tottered rather than walked to the door. Mrs. -Varley followed him. “I may tell your father it is all settled, may I -not?” she said, in a low voice, as she held open the door for him. -Frank glanced back at Mary leaning still over the back of the armchair, -and her drooping figure and tearful face pleaded her own cause. “Tell -him what you like, mother,” he replied, wearily, “only let me rest -to-night.” Besides, after all, what did it matter? The best of his life -was gone, any one who would might have the broken remnants. -</p> -<p> -Very angry indeed was the rector when he received his wife’s letter -containing the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-127">[127]</a></span> news of his son’s engagement. “It is absolutely -indecent,” he wrote back, “it is gross disrespect to the living and the -dead. Every one knows the hopes my son cherished with regard to Miss -Warden, and now, within a fortnight after her death, he is engaged to -some one else. I will have nothing whatever to do with such an -arrangement. Mr. Warden is an old and valued friend of mine, and how -could I look him in the face if I countenanced such conduct on the part -of my son? Is he a child or a lunatic that he cannot learn to control -his own feelings and bear up against a bereavement? Let him make up his -mind to bear his sorrows as a man should and as other people have had -to before him.” -</p> -<p> -In reply to this, Mrs. Varley wrote a long letter pleading, not so much -the wisdom of<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-128">[128]</a></span> her own conduct, as the necessity of the case. -</p> -<p> -“Frank is neither a child nor a lunatic,” so ran the letter, “but he -has strong passions and an impetuous temper which would very rapidly -carry him down hill if once he turned that way. Add to this his broken -health and spirits, and you will see I have had no light task to -perform in endeavouring to restore him to what he once was. The -physician here tells me his only chance of recovering health and -strength is to start at once on a long foreign tour—under any -circumstances he must not think of returning to Harleyford for another -year. What then, do you advise? Can you leave your parish for so long a -time to travel with your son through Europe (she knew the rector hated -travelling, or indeed<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-129">[129]</a></span> any kind of bodily exertion) or do you consider -that I should be a suitable companion for him under the circumstances? -Is there any one of his own friends fit for such a task, or who could -do for him all that a tender loving wife will do? What would it matter -to Mr. Warden, or to any one else likely to criticise his conduct, if -Frank fell into a course of reckless dissipation, or ended his life by -his own hand—and this, let me tell you, is another terror I have had -always before me. No, no, my dear husband, see things in their right -light I beseech you; you must give way in this matter, and believe me -it is as much for your own happiness as your son’s that you should do -so.” -</p> -<p> -And the rector did give way as might have been expected, and not only -consented to his<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-130">[130]</a></span> son’s wedding, but went over to Dublin and performed -the ceremony himself, and also sketched out the wedding tour for the -young people—a trip through the American continent first, and a final -run through the chief cities of Europe. -</p> -<p> -“Hardcastle has the best of it now,” said poor Frank, sadly, to -himself, as he stood waiting for his bride in the vestry of the little -Irish church where the ceremony was to take place. “He has no mother to -talk him into a marriage he has no heart for. Not but that I shall do -my best to make her happy, for she is sweet and good, but I cannot tear -the other memory out of my heart.” -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -Thus it was that Frank and Mary became man and wife within a month of -poor Amy’s<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-131">[131]</a></span> death, and the rector and Mrs. Varley returned to -Harleyford to sustain, as best they might, the inquisitiveness and -criticism of their neighbours. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_09"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-132">[132]</a></span> -</p> -<h3 id="chapter_09_hdg"> -CHAPTER IX. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -V<small>ERY</small> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-133"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[133]</span></a></span> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-134"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[134]</span></a></span> 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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-135">[135]</a></span> so pointedly turned the conversation -that another remark on the subject would have been impossible. -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-136">[136]</a></span> 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?” -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -“Mr. Warden, tell me one thing else, I beg of you; indeed it is not -from idle curiosity I<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-137">[137]</a></span> ask it, was Aimée the name of Miss Warden’s -mother?” -</p> -<p> -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.” -</p> -<p> -“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.” -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-138">[138]</a></span> already, because there is sin and crime -mixed up in it.” -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-139">[139]</a></span> 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.” -</p> -<p> -He paused, overcome by his recollections. Lord Hardcastle leaned -forward breathlessly.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-140">[140]</a></span> Here was Mr. Warden voluntarily according the -confidence he was so eager to obtain. -</p> -<p> -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.” -</p> -<p> -Again he paused, then once more recommenced— -</p> -<p> -“For four short years we lived together,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-141">[141]</a></span> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-142">[142]</a></span> young mistress, and begged her to aid me in my efforts -as far as possible. -</p> -<p> -“But it was useless. Isola was loud and stubborn in her <i>Cevenol -patois</i>. 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-143">[143]</a></span> girl by the hand, telling -her to come and gather lilies to make a crown for her dear mamma. -</p> -<p> -“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— -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>What is it?’ said Aimée, petulantly, ‘I have not loved you so well -lately, for you have been cross and cruel to me.’ -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-144">[144]</a></span> die, your image will remain in my mind fresh and glowing, as -on that last morning I looked on your sweet face! -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-145">[145]</a></span> -“Then the storm burst. It was terrible to see my wife’s anger— -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>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?’ -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-146">[146]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-147">[147]</a></span> 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. -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>A<small>IMÉE</small>.’ -</p> -<p class="pad_top"> -“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?” -</p> -<p> -“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?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-148">[148]</a></span> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-149">[149]</a></span> and henceforth my little -Amy would have all my love and care. -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-150">[150]</a></span> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Your mistress is dead,’ I asked, at once anticipating the worst. She -bowed her head. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Tell me everything, Isola,’ I gasped, hoping still there might be -some message of love or repentance for me. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>There is nothing to tell,’ she replied coldly, ‘she is dead, that is -all.’ -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>But where, when, how?’ I insisted, my soul thirsting and hungering -after my wife. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>She took cold, she would not take care, and so she died, that is -all,’ was the reply. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>And not a word or message for me, or for her daughter?’ -</p> -<p> -“Then the woman laughed a harsh scornful laugh. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>What would Monsieur have? Don Josef took care of her, and gave her -all she wanted.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-151">[151]</a></span> He was by her side when she died, and held her in his -arms.’ -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-152">[152]</a></span> short time after Aimée’s -death, I married my second wife. The result you know, a life of peace -and comparative happiness until now.” -</p> -<p> -Again Mr. Warden paused, his calmness was evidently failing him, and it -was with increased effort and difficulty that he finished his -narration. -</p> -<p> -“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— -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>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?’ -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-153">[153]</a></span> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-154">[154]</a></span> -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.” -</p> -<p> -“How can I thank you, Mr. Warden?” exclaimed Hardcastle earnestly, -springing<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-155">[155]</a></span> 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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-156">[156]</a></span> 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.” -</p> -<p> -“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?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-157">[157]</a></span> -“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!’<span class="lftspc">”</span> -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden looked up at the flushed, earnest face of the speaker, then -he said very quietly— -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“Lord Hardcastle, I thought I knew you intimately; I find I have never -really known<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-158">[158]</a></span> 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!” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_10"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-159">[159]</a></span></p> -<h3 id="chapter_10_hdg"> -CHAPTER X. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -B<small>EFORE</small> starting for France, Lord Hardcastle received two letters. The -first, from Detective Hill, ran thus:— -</p> -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -“S<small>IR</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para"> -“It is now so long since I have received any orders from Mr. Warden, -that I venture to write to you, fearing he may be ill, and knowing you -have his entire confidence in the matter on which I am engaged. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“Since I sent in my last report relative to Miss Kempe’s movements, -nothing of importance has occurred, until yesterday, when she received -a letter enclosing another,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-160">[160]</a></span> evidently foreign. The outside envelope was -too thick to enable my man (the postman if you will remember, sir) to -discover what stamp was on the letter, but the crackle of the thin, -foreign paper was unmistakable. As I write (at the window opposite her -house) there are evident signs of packing up and departure going on in -her room. I shall feel much obliged if you will transmit to me further -instructions on Mr. Warden’s behalf. The woman may possibly be leaving -England, and I am anxious to know whether the investigation is to be -continued, and the woman still watched, as I must necessarily appoint -very different men for foreign work. -</p> -<p class="closing4"> -“Awaiting your orders, -</p> -<p class="closing3"> -“I remain, -</p> -<p class="closing0"> -“Your lordship’s obedient servant, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“J<small>ERVIS</small> H<small>ILL</small>.” -</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-161">[161]</a></span> -To this, Lord Hardcastle sent a brief reply— -</p> -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -“S<small>IR</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para nobottom" > -“Mr. Warden and myself think you are attaching too much importance to -Miss Kempe and her movements, and that it really is not worth while to -pursue this matter further. We are hoping for better results from -another quarter. -</p> -<p class="closing5"> -“I remain, -</p> -<p class="closing1"> -“Your obedient servant, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“H<small>ARDCASTLE</small>.” -</p> -</div> -<p> -The second letter was from Frank Varley, written on the eve of his -wedding-day, and ran as follows:— -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -“D<small>EAR</small> H<small>ARDCASTLE</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para nobottom"> -“I dare say you have but one feeling in your heart for a poor, -weak-minded wretch<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-162"><span class="rgtspc_pgno">[162]</span></a></span> like me, that of utter unmitigated contempt. I -don’t attempt to justify myself, for under present circumstances it -would be impossible. I am only, writing to enclose a small packet—a -blue bow of ribbon. You will know, old fellow, to whom it belonged, and -why I am sending it to you. I couldn’t find it in my heart to put it -behind the fire. -</p> -<p class="closing4"> -“Ever yours, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“F<small>RANK</small> V<small>ARLEY</small>.” -</p> -</div> - -<p> -“Poor Varley,” said Lord Hardcastle, when he read this. “He spent his -strength for nought, and gave in before the race was half run! And yet -who am I that I should pity or blame him? The end alone will show whose -life has been best worth living!” -</p> -<p> -And now the preparations for the journey<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-163">[163]</a></span> to France were completed, and -one dull misty November afternoon, Mr. Warden and Lord Hardcastle said -a long good-bye to the High Elms. Very damp, very cold and dreary the -old house looked as they turned the corner of the steep avenue. -</p> -<p> -“Not in this world,” said Mr. Warden, mournfully, “shall I call any -place home again.” -</p> -<p> -What could Lord Hardcastle say in reply? He clasped his old friend’s -hand with a firmer, tighter clasp, while the thought ran through his -own mind— -</p> -<p> -“What will our coming back here be like?” -</p> -<p> -Early in the evening they arrived in London. The preparations for their -journey had been very simple. No servants, very little luggage, and -their destination even kept secret. Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-164">[164]</a></span> Warden had informed his -agents he would be travelling through Europe for some months for his -health, and had given various <i>postes restantes</i> in France to which his -letters were to be sent. He would advise them, he said, of any change -in his plans should his inclination lead him in any other direction. -</p> -<p> -It was not without serious thought and anxiety that Lord Hardcastle had -undertaken this journey. There could be no doubt that Mr. Warden’s -strength had given way very much lately, and it was incurring a heavy -responsibility to induce a man at his age, and with his broken health, -to go so far on what might prove to be a fool’s errand after all. -“But,” reasoned Hardcastle, “he will certainly die if he remain in his -own desolate home, brooding over his sorrows. Action<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-165">[165]</a></span> and movement -will do more for him than anything else, and if we can but lift the -cloud from the dead girl’s grave, we shall both feel our life has not -been spent for nought.” -</p> -<p> -The roar of London at first sounded strangely in their ears, accustomed -as they were to the saddest and quietest of households. Lord Hardcastle -took upon himself the various small duties which travelling involves, -and at once gave orders to be driven to Charing Cross Station. Leaving -Mr. Warden at the hotel, he directed a porter to place their luggage in -the booking-office to be in readiness for the morning tidal train, -while he exchanged some English money for present use. There appeared -to be a crowd of some sort round the booking-office, and the porter<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-166">[166]</a></span> -placed the baggage a little on one side, waiting his turn. -</p> -<p> -At this moment Lord Hardcastle’s attention was attracted by a tall -figure clad in a long, grey travelling cloak, the hood of which was -drawn low over her face. She brushed past him, but he could not see her -features, for her head was bent low, as though wishing to hide her -face. Something peculiar in the swing of her walk arrested his -attention; it was not ungraceful, but seemed as it were to keep time to -some song or tune sounding in her ear, so even and regular were her -steps. She was evidently in a hurry to save some train, and was -crossing towards the third class ticket window, when Lord Hardcastle’s -luggage caught her eye. She stood still, looked round her on every -side, then bending<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-167">[167]</a></span> down, read attentively the labels on each box. -At this moment the porter advanced to take charge of his baggage, and -the woman, evidently altering her plans, walked slowly out of the -station. -</p> -<p> -Lord Hardcastle returned to the hotel, and the woman in grey passed -completely out of his mind. Finding Mr. Warden very much tired with the -journey to London, he proposed that they should rest quietly the next -day, and pass over to Boulogne during the night. To this Mr. Warden -agreed readily. -</p> -<p> -“I must husband my strength,” he said, “for it is slipping away -rapidly. I feel now as if I were embarked upon my last mission, which -must be well executed, or not at all.” -</p> -<p> -Lord Hardcastle looked up at him anxiously. How sad, and old, and worn -the dear, kind<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-168">[168]</a></span> face had grown lately! How white the hair, and sunken -the cheeks, and the eyes with a far-away, mournful look, which said as -plainly as words could speak, “it will soon be over now, and I shall be -at rest.” -</p> -<p> -“Don’t speak like that, Mr. Warden,” he said, “or you will take away my -last remnants of courage. Who can tell what may yet lie before us.” -</p> -<p> -“Who can tell, indeed,” echoed Mr. Warden, “who can tell.” He shivered -as he spoke, and looked so really ill that Lord Hardcastle began to -feel seriously uneasy about him, and begged him to see a doctor before -he left England. -</p> -<p> -“No,” said Mr. Warden, firmly, “the night soon will come when no man -can work. Let us not anticipate it by an hour. Not<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-169">[169]</a></span> until we have -played the last card we hold will we give up the game.” Then he said -good-night, and went to his own room. -</p> -<p> -The next day rose dark and stormy, and Hardcastle trembled to think of -the effect a rough passage might have on Mr. Warden in his weak state -of health. He did not, however, offer any farther opposition to their -journey, knowing it would be useless, and besides this, an undefinable -feeling in his own mind kept urging him on to the native land of the -two Aimées. -</p> -<p> -“I cannot explain why,” he said to himself, as they landed at Boulogne -in the chill early dawn of the following day, “but I somehow feel as if -we had only now struck upon the right track, and that all we have -hitherto done has been so much lost time. I know<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-170">[170]</a></span> there must be a -reason for this feeling; some finer sense in my being must have seized -upon some fact in this strange history which my coarser and more -logical faculties have failed to perceive.” -</p> -<p> -So occupied was he with his own thoughts, that he had not noticed that -he had become separated from his companion in the narrow landing-place, -and had drifted into a crowd of porters, with their various loads, -making for the custom-house. -</p> -<p> -Where was Mr. Warden? He looked right and left along the Quai, and -there, standing half hidden behind some bales, stood the same tall grey -figure he had noticed at Charing Cross Station. It was unmistakable -now; the woman, for some reason, was evidently watching and following -them;<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-171">[171]</a></span> and, doubtful whether their separation was accidental or -intentional, was at a loss whom she should keep in sight. Following the -turn of her head, Lord Hardcastle could see Mr. Warden some little way -in advance, and, hastening towards him, the woman suddenly passed in -front, and disappeared down some narrow passage. -</p> -<p> -“Let her go,” thought Hardcastle; “somewhere, somehow, we may meet -again. I shall know her long stooping figure and swinging gait -anywhere.” Then, hastening forward, he soon overtook Mr. Warden, and -calling a carriage, desired to be driven to the Hotel de la Cloche, -situated somewhere in the heart of the town. -</p> -<p> -Lord Hardcastle had foreseen before starting that their journey must -necessarily be<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-172">[172]</a></span> performed by easy stages; they had, therefore, booked -only as far as to Boulogne, intending to rest there a day or two to -decide upon their route to Le Puy. -</p> -<p> -The Hotel de la Cloche stands in one of the quietest parts of the town, -a little back from the broad, brick-built street, in a grassy, -moss-grown quadrangle. An arched corridor runs round this quadrangle, -and above this are built the various outbuildings of the hotel. A small -fountain, with an insufficient supply of water, plays in the courtyard, -and very miserable and dreary it looked under the dull November sky -from the windows of the room which Mr. Warden had selected for a -sitting-room. -</p> -<p> -More than ever sad and weary he seemed as he seated himself in front of -a large wood<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-173">[173]</a></span> fire he had ordered to be made. A pretence of lunch or -dinner had been gone through, and the short November day was already -closing in, the heavy stonework above the windows adding not a little -to the gloom of the room. Lord Hardcastle had tried unsuccessfully -various topics of conversation, feeling the necessity of arousing Mr. -Warden from the sadness of his own thoughts. -</p> -<p> -“Tell me, Mr. Warden,” at length he said, almost despairing of success, -“something about Le Puy; it is an unknown land to me. I have never -visited that part of France.” -</p> -<p> -“Le Puy!” exclaimed Mr. Warden, suddenly arousing himself, “Ah, that is -a country worth living in! It is a land of variety and beauty, of -sunshine and solitude; less terrible than Switzerland, it is, at the -same time,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-174">[174]</a></span> more interesting, because more varied. It is a land of -extinct volcanoes; at every turn one is brought face to face with -nature under a new aspect. Here some mighty convulsion has upheaved -gigantic rocks; there in the valley lie fertile plains watered by -gushing mountain torrents; above all tower and frown the fantastic -Cevennes, cut and fashioned into all sorts of wonderful shapes, and -everywhere reigns a silence and solitude only to be found in the lonely -mountain regions. Ah! it is a land of glory and beauty! But, my young -friend, you will scarcely see it with my eyes; to me it is the saddest -and sweetest of all lands, for there I first loved and first suffered, -and there my two Aimées were born and grew to beauty.” Then he paused, -and presently added, in a mournful, passionate<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-175">[175]</a></span> tone, “My poor little -Amy! I fancy I see her now, creeping along the narrow mountain path, or -looking over the verge of some deep ravine, both hands filled with wild -flowers and grasses. She would never own to feeling frightened or -nervous at the giddy height, but if she felt her little feet slipping, -she would call out impatiently, ‘Papa, papa! take my flowers, quickly -please, I must not be kept waiting an instant.’ It is almost too much -for me to recall those days, Lord Hardcastle,” he sighed, wearily, “I -think I will see if I can get a little sleep; perhaps in the morning I -shall feel brighter and stronger.” -</p> -<p> -Then he left the room, saying good-night, and that he did not wish to -be disturbed until the morning. -</p> -<p> -Lord Hardcastle looked after him sadly.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-176">[176]</a></span> “He will reach Le Puy,” he -thought; “his spirit will keep him up as far as that, but he will never -come back again. Have I done wisely in inducing him to leave his home? -But what home has he left? Only a mere skeleton or husk of one. This is -our last and only chance; we are bound, at any cost to try it.” -</p> -<p> -The wood fire crackled and burned, the window panes grew dark and -darker, and long, fantastic shadows began to flicker across the -oak-panelled wall, to the low, arched ceiling. -</p> -<p> -Hardcastle’s thoughts wandered far away to the lonely house at -Harleyford—vividly came back to him the stormy, windy night, the -piteous howling of the dog, and poor Amy lying cold and wet and -lifeless in his arms.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-177">[177]</a></span> Picture after picture of the past passed before -his eyes—the dear dead face as it looked in the grey of the early -morning, the strange, pained old look that had spread itself over the -features until they almost seemed strange and unknown to him. -</p> -<p> -The fire crackled, the weird shadows leapt from floor to ceiling, and -Hardcastle, drowsy with the overnight’s journey, began to see strange -shapes in the room, and fantastic visions began to mix with his waking -thoughts. He fancied he was standing amidst the rocky, silent scenery -Mr. Warden had just described to him. The mountain mists were rolling -away from peak and crag, the summer sun was mounting the horizon, and -there, on the verge of some terrible precipice, stood Amy—bright, -beautiful, girlish as ever, both<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-178">[178]</a></span> hands filled with flowers, which she -playfully held out to him. -</p> -<p> -Tremblingly he advanced towards her, hoping to save her from what -appeared instant death without alarming her; but the mountain mist -swooped down upon them, enveloping Amy and himself in its damp folds. -Then it lifted again, but no Amy was to be seen, and there, advancing -slowly towards him, was the tall, stooping figure in grey, whom he had -seen that morning on the Quai. She, too, stretched out her hands to -him, but what she held he could not at first see. Nearer and nearer she -drew, the mountain mists still clinging to her long, trailing skirt, -and hiding her face as with a veil. In another instant her cold, thin -hands held his, and a deep, sad woman’s voice said, slowly and -distinctly,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-179">[179]</a></span> “Take it, keep it, and let the poor sinner go.” Then -he felt a ring placed upon his little finger, and there, flashing out -in the mist and darkness was Amy’s antique ruby ring. -</p> -<p> -What was it woke him at this moment? What was that noise sounding in -his ears still? Could it be a door or a window shutting? He started to -his feet and looked round the room. Nothing appeared to have been -disturbed, the books and papers on the table were just as he had left -them. Then he pushed aside the curtains, and looked out into the dreary -quadrangle. The fountain sent up a feeble spray towards the leaden sky. -The corridor looked damp and dismal as ever. Were his eyes deceiving -him? Was he thoroughly awake, or could it be that there, slipping in -and out between the pillars<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-180">[180]</a></span> like a shadow almost in the dimness of the -light, was the grey, stooping figure of his dream? -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -He sprang to the door, and flinging it back, let in a flood of light -from the staircase and landing. Then he paused in amazement, for there, -on the little finger of his left hand, sparkled and glittered an -antique ruby ring with garter and buckle, and the motto, in old French -letters, “<i>Sans espoir je meurs!</i><span class="lftspc">”</span> -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_11"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-181">[181]</a></span> -</p> -<h3 id="chapter_11_hdg"> -CHAPTER XI. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -“T<small>AKE</small> it, keep it, and let the poor sinner go!” Through long days and -sleepless nights the words echoed and re-echoed in Lord Hardcastle’s -ears. That they were spoken by an actual human voice he was positively -certain, but all enquiries respecting the grey veiled figure proved -fruitless, and from that time he saw her no more. -</p> -<p> -Very carefully and gently he broke the news of the restoration of Amy’s -ring to Mr. Warden, feeling the necessity that every circumstance -connected with their search<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-182">[182]</a></span> should be known to him as it occurred, for -who could tell what might happen next? -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden listened very calmly to the strange story— -</p> -<p> -“It is the beginning of the end,” he said. “Heaven only knows what the -end will be! Stranger things than this are, no doubt, in store for us. -Keep the ring, Hardcastle, who can have a greater right than you to -wear it?” -</p> -<p> -And Hardcastle kept the ring, and registered yet another vow in his own -heart in much the same words he had vowed hand-in-hand with Frank -Varley, that “by night and by day, by land and by sea, he would search -the whole world through” to clear the name of the girl he loved. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden daily grew weaker and weaker.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-183">[183]</a></span> They rested a week at -Boulogne, and then travelled by easy stages to Le Puy. After eight -days’ quiet travelling they reached the picturesque old city, and -though tired and worn out to the last degree, Mr. Warden insisted on -being at once driven to a small quiet inn (it could scarcely be called -hotel) situated half way between the town and his old mountain home. -</p> -<p> -“<i>A l’Aigle des Montagnes</i><span class="lftspc">”</span> was the sign which hung over this quiet -little hostelry, and its dedication could not possibly have been better -chosen. Perched high in the second belt of rocks which surrounds Le -Puy, it seemed incredible, when looked at from the plateau beneath, -that aught but eagle’s wings could mount so far. A narrow, winding -path, made to admit the “little cars”<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-184">[184]</a></span> of the country, with not an -inch to spare on either side, led to the inn. To an inexperienced -traveller the road seemed terrible and dangerous, but the hardy, -sure-footed mountaineer made but light of it. What to him was a -precipice, first on this side, then on that, and occasionally on both? -Once arrived at the summit the view was simply magnificent, bounded -only by the distant Cevennes, and showing, in all its sparkling beauty, -the windings of the Loire and its many tributaries. -</p> -<p> -Hither some twenty years previously Mr. Warden had first come, and with -an artist’s appreciation of the grand and the beautiful, had returned -again and again to paint the wild mountain scenery and ruined chateaux -which were hung here and there like eagle’s nests among the rocks. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-185">[185]</a></span> -Since those old days the place had twice changed hands, and the present -proprietor was totally unknown to him. Nevertheless the place and its -surroundings could not fail to revive many bitter memories and days -both sad and sweet to him, and on the second day after their arrival, -Lord Hardcastle saw in him such a rapid change for the worse, that he -at once gave orders that a doctor should be sent for from Le Puy. -</p> -<p> -“It is useless, Hardcastle,” said Mr. Warden, when he heard the order -given. “No doctor can do anything for me now. Let them get me a few -tonics, which I can prescribe for myself, so that I may rally for a few -days, and pay a visit to my old home here. Open the window,” he added -impetuously, “this soft, sweet air brings life back to me.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-186">[186]</a></span> -Then Hardcastle placed for him a low easy chair close to the casement, -whence he could look right and left upon the mountain panorama, and -even catch a glimpse of a turret of his old chateau standing high among -the distant rocks. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden gazed long and earnestly upon the magnificent landscape, -drinking in every sight and sound, as a dying man might gaze upon some -loved scene whose memory he wished to carry with him into eternity. -Lord Hardcastle dared not disturb him, he leaned over the back of his -chair without a word, and endeavoured, as far as possible, to follow -the train of his thoughts. -</p> -<p> -Suddenly Mr. Warden turned his head and looked Hardcastle full in the -face. He spoke excitedly, and his voice appeared almost to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-187">[187]</a></span> have -regained its old strength and firmness. -</p> -<p> -“Hardcastle,” he said “you have done a great deal for me, I know you -will do one thing more. It may be the last favour I shall ask of you. -Come here, stand at my right. You see, just between those sugarloaf -crags, the west turrets of my old home—the Chateau D’Albiac it was -called in those days. It stands on the highest ground in Cassagnac. A -little to the right there is a low well-cultivated valley, with about -five or six peasants’ houses dotted here and there. In one of these -Isola’s people lived, and there my darling Aimée was reared as her -foster-child. Will you go there for me, and if you can find her, bring -her here to me. I have one or two questions to ask, which she only can -answer.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-188">[188]</a></span> -“Gladly,” replied Hardcastle. “It has been my intention from the first -to seek this woman out and question her. As soon as the doctor arrives, -I will leave you in his charge, and set off without further delay.” -</p> -<p> -“No,” said Mr. Warden decisively, “you must set off at once; you do not -know these mountain paths as I do, and to a stranger they are full of -difficulties and dangers. Cassagnac is nearly six miles from here. You -laugh at the distance. Five miles of these mountain paths is no light -thing, I can assure you. If you start at once on one of the little -mountain ponies, you will not arrive at Cassagnac till nearly sunset. -Then you will have at least three miles further to go before you can -get a night’s lodging, for<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-189">[189]</a></span> you cannot possibly by any means return here -until to-morrow.” -</p> -<p> -“Until to-morrow,” echoed Hardcastle sadly, and the thought flashed -through his brain “what if he be not here to-morrow?” -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden read his thoughts, “It is not so near as that Hardcastle,” -he said quietly; “but it is not far away. Go at once, I implore you, -for days and hours are getting precious to me now. Your doctor will be -here before long; the people of the house are good and kind, and I feel -at home with them. Go at once, I beg of you; let me not feel I have had -my journey here for nothing. Ah! if my young strength would come back -to me for one day, how gladly would I set off with you!” Then he leaned -back in his easy chair wearied out, and once more begging<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-190">[190]</a></span> Hardcastle to -start immediately, closed his eyes as though he wished to sleep. -</p> -<p> -Hardcastle had no choice but to obey. He went at once to the innkeeper -and his wife, and gave them strict orders to be constantly in and out -of Mr. Warden’s room during his absence, and one to remain with him -throughout the night. Then he wrote a few lines to the doctor, -requesting him to remain until his return on the morrow. Even with -these precautions his heart misgave him, and he could scarcely summon -courage to start on his journey. -</p> -<p> -However, he felt further contention with Mr. Warden would be worse than -useless—it would be positively injurious to him, so with another -farewell glance at his friend, apparently sleeping quietly in the -window seat, he set off on his little mountain pony. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-191">[191]</a></span> -Then it was that the Cevenol scenery burst upon him in all its wild -grandeur. It was not one magnificent picture which met his eye, but a -hundred or more, for every turn of the steep mountain path brought to -view some fresh tableau of startling beauty. But the one thing which -struck him most was the solitude, the intense silence which reigned -everywhere. The rush and roar of the falling torrent, the scream of a -distant wild bird, and once only the lowing of some oxen, evidently -yoked to one of the rude cars of the country, these were the only -sounds which broke the perfect stillness of the scene. -</p> -<p> -“Cassagnac,” he thought, “must be a very tiny village, for its highway -to be so little frequented.” It had slipped his memory, so full it was -of other thoughts, that none but<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-192">[192]</a></span> the hardiest or poorest of the -villagers would remain to face the terrible winter of these parts, when -roads and valleys alike are choked with snow. In fact he was journeying -on to a deserted village, for, by the end of November at latest, most -of the peasants have taken refuge in more accessible localities. -</p> -<p> -Quietly and steadily the little pony kept on his way, never swerving an -inch right or left; the gritty lava crunched under his feet, and now -and then a huge boulder would fall from the path into the deep ravine -below, with an echoing crash. Hardcastle had provided himself with a -plan of the country,—a rudely sketched one, drawn out by the landlord -of the “<i>Aigle des Montagnes</i>,” for the use of his guests—but he -scarcely needed it, so well did the little pony know his road. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-193">[193]</a></span> -As the afternoon went on the Chateau D’Albiac stood out plainly in -front of him. But although apparently so near it was yet some little -distance off, for the pathway, ever mounting, took many curves and -bends, and Lord Hardcastle found he could not possibly arrive there -before twilight set in. The sun sank lower and lower, the shadows -lengthened and deepened, and although the air for the time of year was -remarkably balmy and mild, Hardcastle could not repress a shudder as he -took the last curve which brought him face to face with the old -chateau. Was it the silence and loneliness of the place which so -oppressed him, or was it that his nerves had been shaken by the strange -events through which he had lately passed? A feeling he could not -understand took possession of his<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-194">[194]</a></span> mind. He felt almost like a man -walking in a dream, seeing strange sights and hearing strange sounds, -so unreal, so unlike anything he had ever seen was the mountain picture -around him. There, straight in front of him, stood the old chateau, the -highest point in the rocky landscape. Every door barred, every window -shut, not to be opened till the following spring. The sun sank lower -and lower, the shadows lengthened and deepened, the rocks began to take -fantastic shapes against the evening sky, lighted in the west by the -long golden and purple streaks of the dying day. Not a sound broke the -intense silence of the place, and Hardcastle, throwing the reins on his -pony’s neck, in perfect stillness drank in the beauty and glory of the -scene. The sun, with a farewell<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-195">[195]</a></span> scarlet light, fired the windows of the -old chateau, danced upon peaks and crags of fantastic shape, and sent a -flood of glory upon two solitary female figures standing on one of the -highest points of the worn-out volcanoes. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“I must be dreaming! It is a land of visions here; I have lost control -over my own senses;” said Hardcastle, aloud, as he pressed forward to -get a nearer view of what seemed to him an illusion. Two figures at -such a time, in such a scene of loneliness and solitude! Nearer and -nearer he drew. What did he see? Breathless and nerveless he leaned -forward deprived alike of speech and power. Mountains, crags and -sunlight swam before his eyes and faded away into mist, while the words -of Mr. Warden, in the study of Harleyford,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-196">[196]</a></span> rang and echoed in his -ears. “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. The long white robe she wore, and the -dark-faced nurse by her side.” There, straight in front of him, was the -literal realization of the picture in all its details, for there, -awe-struck and silent as himself, stood Amy Warden and Isola the nurse! -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_12"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-197">[197]</a></span> -</p> -<h3 id="chapter_12_hdg"> -CHAPTER XII. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -T<small>HE</small> 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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-198">[198]</a></span> -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.” -</p> -<p> -“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”— -</p> -<p> -“Doctor Lemoine,” again interrupted Mr. Warden, “what I wish is that -you should<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-199">[199]</a></span> 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.” -</p> -<p> -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 <i>patois</i> 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. -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-200">[200]</a></span> -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. -</p> -<p> -The Docteur Lemoine came in from time to time, entreating him to calm -himself, and prescribing tonics or light stimulants. -</p> -<p> -Towards noon the mist began to lift, but still no sign of Lord -Hardcastle. Two, three, four, five o’clock passed, and Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-201">[201]</a></span> 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!” -</p> -<p> -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.” -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-202">[202]</a></span> -“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!” -</p> -<p> -“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!” -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-203">[203]</a></span> 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.” -</p> -<p> -“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,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-204">[204]</a></span> poor Aimée! Is she waiting for my forgiveness -before she will come?” -</p> -<p> -“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.” -</p> -<p> -Then Mr. Warden sprang to his feet and threw up his arms with an -exceeding bitter cry. -</p> -<p> -“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<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-205">[205]</a></span> 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.” -</p> -<p> -“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.” -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden made no reply, he sunk back in a chair and covered his face -with both hands. -</p> -<p> -Then the doctor interposed; he had been gazing in amazement from one to -the other,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-206">[206]</a></span> totally unable to understand their English, yet thoroughly -comprehending that something startling and wonderful, and of great -importance to Mr. Warden, had occurred. -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -“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.” -</p> -<p> -“Good news!” exclaimed Mr. Warden, “what good news can there be for me? -My wife, my daughter!—Ah! my other Amy,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-207">[207]</a></span> have you heard of her, -Hardcastle? Tell me quickly what you know, where is she, living or -dead?” -</p> -<p> -“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. -</p> -<p> -Now the little doctor took the lead— -</p> -<p> -“I have obeyed Milord too long, in resting here so tranquilly. You must -follow my orders now,” he said, severely and dictatorially. -</p> -<p> -“Willingly,” replied Lord Hardcastle, as he assisted to remove Mr. -Warden to a couch.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-208">[208]</a></span> “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.” -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -The movement aroused him. He opened his eyes, and they rested full on -her face. Amy controlled herself admirably. -</p> -<p> -“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.” -</p> -<p> -“I am cured already,” replied Mr. Warden, as he held his daughter -tightly clasped in his<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-209">[209]</a></span> 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? -</p> -<p> -“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.” -</p> -<p> -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. -</p> -<p> -“Papa, dear,” she exclaimed in her old, quick, imperious manner, “will -you ask Lord<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-210">[210]</a></span> Hardcastle what right he has to wear a ring of mine?” -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“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. -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_13"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-211">[211]</a></span> -</p> -<h3 id="chapter_13_hdg"> -CHAPTER XIII. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -A<small>T</small> this time Mr. Warden received his first packet of English letters -from the <i>poste restante</i> at Le Puy. -</p> -<p> -Among others there was one from Inspector Hill, which ran as follows:— -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p class="address"> -“Scotland Yard, -</p> -<p class="date"> -“Nov. 20th. -</p> -<p class="salutation"> -“S<small>IR</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para"> -“I think it right you should be informed of certain facts which have -come to my knowledge respecting some jewellery belonging to Miss -Warden, viz., a diamond necklace, earrings, and brooch, which have<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-212"><span class="rgtspc_pgno">[212]</span></a></span> -already been restored to you through Mr. Varley, and an antique ruby -ring which Miss Warden was supposed to have worn the day she left home, -but which in reality was left by her on her toilette table with the -diamonds which she had worn on the previous night at the Leicestershire -county ball. -</p> -<p> -“My informant is a Miss Marian Kempe, whom you may possibly remember I -have mentioned once or twice in my reports to you as a relative of the -girl Lucy Williams, at one time Miss Warden’s maid. -</p> -<p> -“This girl Williams, if you will remember, I stated had a most -disreputable brother who had been convicted of connivance with poachers -to rob his master’s estate. On his release from prison he returned to -his native place, and once more fell into his old dissolute habits.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-213">[213]</a></span> -He appears, on several occasions, to have had interviews with -his sister at your house, and to have threatened her in various ways if -she could not find sufficient money to enable him to reach New York, or -some other large city, where he hoped, by false written characters, to -find some means of support. -</p> -<p> -“Then occurred Miss Warden’s mysterious disappearance, and the -jewellery lying loose upon the table proved too strong a temptation for -the girl, who at once secreted the diamonds and ring, and when asked by -you for the dress in which to describe Miss Warden in the -advertisements, cleverly included the ring in the description. This -ring she at once handed over to her brother, who immediately started -for Liverpool, intending to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-214">[214]</a></span> wait there for farther supplies which his -sister had promised, if possible, to procure for him. -</p> -<p> -“The diamonds she appears to have kept back for a time in case they -should be asked for, but in the state of confusion into which your -house was thrown, and Mrs. Warden being too ill to interest herself -much in the matter, they were not missed; in fact, I believe, the jewel -case was not even opened when handed over to Mrs. Warden’s care. -</p> -<p> -“The girl most probably intended to dispose of the diamonds in London, -and afterwards to have escaped with her brother to New York, when, as -you know, she was seized with small-pox, and died at the house of her -relative, the Miss Marian Kempe whom I have already mentioned. -</p> -<p> -“This Miss Kempe is, undoubtedly, a<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-215">[215]</a></span> woman of good character, holding -extreme religious views, and willing to sacrifice everything in the -discharge of her duty. She was at one time engaged to be married to Tom -Williams, and although the match was broken off, is evidently still -very much attached to the man. About a week since she came to me in -travelling dress, and appeared very much fatigued with a long journey -she said she had just taken across the channel. She also seemed much -agitated, and asked me in an excited tone if I ever read the Gospel, -and if I knew who it was Christ came to seek and to save? ‘See here, -Miss Kempe,’ I said in reply, ‘if you are alluding to publicans and -sinners, I conclude you have something to say to me about that rascal, -Tom Williams. If so, say it at once, please, for I have no<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-216">[216]</a></span> time -for sermonizing, I assure you.’ ‘He is no rascal,’ she said, -indignantly, ‘he is a repentant sinner, and will yet, please God, be -numbered among the elect.’ Then she proceeded to tell me a very -extraordinary story. How that Tom Williams arrived at Liverpool, -intending to wait there for Lucy; how he waited and waited, and at -length received, through some secret channel, the news of her death, -and that the diamonds had been restored to you. In his haste to escape, -he took passage in the first steamer he came across, which chanced to -be a trader bound for Boulogne. It is also possible he imagined himself -to be safer across the channel than across the Atlantic. Landing at -Boulogne, he appears to have had some drunken quarrel with an Italian -seaman, who wounded him<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-217">[217]</a></span> severely in the thigh with a large clasp -knife. Tom was eventually carried by some passers-by to a quiet -lodging-house on the Quai, and the woman of the house showed him a -great deal of kind attention. A fever set in after this stabbing -affair, and Tom was reduced to a very low ebb. Utterly friendless, in a -foreign country, and at death’s door, his thoughts turned to Miss Kempe -as the one most likely to help him out of his troubles. He consequently -made an appeal to her, couched in very penitent language, and implored -her, by her past affection for him, to help him out of his sin and -misery. This letter he sent under cover to some comrade in London, who -posted it to Miss Kempe’s address. The bait succeeded admirably. The -woman at once locked up her room, disposed<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-218">[218]</a></span> of a few valuables she had, -and started for Boulogne. At Charing Cross Station, when about to take -her ticket for the night train, she caught sight of your luggage on the -platform, addressed to Boulogne. She at once concluded you were in -pursuit of Tom, and determined to wait and watch your proceedings. She, -however, crossed the next morning, and hurrying to Tom, informed him of -your approach, and asked what he thought it best to do. ‘This is what -they want, Marian,’ he said, drawing the ring from under his pillow, -‘take it to them, and beg me off.’ This she seemed afraid to do, and -waited about the hotel all day before she could make up her mind to -enter. When at length she summoned courage to do so, she wandered by -chance into your sitting-room,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-219">[219]</a></span> and finding Lord Hardcastle asleep by -the fire, the idea occurred to her of placing the ring on his finger as -he slept, thus avoiding embarrassing questions, and thinking, poor, -foolish woman, that if your property were restored to you, you would no -longer wish to prosecute the rascal. Her object in coming to me was -twofold. First, to assure me of the genuineness of the man’s -repentance, and secondly to find out, if possible, your intention on -the matter. -</p> -<p> -“Of course nothing would be easier than to bring the man to justice. I -have not the slightest belief in his penitence, and I farther think, if -he should recover, he will induce this infatuated woman to marry him -for the sake of her small savings. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“I must ask your pardon, sir, for this long<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-220">[220]</a></span> letter I have -unwillingly troubled you with, and awaiting your orders, beg to remain, -</p> -<p class="closing2"> -“Your obedient servant, -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“J<small>ERVIS</small> H<small>ILL</small>.” -</p> -<p class="pad_top nobottom"> -“Postscript.—Since writing the above I have received a special -communication from Dunwich Police Station, in which, perhaps, sir, you -may feel interested. It relates to the conviction of a gipsy woman and -tramp, for stealing. In her possession was found a long travelling -cloak and thick veil. This she states she found in a plantation in your -grounds about two months ago, when she had there taken refuge from a -thunderstorm which had set in with violence. This thunderstorm, sir, we -must all remember as occurring on the night Miss Warden’s body was -found. This cloak and veil most probably belonged to her<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-221">[221]</a></span> and enabled -her to pass unnoticed and unknown through Dunwich streets, and were -most likely thrown on one side by her when wearied and heated by her -long walk she found them heavy and cumbersome. They remain at Dunwich -Station to be claimed and identified, if possible, and may chance to be -of great importance should you wish at any time to recommence the -investigation I had the honour to conduct for you. -</p> -<p class="signature"> -“J. H<small>ILL</small>.” -</p> -</div> - -<p> -To this Lord Hardcastle wrote in reply, at Mr. Warden’s request— -</p> -<p class="pad_top salutation"> -“S<small>IR</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para"> -“Mr. Warden wishes me to thank you for your letter, and to inform you -that he cannot ask you to recommence your former<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-222"><span class="rgtspc_pgno">[222]</span></a></span> investigation for the -simple reason that Miss Warden has returned to her family and friends, -and will in due time communicate all that is wished to be known. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -“As for Tom Williams, Mr. Warden has not the least intention of -prosecuting him provided he gives up his malpractices and leads a -sober, honest life. Please to have him informed of this, and also -strongly counsel Miss Kempe to return to her home and keep her money in -her own hands. -</p> -<p class="closing2"> -“Your obedient servant, -</p> -<p class="signature nobottom"> -“H<small>ARDCASTLE</small>.” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_14"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-223">[223]</a></span> -</p> -<h3 id="chapter_14_hdg"> -CHAPTER XIV. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -A<small>MY</small>’<small>S</small> story took long to tell. Not in one continuous narrative, but at -long intervals, and in answer to many questions did she give her father -the history of the days she had spent away from home. -</p> -<p> -And this is the substance of her narrative. -</p> -<p> -On that bright August morning, the day after her first ball, she went -out of the house with a light step and a gay young heart. No thought of -care or sorrow in her mind, on the verge of womanhood, with a life full -of promise and brightness stretching out before her, the world, as it -were, at her feet, and the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-224">[224]</a></span> crown of her youth and beauty on her head, -suddenly a dark cloud fell over it all, shutting out the brilliant -landscape and sunlight, and enveloping youth, beauty, hope and promise, -the whole of the glory of the summer’s day, in the mist and darkness of -the valley of the shadow of death. -</p> -<p> -Amy Warden, thinking only of her last night’s scene of triumph (for -such it had been to her) walked gaily through her father’s grounds till -she came almost to the verge of the park lands. Here she met the -postman, “My letters, if you please,” she said, exchanging a kind “good -morning” with the man. He handed two to her in feminine handwriting, -and passed on. The first she quickly disposed of, it was from a young -girl friend, declining an invitation of Amy’s for the following day.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-225">[225]</a></span> -The second, in a strange foreign hand, although bearing the London post -mark, she opened as she quitted the park for the Dunwich high road. It -was (as has already been stated) market day at Dunwich, and two or -three villagers from Harleyford passed at this moment with whom she -exchanged greetings, and who, for the time, drew her attention from the -letter. -</p> -<p> -Once more turning her eye upon the page, she read words which made -park, woodland and road alike swim before her eyes, and which sent her -young blood rushing to her face and back again with a chill to her -heart. Recovering herself partially, she turned back into the -park lands, and there, under the shadow of the great trees, read -through her letter. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-226">[226]</a></span> -It was written partly in Cevenol <i>patois</i>, partly in good French, and -thus it ran:— -</p> - -<div class="letter"> -<p class="salutation"> -“M<small>A</small> M<small>IGNONNE</small>,— -</p> -<p class="first_para"> -“Hast thou forgotten Isola, thy nurse? Hast thou forgotten the one who -rocked thee in her arms to sleep, and led thee over the mountain to -gather wild campions to weave garlands and crowns for thy beautiful -mother? Dost thou know thou hast a mother living now among those -mountains? Has he who shadowed and cursed her young life told thee the -story of her suffering and wrong? For twelve long years, ma cherie, has -she lived a life of loneliness and sorrow, and now she lies on a bed of -sickness and pain with the hand of death upon her. She is wearying for -thee, my Aimée, wilt thou not go to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-227"><span class="rgtspc_pgno">[227]</span></a></span> her? I am in London, and I wait all -day long at your great Midland Station, for I know thou wilt come. I -shall know your sweet face among a thousand, for have I not seen it -night after night in my dreams? And thou! thou wilt know Isola, thy old -nurse, by her brown hood and cloak of the mountains.” -</p> -</div> - -<p> -In utter bewilderment and amazement, with every nerve in her body -jarring and trembling, Amy read and re-read her letter, and as she did -so the conviction of its genuineness and truth forced itself upon her. -Two thoughts only remained on her mind, the first, “my father told me a -bitter cruel lie when he denied my mother to my face, and placed -another in her stead;” the second, “my mother still lives! If I hasten -I may yet see<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-228">[228]</a></span> her before she dies. My darling, beautiful mother, whom -unknowingly I have loved all through my life.” -</p> -<p> -Her anger against her father was only exceeded by one feeling, her -intense, fervent love for her mother, whose image now stood out -distinctly in her young memory. Isola’s words had brought back a whole -world of recollections, the crowns of flowers, the mountain paths, the -things which to her had seemed before but floating fancies or childish -dreams, now took their right form as distinct vivid realities. -</p> -<p> -Not knowing anything of the circumstances which had brought about Mr. -Warden’s separation from his first wife, to her excited imagination he -appeared a perfect monster of wickedness, a cruel, fickle tyrant,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-229">[229]</a></span> who -had cast off one who loved him truly, for the sake of another woman— -</p> -<p> -“He told me a lie,” she kept repeating to herself again and again, “to -make me love that other woman, and to steel my heart against my own -mother.” -</p> -<p> -Then the picture of that mother, lying sick unto death, rose before her -mind, and one thought swept away every other. -</p> -<p> -“I will go to her at once,” she said with a wild cry, “at any risk, at -any cost. Who knows, I may yet perhaps save her life.” -</p> -<p> -With Amy, to think was to act; not a moment’s hesitation now. There was -another way to Dunwich station, besides the high road—a quiet way, -which led through fields and lanes, a little circuitously, perhaps, and -for that reason not likely to be traversed<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-230">[230]</a></span> on the busy market day by -any but gipsies or tramps. This road Amy at once took; she knew there -was a train leaving for London about noon, and this she determined if -possible to save. What was a five miles walk to a girl at her age, -young, active and strong; besides had she not one all-absorbing thought -to shorten her road, and lend wings to her feet— -</p> -<p> -“I am going to the mother I have dreamed of and loved all through my -young life.” -</p> -<p> -Once arrived at Dunwich, she was pretty sure to escape recognition. The -station (a junction, with a large amount of traffic) was on market days -positively crowded, and Amy, passing rapidly through the throng, took -her ticket, and seated herself in the London train without more than a -casual<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-231">[231]</a></span> glance from the guard, to whom she was personally unknown. -</p> -<p> -Then she had time for thought. But the more she thought, the more the -difficulties of her position grew upon her. How could she act for the -best? It was simply an impossibility for her to consult her father on -the matter, for would not all his efforts be directed to keep her -mother out of her rightful position, and would he who had lived so long -in sin (so she thought) with another, be likely to have any sympathy -for her in her present undertaking. -</p> -<p> -“I will wait and consult with Isola,” was the young girl’s thought as -the train whirled her on towards London, “she will most likely know -what my mother’s wishes are,” and as she thought of that mother, and -the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-232">[232]</a></span> years of suffering her father’s cruelty had condemned her to -endure, every feeling was absorbed in one indignant resolve to leave no -means untried to have that mother righted and restored, if not to -happiness, at least to peace and honour. -</p> -<p> -As the train entered the London Station, she noticed a woman clad in a -long brown cloak, with a peasant’s hood drawn over her head, whom she -quickly identified as Isola; not from her recollection of her nurse’s -face, for here memory failed her, nor yet alone from her dress, which, -though strange, seemed familiar to her, but the woman was evidently -waiting and watching, and her long earnest gaze into each carriage as -the train drew up at the platform, could not fail to strike the most -casual observer— -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-233">[233]</a></span> -“Ma bonne, ma bonne,” said Amy in a low voice, as she jumped from the -train, stretching out both hands towards her nurse— -</p> -<p> -“Holy mother!” exclaimed the woman, seizing Amy’s hand, and -passionately kissing it— -</p> -<p> -“Which of my two children is it that I see? The eyes, the voice, the -hands, the hair are her mother’s own. My child, bless the Saints and -Holy Mary whenever you look at your sweet face in the glass, for thou -wilt never be without thy mother’s portrait all thy life long.” -</p> -<p> -Then followed question and answer in rapid succession. Amy ascertained -from Isola that her mother had entered the convent of St. Geneviève, -some few miles<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-234">[234]</a></span> distant from their old home. Isola breathed not a word -of her mother’s transgression, nor how she had abandoned husband and -child for the caprice of a moment. Isola’s intense love for, and -devotion to her mistress, blinded her to all her faults; she could see -her in but one light, that of a wronged, suffering woman, and as such -she spoke of her. She dwelt long upon Mr. Warden’s harshness and -cruelty to his young wife, and told Amy how at length his treatment -became insupportable, and they were compelled to seek another home; how -that her mother had eventually taken vows in the Convent of St. -Geneviève, seeking in religion the happiness she could not find in the -world. Isola made no mention of the lie passed off on Mr. Warden -respecting his wife’s death. To her mind<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-235">[235]</a></span> the one weak point in Aimée’s -character was her love for her husband and her real penitence for her -fault. This to Isola was simply incomprehensible— -</p> -<p> -“The man hates you, why should you love him?” was her argument. “He -treated you badly, you did well to leave him.” -</p> -<p> -Nevertheless, whatever order Aimée gave must be carried out to the very -letter, and with the blind unreasoning fidelity of a dog, she obeyed -her mistress’s slightest wish. -</p> -<p> -Thus it was, that intentionally or unintentionally, Isola’s narrative -conveyed a very wrong impression to Amy’s mind. The young girl scarcely -realized her own feelings towards her father, so completely had they -been reversed— -</p> -<p> -“I could not have believed all this Isola,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-236">[236]</a></span> even from your lips,” she -said passionately, “if he had not himself told me a lie, and denied my -own mother to my face.” -</p> -<p> -So they journeyed on. Miss Warden had only a few sovereigns in her -purse, but Isola seemed to be well supplied with money— -</p> -<p> -“Where does all your money come from?” asked Amy wonderingly, as she -noticed Isola’s well-filled purse. Isola pointed to her ears, despoiled -of ornaments— -</p> -<p> -“You sold them!” exclaimed Amy, “why, they must have represented the -savings of at least twenty years,” she added, recollecting the practice -of the French peasantry to invest their earnings in jewellery, and -especially in earrings, which they exchange for others more valuable as -they rise and prosper in the world. Isola bowed her head— -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-237">[237]</a></span> -“Could they be yielded to one more worthy, or to one who had a greater -right?” she enquired earnestly. -</p> -<p> -Tears filled Amy’s eyes at the proof of such devotion, and she said no -more. -</p> -<p> -By the time they arrived at Folkestone, Amy had become more calm and -collected. She endeavoured to mark out for herself some plan of action— -</p> -<p> -“I think Isola,” she suggested, “we will telegraph to my father from -here that I am safe and well, and that he will hear from me again.” -</p> -<p> -“<i>Mon Dieu!</i>” exclaimed Isola, “and be stopped by the police on landing -at Boulogne! No, no, my child, wait till thou hast safely reached thy -mother, then telegraph, write, or do what thou wilt.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-238">[238]</a></span> -Amy saw the force of the argument, and contended no more, but it was -difficult, nay impossible for a girl who had loved her father so -passionately as she had, to shut out altogether from her imagination -the agony of mind he must be suffering at her unaccountable absence. -But what could she do? The difficulties of her position seemed -insuperable, and her mind had become so bewildered, she felt she could -scarcely now distinguish between right and wrong. Besides, the one -all-absorbing intense desire to see her mother had taken such -possession of her, that every other feeling was comparatively deadened. -</p> -<p> -They crossed by the night mail to Boulogne, and thence without delay -continued the route to Le Puy. A wearisome journey, and which,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-239">[239]</a></span> to Amy, -seemed endless, so long and dreary seemed the hours which kept her -apart from her idolised mother. At length it was accomplished, and at -the time that the whole country round Harleyford had risen to join in -the fruitless search, and Frank Varley and Lord Hardcastle had clasped -hands in a solemn vow to rest not day nor night till the wanderer was -brought home, Amy was lying in her mother’s arms at the Convent of St. -Geneviève, or kneeling by her side kissing her hands, feet, or dress, -in a perfect ecstasy and bewilderment of joy that her wildest -imaginings were at last realized, and that she had found a mother -indeed. -</p> -<p> -“Ah,” said Amy, here breaking off her narrative and drawing a long -breath. “No one could have painted my mother to me as<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-240">[240]</a></span> she really was -and as I found her. It would have needed a special inspiration to have -done so. To describe material beauty, the beauty of form, colour, and -outline—yes, it can be done; but to paint the many transparent tints of -a sunbeam, or the light and shadow of a handful of the sparkling, -rippling stream! It is impossible. When one can be found to do this -then may he begin to paint my mother in all her changeful, wondrous -beauty. As a very empress, as a star in a dark sky she shone out among -the little brown nuns at St. Geneviève. They were all so little, so -brown, so old, not a young face among them. Not one of them had been -the other side of the mountains for more than thirty years. They were -all most kind and courteous, and so indulgent to my mother in<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-241">[241]</a></span> all her -caprices, treating her almost as a wayward, spoilt child, and only -insisting on such matters as were absolutely necessary to keep up the -discipline of the convent. In her tiny bare little room, in her coarse -brown-grey dress, my mother had passed ten of the best years of her -life. It is marvellous to me, knowing her as I now do, that the routine -and confinement of a convent life had not broken her spirit and quite -worn her out. Oh, papa, I hate routine, I hate discipline, I detest a -quiet, orderly life, and yet I feel as if, should I live to be -withered, and brown, and old, I should like to come here to these kind -little nuns and end my days in peace with them.” -</p> -<p> -Amy sighed wearily; she often sighed now. The strange events through -which she had<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-242">[242]</a></span> lately passed had tried her beyond measure, but the -bitterest trial of all had been the choice she had been compelled to -make between her father and her mother. To believe in the truth of the -one was to acknowledge the falsehood of the other, and it was hard -indeed for her young, loving heart to choose between the two. -</p> -<p> -Mr. Warden looked at his daughter anxiously. She was greatly changed, -and he could not but feel that his bright, light-hearted Amy would -never come back again. Now and then flashes of her old self would shine -out, and she would look up in his face with her own laughing eyes, but -it was only now and then, and the Amy of to-day was a sadder, paler, -more thoughtful being than the Amy of six months ago. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-243">[243]</a></span> -“Amy, dear,” said Mr. Warden, tenderly, “tell me one thing and I will -ask no more questions to-night. Did your mother ever allude in any way -to the wrong she once did me, or did you learn this story from some one -else?” -</p> -<p> -“From Lord Hardcastle,” replied Amy. “When I first saw my mother, as -she clasped me in her arms, she said, ‘my darling, do you know the -whole truth, and can you love me still?’ I, imagining she referred to -your neglect and cruelty, and her impatience and flight as described by -Isola, replied that I did know the whole truth, and I loved her better -than ever. After this nothing more was said by either of us on the -matter. It was not until Lord Hardcastle stood before me on the rocks -and insisted, with his thin pale face and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-244">[244]</a></span> solemn manner, that I should -hear the whole truth and then judge between my parents, that I knew -what had really occurred. Papa, papa, I felt then I should hate him for -ever and ever for having cast down my idol from its pedestal. Yet,” she -added, tearfully, “I ought to be grateful to him, too, for has he not -given back to me my own dear father, and cleared away the cloud that -had risen up between us?” -</p> -<p> -“Thank God for that, indeed, my child, and had it not been for him, -Amy, your father would not be here talking to you now. A few more such -days of grief and anxiety would have worn out the last remains of my -strength. I owe Lord Hardcastle a debt I can never repay, and it pained -me beyond measure the other day to hear your abrupt<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-245">[245]</a></span> question as to his -right to wear your ring. You must have wounded him deeply.” -</p> -<p> -“But, papa, dear, that was because he was not equal to the occasion. -Some gentlemen I know, such as Mr. Varley for instance, would have said -‘if I had but the right to wear it,’ or some such polite speech. Of -course I should have thought it very impertinent and great nonsense. -But no one will ever accuse Lord Hardcastle of talking nonsense! He -mounts his high horse immediately, gives me back my ring with scarcely -a word, and with the air of an emperor walks out of the room!” -</p> -<p> -“Amy,” said Mr. Warden, after a moment’s pause, “you spoke of Frank -Varley just now; do you care to know what has become of him?” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-246">[246]</a></span> -“Yes,” said Amy, looking up eagerly, “where is he, papa? What did he do -when he heard I was lost? Tell me, don’t keep me waiting an instant,” -she added in her old tone and manner. -</p> -<p> -“For one whole month, my child,” said Mr. Warden, carefully watching -his daughter’s face, “he was broken-hearted, inconsolable, in fact all -but a madman. The next,” he said this very slowly, for he was loth to -strike the blow, “he was engaged to Mary Burton, and married ten days -afterwards.” -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -A start, a shiver, a very flushed and then a very pale face, that was -all, and then Amy repeated in a strangely quiet tone, “Married to Mary -Burton! I remember her well, that large, fair, good-looking girl, who -didn’t know how to make men look at her! We won’t<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-247">[247]</a></span> talk any more to-day, -papa. The little doctor will scold me if I keep you up late and tire -you. Ah!” she said with a sigh and a look towards the mountains, “I -think those little brown nuns at St. Geneviève have a far better time -of it than we who stand out here in the cold and storm to fight our -life’s battle!” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter" id="chapter_15"> -<p> -<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-248">[248]</a></span> -</p> -<h3 id="chapter_15_hdg"> -CHAPTER XV. -</h3> -<p class="noindent"> -“S<small>HE</small> was like a wild bird beating its wings against its prison bars,” -said Amy, continuing her narrative a few days before they started for -England. “The excitement and pleasure of seeing me had acted magically -on her, so much so that I found it difficult to realize the truth of -Isola’s description of her before my coming. In a day or two, however, -the excitement subsided, and I became seriously alarmed. She seemed -possessed by a spirit of unrest, and I began to fear for her reason. No -sleep at night, no rest for one five minutes in the day. She fulfilled -all her religious<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-249"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[249]</span></a></span> duties faithfully (they were not heavy ones, and the -Abbess was indulgent) but every spare moment she spent with me was -passed in one ceaseless moan. ‘I must see him; there will be no peace -for me till I have looked at the dear face again. Help me, my child, -help me!’ I knew not what to do for the best. I felt it would be -useless to consult the Abbess, or even the Convent Confessor, on the -matter, as their experience in the world’s ways was even less than -mine, and they looked upon everything in the light of their religion. -Besides, I knew there was no possibility of their allowing my mother -outside the walls, even in charge of a sister, for their rules on this -point were strict. What could be done? I felt, too, that you ought to -be written to by some one, but by<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-250"><span class="lftspc_pgno2">[250]</span></a></span> whom? Mercy to Mrs. Warden, whom I -was convinced was ignorant of my mother’s existence, withheld my hand, -and whom could I trust in such a matter, or to whom, indeed, could I -expose my father’s guilt? I felt confident in my own mind that you -would naturally guess whither I had gone, and would possibly frame some -excuse for me to Mrs. Warden and others. But, O, my father, I have no -words to express the agony, the absolute torture of mind I suffered at -the thought of your unworthiness, of your cruelty to one whom I -believed to be so noble and good as my mother. -</p> -<p> -“The difficulties, too, of my position were very great. The Abbess was -kindness itself to me, and bade me stay with my mother as long as I -pleased, but she was constantly asking<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-251">[251]</a></span> me questions as to my family and -connections, and I, not knowing how much of my mother’s story had been -confided to her, was fearful of betraying my mother every hour of the -day. Latterly, however, all these anxieties gave way to one more -terrible than all. Little as I knew of such cases, I felt sure that my -mother was in a state bordering on madness, and every day that passed -increased her danger. Isola, who came daily to see us, had but one -thought in her mind, how to save my mother, and was for ever suggesting -to me some wild plan, which I felt to be either wrong or impracticable. -At one time she would propose I should receive a letter, informing me -of your death; at another she suggested I should frame some story that -would prove you to be utterly base, and<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-252">[252]</a></span> unworthy of any woman’s love. -But that I could not do, for deep down in my heart there was a feeling -I could not explain, nor put into words, but which made me angry or -indignant whenever Isola began to anathematize you. -</p> -<p> -“At length, one evening after I had gone to my own room, utterly worn -out with my mother’s excitement and misery, a sudden thought came into -my head. ‘Why not gratify her, why not enable her to see the man she so -blindly worships?’ Then it flashed across my mind how easily the thing -could be done! I had but to assume my mother’s nun’s dress and hood, -and no ordinary observer could have told it was not my mother herself. -She in my dress would easily be permitted to pass the portress’s<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-253">[253]</a></span> lodge, -and once outside the convent walls Isola would be at hand with further -disguises, if necessary, and means of facilitating the journey to -England. -</p> -<p> -“I felt, as you may imagine, I was incurring heavy responsibility in -acting thus. But what was to be done? I had no one to advise me. I knew -that you ought to be communicated with, and it was simply an -impossibility for me to leave my mother in the state she was in. Once I -had hinted at the advisability of my going back to consult with you as -to what ought to be done, but she became perfectly frantic at the bare -thought of such a thing, and throwing herself at my feet, had implored -me ‘not to quench the last ray of light in her life.’ -</p> -<p> -“Isola entered heart and soul into my plan.<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-254">[254]</a></span> ‘I will go with her,’ -she exclaimed. ‘She is too much of a child to be trusted by herself in -the world. Where she wanders thither will I go, where she dies there -will I die, and there will I be buried.’ I gladly consented to this, as -Isola had already once made the journey to England, and would know all -the details of the route. My mother, too, was so bright and quick, and -her remembrance of the English you taught her so perfect, that I had -scarcely any fear of difficulties arising on the road. My one and only -anxiety was how would she conduct herself in her interview with you. -Would she act quietly and with discretion, or would she cause some open -scandal and disgrace to you and to your family? I did my best to -prevent this by exacting from her a solemn promise that she<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-255">[255]</a></span> would -not go down to Harleyford, but remain in London at the hotel where -Isola stayed, write to you from there, and there wait your reply. My -heart misgave me when she made me this promise. Yet, I thought to -myself, after all it doesn’t much matter what she says or does in -England. The truth will have to be made known to the world, and the -rightful wife acknowledged. ‘Ah! it was a weary, bitter time,’<span class="lftspc">”</span> and -here Amy broke down utterly. “My brain aches now when I think of it, -and a pain comes into my heart which, I think, will be there till my -dying day.” -</p> -<p> -“Poor child!” said Mr. Warden, tenderly smoothing the masses of dark -hair which clustered upon Amy’s white forehead, as she laid her head -wearily on his shoulder. “My<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-256">[256]</a></span> poor little girl, you have been too much -tried. You were too young to bear so heavy a load of responsibility and -sorrow. For an old worn-out heart like mine a little suffering, more or -less, cannot make much difference, but for you, in your bright, fresh -girlhood, it was hard indeed to bear up against such a complication of -mistakes and wrong-doing.” -</p> -<p> -“Yes,” said Amy, wearily, going on with her story, “it was very hard -and very miserable, and after my mother had started, I nearly broke -down altogether. -</p> -<p> -“Our plan succeeded beyond our hopes even. In the evening twilight, in -the dress in which I left my home, my mother passed out of the Convent -gates, with Isola, on the pretext of visiting some old friends on the -other side of Le Puy. You, my father, had<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-257">[257]</a></span> you seen her then, might have -mistaken her for your own daughter, so complete was the resemblance in -face, form, and figure. Perhaps she looked a little paler, a little -thinner, and a few years older (certainly not more) than I did six -months ago, but it would have needed younger and keener eyes than those -of the old nuns to have discovered this. And I, in my mother’s dress -and hood, had not the slightest fear of detection. I had become so -accustomed to the daily routine of the convent, that I knew to the -least iota every one of my mother’s religious duties. Latterly, too, -she had been so weak and ill she had been allowed to remain very much -in her own room. I had acquired, or rather reacquired, the singing -intonation peculiar to the Cevenol peasant, and knowing<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-258">[258]</a></span> our voices were -so nearly one pitch and tone, had no fear of discovery on this point. I -drew the hood a little more closely over my face; I was perhaps a -little less sociable and friendly with the sisters, and thus for three -days I escaped detection. -</p> -<p> -“But on the fourth day I knew that Pére Ambroise, the Confessor, was -expected, and I determined that with him I would attempt no further -concealment. He was a personal friend of my mother’s; it was he who -induced her to enter the Convent of St. Geneviève, and it was his wise -counsels, I don’t doubt, which had restrained and quieted her impetuous -temper, as long as it was possible to do so. Such a dear old man, papa, -he ought to be made a bishop at the very least, instead of ending his -days here<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-259">[259]</a></span> as Curé and Confessor to twenty or thirty little nuns. I -contrived to meet him as he entered the convent garden, and while -walking with him towards the house, told him, in as few words as -possible, the story of my mother’s escape, and my reason for planning -it. At first he was very angry, although not so much as might have been -expected, considering the heavy sin he believed to have been committed. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span><i>La petite Sœur</i> (that was the name my mother was known by on account -of her comparative youth) ought to have consulted me,’ he said, ‘I have -taught her for many years, and she might have relied on my counsels.’ -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Would you have let her go had she done so?’ I asked. -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-260">[260]</a></span> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Without doubt, no,’ he exclaimed, earnestly. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Was there any other way of saving her life or reason?’ I asked again— -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>My daughter,’ he replied, very gently, ‘you are very young, but I -pray that long ere you have reached my age, you will have learned that -there are some things to be thought of before life or reason, and that -a man or woman must be at times prepared to sacrifice both rather than -honour, faith, or the service of God.’ -</p> -<p> -“I felt so ashamed that he should have to speak to me in this way, that -I knew not what to say. I felt how wrongly I had acted from first to -last. But what was I to do? I was altogether bewildered, and began to -wish I had consulted the good Father<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-261">[261]</a></span> before. However, it was too late -now. I could only repeat I was very sorry to have grieved and offended -him, but perhaps if he knew the whole of my story he would not judge me -so harshly. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>I do not ask for your confidence, my daughter,’ he replied, ‘there -may be things in your family history you would not care to repeat, but -I had a right to expect your mother’s confidence, and now I find it was -but half-given.’ -</p> -<p> -“Then he told me how I had made myself amenable to the laws of the -country in thus assisting in the escape of a nun— -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>But,’ he added kindly, ‘you, my child are too young to be prosecuted -on such a matter, and Isola too old. She will return and repent, she is -too true a daughter of the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-262">[262]</a></span> Church not to do so, but your mother never -will. The world has had her heart throughout her sojourn here, and the -world will claim its own.’ -</p> -<p> -“Then he told me I was welcome to stay here as long as I pleased, as -guest at the convent, or if I had other friends with whom I would -prefer staying, he would have much pleasure in conducting me to them. -Was he not a splendid man, papa?” added Amy enthusiastically, “he -looked so noble and so good while he was speaking, he made me feel -thoroughly ashamed of my own conduct, and the part I had played -throughout. Of course I told him I would remain gratefully with the -nuns till I heard from my mother or you, and then determining there -should be no further deceit on my part, told him how I<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-263">[263]</a></span> expected to hear -through Isola’s nephew, a young woodcutter in the neighbourhood. -</p> -<p> -“How anxiously I longed and waited for news you may imagine, but a -whole week passed, and still not a word. At length, about ten days -after my mother’s departure, and when I was feeling positively sick -with suspense, and a dread of what was coming, Isola herself, to my -great amazement, appeared at the convent gates. I hastened down to her, -dreading I knew not what. -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>Where is my mother?’ was my first question— -</p> -<p> -“<span class="lftspc">‘</span>I left her in London,’ replied Isola, ‘she ordered me to return here -to thee and await her orders, and I have done so. It was hard to part -from her, she looked so young and beautiful, but she told me she would -manage<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-264">[264]</a></span> now her own affairs; that she was going down to the little -country village to see him she loved so well, and that thou wouldst -need an escort back to thy own country. I gave her all the money I had, -and my old brown hood and cloak, and here I am, my child, to take care -of thee.’ Then she handed to me a few short hurried lines from my -mother, telling me ‘she was safe and happy, and knew well what she -should do; that it might be some little time before she wrote again, -but when all was happily arranged she would send for me, and I know,’ -she concluded, ‘all will be happily arranged. I shall win him back; I -have loved him so well I cannot lose him.’ -</p> -<p> -“My heart sank as I read the note. Something told me the worst was to -come, and as<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-265">[265]</a></span> day after day slipped by, and not a line not a message -from either father or mother, my brain began to grow dazed and stupid, -and I think I really lost the power of reasoning. I dared not write to -you; I felt how justly angry you must be with me, whatever your own -fault, for having acted so madly and foolishly. I wandered backwards -and forwards from the convent to Isola’s cottage, from Isola’s cottage -to the convent, hoping for news, praying for news, and feeling the -suspense to be more than I could bear. O, papa, papa!” concluded Amy, -breaking down once more, and giving way to a passion of tears, “if you -had not come when you did, your poor little Amy would have lost her -reason altogether, or else have laid down to die from sheer weariness -and sickness of heart.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-266">[266]</a></span> -Gently and tenderly Mr. Warden soothed his daughter. -</p> -<p> -“My poor little girl,” he said, “you have been too much tried for one -so young. This is the last time we will talk over this sad story, but -before we lay it on one side for ever, you must hear one or two things -it is only right you should know. Lord Hardcastle has told you no doubt -most of what occurred during your absence, and all our grief for your -loss, but did he tell you the part he has played throughout; what he -has been to me all through our trials; and how it was he who guided us -here? Tell me that Amy!” -</p> -<p> -“No,” replied Amy, “he has never mentioned anything of that kind to me. -Indeed he has scarcely spoken to me the last few days, and whenever he -looks at me, his eyes<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-267">[267]</a></span> grow so large and cross, that I feel sure he is -thinking in his own mind, ‘what an immense deal of trouble this -self-willed silly girl has given us all! what a pity everyone is not as -sensible and clever as I am!’<span class="lftspc">”</span> -</p> -<p> -Then Mr. Warden commenced from the very beginning, and told Amy every -particular, even to the smallest detail, of all that had occurred -during her absence. He spared her nothing. All his own grief and -despair he laid bare before her, the solemn vow, too of Frank Varley -and Lord Hardcastle, and how each had played their part. He recounted -to her all the terrors of that dreadful night when death was in the -house and the baying hound betrayed her mother’s presence. Step by step -he led her on through the sad story of the finding of her mother’s -body, his<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-268">[268]</a></span> own broken-hearted sorrow, and Lord Hardcastle’s intense -grief. Amy never lifted her eyes from his face, but drank in his every -word and tone. Like one awaking from a dream, silent and enthralled she -sat and listened. As Mr. Warden repeated to her Lord Hardcastle’s words -in the library at the High Elms, “I want to be able to hold up a -picture of the girl I love so truly, in all her innocence, and beauty, -and purity, and to say to all the world, this is she whom I have loved -in life, whom I love in death, whom I shall love after death, through -eternity!” Amy sprang to her feet with clasped hands, exclaiming— -</p> -<p> -“Papa, papa, what is this, I do not understand.” At this moment the -door opened and Lord Hardcastle entered the room. Anything<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-269">[269]</a></span> more -embarrassing could not be imagined. Carried away by his feelings, Mr. -Warden had spoken loudly, and Amy’s high-pitched voice must have rung -the length of the corridor. For a moment all were silent, and Amy, -confused and nervous, leant over the window-ledge, dropping stones and -dry leaves from the flower-boxes on to the verandah beneath. -</p> -<p> -Lord Hardcastle was the first to recover himself. -</p> -<p> -“Mr. Warden,” he said, “I have come in to say good-bye; I shall leave, -I think, before daylight to-morrow, for a little run through Spain. I -am rather interested in Dr. Lytton’s account of the Moorish excavations -going on just now. You are looking so thoroughly well and happy, that I -quite feel my services are no longer needed.” -</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-270">[270]</a></span> -He spoke carelessly, almost indifferently, but there was a mournful -ring in the last few words which went straight to Amy’s heart. -</p> -<p> -“He must not go, he shall not leave us in this way,” she exclaimed, -suddenly turning from the window, addressing her father, but stretching -out her hands to Lord Hardcastle. The old bright look had come back to -her eyes, the old imperious tones sounded once more in her voice, “How -can we thank him? What can we do for him who has done so much for us. -Lord Hardcastle,” she continued, turning impetuously towards him, with -flushed face and sparkling eyes, “I was very rude to you a short time -ago, can you forgive me? You were wearing my ruby ring, will you take -it back again, and keep it for ever and ever in remembrance of my<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-271">[271]</a></span> -gratitude to you? I have so little to offer,” she added apologetically, -with a little sigh, drawing the ring from her finger and holding it -towards him. -</p> -<p> -“But I want something more than the ring to keep for ever and ever,” -said Lord Hardcastle, in low earnest tones, for Amy’s voice and manner, -told him that the icy barriers between them were broken down at last. -“Not now, Amy,” he added tenderly, as he felt the little hand he had -contrived to secure, trembling in his own; “not now, for we have -scarcely as yet passed from beneath the cloud of the shadows of death, -but by-and-by, when the dark winter days have come and gone, and the -bright spring sun shines down once more upon us, then I shall hope to -come to you and ask not only for this<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-272">[272]</a></span> little hand, but for all you have -to give, even for your own sweet self!” -</p> -<p> -There was yet one more dark shadow to fall before the travellers -started on their homeward journey. Amy had proposed to her father that -they should pay a farewell visit to the little brown nuns at St. -Geneviève, to thank them for their hospitality to her. Mr. Warden -gladly acceded to her request, and the visit was paid the day before -they started for England. On leaving the convent, they purposed -visiting Isola in her lonely little hut in the valley, intending to -make some permanent provision for her comfort for the rest of her life. -</p> -<p> -“Poor faithful creature,” said Mr. Warden pityingly, as they descended -by the wild steep footway, “I would gladly ask her to<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-273">[273]</a></span> return with us, -were it not for the recollection of falsehood and misery which her face -brings with it.” -</p> -<p> -Before they reached the hut, however, they were met by Isola’s nephew, -the young woodcutter, of whom mention has already been made. He looked -grave and sad, and lifting his hat respectfully to Mr. Warden, waited -for him to speak. -</p> -<p> -“How is your aunt this morning, André,” said Amy, “shall we find her -within?” -</p> -<p> -The young man shook his head. -</p> -<p> -“She is gone, mademoiselle, she will never return. This morning at -daybreak the angels carried her soul away. Since mademoiselle left us, -she wearied and sickened, she eat nothing, she never slept. There in -the window is her lace cushion with the<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-274">[274]</a></span> bobbins untouched, and day and -night she sat and moaned in her wicker chair. Yesterday, when I tried -to make her take some food, she turned her face to the wall, ‘No, no,’ -she said, ‘the summer flowers are faded and dead, why should the -withered leaf hang upon the bough?’ She never spoke to me afterwards, -and this morning, when I went to her room to ask how she was, I found -her lying dead and silent on her bed. Will mademoiselle come in and see -her as she lies? She looks beautiful with her wreaths and garlands of -flowers.” -</p> -<p> -This, however, Mr. Warden would not permit, for he felt his young -daughter had already been tried beyond her strength, and Amy, with the -mists of tears hanging over her eyes, looked her last at the Cevenol -valley,<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-275">[275]</a></span> and said a long farewell to the beautiful solitude. -</p> -<p> -And so the winter snows and clouds came and went, and the spring sun -shone out once more, calling into life and being a thousand sweet -sights and sounds. It lighted up the grey house at Harleyford, and fell -slantwise through the tall elms on to the tender grass beneath. It -shone through the east window of Harleyford Old Church, on to a quiet -wedding party assembled there one bright May morning, and played in -many coloured beams on two monuments standing side by side in the -grassy graveyard. -</p> -<p> -And far away in the lonely valley of the Cevennes, the same spring -sunshine lighted up a quiet weed-grown resting-place, and fell in -quivering lines and curves upon a simple<span class="pagenum"><a class="newpage" id="page-276">[276]</a></span> wooden cross, engraved in rude -peasant’s carving, with these few words— -</p> -<p class="center pad_top nobottom"> -“ISOLA.” -</p> -<p class="center pad_top nobottom"> -“<i>Fidèle jusques à la mort.</i>” -</p> -</div> - -<div class="chapter tnote" id="tnote"> -<h3 class="tnote" id="tnote_hdg"> -Transcriber’s Note -</h3> -<p> -This transcription is based on scans available through Historical Texts -from a copy held by the British Library: -</p> -<p class="link"> -<a href="https://historicaltexts.jisc.ac.uk/bl-002924134"> -historicaltexts.jisc.ac.uk/bl-002924134</a> -</p> -<p> -Except where noted, inconsistencies in spelling (for example, “gray” -vs. “grey”) and hyphenation (for example, “grave-yard” vs. “graveyard”) -were not standardized. In addition, no changes were made to variant -spellings such as “delirous”. -</p> -<p class="nobottom"> -The following changes were made to the text: -</p> -<ul> -<li> -Added a table of contents. -</li> -<li> -p. 11: aimless, well-nigh broken hearted.—Changed “broken hearted” -to “broken-hearted” for consistency. -</li> -<li> -p. 26: Mr Hill glances at them—Added a period after “Mr”. -</li> -<li> -p. 29: “How dare yon insult me thus?”—Changed “yon” to “you”. -</li> -<li> -p. 51: it would be best to re-commence on the morrow.—Changed -“re-commence” to “recommence” for consistency. -</li> -<li> -p. 52: ‘Here,’ he called to the groom, ‘ride alongside of me, and tell -me all that is to be known about the girl Williams and her -flight!’<span class="lftspc">”</span>—Changed this sentence so that it is not a quotation within a -quotation. Deleted the opening single quotation mark before “Here”; -changed the closing single quotation mark after “Here” to a closing -double quotation mark; changed the opening single quotation mark before -“rule” to an opening double quotation mark; and deleted the closing -single quotation mark before the closing double quotation mark at the -end of the sentence. -</li> -<li> -pp. 61–62: my dear, young friend, he added (he had known Hardcastle -from his boyhood), and spare them—Added a closing double quotation -after “friend,” and added an opening double quotation mark before “and -spare them”. -</li> -<li> -p. 63: a bright young voice pouring forth a flood of question, answer, -and exclammation in a breath—Changed “exclammation” to “exclamation”. -</li> -<li> -p. 95: There was no rival beauty in her way now!”—Deleted the -quotation mark at the end of the sentence. -</li> -<li> -p. 115: with but one word inscribed, “<i>Aimée</i>”—Added a period to -the end of the sentence. -</li> -<li> -p. 127: In reply to this, Mrs. Warden wrote a long letter—Changed -“Warden” to “Varley”. -</li> -<li> -p. 138: when sorrow seemed a far away thing—Changed “far away” to -“far-away”. -</li> -<li> -p. 147: The signature “A<small>IMEE</small>” after “for I have torn your image -out of my heart.” was changed to “A<small>IMÉE</small>”. -</li> -<li> -p. 157: shall love after death, through eternity!”—Added a single -closing quotation mark after “eternity!” to close the quotation within -a quotation. -</li> -<li> -p. 165: he directed a porter to place their luggage in the booking -office—Added a hyphen between “booking” and “office” for consistency -within the same paragraph. -</li> -<li> -p. 225: she turned back into the park-lands—Changed “park-lands” to -“park lands” for consistency. -</li> -<li> -p. 262: Was he not a splendid man, papa? added Amy enthusiastically, -he looked so noble—Added a closing double quotation mark after “papa?” -and an opening quotation mark before “he looked”. -</li> -</ul> -</div> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK DISAPPEARED FROM HER HOME ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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